by Simon Clark
Thomas understood this important fact: the man suspected of killing Sir Alfred Denby possessed formidable cunning. Thomas opened his eyes again and soon his pencil scratched across the paper as the words flowed. This case fascinated him more and more by the day. If anything, what troubled him the most was that his editor had ordered him to spy on Abberline, and to gather facts that Abberline might wish to remain confidential. Thomas liked the policeman. He had no wish to betray the man’s friendship. However, it occurred to Thomas that he might use his time at William Denby’s house in Wales to conduct his own investigation, which involved the murder of several brothers linked to gold statues known as The Gods of Rome.
The conductor walked along the passageway that ran by the compartments. ‘Change at Crewe for Manchester. Change at Crewe for Wales. Next stop Crewe. All change.’
Yes, he’d adopt a dynamic approach to this case. He’d use his journalistic skills to ask the right questions. Perhaps he would make discoveries of his own? If luck was on his side he might even trace the suspect: the man in the yellow coat – or, rather, the man who once wore the yellow coat. Thomas realized that such a description, man in the yellow coat, would be cumbersome. Detectives gave unknown suspects a nickname, so fellow officers knew who they were referring to. Thomas pondered on what he should call the mystery man. Their murder suspect had used explosive to kill Sir Alfred, so how about The Gunpowder Man? Thomas shook his head, no; yesterday their suspect had possibly shot and killed the Denby brother in Scotland.
Their suspect, however, had, without a shadow of doubt, stolen one of the carved deities from the workshop. Thomas smiled as he wrote a name: The God Thief. Yes, that would do for now. From henceforth the suspect shall be known as The God Thief. He liked its resonance; he even allowed himself a broader smile as he pictured a newspaper headline: pictorial reporter catches the god thief.
Thomas decided to begin his investigation at the earliest possible opportunity. The time had come to start a manhunt of his own.
Thomas Lloyd stepped out of the railway carriage as a church clock struck the chimes of midnight. Instantly, he smelt the tang of the nearby ocean. Gas lights on the main road revealed that buildings here were built of dark stone, giving the impression that the town might have been constructed from the essence of midnight itself.
‘Where now?’ he asked himself as he left the station. He had the address of William Denby’s house; however, he had no means of reaching it other than by foot. But which direction should he take? Porthmadog was a small coastal town. There were no hansom cabs. He doubted that there’d even be a humble cart for hire at this time of night. A cold rain began to fall, transforming the town into a misty, dreamlike place. Voices prompted him to look along a pathway. A pair of men walked toward him. One carried a lantern. Both men wore capes made out of sacks of the kind in which you might carry potatoes. No doubt the sack capes were intended to keep the men dry from the rain, which fell heavier by the moment.
Thomas raised his hat. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Could you please direct me to the nearest hotel?’
They looked Thomas up and down in astonishment, as if he’d stepped over the threshold from some enchanted realm. With an expression of bafflement on his face, one of the caped men spoke some words to the other in a language Thomas didn’t understand, though he supposed it to be Welsh. Both men then shrugged and continued walking. Clearly, they understood no English, while he understood no Welsh whatsoever.
‘A hotel?’ Thomas called after them. ‘Or somewhere I might have a room for the night?’
The figures vanished back into the darkness. At somewhat of a loss, Thomas returned to the station; however, the ticket office door had already been locked. No light showed through the windows.
‘This is a fine old mess,’ he muttered with a sinking heart. Earlier, he’d amused himself with daydreaming about a headline that would read: pictorial reporter catches the god thief. Now, in his mind’s eye, he now another headline: pictorial reported freezes to death in wales. There was little he could do other than walk into town and hope he could wake the landlord of some tavern. Either that, or sleep in an alleyway.
Thomas had taken no more than a dozen steps from the station when all of a sudden a coach pulled by four magnificent white horses swept toward him. Light blazed from lamps fixed to the coach itself – this was such an astonishing sight that Thomas stopped dead. Even more surprising was a soldier, dressed in a red coat and armed with a rifle, who sat beside the coachman.
