Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  Franklin nodded. “If I didn’t know you as a son, I’d be certain that you are guilty.”

  “I don’t have a reason to commit these crimes,” Matt replied.

  “Bureaucrats kill people all the time,” Franklin observed. “There are plenty of reasons for you to conspire against Ferguson or his people.”

  “And his wife?” Matt said irritated.

  “Maybe she wasn’t the target.”

  “Are you working for the prosecution?”

  “You’ll meet the prosecution soon enough,” Franklin replied. “Fortunately, the list isn’t enough to hold me. I’ll do my best for your release.”

  Chapter 58

  Rolling Pin

  Someone called on Franklin at his home shortly after sunrise on the morning following his visit to Bow Street. Franklin was already sitting in his writing room trying to rationalize how he was going to save Matthew Miller from an unimaginable predicament. Franklin was used to spending these early hours in solitude, so he thrust on a robe, and bounded down the steps to the first floor in a state of irritation. The pain in his knees reminded him to slow down. Damn rheumatism! The time it took to limp through the short hallway to the front door was enough for him to reconsider his rash desire to scold the visitor. Vigilance overtook him.

  Franklin stood at the front door, thought twice, and then turned around and went back up to the second floor. He pushed the drapes aside and opened the window so he could look down on his visitor. A young man was standing at his front door, and there was a closed carriage waiting on the street. No one was in the driver’s seat. “Who are you?” Franklin called down. His tone was a mixture of inquisition and irritation.

  “William Spencer, sir,” the young man answered. “I’ve been asked to escort you to Bow Street.”

  “I’ll not step into your carriage,” Franklin declared. He considered walking to the closet to grab his pistol. It would help convince this man to step away from his door, but Franklin wasn’t ready, yet, to escalate the situation. He hadn’t committed a crime and didn’t want to start now. “How do I know you’re from Bow Street?” Franklin called down. The young man turned his head to the creaking of an opening carriage door, and Franklin followed his gaze. William Morley stepped out of the cab and walked to stand next to Spencer. They bent their necks upward.

  “What do you want with me?” Franklin called.

  “If you are hiding the heinous villain Matthew Miller,” Morley said. “I assure you it’s a crime.”

  “He’s not a heinous villain, in any case,” Franklin said. “Has he escaped?”

  “So you pretend to have nothing to do with this?”

  “I was sleeping until an hour ago.”

  “Let us in,” Morley demanded.

  “Only if you give your word that you will not take me from my home.”

  “I’ll confess to no such thing,” Morley called.

  “Then you’ll stand in the street and conduct your interrogation,” Franklin replied. “First question, please.” Franklin looked at the windows across the street. People were pulling drapes aside to observe the commotion. “Go ahead.”

  Morley looked around at the eyes that were now on him and then gazed back up at Franklin, exasperated. “You’ve my pledge,” he said finally, loud enough for everyone on the street to hear. Franklin closed the window and the drapes and turned to go down to let Morley in. William Morley, like John Fielding his boss, was a principled and well-intentioned person and Franklin sensed that he respected the law, and Franklin believed such men helped make England the great civilization that it was. Franklin hopped down the steps for the second time, again too hard, and had to limp to the front door. It took him some time to undo the heavy lock and swing the door open. “Come inside,” he ordered, trying to ignore the pain in his knees.

  He motioned with his arm to direct Morley and Spencer into the first room and then noticed the pistol in Spencer’s belt as he took up a place right outside the door. Franklin shrugged and walked into the room to join Morley.

  “Your man can search the house before you go,” Franklin said. “I assure you that this is as big of a surprise for me as for you.” Franklin motioned for Morley to take a seat. Spencer remained outside the living room door like a sentry. This wasn’t Franklin’s favorite room in the house since it got very little natural light, but he preferred that Morley not go any further inside so as not to disturb Margaret.

  “You’ve no idea where Miller has fled?” Morley asked doubtfully as he sat.

