by M. J. Tjia
I nodded. “Yes. Somerscale told me that’s how they would recognise me as the contact.”
Her eyes widened and she nodded, slowly. “A red and white scarf,” she repeated. “I see. Mrs Chancey,” she gathered up her notes and bag and made for the door, “I will take my leave of you now and look into this. You return home and I’ll be in touch. Good day.” She bustled from the room, calling for someone named Harold to take her back to Pall Mall.
And now, as I place my hairbrush into my toiletry case, I think again of how Mrs White mentioned Mayfair, and I feel a peak of alarm. What if something were to happen near my home? Or Amah is on her morning walk nearby or visiting one of the local shops when there is an explosion? I must return home as soon as possible, make sure everyone stays safely indoors for the rest of the day. I sweep the rest of my trinkets into the case, which I shove into my portmanteau above the bundled gown and drawers. I force my slippers into a side pocket and step into my boots. Standing upright again, I glance out the terrace doors to see Mr Beveridge skip-run down the lane towards Brewer Street. Digging around in my velvet reticule for my watch, I look at the time. It’s just on 9.20 a.m. Much too late for him to be departing for work. I press my forehead to the cool glass and watch as he turns abruptly away from a passing constable and pauses outside the tobacconist’s. I spy a flash of red at his neck.
What is he up to? Beveridge, who Haven and I had encountered at the workers’ meeting; who sometimes works in Westminster; who is, unaccountably, not at work. Beveridge, who lives in Green’s Court.
Still clutching my velvet bag, I rush from the bedroom and clamber down the stairs. By the time I reach the court Mr Beveridge is hovering at the corner, looking left and right. I walk towards him, just as he turns to his right.
I reach the end of Green’s Court, and I just catch him hooking right again, almost immediately. I spin around, and spin again. Where the hell have all the blasted policemen disappeared to? A girl circles me, like I’m a mad person. An older woman passes, observes my lack of bonnet.
I pause for the count of five beats before following. My footsteps slow as I approach the alley Beveridge turned into. The soles of my shoes scrape against the dirt on the ground. A black bird caws from the branches of a scraggy elder tree. A Clydesdale clops past, pulling a dray full of barrels, the driver and the horse equally laconic, ignorant of any danger. My fingers trail the rough, gravelly texture of brick, tracing the scratchy line between the blocks. I wonder if the wall will stay true, unyielding, if Beveridge does indeed detonate a bomb. Inching closer to the turn, I feel about in my bag for the cold handle of my pistol, nestled in its special pocket.
“Madam, may I be of assistance?”
I nearly jump out of my skin, pressing myself against the wall. “Damn, you gave me a fright!” I say to the young constable staring down at me. He’s a bit startled at my swearing, and he doesn’t have the brightest countenance I’ve ever come across, but he’ll have to do. I grab hold of his sleeve. “Have you been searching Green’s Court?” I say.
He nods, his helmet jiggling with the movement.
“I am terribly afraid that the person you are after might have turned down here.” I point towards the alleyway. “I’m very much worried that…”
The constable’s face takes on a scared expression. “You think he’s hiding a bomb or somethink on ’is body?”
He’s a little sharper than I had thought.
“Exactly,” I say. “We must follow him.”
We creep closer to the mouth of the alleyway, and peep around. Mr Beveridge has disappeared. The narrow lane widens into what I think must be the yard of Baxter’s Brewery, which backs onto Green’s Court. As we steal into the lane, the odour of manure, hops and cat piss is almost overwhelming. The horse and dray plod into sight again, approaching from a road to the east, and two men come out from the brewery to help unload the barrels. Smoke billows from large smoke stacks, and a brown dog barks at us in a desultory manner.
I walk a little faster, anxious that I’ve lost Beveridge, and the constable shadows me so closely I’m pretty sure he clings to my skirts like a child with his nanny. The dog joins us, nipping at my petticoats in a playful manner; licks the constable’s trouser leg. We are not halfway down the lane before Mr Beveridge swings around the corner towards us again, coming from the same direction as the horse and dray. He has his head down and rushes right past us, but this time he is not empty-handed. He grips a square, hard-case satchel stiffly at his side.
