by Gareth Clegg
“What the hell,” Pemberton shouted, looking up from his desk. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Good afternoon,” Simmons said, taking a seat opposite the man.
“What are you doing here?”
“I bring important news about your daughter. I’ve found her.”
Pemberton’s eyes narrowed before he pulled on a new face, natural surprise with a touch of fear. He paused a moment. “Wonderful. Is she all right?”
“Your lack of parental concern is astounding. But it’s hardly surprising when the photograph isn’t of your daughter, is it?”
Pemberton’s hand crept towards the edge of his desk. He screamed as the cane cracked down onto it, pulling it back cradled to his chest. “Bloody hell! What are you doing? You’ve broken my wrist, you bloody lunatic.”
Simmons smiled at the man. “Probably. Nicely weighted, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“The cane. It has a good weight.”
Pemberton winced, eyes watering. “I’ll have you bloody well shot.”
“We’re not in the army now, Pemberton. I heard it was one of your great pleasures, doing the shooting yourself. As it seems, is lying about my goddaughter. Let’s have a nice private conversation about that.”
Simmons stood and moved around the desk, pushing the man back with his cane. He pulled the drawer open, revealing a Mauser pistol, just like his own. He frowned. “Well, this is disappointing. I come here to tell you of your daughter, and your first reaction is to pull a gun on me? What am I supposed to think of that?”
“I don’t care what you bloody think, get out.”
“After you explain what’s going on here. Why did you say Annabelle was in trouble then send me looking for someone else? Where is she?”
Venom filled Pemberton’s features, and he spat the three words out. “She’s bloody dead.”
This time it was Simmons’ turn to stare in shocked surprise. “What?”
“She died during the invasion. Are you happy now you’ve uncovered the truth, that’s what you do isn’t it?”
“But how?”
Pemberton stared at the floor, clutching his injured hand.
Simmons was breathing hard. “Where were you?”
“At a safe location.”
“What about Annabelle?”
“There wasn’t room.”
“HOW COULD YOU?”
Pemberton shuddered, tears dripping from reddened eyes. “They pulled me into a coach and pushed her back. There was nothing I could do.”
“Nothing you could do? You bloody coward.”
“She was banging on the window, trying to open the carriage door as we drove away, she almost fell under the wheels.”
Simmons stared at the broken man before him. Cold fury filled him as he moved towards Pemberton. “Who were they?”
“Robertson’s men.”
“Black Guard?”
“Yes, his own elite unit. They took me to a secure bunker somewhere under London, and we waited there for five days. When I returned, the house was intact, not a mark on it. I hoped she’d stayed inside, which she had, with the rest of the staff. But they were all dead.”
“How?”
“The Black Smoke. One of the approaching war machines laid down a volley of canisters into the area. Nobody survived.”
“Dear God. Annabelle, what did you do to deserve this?” Simmons blinked back tears, teeth grinding. “Damn you, Pemberton. My goddaughter. I swore I’d do anything to keep her from harm.”
“She was my bloody daughter.”
“And look what you did to protect her. I would have given my life for her.”
“Well that’s typical Simmons, isn’t it? Always holier than though. Defying the powers that be for your own personal crusade, giving up everything for love. How did that work out for you?”
Simmons raised the cane, fire in his eyes, and Pemberton flinched. The blow never landed. “Damn you, Pemberton. If there is a hell for the worst cowards and traitors, then what do you think awaits those who sacrifice their children?”
“I couldn’t do anything. It wasn’t my fault.”
“It never is, is it?”
Pemberton’s body heaved, a wave of sobs consuming him.
Simmons emptied the rounds from the Mauser and returned it to the drawer. “So, you sold me out to the Black Guard?”
“They said they would ruin me unless I complied.”
“Pity, that would have been fitting. What about the girl? Some phoney photograph so they could find her?”
“Yes. They’ve lost her, and she’s important to them. They found out about my link to you through Annabelle and someone came up with the plan to use you to locate her.”
“What is she to them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“You don’t ask questions of Robertson. That’s a sure way to lose fingers.”
“You’ll never be free of them. You know that, don’t you?”
Pemberton sighed and nodded. “What now?”
“I should bloody shoot you for cowardice. But I’m not like you.” Simmons dropped a single round for the Mauser onto the desk. It rolled in a slow half circle to clink against Pemberton’s cup and saucer. “There’s the gentleman’s way out if you can find an ounce of courage or remorse. You don’t deserve it, and I fear you’ll end up living the rest of your miserable life with the memory of what you should have done. Good luck with that.”
He turned, leaving the Piccadilly house for what he knew would be the last time.
When Simmons returned, Bazalgette was waiting. “Where have you been? I was worried. How’s the leg?”
“It’s fine, I found this,” he waved the walking cane. “I presumed it would be all right to borrow.”
“Of course, whatever you need. Do you want tea? The kettle has just boiled.”
They retreated into the house, Bazalgette leading them to the rear of the ground floor and a large kitchen table. True to his word, a black kettle sat on his electric range. Simmons hadn’t noticed before. He’d assumed it was coal or wood burning. “Your range is powered by electricity?”
