by Tim Standish
‘Of course,’ Julius said, ‘because he knew you were safe there. But of course, given the self-absorbed, fat-headed fool that you are, settled in your role of unforgiven exile, you never saw that. Poor little brother, so busy shouting angrily at the unfairness of the world around you that you ignore what is actually going on around you.’ Another small sip. ‘He would have given anything to have you there, at the end, but he knew you couldn’t be and didn’t blame you.’
‘It doesn’t sound much like him.’
‘What happened to you changed him,’ said Julius. He seemed about to say more but at that moment the door opened, and the secretary returned with a silver tray on which sat an exquisitely fine Wedgwood coffee set in purple and gold, the letters VR emblazoned in gold on the side.
‘Thank you, Longley, we’ll manage for ourselves,’ said Julius as the secretary placed the tray down on the desk and reached for the handle of the coffee pot. Longley, though evidently surprised by this, did as he was told and left us alone once again. Julius poured two cups of coffee for us and handed mine across to me, rising briefly from his chair as he did.
Julius took a small, precise sip from his cup. When he spoke again it was in a more formal tone.
‘Well. I dare say we could arrange for a discreet visit for you to pay your respects. Would I, however, be labouring under a vain expectation in imagining that you might be returning to Canada in the near future?’
‘There’s no need,’ I replied.
‘I most strongly disagree.’
‘What I mean to say is,’ enjoying the moment, ‘I have been fully pardoned.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Is this anything to do with Edgar Huntingdon’s death?’ Julius paused. ‘Was that you?’
‘People do die in duels,’ I said, ‘but no, the pardon is nothing to do with that. Arranged in recognition for services rendered to the crown.’
An eyebrow went up at that, a well-worn Julius Maddox trademark. ‘And may I ask the nature of these services?’
‘You may,’ I said. ‘but I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say,’ enjoying the almost-unique experience of being one up on him.
Julius lifted my visiting card from his desk. ‘Though the use of a pseudonym is, shall we say, suggestive of their nature at the very least.’
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. ‘Given the line of work I’m not sure about that but at least you can stop worrying about the Maddox family name.’
He smiled back and something was reconnected in that moment, something that had dropped away from us for a good few years.
He stood, then, the conversation evidently over. ‘Mr Sterling.’
‘My lord.’ And I smiled at him as we shook hands. ‘I will come down to Millbrook, discreetly, as you say.’
‘I shall look forward to that,’ he said.
‘I suspect, however, that for the immediate future my travel plans may not allow it.’
‘I see. As soon as you find it possible, do let me know and we can make the necessary arrangements.’
‘I will.’
Our meeting was either precisely timed, or Julius had some way of signalling that it was over; the door opened, and his assistant came in to whisk me away from his office and out through the grand entrance hall of the building into the City.
*
A cab ride later I was tucked away with the rest of what I had come to think of as the ‘team’ in a corner of the restaurant in Fortnum & Mason. We were there, in Milady’s words, ‘to pat ourselves on the back and to tie up a few things’. Triple-tiered trays of delicate sandwiches and flamboyant pastries were arrayed across the table. At Milady’s insistence, however, we were drinking champagne rather than tea.
‘Well done all.’ Milady had raised her glass in a toast, the rest of us joining her. ‘To success.’
‘Which you feel it was?’ I asked.
‘And you don’t? Sterling, everything has played out most wonderfully. The Ripper conspiracy has been rooted out and destroyed, we have recovered details of a number of compromised officials and, best of all, the Bureau is to be subjected to an independent enquiry questioning the scope of its responsibilities.’ She smiled. ‘Mr Church, you seem unconvinced.’
Church put down his glass. ‘I am,’ he said, ‘for two reasons. Namely, the surgeon and the killer.’
‘Quite simply,’ said Milady, ‘it was as we suspected, Sir Anthony Willard was the surgeon, both at the scenes of the crimes and for the procedure itself.’
