by Adrian Speed
“I never cope,” Sir Reginald stared at me. “Every time, I hate myself. It doesn’t matter if it’s defending myself, or you, or anyone worthy of staying alive. It doesn’t matter if they’re the vilest cur that ever strode on God’s earth, I still hate to hurt them, hate to break them, and hate to kill them.” Sir Reginald sighed. “But when my hand is forced... my conscience is price enough for what I am saving.” Sir Reginald shook himself. “The fact I hate it so much is one of the few reasons I allow myself to do it at all. I trust myself to know when I have no other choice. And when I face my inevitable end, I will remember every blow, every death that was served by my hand and still feel the same shame.” He slowly lowered himself into a chair. “And sometimes I think if it stops causing me shame, and rage, and pain... that is the moment that I deserve to go to hell.”
“Sir Reginald... I...”
“Go and see Dr Foster.” Sir Reginald waved me away. “The investigation can wait for you as long as you need. Take the time machine and go. There are lunas in the money chest.”
“Sir Reginald... we’re currently bailed criminals on the Moon. We’re just burning time if I go back to the Moon.”
Sir Reginald hung for a moment in despair and then let his head slump to the table.
“Oh.,” he said. After a few minutes he said, “I had forgotten that.”
I sat down in the chair opposite him. He was still as a corpse, his head spilled out like a halo without a hat to hold it on.
“I am sorry I yelled at you,” I said, trying to quell the rage bubbling within. “I just got... very... angry.”
“Yes. I understand.”
I rested a hand on his head and we sat for a while. It felt stupid, but it also felt right, and very slowly I felt the cauldron of anger fade away until a dull ache replaced it. I felt like I did after I’d been crying. Numb and weak, like a flag on a still day.
“I feel... a little better,” I said.
“I am glad.”
“Do you?”
“No. But I shall in time, I am sure.” Sir Reginald pulled himself upright and away from my hand. “Come, there is at least one coffee shop that serves tea and I need a taste of the nnn-twentieth century.”
“Twenty-first,” I said. “But close enough.”
*****
They served steaming green tea made in a silver tea pot, like a coffee pot. It was steeped until strong enough to paint a house. But it was tea, it was hot, and Sir Reginald had stirred in sugar into his until it was almost syrup despite the expense.
“No chance of milk of course,” Sir Reginald muttered. “Only the nearly dead and the newly bred actually drink milk.”
I said nothing and tried to shrink away. The coffee house was nothing like I expected. It was full of men, shouting, laughing, cursing and singing. It was more like a pub than a coffee shop. Men of wealth were coming and going all the time, holding meetings and discussing business. They all seemed to know each other, by sight or by name. It seemed like they all glowered at us for the crime of being strangers.
Or maybe that was just me. It was hard to stop feeling conspicuous. Was my disguise holding? Did they all think I was just some teenage boy? Or did they suspect a cross-dressing woman had entered their abode? Or perhaps they were all staring at Sir Reginald and his suit two centuries ahead of its time.
“I’m making slow progress on this Sotheby-Arnold business,” said Sir Reginald attempting to break the silence. He tapped the tablet hidden away in his jacket’s lining. “There is one point where the two lines cross, a moving-picture director by the name of Jonathon Sotheby-Arnold.”
“They intermarried? When!?” My face snapped up from my drink.
“The twenty-second century.” Sir Reginald raised a hand to temper my excitement. “Which only adds to my frustration. It would be a stretch to believe a grudge would echo down four centuries, and this director is the physical proof that whatever grudge may have stood between them had faded within two centuries.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time two star-crossed lovers from feuding families got together.”
“Ah, but Romeo and Juliet were unable to consummate their marriage and certainly never raised a child to adulthood.” Sir Reginald frowned and sipped his tea-syrup. “But there is more to this Jonathon Sotheby-Arnold than meets the eye. He died of an overdose at the age of twenty-seven. Childless, he started the wave of inheritance that would echo across the Arnold family tree from distant cousin to distant cousin until it reached our recently departed Marlin.”