  “He was in your protection,” Franklin said incredulously. “Do I have the resources to take on Bow Street? You have a small army down there.”

  “An army that was called away late last night to deal with a violent riot on the docks. The very livelihood of this city was threatened.”

  “And someone broke into the jail while you were gone?”

  “Miller’s cell was open, and his shackles were placed neatly on the table, the same table where our interview took place. He was taunting us!”

  “You left an innocent man unprotected?”

  “We allowed a criminal mastermind to make his escape.”

  The loud screams of a woman interrupted them. “Burglar! Help! Thief!”

  Morley gave Franklin a knowing smile as they stood to investigate the disturbance. They stepped into the doorway in time to see William Spencer thunder down the steps followed by Margaret Stevenson, dressed in a knee-length gown, waving a giant rolling pin with two hands. She barely missed his head with a swing that looked like a baseball player chasing a ball that was high and outside. “Thief!” she screamed again.

  Margaret waited in the hall once Spencer had scrambled out the front door. She faced the open doorway with the rolling pin cranked back and ready to swing. It took her a moment to notice Franklin and Morley standing behind her as Margaret looked out through the front doorway. “Dr. Franklin,” she said surprised. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Franklin turned to Morley. “Young Spencer should have announced that he was searching the home.” He glanced at Margaret’s huge maple rolling pin. “A less cautious man may have been dealt a fatal blow.”

  “I apologize, Missus?”

  “Stevenson,” she said giving Morley a dirty look. “The nerve! Search for what?”

  “Mr. Miller has been stolen from Bow Street,” Franklin said.

  “Escaped,” Morley corrected.

  “He overpowered the guards and found the key to his shackles?”

  Morley nodded. Franklin could see that Morley was having trouble believing it himself.

  “Mr. Morley,” Franklin said. “I trust that once you ponder the situation, you will realize that you have made a grave error in underestimating a criminal mastermind who lurks somewhere in London. You’ve been outsmarted.”

  “By Miller and his allies,” Morley said waveringly.

  “Utter nonsense! Mr. Miller is a gentleman,” Margaret declared. “He’s a family man with never a bad word to say about anyone.”

  “If Miller was taken from the jail,” Morley asked Franklin. “Where would he be held?”

  “I don’t know,” Franklin replied. “There are two men, suspects I’d place high atop your list. The first is Brian Palmer and the second is Patrick Ferguson.”

  “Palmer!” Morley exclaimed. “I no longer wish to discuss a phantom.”

  “What about Ferguson?”

  Morley was silent.

  “What about Ferguson?” Franklin repeated.

  Morley shook his head and glared. “He didn’t come home last night.”

  Chapter 59

  Rude Awakening

  A man rooting through his pockets woke Matt as he lay on a Thames River wharf. It only took a few seconds for Matt to realize what was going on. “Get the hell off me!” Matt threatened.

  “Now you went and woke him,” another man said. He was at Matt’s back, unseen. The first man continued to rifle through Matt’s pockets, and so in a single motion, Mat
t sat up and punched the man hard in the solar plexus. He went sprawling across the slick wood surface of the dock. The firm toe of a boot connected with Matt’s side before he could take his feet and he rolled towards the sprawled man. Pain shot through Matt’s ribs. Haven’t felt that in a while!

  “Empty your pockets, or you’re getting a beating,” The man who had just kicked him said.

  Matt looked back and forth between the two men trying to determine which one was the biggest threat. He could see their faces in the full moon; they were sailors. Neither was overly broad, but they looked young and athletic. The man poking around in his pockets had smelled of alcohol, and his friend had a slur in his speech. They were drunk, and Matt could use that for an advantage. The man who had gone sprawling regained his feet and stood while Matt was trying to do the same.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Matt said. “You can have everything.” Matt rolled to his belly and was up on all fours.

  “Stay sitting,” the man who had kicked him said. “You’re gonna have trouble if you don’t give that purse.”