“Yes, everything here is. Can’t abide gas, much too dangerous. Just one leak undetected could end up blowing the entire street apart. Electricity is the future: safe, clean power. I heard Tesla is working on producing such vast quantities he can give it away, for free.”
“I don’t see that happening,” Simmons said. “Why would anyone do that? It’s got to be a trick or scam.”
“No, it’s the truth. One reason he left America was around the companies over there and how they were trying to earn from his inventions. He’s a true scientist and philanthropist. He thinks it’s his duty before God to make this world a better place for all of humankind.”
“Sounds like too much electricity arced between his ears, to me.”
“Were you always such a cynic, Simmons, or do you have to keep in practice?”
“I’ve seen the darkness in men’s hearts too often to believe in such nonsense. I hope I’m proved wrong someday, but nothing makes me feel it will happen anytime soon.”
Bazalgette sighed. “What do you prefer?”
“What?” Simmons said, looking up.
“Tea. Do you like anything in particular? I have a few blends, how about Indian?”
“Yes, that would be grand.”
Two streaming mugs thumped down onto the table, along with a milk jug and sugar bowl.
They discussed their options and agreed on the plan to get the schematics back to Josiah as soon as possible. Then they could quiz him about his brother and father’s work. Bazalgette suggested they inspect the microfilm before handing it over. So they knew they had the correct information if nothing else.
Bazalgette led the way down to the basement level workshop with Simmons in tow. He’d got used to the cane, and it improved both his balance and relieved the pain in his right leg. At this rate, he might be up and ab
out without it by the end of the week.
The stairway opened out into a broad area which must have covered the entire floor space of the building. Several workbenches lined the walls, each with a variety of components and mechanisms in various stages of completion. Or at least looked near complete to Simmons.
Massive coils of copper pipes, tubes and wires ran around the place and fell from regular cable runs from the roof, to drop to selected workspaces.
Simmons pointed over to one bench where a series of familiar blue tubes rang alongside a large barrel. “Ah, that’s the arc-rifle, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’ve been stripping it down to look at the internal mechanism and the power source. It’s a very complex piece of work, and there are parts I’m still not sure I understand. It should keep me out of mischief for a while.” He gave Simmons a wry smile.
“Not for long, I bet.”
“Over here,” Bazalgette waved for Simmons to join him where several intricate devices stood, one of which looked very much like a microscope.
Producing the small octagonal box from his pocket, Bazalgette removed the circle of dark film from within. He opened a panel on the device, placed the spool inside then pressed it closed. The machine whirred, and light shone from the eyepiece.
“Let’s see what we have,” Bazalgette said peering in while rotating a short handle on the side.
Bazalgette pulled himself away from the machine after a few minutes. “There are hundreds of schematics,” he said. “Overviews of the mechanism, then lots of diagrams of a tiny section hidden deep within the watch. It’s remarkable work, and the power transfer system,” he seemed breathless, lost for words. “I don’t understand how it works, let alone how it interacts with the other components. It will take time to study this in enough detail.”
“That, my friend, is something we are short on.”
“Yes, you make a valid point, but there’s more here than just the watch schematics.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are additional designs hidden amongst the ones for the watch. I thought they were blemishes in the film, but some appear in repeated locations between the other schematics, so I zoomed in, and there they were.”
“So not so secret then, if you could find them so quickly.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely true. My equipment has significant upgrades and magnifies over ten times more than a standard viewer.”
“Another of the re-engineering projects you seem so fond of?”
“Well, yes. But the level of detail is incredible, getting it onto the microfilm in the first place is a work of genius. I feel that almost anyone else would overlook the blemishes as just that, scratches or faults in the film.”
“So what do these secrets designs show?”
“It looks like a battle suit.”
“The ones Dent described?” Simmons asked, his voice low.
Bazalgette nodded, his eyes wide. “Yes, these must be the original schematics for the ArcAngels.”
24
Simmons led as he and Bazalgette wound their way through the maze of tight alleys that formed the outskirts of The Devil’s Acre. It owned a reputation as one of the foulest slums in the city. Not only from the squalid living conditions but also the reception you were likely to receive from its residents.
Simmons exited the dark alley into Pye Street, stepping over a comatose figure stinking of cheap gin and excrement. “Try not to stare at anyone. They can be an unsavoury lot, with short tempers.”
Bazalgette nodded and mumbled that he understood. Damn, what a cesspit this place is, Simmons thought, but they needed a way out of the city, and this was where to find it. He’d been here before in search of items difficult to get on the open market.
Simmons was to meet his contact at one of the gin palaces in the area. How they could liken anything around here to a palace was beyond him. People spilt out of the filthy ruins of buildings and sat or lay on the broken cobbles propped against the brickwork. Half-naked women leant from rotting windows calling lewd comments to the men below, while young children sprawled in doorways, draining the dregs from dirty bottles passed between them.