“So could the motive have been inheritance? The heir of the Sotheby side of the Sotheby-Arnold marriage killed Marlin knowing that they’d be next in line for the fortune?”
“Ah, but if they desired the fortune why use such an inelegant weapon as that rail gun? Why not poison? Why not old age? Simply wait another year or two for Marlin to die and step forward to make the claim to his inheritance. It is an extremely distant claim, but it would have been upheld by the laws of the Colonial Commission.”
“So it was personal in some way at least...” I said. “Maybe we should go back to Lucon and get them to search the city for the Sotheby family.” It would mean I could go talk to Dr Foster as well.
“No, I think not,” Sir Reginald shook his head. “We know there are no more Arnolds in the twenty-third century, but there might be hundreds of Sothebys on Lunar, and thousands around the Solar System. We don’t want to return to Ibrahim with a wild goose chase.”
“Then we find out what the motive was,” I said. “We find out what personal reason there could be to shoot Marlin.” Then the pieces seemed to slide into place. “Wait, Jonathon Sotheby-Arnold died of an overdose?”
“That is listed as his cause of death.” The edge of Sir Reginald’s mouth curled into a smile as he saw me reach the same conclusion as he had.
“So it could have been made to look like an accident,” I said. “Not all elements of the Sotheby family were content to let the Arnold family’s crimes, whatever they were, go unpunished.”
“So then, we head to the twenty-second century?”
“I think so my dear,” Sir Reginald nodded. “The 1660s can wait until after we have cleared... our... names.” Sir Reginald’s voice slowed and fell to a whisper as a gentleman approached our table.
“Do I stand before Sir Reginald?” the man asked. He was a thin, lithe figure dressed in closely cut wool. He looked a little red in the face and clutched a small knapsack.
“You do indeed,” Sir Reginald replied and picked up his cane.
“I was given charge at Paddington to deliver this letter to you and your associate Hannah Delaronde,” the man reached into his knapsack and pulled out a letter of stiff paper. It was sealed with wax. He held it towards us, but just a little out of reach. “It stands as thruppence halfpenny for delivery.”
“You’ll take thruppence flat and be glad of it.” Sir Reginald dropped a heavy copper coin with a dozen jagged edges on the table. “Scarcely twenty minutes run from Paddington to here.”
The runner hesitated, but ended up taking the coin and leaving the letter.
Sir Reginald lifted the letter carefully and turned it over. It was sealed with wax and addressed only to Sir Reginald Derby and Hannah Delaronde. Yet, in the upper left hand corner dark translucent ink had made its familiar mark.
“That’s a Post Office stamp,” I said. “A twenty-first century Post Office stamp.”
“Regard,” Sir Reginald tapped the other corner.
“Forwarded care of... ALSA. The letter sorting machine?” I frowned.
“It seems I made her somewhat more intelligent than intended,” Sir Reginald mused. “She was linked to the apparatus that ensures all letters reach me. Perhaps if the...” Sir Reginald trailed off. “It hardly matters. The letter has been sent to us by Alsa, the important question is why.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I said. I took the letter out of Sir Reginald’s hands and cracked open the seal. The writi
ng underneath was neat but clumsily sanded and blotted. My eyes ran down the text.
“It’s from December, and it’s about someone’s husband dying after the fire,” I said, scanning my eyes down it. One word leapt out of the page like a viper. “And it’s from Elizabeth Arnold.” I turned the paper towards Sir Reginald and pushed it under his nose.
“Well I don’t suppose we can proceed to the twenty-second century just yet.”
Chapter XV
The letter had been addressed to Sir Reginald and me, so I was free to dress in proper clothes, a jumper, some jeans and my warm blue coat. The letter had also requested we come during the midmorning, when the man of the house would be out. That said something about what to expect.
We landed in Deptford, which was somewhere I had thought was always part of London. In the late autumn of 1666 it was a pleasant village over the river and a little downstream. Its strip of timber houses was dominated by a manor and gardens near the river that looked like someone had rammed three of the smaller houses together and given it a larger door.
