by Mark Hayes
So saris mixed with European fashions among the ladies present, while turbans and dhoti were matched by men in European business suits and officers’ day uniforms of several services. Silks, satins, tweeds and flannelette, all were present in a mildly dazzling array of colours, and a dash of ostentatious wealth.
My lazy scan of the room was edged with mild paranoia, I shall admit. I was also looking for one person in particular, but, unsurprisingly, I couldn’t pick out my attacker. In truth, I doubt I would have recognised her if she had stood in front of me. The maid disguise had thrown me completely as I said earlier. It seemed likely she wouldn’t still be playing the maid either. She could just be hiding in plain view. I hoped that at the very least the fact I was still breathing meant her intention hadn’t been to kill me. It seemed at the time a slim mercy, what with my head still ringing from the dent her pistol butt had put in it. But then had I known what was to come, it may not have seemed a mercy at all. But I’ll not get ahead of myself.
As I reached the foot of the stairs, my search of the room threw up someone else of interest. A woman, one who couldn’t have been my mystery assailant, drew my eye. She was an Indian girl judging by the sari and her complexion, but unusually tall and proud in her deportment. She stood with her back to me, staring out of a viewing window into the blue sky. She had a fascinating elegance to her, and a tinge of arrogant pride in how she held herself. She drew my attention in a way no one else did in the room. I’m not too proud to admit I felt strongly attracted to her from that first moment.
With hindsight, that was probably why I missed what should have first caught my attention. However, I doubt I am the first or the last to be distracted by a good-looking woman.
She was stood next to a man who seemed overdressed for the occasion. The lounge was warm, heated by hot air vented down from the boilers, I’ve no doubt. Yet he wore a heavy full-length coat of black wool. He must have been thick set even without his coat because, within it, he looked a solid block of a man. He was very tall too, though the top hat in the same mortuary black may have had added to that impression of looming height. He was facing the same way as the woman when I first looked, but as I strode away from the foot of the steps, he turned momentarily in my direction and a lump caught in my throat. It was the breathing mask with its dark lens which put the shivers in me.
‘A Sleep Man, here of all places,’ I remember thinking in horror.
The memory of being held down by his compatriots while M brought the spider up to my eye flashed across my mind. That and the creeping unease they had inspired in me from the first moment I had clapped eyes on them in the Bailey. I suddenly had far less desire to make the acquaintance of the young lady who kept such company.
He, it, whatever they are, held my gaze for a moment, although with the dark lens it was impossible to know if he was looking at me or someone else. I must have been frozen to the spot; I dare say I looked a damn fool just standing there, rooted to the spot at the foot of the stairs. I was lucky no one else was coming down them behind me, or they would have bumped straight into me. In what was probably no more than a few seconds but seemed to last an ice age as I stood there, I became uncomfortably aware I was holding my breath.
Then, the Sleep Man turned his gaze back to the window.
I breathed out, feeling my whole body relax. The urge for a drink was all the stronger, and feeling I’d just dodged a bullet, I strode to the bar.
So in my defence, between the beautiful woman and the Sleep Man, I was still a tad distracted when I walked over. It may not be the best of excuses, but I suspect I haven’t given you the impression that I’m a man who is always aware of his surroundings. Which is a fair comment, given the events I’ve recently eluded to. What with being taken roughly from behind, in a strictly smacked to the back of the head kind of way by the ‘maid’ a few hours ago. Regardless, let me tell you now, I am normally a man who takes pains to be aware of his surroundings.
In utter defiance of this awareness, as I stood at the bar ordering a single malt, I felt the annoyingly familiar feel of a pistol barrel being pushed into my back.
Blame frustration. Blame waking up one too many times with a sore head that was nothing to do with a good time being had the night before. Blame a short temper brought on with feeling much abused of late. Blame all that, but I snapped a little.
“For the love of god, woman, I can tell you nothing,” I said rather loudly, and started turning on my heel, and planning to snatch the gun from her hand. After all, it wasn’t like she’d shot me last time. I was sick of idle threats. I was sick of being treated like a walk over. I was damn sick of people threatening me. As it turned out, however, in my assumption of who was doing so, I was much mistaken.
