by Will Thomas
“Oh, very well,” he said, and fluttered a hand. “On your way, then. Old Perryman will get you there.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him Perryman was in a snowbank and my employer had taken the reins. We passed Scotland Yard. Less gracefully than my employer, I made my way up into the seat beside him. He was clutching the reins, but had lost the whip. The cape of his coat was folded back over his shoulders, showing the gray silk lining. His teeth were gritted and his mustache was frosted with snow.
“The owl,” I called over the clatter of the horses.
“What owl?” he asked, impatiently.
“The Vatican assassin in the owl mask.”
“What about him?”
“It was Barrie, the little fellow from my fencing club.”
“What of it?”
“He wasn’t an assassin.”
“Of course he wasn’t. There are no Jesuit assassins. They are a myth!”
“You hired my fencing club to pretend to be assassins!” I cried.
He snapped the reins.
“I didn’t hire them!” he said. “I asked them. Hutton jumped at the chance to do some actual fighting.”
We careened around a corner and it was touch and go for a moment. We slid on a sheet of solid ice. We righted ourselves, however, and continued on our way.
“Do you think the trains will still be going in this storm? Or the ferries?”
“They’d better be,” he growled. “I stole a carriage, I can steal a train!”
“I like trains,” I said. “Always wanted to run one!”
“This may be the only chance you’ll have.”
“I say, Perryman!” a voice called from inside the brougham. “Have a care! You’ve spilled my champagne!”
“Sorry, sir!” I called.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It should come as no surprise for those who know me well that mathematics is not my strong suit. Should you require a quote from Twelfth Night, or the year Charles I was beheaded (1649), then I will gladly step in and be of service. Square roots and fractions, however, are akin to Urdu in this soft brain of mine. As a youth, I suspected my maths tutor had the system in his pocket. The square of an isosceles triangle changed from day to day according to his mood and he used it to inflict harm and confusion on those of us who eventually grew to become classics scholars, poets, and private enquiry agents.
Take London to Newhaven Station on the South Coast, for example. It is about sixty miles from Victoria Station, and as the London-to-Brighton express travels sixty miles per hour, one could expect to reach the ferry at Newhaven in an hour precisely. Dover, on the other hand, is but an inch on the map, yet somehow it is nearly ninety miles away. I presume their trains scoot along at nearly the same speed as the LBSCR, or else everyone would queue to go by Newhaven, unless they were going to Antwerp, and what cause does an Englishman have to go to Antwerp?
Anyway, it takes two hours, which somehow doesn’t work out, unless the times table was calculated by my former maths tutor. Two hours, if one is traveling at sixty miles per hour. What about thirty miles per hour in a driving blizzard, with the snow drifting on the rails like sifted flour? The chances were more than even that the train would stop entirely.
Inside, Barker was pacing and growling to himself like a dyspeptic bear.
“Damn and blast,” he muttered to himself.
We were perhaps halfway to Dover. I say perhaps because only the driver would know and I suspected even he was having trouble sighting landmarks. The thought of spending two more hours in the smoking compartment with Barker was insufferable.
“I wonder if the engineer requires a second fireman,” I said. “This weather is exhausting, even to an experienced man. He’ll be fairly knackered by now. Shall I see?”
“Anything to get us to Dover faster!” the Guv replied.
I’d have reminded him that we could have arrived four full days earlier, but sound reasoning suggested otherwise. I wrapped my scarf about my throat, then stepped out into the snowstorm, nearly blown off my feet in the process. I moved forward along the tender. My bowler was gone in the first minutes despite all my efforts, tugged out of my hand. Making my way to the cab, I offered my services, was gratefully accepted, and stepped up onto the footplate. This was the answer to a dream. Part of me has always wished to be a fireman or engine driver. Seizing the shovel, I threw a large scoop of coal into the firebox.
