Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  “You know me, Simmons, always ready to help a friend.”

  “What’s it going to cost?”

  “Oh dear, as ever, straight to the point. No discussion, no preamble, but why should I expect you to shed that skin?” Ratter smiled, a glimmer in his eye.

  “We are in somewhat of a hurry. The Black Guard are on our heels, and my travel documents are useless.”

  “And you have no other ways out, a man of your reputation? I’m disappointed, Simmons.”

  “Unfortunately, the Black Guard saw our return to the city. So, that access point is no doubt sealed and patrolled by now.”

  “Unfortunate, indeed.” Ratter weighed the price in his mind. “In that case, one hundred guineas.”

  Simmons’ eyes bulged. “How much?”

  “I’m sure you heard me. I speak very clearly when discussing monetary transactions.”

  “That’s true, but I am struggling to comprehend the sum involved,” Simmons replied.

  “We have a network to support. Work like this is challenging, especially when helping known criminals escape the Black Guard. Do you realise how hard it is to find people in that group willing to aid us?”

  “You have members of the Black Guard in your employ?” Bazalgette asked.

  Simmons turned to his friend. “They don’t so much help as are forced to comply. Bribes, blackmail, threats and other forms of coercion. Once they let one thing slip, like letting certain goods through a gate without a full inspection, then they’re trapped, caught in our friend’s web. Isn’t that right, Ratter?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it in such crude terms myself, but you have the gist of it covered. I am sensing opposition to my generous offer. Is there something you would like to discuss further, or shall we conclude our business and go our separate ways?”

  “Look, Ratter. It’s too much—simple as that. Come on, be reasonable. We’ve worked together before. Am I not a good customer, payment up front or well within agreed timeframes?”

  “This is true, but the price remains. I hope you continue your excellent repayment schedule. But unless you have another way of navigating the sewers, there is nothing more to discuss.”

  Bazalgette’s face lit up. “I think we can come to an arrangement.”

  After speaking at length, they came to an agreement. Bazalgette’s sewer maps held information even the black market was unaware of. It seemed this knowledge was more important to them than cold hard cash. Simmons topped up his supply of rounds for both his rifle and the Mauser and received a substantial discount as part of the deal.

  Ratter told them it would take a while to organise everything and they should return the following evening to meet their guide who would escort them out of the city.

  They left the way they had entered and made it back to Bazalgette’s workshop with plans to lie low and relax for the next day.

  The following morning, Simmons found no sign of Bazalgette in the living room or kitchen, but soon the telltale sounds of activity from below became apparent. I have to tell him to stay here, where it’s safe. Simmons descended the stairs. The Black Guard only know my name, so why should he risk his neck for me?

  “So I was thinking,” he began as he stepped down the final step into the workshop.

  “Simmons, excellent timing. I’ve cracked it.”

  “Cracked what?”

  “The frequency of the original watches.”

  “How—”

  “Well, I couldn’t sleep,” Bazalgette said, still sitting by the microfilm viewer. “So I thought I’d come down here and see if I could find anything further from the schematics.”

  “All right. How long have you been working on this?”

  Bazalgette flipped open his pocket watch. “Since three this morning, give or take a few minutes.”

  “So, what have you found?” Simmons said.

  “Sixteen point eight megahertz. That’s the frequency Dent’s father used in the watches. He devised a crystal that controls the precision of the device using high-frequency oscillation.”

  Simmons stared at him. “I don’t have a clue what you are saying. You sound very excited by this, but I can’t understand half the words you are throwing at me.”

  “Well,” Bazalgette said. “I suppose the technical stuff isn’t that important. I’ve found a way to locate the original timepieces.”

  “Right,” Simmons said, realisation dawning on him. “So we need to detect that frequency?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Can you build something?”

  “I believe so. I have everything required, and with a spot of tinkering, I should be able to power it from the arc-lamp battery.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Well, a few hours for a working prototype, then it’s a matter of refining the design.”

  How do I tell the man I don’t need him, and he should remain here? He was a pain in the backside on occasion, but less often than when they had first met, but he was a genius all the time.

  “Bazalgette?” Simmons asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I wanted to say thank you. For all you’ve done.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Bazalgette said, his mind already speeding off on a new track of thought. The present, a station fading into the foggy distance behind him.

  True to his word, Bazalgette had a prototype within the hour. The device was a clunky but functional contraption of wood and brass. It was the size of a pocketbook, but thicker to house all the workings. Intricate wound coils at the front led through a series of electrical gizmos to a dial.

  Simmons had struggled with the patience to understand theoretical science. He didn’t feel the need to know how things worked, just how to use them if they were useful.

  Bazalgette’s detailed explanation revolved around a few key points. These were, connect the device to a power source. In this case, his battery pack for the arc-lamp. He had already constructed a pair of leads that clipped between the terminals and the scanner.

  Second, twiddle the knob below the dial to set the desired frequency. It sounded simple enough, but that wasn’t enough for Bazalgette. He added a tiny cone that acted as a speaker horn from which they could hear a sound representing the strength of the signal.