“Smyth, you bastard, I don’t know who you were expecting, but if you move another inch I will fill your head with lead, you traitorous swine…”
My latest assailant hadn’t given me a chance to unarm him. He’d taken a step back out of reach and held the gun high, pointing at my noggin. But it was not the gun that gave me a sinking feeling. It was the voice.
I knew the voice, and as the cigar smoke cleared from my eyes, I recognised the man the voice belonged to.
The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach got worse. Of all the men to stumble across, standing before me in full uniform was the last man I’d have expected or damn well wished to clap eyes on.
“Maythorpe!” I swore.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH
A Bad Day For Captain Singh
The captain of the Empress of India was a man feeling much put upon. Which I could tell quite clearly from the look on his face.
He’d the look of a man who had woken up that morning expecting his day to require nothing more taxing than a little light shouting at subordinates. If winds were fair and the ship ran true, then a dull evening hosting passengers at the captain’s table would doubtless have awaited him. At worst there would be a little light conversation between courses with boring, self-important men and perhaps, if he was lucky, the odd attractive young woman impressed by a well-tailored uniform with gold tassels and a peaked hat.
What Captain Singh didn’t expect, I’ve no doubt, was that his day would involve dealing with an incandescent lieutenant Maythorpe, of Her Imperial Majesty’s Royal Air Navy waving his service revolver around and shouting the odds in the Empress’ wheelhouse, while two of the ship’s stewards restrained a man in an EICAN uniform. Which was of course me.
I doubt it was helping the Captain’s mood that Maythorpe was insisting I’d been hanged for murder several days before. Especially as this was somewhat in defiance of me standing in the Empress’ wheelhouse, looking red-faced and just as angry as Maythorpe, but otherwise in rude health for a dead man.
In other circumstances, I’d have felt sorry for that Captain Singh. Well, maybe not sorry exactly, but one had no axe to grind with the man. I was, however, far more concerned with my own troubles. Selfish of me perhaps, but the way Maythorpe was swinging his service revolver around in my direction while ranting was causing me some trepidation. I was a tad nervous that his gun may go off at any moment resolving the issue of my continued existence, but not in a way that I would overly welcome.
Two other stewards, one of which was no doubt the man at arms, stood with hands on pistols behind Maythorpe. I suspected that they were there as much to make sure he didn’t start swinging his pistol in the captain’s direction as to make sure I behaved, but it did little to make me feel better about the situation regardless. My own attention was firmly upon Maythorpe’s revolver. To the extent that I was paying little attention to what anyone was saying and I almost missed Captain Singh’s calm if slightly ruffled voice, saying with ill-disguised disbelief.
“To be clear here, Mr Maythorpe, what you’re telling me is that this man was hung in the Old Bailey for murder four days ago?”
It was probably that ‘Mr’ that cut through Maythorpe’s raging. A ship’s officer to the core, he insti
nctively deferred to a captain’s authority, even the captain of a commercial liner. He made a show of collecting himself, stiffly, and even lowered his pistol a little, which took a modicum of tension out of the room at least, and certainly did wonders for my own piece of mind.
“Yes, Captain,” Maythorpe replied, indignance and anger still in his voice, but with a gentleman’s control to it now. “Or he should have been. It was reported in The Times.”
“Really, what is the world coming to when you can’t believe what you read in The Times…” I said, trying to inject a little levity into proceedings.
Ill-judged on my part, I suspected, but let’s be honest here, The Times of London has been going downhill for years. Ever since they turned it into a tabloid and started putting pictures of girls showing rather too much ankle to be considered decent on the third page. It has, in short, long since become a cheap scandal rag compared to the broadsheets.
Personally, I am rather fond of it.
“We can do without any of your witticisms, Smyth,” Maythorpe snapped, the anger back in his voice. He raised his gun in the general direction of my face once more.