Cyrus Barker’s boat, the Osprey, has a large boiler, and I have spent many an hour in front of it, feeding its eternally hungry maw. The cab on the express was as hot as Vulcan’s forge, but from time to time a blast of freezing air and snow smacked into the back of my head and down my collar. I shoveled until there was a proper fire going, then I stood and looked out the front glass. Snow was striking it like arrows, and one mile looked precisely like another in weather like this. On the other hand, the view from the side of the cab presented the most beautiful sight, Kentish farmhouses covered in snow. I remember that evening, the tempest and the sublimity of the landscape, as if it were yesterday.
An hour went by, and shoveling began to lose much of its appeal. They never did close the line that night, but of course we were not to know that. The driver was much concerned about derailing due to the drifts or having a snow-laden tree fall across the tracks. Either one would certainly ruin Barker’s plans, but it would take a blizzard covering half of England to do it.
The last hour was pure misery, my front singed and my back frozen. Then there was a squeal of brakes and suddenly buildings and platforms whirled by my head. I put down my shovel as the first fireman slapped me on the shoulder. Opening my mouth to speak, I was seized and pulled bodily out of the cab. My employer clapped one half of a pair of darbies around my wrist and locked the other about the handle of the satchel.
“You guard the manuscript, and I’ll guard you. Let us see if our luck holds and the ferry is still running.”
We fought our way through knots of passengers wanting to get to the Continent while buffeted by the weather, a tool in the hand of an angry god. Was there some sacerdotal force willing this manuscript to be stopped or destroyed? Was it never meant to see the light of day and Arnstein had ripped it from a well-deserved tomb? I had no answer. I’m no theologian, just a humble enquiry agent, blundering through a mammoth gale, one foot in front of the other.
There was no hope at all that we could spy Calais thirty miles away when we could not see thirty inches in front of our faces. We worked our way along the platform until we reached the ticket office. Behind me, I heard a man counting loudly.
“Is the ferry still running?” I asked.
“We’ll know presently,” the ticket seller said. “The bursar is counting heads. If there aren’t enough passengers, there is no need to risk life and limb, in all this.”
“Can we buy a ticket?”
“You can. I would recommend doing so. If you do, you’ll be boarding ship immediately. If not, we’ll refund your money should the ferry stay in port for the night.”
“Two, please,” I said, pulling the wallet from my coat pocket and counting the fare.
The ticket man looked dubiously at the steel bracelet on my wrist, but my money was sound. I could not tell from his expression whether he wanted the ferry to go or not. On one side, there was duty and reputation, and perhaps even extra money. On the other, a hot cocoa, or better yet, a hot toddy by the fire and no sleet in your face. It could go either way.
We boarded and stepped into the cabin, which was heated by the boiler and almost too warm. People were removing their coats and scarves. The windows were fogged by the heat in the room.
“Look about, Thomas, look!” Barker growled in my ear. “Do you see any blue coats? Any young men who might be concealing a sword?”
I looked about, face by face, to see if anyone was watching us or was acting suspiciously.
“No, sir,” I said. “No one fits that description.”
“They could be w
aiting on deck.”
“If so, sir, we’ll take them head-on as we always do.”
“Good, lad! I was a little concerned that being married now you might shy away from a skirmish. You did well in Craig’s Court.”
“Thank you, sir.”
It would have been nice to be sitting in front of a fire just then, Rebecca beside me, cocoa in my hand, if not the aforementioned toddy. But I would see this through, if only to protect the Guv from having to defend the satchel against who knows how many adversaries.
A young man pushed his way into the crowded cabin. Barker reached into his coat, resting his hand on one of his pistols. The youth proved to be one of the crew.
“We’s going!” he called.
The cheer the passengers gave was subdued, as if they suddenly realized for the first time what they were doing. Ferries sink. They capsize. They can be too small, too delicate for what the Channel demands of them. There was no guarantee that we would ever reach shore. We were steaming into the maw of a monster.
The vessel gave a lurch and I could feel the movement of the propellers behind the ship. I heard calls back and forth as the ropes were being untied and thrown into the boat. We’re up against it now, I thought.
