The old man had chosen his lieutenants carefully. He’d given them incentives to perform to his expectations; he knew both well enough to be certain that neither would fail him—not unless they had no choice.
It seemed likely, therefore, that his second lieutenant had fallen.
In his mind, the various players he, through his lieutenants, had drawn into his plot figured much as chess pieces on a board—albeit a board of his own devising for a game played by his rules.
As in any serious game, several pawns had been sacrificed—such was the nature of pawns. But in this instance, it was one of his knights who had, it seemed, been taken.
He considered that. While it wasn’t an outcome he had wished for, it was an outcome he had to accept. There was no point railing over something that couldn’t be changed.
But his knight’s removal raised a red flag. It meant some opponent had taken a hand in his game. Someone else was playing now.
He could guess who it was. He’d hoped to avoid engaging that particular person, but…to some extent, the reality of having some opposition would only add spice to the game—to his eventual victory.
He did not doubt that he would win—that his plot would reach its terrible apogee, and for that one second, the world would stop spinning, and the multitudes would look up with a collective gasp.
Buoyed by the thought, he turned his wits—still incisive, still up to the task—to a review of his plot’s progress. He made a mental list of the questions his fallen knight would have answered, the arrangements he would have confirmed had he been able to report. There were, in fact, only two.
Did the barrels reach their destination last night without interference?
And equally importantly, had the necessary steps been taken to facilitate the next stage?
He evaluated what he knew and what he didn’t. Clearly, he lacked the vital information necessary to give the orders to proceed.
He glanced at Reed, still standing, mute, by his chair. “Get the writing desk!”
Reed hurried to obey.
The old man knew a moment of intense frustration; courtesy of the wretched palsy, he could no longer write. But he still had his wits and the wherewithal to command others. As soon as Reed settled at the nearby table with the writing desk before him, with paper on the sloped surface and ink on his pen, the old man said, “Address this to the captain. Dear sir, my other lieutenant left for his scheduled appointment late yesterday evening. We have just received word that he has not returned home, nor has he reported here as instructed. As we have heard nothing else to the point, we believe he must have fallen, but without revealing anything substantive regarding our endeavor. You are therefore my sole remaining lieutenant and, as such, will reap the full reward as discussed. However, as you are aware, that is contingent on our enterprise succeeding. I therefore require you to ascertain whether our barrels did, in fact, reach their arranged destination last night. It is fortunate that I made you privy to my other lieutenant’s planned actions—you already have the details you require to step into the breach. Once you have learned all you can regarding the current state of our cargo, naturally without alerting anyone of your interest, I ask that you report to me here with all speed. As ever, I am not in favor of precipitate action and look forward to reviewing the next steps and the execution of the final stage of our enterprise with you at that time. Yours, etcetera.” The old man focused on Reed, still rapidly scribbling. “And you may sign my name as well.”
As soon as Reed looked up, the old man waved his hand for the sheet. Reed carried it over.
The old man scanned the missive, then nodded and handed it back. “Get that off by courier immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
He waited for Reed to leave the room, then sank back in the chair. He stared into space while he envisaged, yet again, the culmination of his careful planning. There was no point in rushing, after all—everything ultimately hinged on the date. Thanks to his foresight and his cautious step-by-step advance, and to the instinct that had prompted him to share the instructions he’d given his second lieutenant with his first lieutenant as well, he had plenty of time to overcome the minor setback of losing one knight to the forces that, apparently, were finally mobilizing against him.
He wasn’t frightened of them. They didn’t know who he was, and he had time up his sleeve to maneuver around them should it prove necessary. He seriously doubted they would comprehend what he was about.
What his target was.
What—and who—he intended to bring down.
Chapter 18
The gathering in the St. Ives back parlor broke up shortly before four o’clock.
Michael’s mother, still smiling delightedly, declared she was off to spread the glad tidings that she and the female half of the family now had two engagement balls to plan, with two weddings to follow. With hugs and kisses all around, his mother departed in a cloud of exuberant joy.
His father, also smiling but in a rather different way, rose and informed Michael and the others that he would be in his study and that, as he was expecting a visit from the family’s man-of-business, Montague, he would undertake to inform that worthy that there would be a second marriage settlement to arrange. With nods and that subtle, not-quite-cynical smile playing over his harsh-featured face, he followed his wife from the room.
As his father’s footsteps faded, Michael exchanged glances with Cleo, Sebastian, and Antonia, then they resettled on the two sofas that faced each other across the hearth—Sebastian and Antonia on the longer one, Michael and Cleo on the other. Relaxing on the damask beside Cleo, with her hand wrapped in his, her fingers lightly entwined with his, Michael felt settled, focused, and strangely complete, with their joint life stretching before them—an adventure on which they had already embarked.
He and she had agreed to leave writing to her parents until after the meeting with Drake, when they hoped to have a better understanding of how the next phase of the mission would play out. After learning of their parents’ shared past endeavors, they had no doubt that Cleo’s parents, like Michael’s, would understand their need to put dealing with the mission before all else.
Helping Drake end this mission was the most immediate next stage in their adventure.