“Please, Mr Smyth, if you could kindly confine your comments to answering questions while we get this all sorted out,” Captain Singh said calmly, reaching out to take a firm hold on Maythorpe’s pistol barrel and guide it downwards while adding, “And as Mr Smyth is restrained, I will thank you for putting your gun away, Mr Maythorpe.”
To give Captain Singh all due respect, he was doing his best to calm the situation. I suspect he also had half an eye on reducing the possibility of bullet holes in his airship. Such things always put a crimp in a captain’s day, I have found.
I had to admire the man’s self-control. Frankly, in the Captain’s position, I would’ve been tempted to have my men restrain Maythorpe as well and have us both thrown in the brig till we got to wherever his old gasbag was going.
The aforementioned RAN officer seemed to remember himself, bristled slightly and holstered his pistol once more. Taking a step back, presumably to distance himself from me in case treachery was infectious. Maythorpe was far from happy, which I must admit was something we had in common at that point. He may not have been pointing a gun at me anymore, but he still had one, more’s the pity, and I was still being restrained by two rather burly stewards. Things were far from even between us.
I’d have dearly loved to have a pistol of my own. Sadly, however, while members of her Royal Air Navy are allowed to bear arms on a commercial craft, as it increased security on board, members of the East India Company’s private navy were not. Hence rather than a pistol I had a ticket stub for the arms locker from the master at arms.
Some parliamentary weak chinned idiot or other championed this law after the 9/10 incident. Blowhard reactionary as most parliamentarians may be, and no doubt wishing to be seen to be taking steps against terrorists on airships in the light of that little palaver with the world’s fair. The government never really trusted Company men, however, so while allowing the Queen’s forces to bear arms at all times may be a vote winner, but EIC troops was another matter entirely.
As I may have mentioned before, EIC troops were scallions out to make a fast buck, adventurers that were one step up from pirates, or men just not good enough to serve in the real navy and that was the extent of them. No one would countenance Company men carrying arms on commercial craft. They would be a liability at best.
It was an opinion I shared, to be fair. Disreputable though I may be, I was still a RAN man at my core. I may be a convicted murder and a thief, but I was still, in my own eyes at least, a cut above those in hock to the Company Shilling. I wouldn’t want those types to be walking around an airship I was a passenger on carrying live weapons either and would have happily told you so a week before, even while I resided in my cell at the Bailey.
Which is all the more ironic considering the situation I’d found myself in.
Maythorpe nodded acquiescence to the Captain, stowing his pistol and buttoning down his holster. He even went so far as to take a step backwards, putting a little distance between us. For which I was grateful at least. His vitriol was bad enough, but I really didn’t appreciate dealing with his spittle in there as well…
“Thank you, Mr Maythorpe. Now let’s try and make some sense of all this, shall we?” Captain Singh said and put his hands behind his back, adopting the pose of ship captains everywhere talking to subordinates, which said as plainly as any words ‘I’m at my ease, so you would be wise to give me no reason not to be at my ease, because if you do it will not go easy on you.’
“My apologies, Captain. But I really must insist that this man is placed in the brig under my authority,” Maythorpe said, the newly calm veneer to his voice fooling no one, I suspected.
“You don’t have any authority here, old boy.” I risked a jab at the prig, mainly to see him bristle once more, but also banking on the assumption that the more unreasonable he sounded, the better it would go for me.
“Mr Smyth…” the Captain raised his voice slightly, the warning clear.
I nodded my head in acquiescence, not wishing to rile the Captain.
“I insist…” flustered the prig, causing, much to my mirth, the Captain to bang his hand down hard on a control panel, which beeped alarmingly for a moment. The violent interjection stopped Maythorpe mid-sentence, and the Captain took a moment to stare down the RAN officer, before, with surprising calm, he made his position clear.
