“Well, there is a significant difference- about a 200 mile difference, so you had better let me know.”
“Are you saying you will do it?” Lillith virtually pleaded.
“I am not saying anything,” Langston replied, a little irritated. “I told you I have found your written communication a bit vague, and if you want my help in this manner you must be completely specific.”
“I misspoke, I apologize,” Lillith sighed. “Mr. Langston, I must return to work now, and so should you. But please take this into the most serious consideration. I am sorry to have misled just about everyone this morning, but if our leaders can make unsavory deals in order to move forward, so can we. I would warn you, again, to leave London as soon as possible, and do not return to the newspaper.” Before he could respond, she very lightly placed one of her gloved hands on Langston's fingers, and leaned in close for a final word. “Kerry,” she whispered into his ear, addressing him by his Christian name for the first time, “there will be plenty of women who will follow Edward Lyons to the ends of the earth. But I know at least one woman who will follow you, and you alone.” She stepped back, and although her eyes were sad, they somehow managed to regard him warmly. “Goodbye, Mr. Langston. Hold your weapons close, just like the holy water that is in your left coat pocket, and the crucifix that is in your right.”
Langston's mouth fell open in astonishment at Lillith's correct description of what and where the tools were. She turned and headed down Magdalen Road in the opposite direction that Stanley had gone. Langston stood in place, ticket in hand, terrified and yet exhilarated. After making brief but oh so gentle physical contact with Lillith, he wondered if this is what it felt to be one of those newfangled incandescent light bulbs.
*********
His cheeks ruddy from exertion and not emotion, Stanley Johns puffed his way through the half-million trees of Wimbledon Common. He had stopped to solicit the occasional bit of direction from a stranger or two, but Stanley was confident he could ultimately find his own way to Putney Vale Cemetery.
The morning's events had both aggravated and invigorated him. Unthinkable that Kerry Langston would be drawn in by a scullery maid, he thought to himself. It seems that Englishmen are always on the run for a bit of tail. But while he's off playing about with some tart from Cornwall, I am indeed going to see what this Edward Lyons is up to, along with that creepy Gidley man.
Stanley's route that morning had been a circuitous one, taking the roads Penwith, Lavenham and Augustus before plunging into the Common, then heading north for Putney Heath which he was certain was adjacent to the cemetery. Throughout his journey, his thoughts on Langston varied from exasperation to fear to guilt over his now-divided loyalty. His parting words to Langston had not been kind, but he felt compelled to confront Lyons and his toady on his own, if not as a roundabout way of showing his support to Langston, then at the very least satisfying his own overtaxed curiosity. Just what in bloody hell was that maid saying to Langston? he wondered. What's that nonsense about sailing over to America? Whatever it might be, it has to be significant enough to send all us men traipsing about London Town.
Stanley hadn't given much thought to the possibility of Gidley and Lyons not being at the cemetery by the time he arrived. Putney Vale was less than half the distance he'd walked this morning from Kingston-Upon-Thames, the district that Lyons represented as MP, so Stanley believed it was not outside the realm of possibility that they might still be there, or at least nearby, waiting for a reporter to appear. Panting for breath as he hurried along, Stanley briefly weighed the option of introducing himself as Kerry Langston.
He stopped for a moment, the highly unusual amount of walking for the day catching up with him. Slightly lightheaded and the small of his back aching, he leaned against a golden chain tree, its leaflets not quite fully developed. Bloody hell, Stanley thought. If ever there was a time I wouldn't care about funny looks for ordering a cold lager at a pub, it would be now. His mouth was dry and he coughed stridently. My American Grandpapa was right- beer should only be served cold. Casting a weary eye before him, he thought he could see through the woods, in the not-too-far distance, an imposing wrought iron gate and what had to be stone markers behind it.
“Gorblimey. At last,” he exhaled, finding some new strength in his stretching lungs and aching feet. He trudged forward, and chuckled out loud at the thought that he'd never been happier to see a cemetery. He removed his flat cap, running his hands through sweat-moistened curly hair. “Now to find Lyons and Gidley,” he muttered.