The smell was rank, worse than in the sewers. Musty odours of bodies that hadn’t seen soap in some time, if ever, assaulted them. It mixed with the raw sewage in the gutters, flung from the morning’s chamber pots into the street. All this within sight of Westminster Palace.
The shadow from the clock tower, housing Big Ben, spread over the slate-roofed drinking establishment. The contact, lazing in a dark backroom, pointed him a few streets away to The Widow’s Arms.
As they reached the intersection with the next street, a large figure appeared out of the shadows ahead of them blocking their way—a thick-set fellow wearing a filthy green and yellow check jacket.
“What do we have here?” came a deep Irish accent, loud pops echoing from the walls as he cracked his knuckles.
Simmons left his hand resting on his pistol. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re here to meet someone.”
“Is that so, gents? Look, lads. They’re here to meet someone.”
Two further figures emerged from the dark recesses of the alley. “Looks like they’ve met someone, Jack.” This came from a smaller man in a similar jacket to the first. His eyes ferreted between Simmons and Bazalgette while an uncontrolled twitch distorted the puckered scar between his eye and mouth.
“I’ll keep this simple for you,” Simmons said. “To make sure it gets through that thick skull of yours. We are here to see Ratter. If you don’t get your sorry excuse for a brain to move that slab of fat out of my way, I’ll put a hole through it. And that follows for your two lackeys.”
The veins in the huge man’s neck bulged, his yellow-tinged eyes widened, and Simmons waited for the swing of one of those meaty fists. But it didn’t happen. He squinted back at Simmons. “Where are you meeting this fella then?”
It was a test. He was checking that Simmons hadn’t just come across the name to put the fear of God into them.
“Backroom at The Widow, as usual.”
Suddenly the big man was all smiles. “Right you are, sir. Sorry for any misunderstanding.”
Mumbled words of disagreement echoed from the other group members as they retreated into the alley, followed by a sharp slap, then silence.
“Erm,” Bazalgette whispered. “I thought you said not to upset anyone?”
“Sometimes you need to break the rules a little. As long as you know when to do it.”
The Widows Arms was a mess of dark wood at odd angles, speaking of constant repairs. The sign above the door depicted a severe-looking woman in black with arms crossed, one brandishing a bloodied kitchen knife. It hung at a crooked angle and creaked from the slight breeze that blew in from the southern end of the street bringing the stink of the Thames with it.
The raucous squawking and harsh laughter spilt onto the cobbles, along with the smell of hops and gin. Simmons walked straight in, Bazalgette following swiftly behind.
Dim reflections from pewter tankards and stained glasses shed shards of light up the walls. Heavy black wooden beams crossed the low ceiling, making Simmons duck as he entered.
People packed the place, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and, from further within, the sound of fiddles and singing permeated the smoke-filled air.
Simmons pushed through the mass of bodies to the bar and caught the barman’s attention. “Ratter?”
The bartender looked them up and down, seemed to think for a moment, then with a curt nod, he motioned them to follow him. He led them to a room at the back of the building, which was strangely quiet. Four men and a woman sat around a table, the rest of the area was empty, and a palpable atmosphere filled the space.
These weren’t patrons, even though they had beer and cards in play. This was the group that kept things in order for the man called Ratter. The black market used intelligent people, not slabs of dull-witted muscle, as he’d encountered on the st
reet. These were hardened killers, fast and deadly.
The barman walked in and tapped twice on a wall panel, then pulled it aside onto narrow steps leading up. He turned to Simmons and Bazalgette, nodding towards the new doorway then left without a word.
Halfway up the stairs, the wooden panel clicked back into place below them, and they emerged into a dim room with sloping eaves. A single lantern stood on a table at the rear of the attic. Simmons crossed to the figure sat there who finished writing then looked up.
“Simmons, my old friend. What can I do for you this fine evening?”
Ratter had a strong accent that elongated his vowels. He’d been a penniless Russian immigrant some years back. Now he was the man to go to if you needed something unusual.
“Ratter, this is my friend, Bazalgette.”
Ratter nodded to Bazalgette, then returned his gaze to Simmons.
“We need to get out of London.”
“Ah, Yes.” Ratter relaxed into the leather chair. “I received some disturbing news earlier, regarding you and your friend.”
“We ran into a little trouble with the Black Guard,” Simmons said.
“Hmm, that seems a significant understatement. The whole garrison is on alert, a full patrol dead, murdered by a cowardly trap is how I heard it. Didn’t sound like your work.”
“I only shot one officer as I recall.”
“Oh,” Bazalgette added. “The other two in the street might have died too. The arcs from their rifles and the shrapnel caused their weapons to explode.”
“Mister Bazalgette, welcome to the conversation,” Ratter said.
“Thank you,” Bazalgette replied.
“I meant it sincerely. I prefer we have an open discussion, so there are no misunderstandings. That way, everybody knows what they are getting into.”
“Understood.”
“Please, gentlemen, take a seat.” Ratter motioned to where two chairs stood to the side in the eves.
Simmons dragged the seats to the table, and he and Bazalgette sat. “So, can you help us?”