The soldier barked, ‘Are you Mr Lloyd?’
‘Yes, I’m Thomas Lloyd.’
The driver stopped directly in front of him.
‘We’re here to take you to Mr Denby’s house, sir. Please get into the coach.’
Gratefully, Thomas opened the coach door and settled down into its snug interior. He’d no sooner shut the door when the driver shouted a command to the white horses and away they went.
The rain fell steadily now. Inside the coach, however, behind the closed door and large windows, Thomas was warm and dry. Abberline must have had the foresight to telegraph the arrival time of Thomas’s train. As Thomas settled back into the seat, he noticed that on a rack, high on the inner panel of the cabin, was a series of white flasks made from pot. On each one was painted a single word: Rum, Whisky or Brandy. Although he was tempted to take a restorative nip of brandy after his long journey, he decided that such liquid hospitality was reserved for the owner of this luxurious coach.
Thomas checked his pocket watch. Twenty minutes past twelve.
When the time reached one o’clock in the morning, and with the coach still rumbling through wilderness, he said to himself, ‘I’m sure Mr Denby won’t mind.’ He unstoppered the brandy flask and took a few sips.
After that, the journey seemed much more cosy and pleasant. He gazed out of the window, sometimes catching a glimpse of a remote cottage standing high on a mountainside. At other times the coach would plunge into a mysterious forest that looked as if it belonged to a primeval age. On another occasion, he marvelled at the gorgeous cascade of a fast-flowing stream in the darkness.
At last, the coach passed through a gatehouse and he made out a huge mansion that bristled with battlements against the night sky. This was a long way from the busy streets of London. Indeed, this seemed another realm entirely. A land of strange enchantments. A very different world from the one he was accustomed to back in England’s sprawling capital city of fourmillion souls.
CHAPTER 18
The maid stood at the attic window and gazed out into the darkness. She’d been given another draught of the opiate drug earlier in the day. For hours she’d lain on the bed, feeling more like a corpse than a living human being. Dreams and reality had become so intertwined she couldn’t separate them. Meg had brought food and drink from time to time, and had wiped Laura’s face with a damp cloth while murmuring reassurances. Now Laura supported her weight by placing both hands on the windowsill. The drug had finally lost its power to confine her to the bed, though she still felt dizzy. She looked out in the hope of seeing Jake, the boy who had promised to rescue her.
Huge oaks swayed in the darkness as the storm caught hold and shook them. The winds blew harder and it sounded to Laura as if supernatural beings raced through the forest toward the house. Perhaps spirits were gathering in order to decide who died next? Laura was certain that there would be more deaths. What’s more, she was convinced she would have visions of those deaths before they happened. But why was she granted such glimpses of the future? How could she warn those who were destined to die? The housekeeper had locked her in this room? Most of the time, the opiate made her so lethargic she couldn’t move a finger let alone utter warnings of death. Perhaps those gruesome visions of the future were Laura’s punishment; perhaps she’d committed some wicked act in the past and the spirits wanted her to suffer.
Laura leaned forwards until the cold glass touched the tip of her nose. She heard another noise above the storm winds:
the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Suddenly, a blaze of light appeared, and Laura watched as a coach, pulled by four white horses, and carrying shining lanterns, swept along the drive. A footman hurried from the house to the carriage. Quickly, he opened the door and someone passed a large bag to him. After that, a tall figure stepped out. He was a young man, and the way he glanced this way and that suggested that these were unfamiliar surroundings. Indeed, when she caught sight of his face, she saw that he was a stranger. Perhaps he’d come to help the master with his experiments?
The footman led the way to the house, carrying the stranger’s bag. The tall man followed behind. Meanwhile, the driver cracked his whip and the white horses pulled the coach away in the direction of the stables.