Taking hat respectfully in hand, Johns walked slowly and with purpose for several quiet moments, passing the Sainsbury and Tate Mausoleums, both of them stolid little temples made out of white marble. Sculptured angels abounded, with cobwebs on their wings and patches of moss on their feet. As he continued on his way, not a soul to be seen, and a slight tired limp impairing his walk, he wondered what Langston had been referring to earlier when he said that he'd chosen a cemetery as a meeting place as a demonstration of having a sense of humor.
It was at that moment something small and circular landed in the pathway before him- as if it had been tossed out right in front of him. Stanley looked about, towards the tree limbs overhead, wondering if there was a mischievous squirrel about. He looked down, took a few steps forward and then gingerly picked it up: an apple. A small, green Laxton's Superb apple. I don't recall seeing apple trees anywhere-
Stanley felt the air expel itself violently from his lungs, as someone or something tackled him from the left, jarring his ribcage and giving him the impression that he'd become airborne. His arms clawed wildly about, unable to make contact with his attacker, his eyes unable to see anything from the side as it seemed that his head and neck had become immobilized. He could hear feet trampling on the ground, as he continued to tumble helplessly away from the pathway, fearing that his skull was about to make powerful contact with a granite grave marker. Finally he was thrown to the ground, in a dark patch behind what had to be some sort of crypt, his arms and legs sullied with mud and wet leaves clinging to his face. As he struggled to sit up, he felt the end of a walking cane land forcefully on his sternum.
“From the newspaper, are you?” a surly voice demanded.
Stanley, trying to catch his breath and blink away the tears of pain that had flooded his eyes, struggled to answer but managed to only to break into a coughing fit.
“From the newspaper, are you? Do I have to spell it out in Morse code on your puny little chest?” the snarling voice repeated, the cane tapping malevolently into Stanley's chest, the face of his attacker unseen in the darkness.
“Yes, yes, I am. I'm a reporter. I only came to-”
“Silence!” the voice bellowed, the cane suddenly crashing down upon Stanley's already tender knees. Stanley yelped in pain, then quickly covered his own mouth, trying to placate his attacker in any way he could.
“Apples. Always going after the apples. Gets 'em every single time.” The menacing voice had turned away, shifting its tone, addressing someone jocularly in the distance. There was then a rustling sound as the stout silhouette of a man suddenly came tumbling down upon the terrified reporter. “What business have you?” the voice demanded, returning to its prior viciousness. Stanley could only sputter a few noises, frightened and very much in pain, and he clenched his eyes as he saw the cane come rising up and land another staggering blow to his legs. “What business have you?” the voice demanded once more.
“Mr. Gidley, that will be quite enough,” came a calm, clipped directive from the distance. Stanley gasped, pulling himself up by his elbows.
“Gidley? Bartholomew Gidley?” Stanley cried out, both in pain and confusion. “I- I know how you hate reporters but this is more than a bit extreme, don't you think?”
There seemed a stunned silence on the part of his attacker. Stanley then felt an aggressive, angry hand grope for his arm in the darkness, pulling him up to his feet with astonishing speed.
“Wh
en Mr. Lyons has time to answer questions, He will do so but not within the confines of a foul graveyard!” the voice spat out, angrily. The visually unidentified man then took a step forward, a shaft of light catching his face and allowing Stanley to see. “Nor will a Parliamentary Private Secretary be reduced to spending His afternoon putting the likes of you in their place.” Bartholomew Gidley, complete with top hat and a scarf over his collar, glowered at Stanley with what could only be described as eyes as black as coal.
“I know my place, Mr. Gidley. You've probably forgotten I exist, just another annoying staffer trying to get the likes of you to tell the truth,” Stanley panted. “I happen to have good reason to believe that Mr. Lyons is preparing to abandon his duties as MP. Isn't that correct, Mr. Lyons?” Stanley called out, reasonably sure that the other voice he had heard belonged to him.