I poke around in my bag for my pistol. I nudge the constable with my elbow, and hiss, “That’s him. Apprehend him! Can’t you see what he carries?”
Mr Beveridge slows down and looks back at us. His face is so blanched of colour, the freckles on his face stand out like sprinkles on a Dutch cake. He takes to his heels abruptly and his bowler topples to the ground behind him.
I start to run too, still trying to dislodge my blasted pistol from its holster, when the constable, more game than I had anticipated, gives chase with a long-legged lope, easily outrunning Beveridge. Between the constable and the dog, Beveridge is driven up against a dilapidated fence, which bows under the man’s weight, splinters of wood crumbling from the palings.
“What’s in the bag, sir?” the constable asks him. He tries to take hold of it, but Beveridge snatches it away. “Easy now, sir. Easy now.” The constable’s eyes are a little wild when they catch mine, his arm outstretched to the other man.
We both instinctively take one step back. The dog pounces again and again at Beveridge’s shoes, growling, sending little clouds of dust in the air. Still thinking it is all a game.
If the policeman stays with him, keeps guard while I run for help, Beveridge won’t have an opportunity to escape, or light whatever is concealed in that bag. “Constable, I think you should…”
A loud report cracks through the air. I flinch, covering my ears, and a scarlet poppy blossoms at the base of Beveridge’s throat. Except it’s no poppy. The petals trickle red and Beveridge’s mouth yawns wide with disbelief. He claps his free hand to his throat and falls onto one knee.
I turn at the sound of footsteps, freeze when I see a man running towards us, a cocked gun ready. He halts once close, although he doesn’t lower the gun. And there’s something about that gun, but I can’t think straight, and a grunt draws my attention back to Beveridge. He’s sunk to the dirt, and blood seeps through his fingers in a steady stream. The constable catches him from behind, gently lowers him onto his back.
My gaze finds the gunman again. I manage to drag my eyes past the muzzle of the black gun, across the great-coat – of the best cut and fabric, and almost swashbuckling in design – to find the face beneath the lowered brim of the top hat. Somerscale.
“What the hell are you doing here, Heloise?” he snaps at me. “Bloody lucky I was here to take care of this rascal, before he blew you, me and everyone in Soho all the way to kingdom come. You nearly ruined everything. I’ve been after this man for days.”
I’m stung momentarily out of my shock. “I’ll have you know that I’m working for the War Office too, and I was doing fine taking care of this fellow. You needn’t have taken a pot shot at him.”
Mr Beveridge’s mouth gapes open, his tongue working, an awful clucking noise rising from his throat. Clug, clug. Trying to form words against a gurgle of blood. Clug.
Somerscale eases the case from Beveridge’s right hand. The bus driver blinks as blood bubbles through his slackening fingers.
“He’s done for,” says the constable, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
Again, Beveridge seems to want to say something, but the force of speaking pushes a fresh flood of blood into his mouth.
I kneel down and lean over him, wrenching off the damned spectacles when they slide down my nose. What is he trying to tell us? His pale eyes are fixed above, ablaze with fear, and I can see the clouds, the blue sky, reflected in them.
Finally, one last clug clicks from hi
s throat, and the struggle is over. Beveridge lies still.
I climb to my feet again with the help of the constable, and I’m thankful, for my knees feel wobbly indeed. “What’s in the bag, Somerscale? Should we check?” My words sound muffled to my ear; my mouth is dry, feels as though stuffed with wool. A woman slowly pokes her head out from a top window before she withdraws, shutting the window behind her.
Somerscale squats, placing the gun on the ground while pulling the square case in front of himself.
“Careful, now, sir,” says the constable.
Somerscale gingerly unlocks the left clip, the constable flinching at its snap. Somerscale then unlocks the right. Slowly, he raises the lid. Nestled amongst masses of cotton wadding lies an ironclad sphere.
“It’s a bomb,” breathes the constable.
“You are correct,” says Somerscale, his voice light. “They must teach you well at where ever they educate you people.” His long finger traces a sliver of wood embedded in its side. “And this, I believe, is the fuse. Once lit, we would not have long to make ourselves scarce.”