Laura clenched her fists as if she felt a sudden stab of pain. Suddenly, she was assaulted by another vision – images of such vivid intensity streamed through her head: a figure falling from the sky. Crashing through the roof of a building, shattering slates, and tumbling into a room – this room! Scratches covered his face. Blood smeared his lips.
The red-haired gentlemen had plunged from the balloon. Laura had been granted a vision of his violent death. Had she foreseen how another man would die? Would the victim be the stranger who had just arrived here moments ago?
Laura stumbled back to bed. ‘Why are you punishing me?’ she cried. ‘What have I done wrong? What do you want from me?’
Trembling, she pulled the blanket over her head. Laura feared the worst – terrified what tomorrow would bring.
CHAPTER 19
Newydd Hall, Wales, resembled a place of work – part factory, part suite of offices – rather than a gentlemen’s country residence. Men walked along corridors with intricate designs drawn on large sheets of paper. One carried a piece of red fabric the size of a bath towel; the man declared with great excitement to a colleague: ‘Vulcanized! It’s now waterproof. You could fly across the Atlantic with a craft made from this.’
Thomas Lloyd had slept soundly until ten o’clock. The train journey had been interminable then had come the night time drive through the wilderness in a coach drawn by four white horses. This morning he wandered about the big house not knowing where to go. The footman who’d met him from the coach in the early hours took him under his wing.
‘Sir, Mr Lloyd, sir. Breakfast finished at eight, but if you go through the green door you’ll find coffee and cake.’
‘Thank you.’ Thomas nodded. ‘That should tide me over admirably.’
‘Very good, sir. Oh, by the by, lunch is served in the refectory at one sharp.’ With that, the man briskly walked away.
Thomas discovered that the room behind the green door was deserted. A coffee pot stood on a warming plate, while slabs of yellow cake occupied a dish beneath a glass cover. Thomas helped himself. The cake, flavoured with lemon, was delicious. As he ate, he gazed through a window which had commanding views of the grounds. The house stood in the bottom of a valley, with hills rising sharply at either side. In the distance, a colossal mountain soared upwards until lost in cloud. Thomas recognized the mountain as Snowdon, the highest in Wales. Lawns stretched out a good couple of hundred yards before ending at dense woodland. A pair of soldiers in red coats, and armed with rifles, patrolled the edge of the tree-line.
The door opened. Thomas turned to see three men enter. The youngest had wispy fair hair and wore a white shirt and dark trousers, the other man was in his forties and was clad in a grey suit; the third man had severely clipped silver hair and wore the uniform of an army officer. All three approached him.
The man in the grey suit smiled in a friendly fashion. ‘Good morning, Mr Lloyd. The footman told me you were stoking up on cake and coffee. Capital idea! My name is William Denby.’ He held out his hand which Thomas shook.
‘Good morning, Mr Denby.’
‘Pah! William, please. This –’ he indicated the young man with fair hair, ‘– this is Jack Shaw.’ Thomas shook hands with the smiling young man. ‘And this warrior of Empire is Colonel Brampton.’
Colonel Brampton gave Thomas the briefest of handshakes.
‘Welcome to Newydd Hall,’ William said pleasantly. ‘I hope you had a tolerable journey, though it’s a devil of a long ride up from London.’
Thomas wasn’t sure whether to explain he was a reporter that had been assigned to write Abberline’s story for the newspapers, or allow them to believe he was a policeman. He needn’t have worried about making the decision.
Colonel Brampton spoke sharply. ‘I know exactly who you are, Lloyd. You work for the Pictorial Evening News. I don’t like reporters. I don’t want you here. But my superiors wish it otherwise. I thought it only proper you should know my feelings from the start, and to warn you that I won’t tolerate any meddling by the Ppress, or there’ll be hell to pay.’