There was a brief silence, and then a second, taller figure appeared a few steps behind Gidley. “And what if that were indeed the case, young lad?” asked Edward Lyons.
“Then it would be my- our responsibility to report it to the public,” Stanley called out.
“Ah, yes, the reporters, the press, the saviors. The last barrier between Us- the ruling class- and total chaos, moral depravity. Always on vigilant watch to catch Us in the act of subverting the rights of the downtrodden.” Lyons, a thin yet imposing figure, leaned over Gidley's shoulder for a closer look at Stanley, who was clutching his ribs and fighting to keep his balance. “Must be a tiring existence- that constant lust for glory.”
“It's nothing to do with glory, and you should know better, Mr. Lyons.” Stanley felt a violent cough coming on, and he knew that doing so would subject his ribcage to a maelstrom of pain. He turned his head away and spit out into the bushes what he was pretty sure was blood. He thought he heard an unnerving sort of groan come from Gidley, but he regained his own composure and cast an unwavering glance at Lyons. “I only want to start for something simple, like the truth.”
“Don't delude yourself, young man. The truth is just another form of belief, and a man can make himself believe anything- even convincing others that he holds beliefs he doesn't.” Lyons seemed to size up Stanley for a moment before continuing.
“Perhaps it can be proven- even evangelized- that the poor beleaguered MP from East Surrey didn't abandon His post, but was instead chased, unfairly forced to leave by a constituency that had all but abandoned Him, misled by the rantings of a disgruntled press with an agenda. The irresponsible politician becomes a martyr, sacrificed by an overzealous fiefdom of newspapers.” He smiled mysteriously, and let himself chuckle quietly. “I've grown quite weary of this never-ending shell game, this constant maneuvering. This great social experiment, this fight for women's suffrage, appears to be leading nowhere, as so far as England is concerned. Perhaps it's time for a fresh start with a whole new independent republic, with Bartholomew Gidley seated at the exalted right hand of Edward Lyons.” Both men laughed quietly in dark brotherhood.
“Ambitious, and untrue. Do you care, Mr. Lyons, about women's suffrage? Truly, do you?” Stanley was amazed at some of his own words, but was finally starting to sense that Lyons mainly had his own interests at heart. “Are you truly willing to sacrifice your political career, or are you just employing a different tactic in an effort to get your own way? Do you suppose that you'll be able to set up your own form of government in Utah?”
Lyons and Gidley appeared thunderstruck. “Oh yes, yes, I know all about Utah, or at least your plans to move there,” Stanley laughed defiantly, still rubbing his aching side. “And the Chronicle should be more than happy to announce that story from every corner in London. Don't presume that it wouldn't.”
Gidley, his face as grave as the cemetery that surrounded them, turned to Lyons. “Should I dispatch him right here, Sir?”
Lyons was nearly causal in his response. “At least wait until I am out of sight, and unknown to know. At that time, to Thine own self be true, Mr. Gidley.”
Stanley's eyes darted between the two men, waiting for a sign of humor in their exchange. “Come, now, you're inventing this, all right? There's no need to take this any further.”
Lyons pulled a pair of gloves from his coat pocket, his tone still matter-of-fact. “Wait until I am at least a bit out of earshot. I do believe I have some documents to sign this afternoon, and a spot of tea later on. Mr. Gidley, see to it that Lillith has it prepared on time.”
Stanley's lips trembled. “Mr. Lyons, the time for jocularity has come and gone. You must be held accountable as to why it is that you're leaving East Surrey for-”
“Good day, sir,” Lyons cooly interrupted. “And Mr. Gidley, ensure this time that Your suit remains unspoiled. Let's have no repetition of that incident at the Moroccan Embassy.”
“Indeed, Sir,” Gidley obediently replied, while Lyons walked away without saying another word.
“What incident at the Moroccan Embassy? What's he on about?” Stanley asked, clutching his side.