“You would do well to remember you’re a guest aboard my ship, Mr Maythorpe. This is not a Naval vessel, but you are a naval officer. I’m quite sure you are aware aboard any ship all authority stems from its captain. This is true here as it is upon any of your fine gunships, and I will assure you of this, I will not be dictated to in my own bridge by anyone. So you will supply me with a reason why this man should be incarcerated and why you feel the need to wave a gun about in my ship’s public lounge. Or you will find yourself enjoying the comforts of my brig for the rest of your journey and the Admiralty will have my letter of complaint upon its desk before you see the Arch once more.”
Frankly, I could have kissed the man for that. Just for the distraught look on Maythorpe’s face. The threat of letters to the Admiralty put the fear of God in him, as letters to the Admiralty are want to do with young naval officers.
If I’ve a fault, it’s that one revels in these small victories, as I’m sure you have gathered by now. It’s not becoming, I know, but in my position, you would’ve also found yourself smiling right then.
“This man is a convicted murder and traitor to boot. He was the arsonist who set fire to Her Majesty’s dockyards at Slough. He was to be hung. Indeed it has been reported as such. How he comes to be here aboard your craft, I have no idea, but as an Englishman and a subject of Her Imperial Highness, it behoves me to see he is arrested and placed in chattel. If you place him in my custody in Cairo, I shall see he is taken to the rightful authorities and subject to the full weight of the law,” Maythorpe said. I would say he said it with an eerie calmness about him, but that would be a lie. He was more like a boil aching to pus at any moment and reddening under the strain.
“I see,” said the Captain, bristling slightly. I suspected Maythorpe’s high-handed tone and the way he said ‘Englishman’ had something to do with it. Singh was a subject of the Empire, and no doubt he disliked the inflexion of English superiority in the prig’s words. Colonials in positions of authority, I have found, are less than fond of being reminded they are considered the lesser partners by their Imperial masters. Maythorpe was doing his case no favours by speaking so, which, needless to say, pleased me no end.
“And you, Mr Smyth, what have you to say to these charges?” Singh asked, turning to me.
“I’m not sure I can tell you, Captain, I am afraid. There is an act of parliament prevents me from telling you everything,” I replied, borrowing a trick from my ‘friend’ M. “I can, at least, confirm that I am indeed Hanniba
l Smyth, formerly of the RAN and now of the East India Company. But beyond that, I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to impart.” I was bluffing, of course, and for all I was worth. As much to buy me some time to come up with a more effective lie.
“Hannibal, like the man with the elephants?” one of the random thugs, come, stewards, behind me said, which earned the man a belittling glare from his Captain who didn’t appreciate the contribution.
“An act of parliament, you say?” the Captain asked, looking me in the eye once more and holding my gaze. I’ve no doubt he was trying to weigh up the lies I was telling.
‘Well good luck to him,’ I thought. I knew I’d lied to better judges of human nature than Singh in the past and gotten away with it.
“Yes, Captain,” I said, still stalling. I’d had plenty of time in the holding cells of the Bailey to come up with plausible lies. Sadly, none of which were of much use while I was in the cell, but right now it was just a case of deciding which one to go with.
“Well, Mr Smyth, you will need to tell me something, or I am afraid I shall have to place you in the brig and let Mr Maythorpe deal with the proper authorities in Cairo when we put in tomorrow evening.”
I smiled falsely, suppressing an inward groan, as Maythorpe’s eyes brightened. You might think that I might leap at the chance. Certainly, if you know anything of Cairo, a city with a thousand alleyways, each of which has a man holding a rusty knife in the shadows. It was the kind of city that anyone could get lost in, whether they wished it so or not. If I could escape Maythorpe’s clutches and avoid getting my own throat cut, I could easily disappear into the bowels of Africa’s greatest city.
‘If,’ I told myself swiftly, ‘you didn’t have The Ministry’s damn spider in your eye, Harry.’
Thinking of The Ministry, I realised they wanted me in India as far as I knew. Getting myself banged up in a Cairo jail, I suspected, was something they would consider counter to their wishes. If I am honest, I wouldn’t give a grain of sand from the Sahara for their wishes, but if I defaulted on our deal, I suspected my life would be worth less than that grain of sand.