by Paul Crilley
“Imagine a pyramid,” said Carter, interrupting again. Jenny frowned at him. “The Ministry is at the top, yes? Then way at the bottom are the Crown and the government.”
Tweed frowned. “Where are we?”
Jenny laughed. “We're in the mud below the pyramid. No, beneath the mud. In their eyes we're the germs and disease that fester in the stagnant water that makes the mud.”
“It's said they started out as a department of spies for Queen Elizabeth I,” said Carter. “And with every successive coronation they gained more and more power. There were rumors the Crown wanted to curtail their power, so the Ministry backed Cromwell in the Civil War.”
“Any discovery, anything that could possibly be used to aid the Empire, is taken to the Ministry,” said Jenny. “The thing is, despite what Carter says, not everything they do is wrong. It was the Ministry that recruited Nikola Tesla. They saw his inventions and realized he could be a huge boon to us. I mean, it's because of him we have airships, that automata can now be shrunk down to the size of a mouse.”
“Pff,” scoffed Carter. “The Ministry is evil, and nothing you say will ever change my mind.” Carter leaned forward. “The Ministry is above the law,” he said earnestly, “and because of that they are to be feared. Their only remit is to ensure the security of the Empire. How they do that, who they have to kill to achieve that, it means nothing to them. Understand? They use Tesla's research to create weapons that can rip a man in two. No one dares to speak out against them. No one dares act against them.”
“But they have Barnaby!”
Jenny sat down next to Carter. “That's what troubles me. Barnaby was always careful. Cautious. He's not stupid enough to do anything to draw the attention of the Ministry. So why do they want him?”
“You say he was definitely alive?” asked Carter.
Tweed nodded.
“Then there's still hope. Remember that. If the Ministry wanted your father dead, he'd be dead. They need him for something.”
“Which means he'll probably be locked away somewhere,” said Jenny.
“It's too much of a coincidence that it happened now,” said Tweed. “Surely it must have something to do with this assassination they were talking about.”
“That's what worries me. That your hunch is correct and they really do plan on killing the Tsar.” Jenny stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I hate to say this, but I wonder if we wouldn't be better off contacting the police.”
“There's no point,” said Tweed. “They're burying anything to do with Moriarty.”
“That makes more sense now,” said Octavia. “We never understood why the police would do that. But Lucien must have given the order to suppress any information to do with the gang. If he's working with Moriarty he's not going to want the police investigating them.”
Tweed nodded in agreement.
“What if Barnaby somehow found out about their plans?” said Carter.
“Then why not just kill him?” said Jenny.
Tweed waved his hand in the air. “There's no point in thinking about that. Not now. We don't have enough information. We deal with the facts. It seems the Ministry has Barnaby, and if he's still alive he'll be locked away somewhere. We have to find out where.”
A thoughtful silence descended over the drawing room. Then Octavia straightened up.
“My mother,” she said.
Tweed turned to her. “What?”
Octavia's face was alight with excitement. “Don't you see? This adds weight to my mother still being alive. She was investigating this gang. Maybe she found out about the connection with the Ministry. Maybe they have her in one of their prison cells as well!”
Jenny and Carter exchanged uneasy looks.
“Honey,” said Jenny. “How long has your mother been missing?”
“A year.”
“A year in a Ministry cell…that's enough to break the strongest of men.”
Octavia drew herself up, clenching her fists. “My mother is not the strongest of men. My mother is the strongest of women. And if they didn't kill her she would make sure she stayed alive to get back to her family.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you understand?”
Jenny nodded slowly. “I understand,” she said softly.
“So the Ministry has Barnaby for some unknown purpose,” said Tweed. “And Octavia's mother,” he added, before she could say anything. “It seems Moriarty and his gang are doing their dirty work. Or at least they're doing Lucien's dirty work.” Tweed stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Does anyone know where these Ministry prisons actually are? Can we get to them to find out if they are really being held there?”
“No one knows,” said Carter. “Or at least, if they do they're not talking. The cells are inside the actual Ministry buildings. But no one knows where the Ministry buildings are. Secrets within secrets.”