My thoughts are a jumble as I take in the bomb, lying so close to Beveridge’s corpse. Blood stains the ashen skin of the dead man’s face. A fly lights upon his nose, rubs its grubby little paws together. Hearing voices, I glance over my shoulder at where the dray driver looks like he might approach, but hesitates, steadying his horse. The morning light has a metallic tinge to it, and I lift my hand for a moment, to shield my eyes.
Somerscale folds down the bag’s lid, clicking it shut. He gets to his feet, picking up both the case and his gun. I take in Somerscale’s lovely cheekbones, his fine lips. The high collar of his greatcoat, and his cravat, a dapper number, white with thin, red pinstripes. Red. White.
My eyes drop to the gun in his right hand. I can see it clearly now, smooth long muzzle; superb gold panels of filigree etched into its barrel. A small letter H, also golden, engraved into the handle. It’s Hatterleigh’s revolver. The one I took from his room in Paris. The very same one stolen from my pocket at the Dernier Livre. For one black moment, it’s as though a shutter falls across my mind, leaving me bathed in darkness.
Somerscale peers at me. “What is it, Heloise? You must stop catching flies like that.”
I clap my mouth shut. Think, Heloise, think. The man – black, bushy beard – stole the revolver from my pocket. The next day he was dead in the cemetery. The revolver must’ve been stolen from him then, by whoever murdered him. I look sideways again at the black and gold revolver, licking my dry lips. My eyes flicker back to Somerscale’s face, hitch on the cravat. Red and white.
My velvet bag – my own little pistol – lies on the ground, near Beveridge’s leg. “My bag,” I say, annoyed my voice is no louder than a whisper. “My bag,” I repeat, bending to retrieve it. I stagger as I clasp it, and Somerscale catches my wrist in a strong grip.
“What is the matter, Heloise?” he asks again. He tilts his head at me, then lifts the revolver. “Something about this firearm has unnerved you.” He studies Hatterleigh’s revolver for a few moments and then chuckles. “Well, haven’t I been the fool. This is the very gun stolen from you at the Dernier Livre, I surmise.” He shakes his head. “When I took it from that blackguard, I really only had in mind to frame this fellow,” he nods towards Beveridge’s body. “Not you; certainly not that useless idiot, Hatterleigh.”
“You took it?”
Taking in a deep breath, he says on the exhale, “Damn you, Heloise. You have forced my hand.”
He lifts the revolver’s muzzle. His thumb levers the hammer into position, its slow creak a roar in my ears.
The tip of his finger whitens as it pulls against the trigger.
CHAPTER 29
Another loud report. Quick. Too quick. A smother of smoke, settling in the still air.
My hands grasp my bodice, press against my neck, squeeze my stomach. No pain. Perhaps I am numbed by the shock. My fingers feel for anything wet, gaping, any kind of tear in body or dress, but there is nothing.
The smoke clears. Something heavy thuds against my thigh, slides down my leg. The constable rolls onto the ground at my feet, clutching his chest. He groans, his shoulders shuddering.
“What have you done?” I shout at Somerscale.
The constable’s hands stop fluttering. His head flops to the side.
I go to kneel by the policeman but Somerscale grabs me by the arm, mutters, “Come on, you. I might have a use for you,” and marches me towards the lane from which he appeared. The revolver’s muzzle is hot where it digs into my ribs; I am sure it sears a small circle into my skin like a tattoo. Somerscale’s pulled the cravat up over his mouth and nose, keeps his head averted from the men who have come out from the brewery to gape. As we round the corner, I glance over my shoulder and take one last look at the poor constable, lying in the dirt. The dog stands by Beveridge’s head, still yapping and baring its teeth.
Somerscale bundles me into a coach that is parked a little way down the main thoroughfare. As we trundle along, I stare out the coach’s window, but I don’t really see the buildings, people, trees. Even when the coach grinds to a halt, making way for other traffic, the world seems to quiver, as though dipped in aspic.
“What the hell is going on, Somerscale?” My voice sounds dull, not as strident as I’d like.