Barker looked ready to pace, but he saw the sense in staying where we were. No one would suddenly leap up with a sword and try to attack, hampered by dozens of people around us. It occurred to me in passing that the easiest way to attain the prize of the satchel was to cut off my right hand at the wrist. I was especially fond of that hand.
“Eyes open, lad. I doubt we are the only armed men on this ferry.”
I agreed, but wondered to myself if the manuscript were real or if it mattered at all. Would it languish in a forgotten corner of the Vatican archive forever, after we’d risked life and limb? Did I particularly care? No, in fact. I did not care a hang, but Barker did, and after all, I was a private enquiry agent now, not a hired assistant. This was the work and I was here, so I might as well get on with it.
The journey was anticlimactic. The blizzard was doing its best to push us sideways until we swamped, but the thrust of the stout boiler was matching the attempt. It thrummed under our feet and were I not fastened to a holy relic I might have stepped to the boiler room and asked for another shovel. We moved ever forward. I wondered if we could see Calais yet, or whether it would overtake us as Dover had. Barker stood and broke into my reverie.
“Let’s step outside, Thomas. These close quarters are driving me mad.”
We pushed our way to the front door and stepped through it, provoking angry cries from the passengers.
“Blast, but it’s cold!” I cried.
We pushed our way to the rail. There was no welcoming sight of Calais, only a gray sky whipping our faces with sleet. I looked down below at the sea and realized for the first time that we were surrounded by chunks of ice. Ice, as far as I could see in every direction. We could founder out here. It was almost as bad as sinking.
We saw two figures move to the rail at the far end and Barker reached for his pistol again, but it was only a couple of men gesturing at the ice below, as if one were blaming the other for their predicament.
“They are speaking German,” the Guv said.
“This is the only ferry that can take one to Germany, sir. It’s not unlikely.”
“True,” he said, removing his hand from his pocket. “I see a faint shadow over there.”
He pointed south. I saw nothing, but he had those spectacles with the side pieces to keep the snow out of his eyes.
“How far?”
“It’s difficult to gauge. I’d say we’ve come two-thirds of the way, at least.”
We heard the sound of running feet, then. I looked over Barker’s shoulder. The two men were rushing toward us. Too late, I realized one was carrying a pistol. The Guv’s pistol barked once, twice. Then rough hands seized the satchel and tried to pull it away. The man strained, taking a step, then turned back, realizing for the first time that I was attached to the satchel, or it to me. I looked into his eyes and recognized Count Arnstein. This entire intrigue had nothing to do with Germany at all. He had used England’s animosity toward Germany as a means to get what he wanted, a new Holy Roman Empire.
The count took me by the arm—his one-armed grip crushing on my biceps—and slammed me into the rail.
“You see that, Herr Llewelyn?” he said, looking down at the Channel, where I spied a small lugger bobbing in the water like a cork. “I hope you can swim!”
Then he climbed over the rail and jumped. I’d have gone over with him, but I had braced a foot against the rail. The weight was unbearable. He outweighed me by five stone. It felt as if a kicking mule were dangling from my arm. The metal bit into my wrist and I could feel my shoulder trying to slip out of its socket. I gritted my teeth and tried to keep myself from being dragged over the side. At that moment, it seemed inevitable.
An arm wrapped around me and I looked up to see the purser doing his best to save an endangered passenger. My employer tried to grab me also, but it was too late. I slid over the side. Arnstein was dangling, flailing about like a trout on a line. That was it, I thought. He was going to escape and take me down with him into the icy water.
At the last second Barker caught my ankle. Inexorably, he began to haul me up with the purser’s help. Arnstein began to kick harder. Caught between the count below and the two men above, I thought I’d be ripped in half.