“But we'll ask around,” said Jenny. “We'll call up favors, round up our contacts. Someone must know something.”
Tweed nodded. “And see what you can find out about this Lucien as well. Barnaby always said to find as much as you can about your enemy. We need to know who he is. What he stands for.”
Jenny clapped her hands together. “Ooh, look at Tweed getting all grown up and masterful. Isn't he sexy?”
Tweed flushed slightly. “Jenny…” he implored.
She grinned at him. “What? I'm just proud to see little Tweed all grown up. And ever so commanding.”
Carter got to his feet. “Right. Obviously, time is of the essence. Darling, you take our West End contacts. I'll canvas our more dubious friends in the east of our fair city. What time is it now?”
Jenny took out a pocket watch from her waistcoat. “Nine.”
“Good. Plenty of time. We'll meet back here at dawn.” He leaned forward to giver her a kiss. Jenny grabbed him before he could pull away and turned the quick peck into a passionate embrace. Tweed flushed red and averted his eyes.
“Aw, look,” he heard Jenny say. “He still looks away when we kiss. Isn't that sweet?” Tweed, staring out the window into the night, felt warm fingers on his face. He turned and was surprised to find Jenny's lips on his. She held the kiss for a brief second, then pulled back with a smile.
“Loosen up, darling. Don't ever take yourself too seriously.”
She strode out of the room. Tweed watched her go with a bemused expression on his face. A second later he heard the slam of the front door.
“Don't even try to figure her out,” said Carter, shrugging into his jacket. “I've never been able to. Make yourselves at home. There's food in the kitchen, whatever you need. See you later.”
He left the room and the front door slammed for a second time.
“Interesting friends you have,” said Octavia.
“Indeed,” said Tweed, getting to his feet in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. “We should get some food. Prepare ourselves for tonight.”
An hour later, Tweed was seated on the window seat in the front room, staring into the night. The fog was much thicker now, grey-white tendrils that he could clearly see scudding past the yellow sodium glare of the street lamps. A horse-drawn trundled past, the wooden wheels spraying up streamers of muddy rainwater.
How did Octavia do it? Her mother had been missing for over a year, yet she still had faith she was alive. Barnaby had only been missing for two days and already Tweed was finding it difficult to stay positive.
Barnaby had always trained him to rely on logic, and logic told Tweed that if Moriarty hadn't killed Barnaby back at the house, then they needed him alive. But for Tweed, knowing this in his head was a thousand miles away from believing it in his heart.
And the doubt was getting to him, eating away at him. It shouldn't be there. His mind had always been in charge, but now he felt it was letting him down. It wasn't strong enough to control his emotions, his fears. And it should be. After all, the mind conquered all.
So why was it not conquering this?
&nb
sp; “Are you all right?”
Tweed turned to find Octavia standing in the door to the front room. He shrugged, then nodded. “Yes. No. I'm…not sure.” He turned back to the window. He hated this! It was weakness. Lack of control. His father was alive. He knew that. Why couldn't he feel it?
He saw Octavia's reflection in the window as she approached.
“You're allowed to feel scared,” she said softly. “He's your father. It's understandable.”
“You don't understand. I'm not allowed. I was raised to control my fears. To take emotion out of the equation. Emotion clouds judgment. It makes…” He trailed off, trying to formulate what he felt into words.
“Makes you human?” said Octavia.
“No,” snapped Tweed. “It makes you weak. Emotions take control. They dominate your life. Making decisions based on emotions is wrong…”
Again, he trailed off.
“I think your father was wrong,” said Octavia softly. “Emotions are what let you enjoy life. They're not…irritations to be brushed away. You can't look at the beauty of a sunset logically. You have to feel it. I mean, what goes through your head when you see something beautiful?”
Tweed thought about it. When was the last time he even noticed something beautiful? He was rather shocked to realize he didn't know. He couldn't remember. Or he simply spent so much time in his head that he didn't notice.
“Do you truly believe your mother is still alive?” he said, ignoring her question. “After all this time?”
“I do. I have to. It's what keeps me going.”
“But how? How do you do it?”