  Matt pulled his legs underneath his torso on the slick wooden surface of the dock. He put his hands up in the air. “Don’t want no trouble,” he repeated. “Let me reach into my pocket.” He popped himself to his feet and retreated on his heels. His head was dizzy, and there was a sweet taste on his lips.

  “Why you damn—” The man who kicked him charged. Matt jumped out of his path and swept the man’s feet out from under him. To Matt’s surprise, the falling man hit the dock’s slick surface at full speed and flopped like a pancake. He hydroplaned across the wood and almost as if pushed by some unseen force, dropped deliberately over the side and into the water. They heard him scream, “Help me!” immediately after the splash.

  Matt put his fists up and faced the remaining assailant who now looked back and forth between Matt and the place where his companion had slid from the dock. “Can he swim?” Matt asked.

  “Not too well,” the man facing Matt said.

  “Help me!” they heard again.

  “Better save him,” Matt replied.

  The man turned to Matt with a pleading look.

  Matt scowled. “I’m not going to help you save your criminal friend.”

  Matt kept his fists in the air threateningly, backed away, and then sped towards the shore and to the wooden platform that joined each one of the piers that jutted out into the river. When Matt was far enough away, the robber rushed to the side of the pier. “Hang on,” he yelled over the rail. “I’m coming.” The last image of them that Matt saw in the full moon was the silhouette of a man searching along the dock, most likely for a length of rope.

  Matt jogged ahead trying to put some distance between himself and his potential attackers, but he was almost sure the effort required to fish the man from the water would occupy them for an hour or two. The London wharves were high and old, and a thick, slippery slime covered their water line. A man could hang onto the struts out of the water, even if he couldn’t swim, but it was nearly impossible to climb out without help. He hoped the men were close enough friends that the one on the dock wouldn’t walk away when it became too difficult. The price you pay for being a criminal.

  Matt took a moment to rest on a bench when the men were finally out of sight. The last thing he could remember was falling asleep in his jail cell, with his wrists and ankles shackled in heavy irons. The irons alone had made it hard to sleep, but eventually, he had dropped off. They must have drugged him to unlock the shackles and take him from his cell. His was wearing the coachman’s jacket again.

  Matt smacked his lips trying to recall the sweet taste he had in his mouth. Chloroform! He had used chloroform for a couple of months in graduate school and had experienced this same sweet taste on his tongue. Chloroform was another clue that he was dealing with a man from the future. The anesthetic properties of chloroform wouldn’t be known until sometime early in the 1800s, and it wouldn’t be commonly used until the middle of the century.

  The use of inhaled chloroform played a role in many of the amputations performed during the American Civil War. Chloroform and ether competed for popularity among surgeons, with chloroform often being preferred in that it wasn’t flammable. These two inhaled solvents remained widespread, as general anesthetics, until the numbing effects of cocaine, a substance from South America, gained popularity later in the century, partially due to some pioneering work by a man named Sigmund Freud.

  Matt’s purse was there when he reached into his pocket. He pulled it out and found all his silver along with a folded piece of paper. It was a press-printed map of a particular section of the River Thames showing streets, waterman’s stairs and docks. There was a hand-drawn arrow pointing to a building between Fore Street and Ropemakers Street. It was on the east side of London, before Limekiln dock. Underneath the arrow was the sentence, “The intelligence you seek is at #16.”

  Chapter 60

  Limekiln Holes

  Matt held the map in the moonlight adjusting his view, so the light hit it enough to see the tiny labels of the streets and stairs. He traced his finger along the river, trying to figure a way he could lose himself between buildings. It seemed a futile exercise since Matt knew someone was probably watching and the bright moon made it hard to disappear. Nonetheless, he’d try his best to slink from corner to corner, hoping to shake whoever had drawn the map.