  Bazalgette demonstrated his invention. He tuned the device until they heard an audible click which matched each twitch of the needle on the dial. As he moved towards the watch, the clicking became louder, increasing in tempo as he got nearer.

  They tested it with Simmons hiding the watch somewhere in the upstairs rooms of the house while Bazalgette waited below in the workshop. It was a resounding success. Each time Bazalgette located it after a few minutes, even when it was at the bottom of a wardrobe wrapped in a sock and stuffed into a boot.

  The trial established the machine to have an effective range of around thirty feet. It was possible to pick up a weak signal beyond that, but it depended on the obstacles in the path to its target. The denser the material, the trickier it was to locate. This had seemed evident to Simmons, but Bazalgette still wanted to test each type of obstacle. Wood, stone and brick of varying thicknesses.

  When satisfied, Bazalgette retreated to the kitchen to prepare tea and food before their evening jaunt to meet their black market guide.

  “You don’t need to come along, you know,” Simmons called, trying to broach the subject as gently as he could. “I’m sure I can operate the device.”

  Bazalgette popped his head around the corner. “Nonsense. Do you think I’d let you have all the fun locating that watch on your own? I want to be there when we find it, see it in person. Anyhow, if there are any issues with the detector, you’ll need me to fix it.”

  Simmons shrugged, well, that’s told me. He went to check his gear ready for the long evening ahead.

  25

  Shards of icy rain blew almost horizontally, biting at exposed skin. Simmons raised his coat collar trying to deflect the worst, to no real avail. He and Bazalgette s
hivered and water sluiced from them as they searched for a cab to take them towards Westminster. Dropping bags onto the floor, they took their seats for the bumpy ride west back to the Devil’s Acre.

  The constant patter of rain on the glass created streaks that refracted the street lights into starbursts of colour on the grease-stained windows. Bazalgette reached to check his canvas bag for what must have been the fifth time since they’d left the workshop.

  Simmons leaned across and caught his friends arm. “Did you pack everything you wanted before we set off?”

  “I think so.”

  “And was it all in order the last time you checked?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “In that case, it will still be all right now. Rely on the knowledge you’ve done this already. Anything we’ve left behind or forgotten, we’ll need to work around or find from here on.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Yes, it is. Sit back and relax. There is no benefit in getting anxious about what may or may not occur. We planned as much as we can, now we follow the plan until we have to change it. Even the best-laid plans never run as expected. You need to accept that.”

  Bazalgette slumped into the hard leather seat, clasping his gloved hands together. Simmons leaned back, closing his eyes as the staccato beat of the rain danced over the cab’s exterior. As the vehicle shifted in the heavy gusts, he let himself drift off as they covered the final minutes of their journey. He opened them as the cab came to a halt. They needed to brave the elements again, which tonight seemed to have it in for them.

  He paid the drenched cabbie the shilling they had agreed earlier and jumped to the rain-battered street. Puddles grew and shifted as the raging night air swirled. The vortex caused by the tightly packed houses buffeted them towards the entrance to The Acre which looked surprisingly empty. It seems even the drunks and low-lives find somewhere undercover in this weather. Simmons led the way again towards their meeting at The Widows Arms.

  Light spilt from several of the buildings en route. The shouts of merriment identified them as places of entertainment, whether it be of the flesh or a more liquid variety.

  As they crossed Pye Street heading for the pub, a figure detached itself from the shadows stepping into their path. Simmons’ hand was already on his pistol, and he felt no inclination to remove it.

  A soft glow illuminated the underside of a wide-brimmed hat dripping with rainwater and revealed a woman’s features as she drew on a thin stemmed pipe. “Mister Simmons? Ratter sent me, said you needed a guide. So you can follow me or stay here getting soaked. No difference to me, I get paid either way.”

  She turned and strode into a side alley that ran beside The Widow, fading into the darkness, a dull orange glow illuminating the slick walls as she departed.

  Bazalgette looked to Simmons. “Do we trust her?”

  “No, of course not. But we have little choice other than to follow.”

  They caught up with the woman, splashing through thick puddles in the alley. The rain bounced from the roofs, cascading down the rough brick. It created small rivers that meandered and formed lakes they each tried to avoid.

  “So you decided you fancied a walk, eh?”

  “So it seems,” Simmons replied. “Do you have a name?”

  “Most everyone does.”

  Simmons waited for her to continue, but the slow splash of her feet on the wet cobbles and the rain pounding on his hat was the only reply.

  “So, are you going to tell us?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, it’s a little easier than shouting ‘hey, guide’, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not sure what all the fuss is about.” She exhaled a large plume of pungent blue-grey smoke which billowed off the tight alley wall. “Call me Molly, if you must.”

  As much as he wanted to be flippant, Simmons held his response in check. “So, Molly, how far do we have to travel this fine evening?”

  “Well, I hope you brought your best walking boots ‘cos we have a fair trek ahead. I see you have fog-gear, that will be useful, if you want to avoid spewing blood from every orifice, that is.”

  “Now we’ve got you talking, you don’t say much of use, do you?”