“What’s going on?” he says, exasperated. He sits on the opposite bench, the revolver trained on me. Both my velvet bag and the hard case lie on the seat next to him. “You’ve ruined my plans, Heloise. But do not worry, I will rally. Just give me a moment to think.”
“It was you all along?”
He smiles. “All along.”
The gold trim of Hatterleigh’s revolver glimmers in the dim interior of the coach. “You took that gun from the man with the black beard? The man who placed the note in my pocket?”
“Indeed I did.”
“And you murdered him.”
He looks a little surprised. “You know that?”
“Yes. I tried to make that rendezvous, but I was too late. But why kill him, if he was working with you?”
“Well, by then I knew White was onto him, damn her, so I had to make him disappear.”
I wrench on the door handle, but it won’t give.
“Locked in, I’m afraid. Only Victor – you must remember my valet – can open that door now. He sits above us, with my coachman. Very reliable men, I might add.” He speaks in that light conversational tone, a pleasant smile on his face, and my skin positively crawls with horror.
“But what are you hoping to achieve, Somerscale? By bombing the police? The palace?”
“Those bombings were all a smoke screen, Heloise. A smoke screen for my real goal.” It’s as though he wants to impress me. “It was during my time in the Crimea War that I became fascinated with explosives, you know. I have a special cottage in Shepherd’s Bush, especially for me to work away in when everyone thinks I’m at my club.”
The coach rolls to a stop, caught between a wagon carrying coal and two buggies. I slam the palm of my hand against the glass of the window, but my cry for help is cut short as the warm muzzle of Hatterleigh’s revolver is pressed to my neck.
I huddle back into the corner of the seat. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”
“Well, Heloise, imagine my surprise when White contacted me in Paris, asking me to pose as the contact in some devilish bombing scheme. Imagine my consternation. Little did she know I was the actual contact. That I was the one who had arranged the bloody meeting. I couldn’t exactly turn up, could I, and have that damned stupid blackguard, Berger – the fellow I had this gun from – make clear his familiarity with me. I knew White would have other spies on hand. Turns out that allowing myself to be imprisoned became the ultimate alibi.”
He leans in towards me, leg crossed over the other in a cosy manner. The revolver lies limp in his hand, yet I have no doubt he would use it on me. I think of a flash of crimson blood, s
treaking through Beveridge’s fingers. His blind, pale stare up at the morning sky. “So you sent me?” I say.
“Nobody knows you, do they? Well, they didn’t then. There would be no tying you to me, in Paris, and certainly not in a job such as this.”
The coach rolls forward a few feet, stops again.
“And, of course, I was expendable.” I can’t help the acerbic note. “Why send me at all?”
“Well, I still needed to know who I could contact here in London, and we had already arranged the red and white scarf thing. Luckily – or so I thought at the time – Berger must’ve guessed something was up, and slipped you a note instead about the new rendezvous place and time.”
“And you did meet him? In the cemetery?” Just before I got there.
“Yes, Heloise. Swapped places with Victor. Those dozy guards at the debtor’s jail never really checked who exactly was in residence, as long as someone was. Berger was a very efficient fellow. It was almost a pity I had to knife him.”
I try to swallow, but my throat sticks. “And he told you of Beveridge?”
His smile widens. “He did, the fool. He told me that this Beveridge chap would be very keen to plant the bomb for me today. How he had grandiose ideas of dismantling the system or some such nonsense.”
My mind jumps to Violette and the anger of it seems to clear my mind. “And poor Violette? Was that you too?”
A horse gallops by my window; a costermonger touts his pea soup in a drawling baritone. The coach trundles forward, at a snail’s pace.
“That was very unfortunate. On many fronts. I should never have sent Victor to do my work. Look at the disorder that happens when you don’t take care of a thing for yourself.”
“She was murdered because your valet thought she was me?”
“Craven, he was too, when he realised his mistake. Nearly didn’t tell me. Mumbled something about her being dressed as you, in a damned purple bonnet, or some such. Couldn’t really blame the poor man, in the end. He tried again, outside La Maison Dorée, but said some interfering buffoon yanked you back from the road.”