I felt the Guv seize my arm and drag it upward. As I looked down I saw my wrist was bleeding freely. Arnstein’s jerking movements, had cut it open. Barker and the purser pulled me over the rail again and my employer fumbled with my wrist. The darbies were released and I fell back onto the deck as Arnstein dropped into the water. Barker had used his key to free me, but Arnstein had managed to get the satchel.
I pulled myself up just as the door to the ferry cabin opened and a crowd of men and women ran to the side.
“Man overboard!” one of the crew cried.
Arnstein came up out of the water, floundering a bit, then held up the satchel in triumph. Surely the manuscript was ruined by now, I thought. Or was it? We watched him swim toward the lugger.
“He’s going to escape!” I cried.
The purser placed a blanket around my shoulders. “He’ll never make it, sir. It’s too cold.”
Arnstein kicked off from the stern of the ship and began to swim, but it was difficult to hold the bag and swim with only one arm. He tried to swim, kicking his feet as he moved, but he was buffeted by blocks of rough ice. Triumph turned to panic. He seemed to be looking at no one but me as he flailed to get away. The lugger was so near I saw men on the bow waving to him. One threw a life preserver. It landed near him and he reached it, putting his arm through.
The satchel was no longer in his hand, I saw. It was halfway to the bottom of the Channel, from which it could never be retrieved. The leather scroll, created nearly two thousand years ago, was destroyed. All this work, all this effort, every stratagem that we had attempted had all been for naught. The relic was gone, the words of a long-ago saint, an apostle perhaps, destroyed, a mere pawn in a man’s search for power and a birthright.
Arnstein gave a sudden convulsion then, and as we watched, he slowly slipped from the life preserver. He floated away from the boat, no longer thrashing about, until he was halfway between the two vessels. I saw no movement in his eyes. Slowly, his body rolled over on its side and then flipped over. Only his shoulder blades were visible. He had frozen to death in the frigid waters of the Channel.
Barker and the purser helped me inside. The heat awoke every nerve of my body. I gritted my teeth, but I was not going to cry out.
“We’ll get you to a doctor, Thomas,” Barker said. “We’ll be in Calais soon.”
“Rebecca will be worried.”
“We’ll send a telegram. In your condition, we will not be able to return to London tonight.”
My employer was right. He’s always right, b
last him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I do not know who has jurisdiction when a death occurs in the English Channel. Perhaps it hadn’t happened before. As enquiry agents, we have the kind of occupation that breeds precedents. We were closer to Calais than Dover, but I was not certain that was a deciding factor. This was all academic, of course. No matter who was in charge, the Guv and I were certain to be blamed for Arnstein’s death.
Both of the young men who attacked us had been shot, one in the knee and the other in the thigh. Having been the obvious aggressors, they had been disarmed by the male passengers. My employer had offered his pistol to the captain and had removed mine from my pockets, as well, before helping me into the sweltering cabin. I could not lift either arm.
The ferry was pushed into port by the snowstorm, where a squad of gendarmes boarded as soon as we docked, or so I seem to recall. My memory of the day was rather blurred. The Guv assures me that I was given a dose of laudanum from the medical kit on board, but I do not recall having received one. Before we were allowed to leave the ferry, Cyrus Barker endured another questioning, followed by a terse interview with Monsignor Bello.
A few hours later, I awoke in a small bed in a seaside hotel in sight of the dock. The wind was still singing outside the window. Barker sat by the fire, staring into it like an auger.
“I lost it, didn’t I, sir?” I asked. “The satchel is gone.”
“Don’t concern yourself, Thomas. Better to keep your arm than a few strips of leather.”
“Sir, my arm is not worth a million pounds.”
“It might be to your wife. I am more concerned about her opinion at the moment than Bello’s or the Prime Minister’s.”
“After all our stratagems, we failed,” I said. “Perhaps it would have been better to just let me go over the side with Arnstein.”
“Again, I believe Mrs. Llewelyn would wish to be consulted in the matter. How is your arm?”
“Useless at the moment, unfortunately.”
“You’ve done all you could. Really, everyone has. Are you hungry?”