After Colonel Brampton had curtly informed Thomas that he didn’t like reporters and certainly didn’t want them here at the house, he marched away, with the fair-haired young man hurrying to keep up William Denby, meanwhile, remained with Thomas. From time-to-time, men with rolled-up plans under their arms sauntered in to call upon the trestle table where slices of cake and coffee had been set out.
William Denby, thoughtfully sipping his coffee, gazed out at a dozen soldiers who hauled an enormous length of cable from an outbuilding.
‘That hawser’s two thousand feet long,’ William said. ‘We’re working on how best to tether a balloon, so it can be sent aloft quickly. Colonel Brampton’s especially keen to utilize balloons for reconnaissance.’
‘I know something of your work, sir. It was fascinating to read how you rose to a height of two miles on a hot summer’s day, and how the air grew so cold at that altitude frost formed on the balloon.’
‘Ah, those were the days when my balloon research had a peaceful intent. Colonel Brampton intends to put a soldier into one of my balloons and send the fellow five thousand feet into the sky, so that he can tell artillerymen where to target their guns. My balloons have evolved into weapons of war.’ He grimaced as if the notion displeased him.
‘Surely, that’s beneficial, sir. Your inventions will make our nation stronger.’
‘And the army gives me a king’s ransom to construct bigger and better balloons. Without their money I couldn’t afford to keep this house.’ He turned to Thomas with a sigh. ‘I regret the colonel’s snappish manner just now. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt with you.’
‘Your work is top secret. It’s understandable that the army wouldn’t welcome a newspaper reporter with open arms.’
William took another swallow of coffee. ‘It’s not just a question of secrecy. Recently, we had a terrible accident here. One of our team, a Captain Sefton, fell from a balloon – a fall of more than a thousand feet. Everyone was deeply shocked by the accident. The colonel is responsible for the safety of his men and, quite frankly his commanding officers back in London are going to reprimand the man very harshly indeed.’
‘I see.’
‘They might even send him back to barracks with his tail between his legs, as it were.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘Why on earth do you beg my pardon, Thomas?’ His blue eyes twinkled in a friendly fashion.
‘I should have expressed my sincerest condolences when we first met. Your brother’s murder in Scotland is shocking as it is despicable.’
‘Ah … then Colonel Brampton’s outburst would no doubt have thrown you off your train of thought. The colonel does have a disorientating effect on people.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m at fault, sir. I should have expressed my regret at the loss of your kith and kin.’
‘Thomas, firstly, do not call me “sir”. I am William, and sincerely hope we will remain on friendly terms. Secondly, I’m glad you didn’t offer your condolences in front of our granite-faced colonel. He doesn’t hold with displays of emotion. Visible signs of grief are repulsive to him.’
‘As you wish, William.’
‘No doubt you’re wondering why I don’t appear to be expressing sadness over my brother’s death. I am shocked by the murder; I freely admit that I am. However, he was twenty years older than me. I scarcely ever met the man, let alone formed a brotherly bond. You know our family’s history?’
‘Yes, your father became an extremely wealthy businessman.’
‘He invested his profits in several country estates. When my brothers were old enough he immediately installed them in mansions, like this one, in order to oversee the running of his properties. My father despatched Thaddeus to his place in Scotland when I was five years old. I’ve scarcely seen the fellow since.’
Thomas paused as a man bustled through the door, clutching loops of rubber piping. He picked up a slice of cake, gripped it between his teeth, like a dog carrying a bone, then, with his fistfuls of pipes, exited the room.
Thomas waited until the door closed before continuing.
‘The colonel knew my identity, so you know why I’m here, and that I’ll be joined by Inspector Abberline when he has completed his investigations in Scotland.’
‘I have had quite a flurry of telegrams from both the Inspector and from my brother, Victor, at Fairfax Manor.’
‘You understand your life is in danger?’
‘I do.’
‘Detectives have visited you recently?’
‘Yes, and they are quite satisfied about my security. The house and grounds are extremely well guarded by armed soldiers.’
‘Then you are relatively safe here.’