‘So, are we arresting him, or will he be having an accident?’ asked Church in the matter-of-fact the way that a tailor might ask about whether a suit was to be single or double-breasted.
‘Neither,’ replied Milady. ‘We can be quite assured of Sir Anthony’s silence and future cooperation, thanks to Miss Green’s findings. Miss Green?’
‘Milady. Yes, thanks to his assistant and a few local enquiries we have a more complete idea of Sir Anthony’s Venetian connection. The picture you saw in his office, Sterling, was of a free clinic that Sir Anthony runs every summer for locals, especially women, who can’t afford medical treatment. The clinic was only made possible in the first place with a large personal donation from Sir Anthony.’
‘Assuaging his guilt?’ I asked.
‘We think so,’ replied Green, ‘and also slightly more than that.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Church.
Milady gave a wicked little laugh. ‘It seems that Sir Anthony took his charity to a very personal level.’
‘He has another family there,’ explained Green.
‘And not just a mistress,’ added Milady. ‘The fool married her.’
‘And so we’ll take over from K17 in blackmailing him?’ asked Church.
‘But for the right reasons, Mr Church,’ said Milady, ‘which makes all the difference, wouldn’t you say?’ She took a sip of champagne.
‘And, of course, it leaves him at liberty to perform the operation again should the Queen sicken for a second time,’ I said.
‘Though condoning such a barbaric procedure would, of course, be something we would never dream of doing,’ said Milady.
Church looked as unconvinced as I was. ‘And what about the Ripper?’ he asked.
‘Well, I had a conversation with Sir Anthony himself and, thanks to his eager cooperation, we were able to identify the other man.’ Milady paused. ‘No one of interest, just someone they roped into the conspiracy. He was a desperate and inveterate gambler who originally carried out his role in return for a substantial payment, but it seemed that, once they started, he found a taste for the work and may have committed other murders of his own volition, as it were. A thoroughly despicable individual whom chance has already rewarded with the justice he deserves.’
‘He’s dead?’ asked Church.
‘That is correct,’ said Milady.
‘How did he die?’ I said.
She looked straight at me. ‘On a station platform, I believe. Some sort of accident.’
‘Their tapper, this Miss Mills, is still abroad,’ said Collier, ‘but we have reason to believe that she will keep her silence in return for her freedom. We will keep a quiet eye out for her in the meantime. Isn’t that right, Patience?’
‘What? Yes,’ said Patience, looking up from where she sat, carefully stacking three differently coloured macarons, one on top of the other. At Milady’s insistence she had been forced to wear a dress for the occasion, a state of affairs which she seemed to have taken in good grace, the gaudily mismatched pair of gloves she was sporting the only obvious sign of rebellion. Collier waited expectantly for Patience to say a little more but, ignoring him, she smashed the three macarons flat into a single, multi-layered biscuit which she lifted up and from which she then took a large, less than ladylike bite.
‘Well,’ said Milady, ‘rumours of Prussian agents abroad in the Kentish countryside notwithstanding, all has been brought to a successful conclusion and if the rest of you would excuse us, I would lik
e a few moments of privacy with Mr Sterling.’
The others left us then, with handshakes from Collier and Green, a firm clasp on the shoulder from Church, and a sarcastically overwrought curtsey from Patience. I noticed that, while the others left, Collier loitered by the door.
It was then that Milady asked me whether I was thinking of staying on.
‘I am,’ I replied.
‘Oh, I am pleased,’ said Milady, refilling both our glasses. ‘I think you’ll make a marvellous field executive and, in fact, there’s something that Mr Collier has in mind for you.’
‘There was just one thing that I am curious about,’ I said.
‘What was that?’ asked Milady.
‘Why did you rescue me?’
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘I mean, what made you take the risk?’ I asked.
‘Well, we knew who you were and your track record in Canada fitted the profile we look for in our operatives.’
‘And I was in the country illegally and probably desperate enough to do whatever you asked of me?’