  “That’ll be right. So, if you’ll kindly shut up, we can get moving and out of this pissy downpour. Unless you prefer to keep me yapping, so I can’t hear if we’re being followed?”

  Simmons bit back another response. “Very well. Please, lead the way.” He checked behind over his shoulder.

  Bazalgette adjusted his pack to a more comfortable position then shrugged, water dripping from his hair and beard. “It would be rather nice to get out of this dreadful weather.”

  Molly led them through the dark confines of the Devil’s Acre. The narrow streets squeezed inward, and on two occasions, she doubled back, ensuring nobody was following them. Finally, they stopped at a dead end in one of the many alleys between the walls of sooty red brick.

  She rapped on the wooden doorway three times, a short pause then twice more. The conditions that evening hadn’t improved. They were all dripping wet and shivered from the harsh windblown rain gusting through the winding rat warren.

  A creak accompanied the door as it opened into a dimly lit interior. Molly wasted no time in pushing her way in, out of the torrential downpour. Simmons nodded for Bazalgette to follow as he checked over his shoulder before ducking into the welcome warmth of the hovel.

  Three gruff-looking fellows glanced up from around a table, seated as they had been the previous evening at The Widow’s Arms. The door closed behind them with a solid thunk as the security bar slammed into place.

  “Molly, you look like a drowned rat, love,” the woman at the door said. She made shooing noises at the three men with the cards. “Move up, you lazy buggers. Let poor Molly get some warmth from that fire.”

  There were squeals of wood on the stone floor as they shifted over, and Molly didn’t wait for an invitation, moving to the dancing flames. Simmons and Bazalgette followed as the wave of heat hit them from the crackling logs glowing red and white before slowly charring.

  Molly looked back to the other woman. “Damn it’s cold out there tonight, Lizzie. Thought I’d catch my death. Tell me again how it is you get to stay in this cosy little hole while I trudge about getting piss-wet-through?”

  “Good judgement, my love, and someone needs to keep an eye on this sorry lot.” Lizzie nodded her head towards the gamblers at the table. The men hadn’t missed a beat with the clink of coin followed by the flick of cards on the stained tabletop.

  Simmons removed his hat, trying not to pour too much water from the dripping brim. “Is there somewhere we can put these to dry?”

  “This ain’t no bleeding laundry, darling,” Lizzie replied with a laugh. She moved to the side of the small room and unhitched a line from the wall leading towards the ceiling. Above her hung a rectangular frame of wood to hang clothes on. She released the cord bringing the airer down to chest height. Molly looked at her. “Well, stone me if you ain’t running a laundry after all, Liz.”

  A fit of cackling laughter echoed off the rough plastered walls. Simmons smiled, trying his best not to scowl at the witches. He removed his dripping coat and looped it over the frame. Bazalgette and Molly followed Simmons’ lead, and Lizzie hoisted the airer back into place. Simmons couldn’t have said Lizzie was pretty, but she wasn’t ugly either. Her face was square around the jaw, and her features a little too sharp. But who was he to judge beauty? He was no Adonis.

  He returned to the fireplace, alternating between rubbing his hands together and holding them out till they felt like they were melting. The crackle and pop of the splitting logs filled the room, interrupted by the sizzle of drips from the clothing above.

  The constant chatter of the two women catching up grated. After what seemed hours, Molly stood. “Right gentlemen, shall we?”

  Simmons leapt to his feet, and Molly led them into a back r
oom, laughter and faint music reverberated through the wall ahead of them. Instead of continuing that way, she took them to the left and a trapdoor in the floor. After opening the metal lock, she struggled to free the thick wood and iron panel.

  Bazalgette stepped forward. “May I be of assistance?”

  “Aren’t you a darling?” she said, stepping back. Bazalgette wasn’t a big man, but he knew how to lift things. Must be all that practice with sewer grates, Simmons thought.

  Steps led down and out of sight into the blackness below. Bazalgette lit the arc-lamp with a now familiar crackle and hum followed by the intense cone of light.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Molly said. “That puts my poor oil lamp to shame it does.”

  The light flooded the stairs illuminating the first ten steps as Bazalgette led the way.

  “Straight down to the bottom, then you should see a cover ahead,” Molly said following after Bazalgette. “Close the trap behind you, Mr Simmons. One of those worthless immigrants will lock it later.”

  The thick trapdoor was heavier than he’d thought, and it dropped with a resounding thud. Dust leapt into the air around his head, causing him to cough.

  “Mind the last few inches. I once nearly brained myself dropping that.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Simmons replied, coughing as he turned and followed the others into a cold cellar.

  Wooden barrels lined the walls, and true to her word, a grilled opening appeared in the floor a few feet beyond the final step. An odour wafted up, reminding Simmons of his last trip through the sewers.

  Molly was fishing inside her coat for something and pulled out a large key-chain. She thumbed past a few smaller keys before settling on one.

  “Here we go,” she said, kneeling to unlock the heavy padlock. In a few minutes, they were descending a wood and rope ladder. It looked frayed at points, but though it stretched a little, it soon felt sturdy and supported their combined weight. Bazalgette took the lead with the arc-lamp lighting the way as they descended twenty feet.