I paused at the sight of ships in the Thames. It had been one thing to see the Thames filled with lighters, ferries and barges, but it was alien to see an entire ship sitting in the river, making its way slowly upstream.
“Come along Hannah,” Sir Reginald chided from further down the road. I ran to catch up with him and he rapped on the door with the end of his cane.
The door opened to reveal a pale-faced woman in a black dress. Her skin was the colour of milk, and she seemed to wobble even while standing still, like a blancmange. She wasn’t fat though. On the contrary, her limbs seemed gaunt.
“My name is Sir Reginald Derby,” Sir Reginald announced, bowing slightly. “And this is my associate Ms Hannah Delaronde. Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs Elizabeth Arnold?”
“Please come in! And quickly!” She almost pulled Sir Reginald in, but stopped her hands at the last moment and instead fled into the house, leaving a gaping hole that Sir Reginald fell through. I stepped inside similarly fast and Elizabeth shut the door behind us in a flutter. “It’s true, it’s true, Margaret had said, but I never could have believed...”
“Who is Margaret?” Sir Reginald asked.
“My sister-in-law sir,” Elizabeth said and flushed with embarrassment, briefly turning her into a strawberry blancmange. “She said that when... when the lords at court have troubles they write to you sir, and sometimes... sometimes you come.”
“Margaret Arnold, née...?”
“She is a cousin twice removed of Edward Hyde, newly Earl of Clarendon.”
“Now that’s a claim to fame,” Sir Reginald said. “Do you mind if we sit?”
“Sir, I would be honoured.” Elizabeth leapt to draw out the chair before Sir Reginald could touch it and make it ready for him. “Will you take a cup of coffee?”
“Oh I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Sir Reginald offered.
“Let’s cut to why you wrote to us,” I said, forcing Elizabeth to look at me for the first time. It was a wary look, like one might throw at a rabid dog.
“You are Hannah Delaronde?”
“I am.”
“My husband said he knew your brother.” She said it like a challenge, but challenging what? I looked to Sir Reginald, but his eyes held no answers.
“Andrew knows many people in London,” I said. Elizabeth’s eyes softened a little and she indicated a chair for me.
The room was small and not the most comfortable, but it was not a large house. The furniture was well made, but large, heavy oak. There were no carpets or cushions, or soft furnishings of any kind. A small collection of silver plate sat in a locked cabinet in one corner but it had been left to burnish over time.
“Now, explain the matter carefully,” Sir Reginald prompted our host. “Why did you bring us here?”
“With God as my witness sir, I do not wish to pass false testimony,” Elizabeth began. “It is my wish to believe my brother-in-law a man beyond reproach. Yet, he and my husband did not always see eye-to-eye, and I have only my brother-in-law’s words to go from.”
“And your brother-in-law’s name?”
“Jacob sir, Jacob Arnold.”
“I think he can stand to go by Jacob from now on.”
“As you desire, sir,” Elizabeth said meekly, clutching her skirts. “My brother-in-law, Jacob, that is, was with my husband during the great fire and they fled their own way than I did. My husband sent me away on the second day of the fire, while he and Jacob defended... defended the house in Birchin Lane. He was a merchant sir and a wealth of stock stood in our house.”
“And your husband’s name?”
“John sir, John Arnold.”
“Do carry on.”
“Jacob said my husband fought the flames to the last moment but they were forced to flee the fire. The fire had torn along to the Bridge by then sir, so they fled north. Afear’d of the flames spreading while they slept they fled all the way to the country and slept out there.”
“While you were...?”
“Here in Deptford, sir.” Elizabeth’s eyes began to water. “John had bought the house so we’d be out of the city for... for...” Elizabeth turned away until she had composed herself. “Jacob said John awoke with a powerful chill from the night air. Jacob brought my husband to a surgeon, but no amount of purging or bleeding would help him. He passed within days.”
“A cruel fate, to survive the fire and die of the cold,” Sir Reginald said.