Once settled, as Sebastian had intimated to Drake, the four of them spent some time revisiting the events of the mission thus far, evaluating what they could deduce with any degree of certainty. But when it came to defining what actions they should take, very little discussion was needed to illustrate the futility of proceeding in the absence of Drake and his various insights.
Seeking distraction, they turned to exchanging views on the few details of their engagement balls to which they’d thus far been made privy. The clock ticked on, and they segued to sharing somewhat lighthearted visions of their weddings.
Michael glanced at Cleo, then at Sebastian and Antonia. From the way all their gazes strayed again and again to the door, their interest in their weddings was, at that point, distinctly perfunctory; they were all waiting for Drake to join them.
Despite all matrimonial distractions, the mission—the need to find the damned gunpowder and expose whoever was already responsible for too many murders—still ranked uppermost in all their minds.
They were arguing the merits of the small church in Brancaster over St. George’s for Michael and Cleo’s nuptials when they heard voices and footsteps in the front hall—both indistinct given the distance between the front hall and the back parlor. They broke off their discussion and turned to look expectantly at the door, but no one appeared.
“The doorbell didn’t ring,” Sebastian pointed out.
Michael shrugged. “Must have been some household matter.”
They returned to their discussion of atmosphere over size, of comfort over style, and the likely impact of the weather.
Finally, the doorbell pealed. They fell silent, not, this time, swinging about to look at the door, yet waiting nonetheless. T
hey heard the distant murmur of voices in the hall.
Several seconds later, Drake strolled in.
Drake had thought his expression inscrutable, yet after one searching glance, Sebastian arched his black brows. “No luck with Greville?”
Drake turned and shut the door, then walked to the armchair placed beyond the end of the shorter sofa. He allowed himself a resigned grimace. “No.” He tugged the armchair around so it faced the hearth, thus allowing him an unobstructed view of the occupants of both sofas, then sank into the well-padded comfort. “But I didn’t really expect to prod him into action, and the instant I saw Waltham was present, I knew the best I could hope to gain was permission—more accurately, formal authority—to continue with the mission. That, at least, I managed to secure.”
Antonia stared. “Do you mean to tell me that Greville refused to put out an alert?”
Her tone, Drake noted, was definitely in the same league as his mother’s or Sebastian’s—appropriate for a duchess-in-waiting. He waved with dismissive elegance. “Greville—and even more Waltham—are exceedingly leery of any situation that might panic the populace, especially if that situation has political overtones, as this plot has—” He broke off, then tipped his head slightly. “Or at least has been made to appear to have.” After a moment, he added pensively, “Given the current political climate, I’m not sure we can blame them.”
Again, he considered just how accurately the malignant intelligence behind the plot had read the politics of the day—not just read but understood the implications, the ramifications and impact on those who inhabited the corridors of power. “Indeed,” Drake mused, “I’m starting to suspect that the villain behind this plot—our opponent, as it were, and I’m increasingly inclined to think said opponent will prove to be singular, just one man—has crafted the Young Irelander involvement and any Chartist involvement we might yet discover precisely in order to effectively tie my hands, at least with respect to having any formal warning issued to the constabulary and the guards. After the retribution visited on both Young Irelanders and Chartists in recent years, neither Greville nor I would move against either organization without irrefutable proof that they were the instigators of the plot.”
Cleo humphed. “I can’t see how putting out a quiet warning to the right individuals is going to cause a panic. What will cause a panic is ten barrels of gunpowder exploding in the City or in Trafalgar Square.”
Antonia shuddered.
“Actually”—Drake pulled a face—“the more I think of it, the more I can see Greville’s point. Were I in his place, I would have issued the warning and used a degree of intimidation to ensure it wasn’t spread beyond those who need to know. However, on reflection, even doing that much would inevitably raise questions inside the government, the civil service, and the military, and it’s the answers to those questions—namely that the Young Irelanders might be involved, or the Chartists, or even worse, some group we know nothing about—that Greville doesn’t want to have to give.” He paused, then, jaw firming, went on, “And none of us would be happy were there to be fresh witch hunts mounted against the Young Irelanders and the Chartists because of this plot when, in fact, they know nothing about it.”
Sebastian grimaced, as did Michael, while both Cleo and Antonia sniffed in a disparaging way that suggested they thought the world would be a better place without politics.
“When it comes down to it,” Drake said, “we have no actual evidence of any specific plot.”
Michael snorted. “Other than ten missing barrels of smuggled gunpowder and numerous associated and otherwise unexplained deaths.”
Drake told them of Waltham’s thesis of some manufacturer attempting to avoid the excise and the barrels subsequently being stolen by a competitor.
Even Cleo was stunned into silence; she opened her mouth several times, but ultimately, could find nothing to say.
“Indeed,” Drake dryly concluded. “You have to hand it to the man—he had to invent that on the instant, and he managed to account for everything we’ve found in a way that rendered the whole unthreatening.”
After a moment, Sebastian caught Drake’s gaze. “But Greville didn’t suggest there was nothing to investigate? That in light of Waltham’s explanation, you should let things lie?”
“No. He’s not such a twit. I’m free to investigate with my usual thoroughness and pursue this matter to its conclusion.”