Gidley turned to Stanley. “When My overcoat was bloodied by some unpleasant business a few months ago, I just told the Moroccans that We'd had an earlier appointment that day at a pig farm. Mr. Lyons panicked because He didn't know as I did that Morocco is one of the few Muslim countries that allows the consumption of pork!” Gidley began to roar with laughter, while Stanley wobbled on his feet, unsure if he was the victim of a practical joke, being encouraged to believe in something that was untrue.
“Mr. Gidley, that is enough,” Stanley declared. “You've had your amusement for today which, by the way, has almost certainly left me with broken bones.”
“This is not for amusement,” Gidley suddenly growled, the laughter disappearing from his voice completely. “This is for blood credits. Mr. Lyons got His belly full from Lillith last night. Now it's My turn, Mr. Langston.” His dark eyes took a disturbing turn towards something even more sinister, and he began to remove his gloves.
“Mister... Langston?” Stanley stared in wide-eyed astonishment at Gidley, uncomprehending. He then convulsed with fear, shoving Gidley away from him with as much force as he could muster. He spun around, trying to see past the edge of the crypt, calling about to Edward Lyons. “Mr. Lyons, sir! Mr. Lyons! This is all so very unnecessary! I'm not even Kerry Langston- there's been a misunderstanding! We won't publish the story! We won't publish the-”
Crying out for Edward Lyons, with his back turned to Bartholomew Gidley, was his last conscious act. He had no time to react as Gidley brought a brick down on the side of his head with tremendous force, shredding his scalp and even tearing off part of his ear. Stanley crumpled to the ground like a dismantled scarecrow. Gidley licked his own bloodied fingers, and then with quiet glee dragged Stanley's body over what had once been farmland to the furthest corner of the burial ground at Putney Vale Cemetery. Grunting under his breath, Gidley could just barely be heard to be half-singing a strange bit of doggerel:
“Life's but a shadow, man's but dust, this dial says die we all must.”
CHAPTER TEN
April 10th, 1912
The man seated on a crate at the dockside at Berth 44 in Southampton knew that he needed to give serious consideration to replacing his worn-out shoes. He had just observed that a rather large hole had appeared in the sole of one of them.
However, the hole in his shoe seemed utterly insignificant, as he clutched a bundle of clothes to his chest in an effort to gain a little warmth. Indeed, he hadn't found himself in such a state of awestruck wonder since he had first gazed upon the Parish Church of All Saints, Winkleigh the previous autumn.
As Kerry Langston took in the sight before him, it seemed that man's attempt to conquer the elements, to sail the sea- any sea, anywhere, anytime- had at last been perfected. At the same time, the daunting structure- seeming to make its own grandiose statement by merely existing- carried the human quest for invincibility in such a way that it managed to both celebrate and marginalize the men surrounding it. Several times that morning, he had a
llowed himself to step forward far enough so that the only detail in his line of vision was a black steel wall, punctuated by portholes and hundreds of thousands of rivets. He would then step back, further and further and then further still until at last the outlines of the rest of the behemoth began to take shape, but only barely. To his left, the vaguest suggestion of a ship's bow, to his right, its stern that seemed to curve off into the distance. Overhead were hints of rigging and the tips of smokestacks. Langston had to remind himself that he was looking at a ship and not a building. Some of the only reminders at this distance that the steel leviathan was indeed nautical were the sounds of a few seagulls and the unmistakable, somewhat brackish, smell of seawater.
Only a sudden pang of hunger was able to briefly pull Langston from his reverie, as he gazed upon the great sea liner. His dietary habits as of late had been atrocious, his ever-sensitive stomach apparently unable to tolerate even the blandest of meals. However, the previous night at a Southampton boarding house, he had overheard a substantial amount of chatter regarding the meals that awaited even the lowly third class passengers of this particular ship. Meals on a ship were not something usually regarded as anything other than spectacularly awful, but rumor had it that the White Star Line had set a new standard with its accommodations and food for everyone on board. After what had been an especially difficult and uncomfortable spring, Langston fervently hoped it was true.
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