“When Jacob returned he promised his care of me,” Elizabeth said. “John had written a new will, afraid the fever should take him, and named Jacob heir, as we had no children together and left me in Jacob’s charge. Jacob promised me this house, once he and Margaret return to London.”
“A generous spirit,” Sir Reginald noted. “And yet, you want to pass testimony against him?”
“He is the only witness to my husband’s death, sir,” Elizabeth said, eyes sparkling with growing tears. “I’ve never heard from him the name of my husband’s surgeon, nor even the house in which he died. I did not see his body before it was buried and I can find no-one who can claim otherwise.”
“This is true, but if they fled north to the countryside, they would be in the company of strangers, and hundreds if not thousands of similar souls fleeing the fire,” Sir Reginald said. “Who would remember two men amongst the throng?”
“I only... I cannot... believe my husband would name Jacob his heir... even on his deathbed...”
“You’re pregnant,” I said. The pieces all clicked into place. “That’s why your husband bought this house, to raise your child away from the pestilence of the city. That’s why you’re sure he wouldn’t name Jacob heir.”
“He wouldn’t have left everything to Jacob while I carry his child.” Elizabeth’s eyes were heartbreaking to look at. “Leaving the company in Jacob’s charge would be sound but he would never abandon his unborn child.”
“How... how far along...” Sir Reginald struggled to face the topic delicately.
“This fourth month.”
“You carry it well,” Sir Reginald raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Please sir,” Elizabeth put her hands together almost in prayer, “I... I am afear’d what Jacob will do when I am forced to reveal my child. He is owner of this house, of all my possessions, of even my clothes if he should wish them. If I have a son... and Jacob had not been honest about the will or how my husband died...”
“Then the son would be a threat to Jacob’s new-found shipping fortune.” Sir Reginald nodded with weariness. “Yes, I believe I can understand your fears. Do you have other family you may run to?”
“A fever took my father in '63, and the sickness last summer took my mother and brother Peter,” Elizabeth said. “My sister Mary has been at Bristol these four years; I have no contact with her.”
“Any idea of where she lives in Bristol?”
“I could not say, sir, or even if she still re
sides there. She married a sailor, sir, and may have followed him to another port.”
“I see.” Sir Reginald set his jaw on edge and rested his chin in his hand, thinking.
“Could you tell me a little bit more about John and Jacob?” I asked Elizabeth while Sir Reginald sat in contemplation.
“You could ask your brother about John,” Elizabeth said.
“I may do, but right now I am asking you,” I glared. “Were the two brothers in business together? How many ships did they own? What did they sell?”
“John was funding Jacob’s education as a lawyer,” Elizabeth said. “As payment Jacob worked closely with my husband, but they were not in business together.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “John used to be a sailor. He’d stayed in education until fifteen before joining a ship. When he and I married at eighteen he stood as second officer.”
“Eighteen seems late to marry.” Sir Reginald’s contemplation broke for a moment and he stared sideways at Elizabeth.
“I was only sixteen sir, he was eighteen.”
“Carry on,” Sir Reginald said.
“John was a very capable sailor. He used to say he had a second set of sea-legs he could change like boots. The ship’s owner made him captain and John was making admirable coin. That is when he started funding Jacob’s education. John was supposed to go into law before he joined the ship, but there was not the money for that.”
“So Jacob is ten... eleven years younger?” I asked.
“Only seven,” Elizabeth said and smiled. “John was a very, very good sailor.” The smile faltered in less than a second. “As it stood we seemed well set for the future, provided no pirates or storms saw fit to claim him. Then God saw fit to bring my father back to Heaven and left his inheritance with my brother Peter. Peter had been a very good merchant in the Exchange and so with his own wealth, and the inheritance of my father, he proposed to John they go into business together. John knew men all over Europe, Guinea and even the East Indies. It was natural to go into business together.”
“From ship’s captain to ship owner before he was thirty.” I looked to Elizabeth for confirmation and she nodded. Who said there was no social mobility in the Stuart period?