It was Michael who first saw the implication. “So…if things go boom before you can prevent it, it’s on your head?”
Drake inclined said head. “If not publicly, then certainly in my own estimation.”
“Good Lord!” Cleo exclaimed. “How unfair!”
“Whitehall.” Antonia’s tone dripped with contempt.
“Politics,” Drake stated. “Sadly, in this instance, there’s no way of avoiding that.” Courtesy of the cleverness of whoever was behind the plot.
After a second, Sebastian stated, “Well, we’re here to help.”
“Exactly,” Michael affirmed. “So what do we do next?”
Drake studied their expressions; Sebastian’s and Michael’s determination, he’d expected, and in truth, he wasn’t surprised to read a warning not to discount them in Antonia’s and Cleo’s faintly narrowing eyes.
After a moment, he suggested, “Let’s recapitulate. Then we can define the questions facing us and the most promising avenues we might pursue.” Settling his shoulders against the comfortable cushions, he fixed his gaze forward and tipped his head back. His gaze fell on the mirror above the mantelpiece. In its reflection, he noticed the door to the corridor was fractionally ajar; he’d thought he’d closed it. Yet given the position of the parlor and whose house this was, there seemed little reason to bother rising and shutting the door firmly; there was nothing to fear with respect to anyone overhearing their words.
He refocused on the plot. “The essential points are these. A group of Young Irelanders of the lower ranks, mistakenly believing themselves to be acting as part of an officially approved action, secured ten barrels of gunpowder from an Irish mill and successfully arranged to have said barrels transported by ship to a cave under the grounds of Pressingstoke Hall, Lord Ennis’s estate in Kent. That stage of the plot relied on Connell Boyne, Ennis’s younger brother. Expecting Ennis to be glad to support the cause to which he was no doubt sympathetic, Boyne told his brother about the gunpowder. Ennis agreed to pay for the delivery, but when Ennis insisted that the gunpowder go no farther and arranged to speak with me, Boyne panicked. Before Ennis could speak with Sebastian, who was acting as my proxy, Boyne killed Ennis, then, fearing that Ennis might have shared his concerns with his wife, Boyne killed her, too. With Boyne’s connivance, by night, the gunpowder was loaded onto two legitimate gunpowder carters’ carts driven by Terrance Doolan and his apprentice, Johnny Dibney, and conveyed into London. The following afternoon, Boyne himself was murdered, presumably by the man behind the plot or his proxy—his lieutenant.” He paused, then added, “Let’s keep that man—Boyne’s killer—in mind.
“Subsequently, we now know that Doolan and Dibney delivered the ten barrels to Shepherd’s warehouse in Morgan’s Lane in Southwark. They would have arrived on Wednesday morning, perhaps about nine o’clock, and the barrels were accepted into the warehouse by the foreman, one Eddie O’Toole—very likely another Young Irelander sympathizer hoodwinked into believing he was playing his part in some official plot.”
“Whoever’s been recruiting these men must have been quite persuasive,” Antonia observed.
Drake nodded. “He had to have known precisely which carrots to dangle to best appeal to them. Whoever he is, he’s also exceedingly coldblooded. Wednesday was a busy day for him—by all accounts, Doolan and Dibney were killed and their bodies slipped into the river sometime on Wednesday, most likely soon after they completed the delivery. Boyne was shot on Wednesday afternoon. O’Toole’s body has yet to be recovered, but he was last seen on Wednesday evening when he locke
d up the warehouse. He hasn’t been sighted since, and I doubt there’s any other explanation than that he, too, is dead.”
“Especially as it was almost certainly O’Toole’s keys our rider used to gain entry to the warehouse last night,” Michael said.
“Indeed.” After a moment, Drake went on, “At this point, I’m assuming that the murders on Wednesday were carried out by one man. Given the distances and the timing, that’s possible, but of course, there might have been more than one man involved. At this point, we can’t say. However, moving on, the barrels were left in the warehouse until last night, when a rider, accompanied by two drivers with unidentifiable brewery drays, used the foreman’s keys to gain access to and retrieve the barrels, locking up afterward and leaving no sign that the barrels had ever been there.”
Drake shifted his gaze to Michael and Cleo. “If you two hadn’t found the barrels, no one would ever have known they’d been there. I think that’s an important point, at least from our villains’ perspective, and, I believe, that explains what happened next. Meaning the barrels being moved to somewhere in the same area—moved, but not taken far.”
Drake paused, then went on, “When working with groups like the Young Irelanders, there’s always a chance that someone will find it all too exciting and mention something to their compatriots—even just that something is afoot. Such rumblings will inevitably reach someone like me. The villains, whoever they are, knew that. Appreciated that. So they designed their plot to not just take advantage of the gullibility of certain Young Irelander sympathizers but also to have a clean break—a point where, if I or anyone else started to follow the Young Irelander trail, that trail would come to an abrupt and uninformative end.”
He glanced again at Michael and Cleo. “The Young Irelander trail leads to the warehouse—then stops. The barrels are no longer there, nor is there any trace of unaccounted-for barrels ever having been there.”
An Irresistible Alliance (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 5) Page 31