‘That too.’ Milady smiled and drank from her glass. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I’ve been thinking about the attack on Carlton Gardens,’ I said.
‘What about it?’
‘That it was too heavy-handed a way of dealing with a pair of lawyers and too careless if we were a government organisation. But it might make sense if they thought they were dealing with a lone armed man, a soldier perhaps.’ I sipped my drink. ‘Because I was wondering what if someone had told Sebastian Fuller who I really was? And that I was back in London, had already killed one half of his Ripper and was hell bent on finding him and punishing his betrayal. Under those circumstances Fuller might be tempted to act rashly way in the way that he did. But that would mean whoever told him would have had to have known who I was, why I was in Canada and to have at least suspected Fuller’s involvement in the Ripper business from the start.’
Milady had been listening as I was speaking, face impassive, the socialite’s sparkle slowly fading from her eyes.
‘But if I knew or suspected Fuller was behind the Ripper,’ she said, ‘why not simply arrest him? I could make him tell me who the conspirators were, and have it all wrapped up much more simply and quietly.’
‘Because that wouldn’t have solved the other problem.’
‘Which was?’ The warmth was almost gone now.
‘That the Bureau was getting too big for its boots and encroaching on everyone else’s territory. Putting a stop to that would have benefitted from a much noisier and more disruptive approach, with any fallout laid at the Bureau’s door,’ I said. ‘I dare say that quite a few of the other agencies are equally delighted with the idea of a formal review of the Bureau’s activities and a curtailment of their power.’
‘Well,’ said Milady taking a sip of champagne, ‘what a fascinating theory. That sort of imagination will serve you well in your work with us. The trick, of course, is to know when to let it run on and when to reign it in. Also, completely unrelated to any of this, I should remind you that your pardon is dependent on your position with us.’
No humanity left in the eyes then, just the cold calculation of a feline predator waiting curiously to see which way its prey is going to run.
I held her gaze. ‘I understand.’
‘Excellent,’ said Milady, standing up. I did the same. ‘I will so enjoy keeping you with us, Sterling.’ She beckoned across the room at Collier, who walked over to us. Milady smiled. ‘Mr Collier, Sterling is ready for his next directive I believe?’ I nodded. ‘Well, then, I shall leave you both to it. Do finish up the fizz, Sterling, it’s a terribly good vintage.’ And she walked lightly out through the restaurant, a fashionably dressed gentlewoman with not a care in the world.
Collier walked over to me. ‘Agent Sterling. How pleasing to know that you will still be with us.’ He handed me a thick envelope. ‘What do you know about Constantinople?’
Acknowledgements
First off, a huge thank you to my parents for their encouragement throughout the writing of this book and for their belief in the idea that it would, really, really be published one day.
Added to this, a massive thanks to the family, friends, friends of friends, Twitter acquaintances and complete strangers whose backing turned this idea into a reality. And thanks to good friends and artistic geniuses Dan Simpson and Andrew Park for agreeing to create some fantastic rewards for backers.
A big thanks also to the team at Unbound, to Xander who gave the go-ahead in the first place and did a great job of keeping me on track throughout, and to my editors Craig and Andrew, who in the process of pushing me to write the best book possible have also helped me learn and improve as a writer.
My beta readers most certainly deserve a mention: Esme, Cassy, James, Steve, Sian, Andrew, Anthony, Dan, my brother Jeremy and my father. Their tireless enthusiasm, questions, suggestions, comments and far greater levels of grammatical awareness than mine were invaluable in making this happen. In addition, my brother’s encyclopaedic historical knowledge was vital in helping me to create the alternative timeline of Sterling’s world. Thanks also to Isha and Eugenie for their professional feedback early on in the process which was so incredibly helpful.
Finally, the fact that this book ever made it past the third chapter, and every chapter along the way, is down to my own personal test-reader, editor, advisor and the person who patiently disagreed with my consistently pessimistic view of my writing, my very kind and very lovely wife, Mary Ann.
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