  Matt knew he was walking into a trap, but he had to let it snap shut and hope he was smart enough to escape. No one could help him now. Bow Street would arrest him on sight, and he couldn’t involve Franklin any more than he already was. Matt had some doubt whether Franklin was open to helping anyway. The elder scientist had a hint of hesitation in his eyes during the interrogation. Franklin had the utmost confidence in English law, and he’d want to give British authorities time to sort it out. It was likely he’d recommend that Matt not go off, “half-cocked” before letting Bow Street do their jobs.

  Someone had broken Matt out of jail, dumped him on a dock, told him where to go, and now the chess pieces were in motion. He sensed that before the night ended, he’d learn who and why. It was either Ferguson or Palmer, working together or separately to ruin him. Ferguson’s perspectives and motivations were an unknown unless Matt took him at face value. Maybe he really only wanted to prevent the American Revolution, but would he kill to accomplish his goal? There was no doubt that Ferguson was chasing power, but that was a far stretch from being a murderer. Brian Palmer, conversely, remained a complete mystery. At the very least, one of these men was a murderer.

  Matt scanned the dock to look again for someone following. The moon, bright as it was, only lit the streets enough to see a block or so in either direction. He looked around again and then set out walking along Narrow Street, to find the building marked on the map. It was a thirty-minute walk along the north-most loop of the Thames.

  There seemed to be an infinite number of docks and riverman’s stairs. They were well marked though and so Matt could measure his progress regularly by checking them on his map. The stairs, he thought, were an interesting approach to river access. They extended from the street down into the water. It was high tide now, so the water covered their last steps. The depth of the Thames in this part of London varied from five to seven meters depending on the tide of the English Channel. Rising tide helped boats travel up the river, and lowering tide helped to speed boats back out into the open sea.

  Boatmen used the stairs at high tide and then the causeways at low. The causeways were flat walkways made out of brick or framed gravel. They looked like roads to nowhere that ran directly into the river. Some even had steps that ran alongside. Matt passed by Hall Stairs, Queen Stairs, Godwell Stairs, and then walked across Limehouse Bridge Dock. Checking the map, he saw that he was getting close, and scanned his surroundings. The moon seemed so bright now that he felt like he was standing in a spotlight. “At least it’ll be a well-lit trap when it snaps shut,” he muttered to himself.

/>   Matt started walking again, now coming to the end of Narrow Street and entering a three-way intersection that turned into Ropemakers and Fore Streets. There were three large warehouses directly in front of him. One of these, he knew, contained his final fate.

  Chapter 61

  R&D

  Very few boats were floating on the Thames at this hour, so the river was black glass. Only the occasional gulping of the water against the shore and the low moan of wooden hulls rubbing against the dock interrupted the midnight hush. Matt walked from the riverbank until he had a full view of #16 Fore Street. The grey three-story monstrosity stood as a monolith facing off against the dazzling white moon. Does this guy do anything halfway? The warehouse was tall enough to catch direct light from the moon and its reflection from the Thames.

  Matt tried to stay in the shadows, still worried about Bow Street and anyone else who could raise the alarm. Trying to hide in this poor excuse for dark was doubly irritating in that it had rained almost half the days since he’d arrived in London. Tonight, though, when he needed clouds the most, they were missing. Nonetheless, even here, there were enough buildings, walls and large objects to eclipse the moonlight. Matt walked in the shadows until he was right outside Ferguson’s warehouse.

  The stone wall that surrounded the building rose to about eight feet and then slanted another foot to a peak that rose like a two-sided pyramid. The top of the wall was thick enough to straddle and crawl along if it came to that. This wall was a barrier built against vehicles and casual observers, but apparently not meant to be impenetrable. From what Matt knew of Ferguson’s personality, he’d have predicted something more elaborate; barbed wire at the very least.

  Matt pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket that he had swiped from a longboat on the dock and put them on. He reached high and touched the red brick of the wall to gauge its height, crouched, and then hopped up to grab the grey mortar that formed the center apex. Matt pulled his chest onto the grey surface and reached high to grasp the peak. Once his upper half was nestled against the slant, Matt pulled higher and straddled his leg over, so he was now sitting on top of the wall as if he was riding a horse.