“You can't break everything down into patterns and logic, Sebastian Tweed.” He saw her reflection turn away, then pause. “Sometimes you just have to have faith and feel life. Experience it.”
An hour before midnight.
The fog was thick and cloying as they left the house. It drifted against Octavia's face, wafting before her eyes like lace curtains undulating in a breeze. It deadened the air, turning what was a chill night into something clammy and oppressive.
They climbed into Tweed's steamcoach. He pulled out into the street with a slow, lurching movement that only gradually picked up speed. Octavia watched him pump a lever, twist knobs, and smack pressure valves as he tried to coax some momentum out of the machine. She thought they'd be better served with a couple horses pulling them along, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Tweed seemed to have a fondness for the vehicle. He'd only be offended if she said anything.
He took them onto Regent Street, then turned right into Piccadilly, moving through the slow-moving traffic until they reached Saint James's Street. Octavia knew from past visits to the park that St. James's Palace was somewhere off to her right, but she couldn't catch a glimpse of it in the murky fog.
Tweed stopped his carriage alongside the fence to St. James's Park. They disembarked and moved through the gate that led directly onto the Mall, the long stretch of walking ground shaded over with elm and lime trees. Octavia had been here a few times in the past with her mother and father. The park was a favorite spot for picnics, and the massive lake that took up most of the grounds was used for skating every winter. Octavia could almost smell the roasting chestnuts and taste the drinking chocolate costermongers sold along the shore.
She wondered if she would ever feel as happy as she had then. So free of worries.
She sighed unhappily, then turned to Tweed. He hadn't said much since their conversation back at the house. Octavia wasn't sure why this was, so she had just let him be. Maybe he just needed to sort things out in his head.
“It must be about half an hour before midnight now,” she said, looking left, then right. She couldn't see much of anything. There were lamps placed every twenty feet or so along the Mall, but the fog made it difficult to see anything. Octavia was rather pessimistic about tonight. They might not even be able to see what was going on, never mind warn whoever it was that they were in trouble. Moriarty might be no more than ten feet from their position and they'd never even know it.
“We should probably just take up position halfway along the lane,” suggested Octavia. When no response was forthcoming, she turned to face Tweed. “What's going on with you?”
Tweed blinked at her. “Sorry? What?”
“You haven't said a thing all the way here. Where are you?”
“Um…Up here. Thinking.” He tapped his head.
“Yes. Well, I think we can both agree that you spend rather too much time up there.” Octavia tapped his forehead hard with her index finger. He jerked back, looking at her with an affronted expression on his face.
“Oh, don't look like that. I think I'm figuring you out, Tweed. You like to think of yourself as oh-so-rational, oh-so-clever. You like to think you've got everything figured out, that you can deal with anything so long as you just think about it long enough. But you can't. You're no different from the rest of us. Trying to figure life out as we go along. That's called living, Tweed. You do it out here—” Octavia gestured around her—“not up here.” She tapped her head. “Now, I would appreciate it if you would get your act together and ready yourself for what lies before us. Because I, for one, do not wish to be toasted to a crisp with one of those Tesla weapons. Yes?”
Tweed stared at her with wide eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Splendid,” said Octavia. “Now, I suggest that tree over there.” She pointed to a huge elm just to their right. The trunk was thick enough that they could hide behind it and keep an eye on the lane while still being close enough to the exit in case they needed to make a quick escape. “What do you think?”
“I think it's as good a tree as any,” said Tweed, moving toward it.
Octavia watched him go until he was almost swallowed up by the fog, then hurried after him. She rounded the trunk to find him leaning back against the bark.
“You'd better not be sulking,” she said to him.
He blinked at her in surprise. “I'm not sulking. I'm pondering.”
Octavia let him ponder all he wanted while she peered out from behind the tree, keeping an eye on the just-visible lane that stretched the length of the park. She was surprised at how many people were out at this time of night. She saw an old couple out walking their dog. She saw four tramps ambling along in tatty clothing. Two of them drank from bottles and had a slight stagger to their walk. One of them was talking to himself, mumbling about the youth of today having no respect. The fourth was slightly better dressed than the others, so much so that he was approached by a woman wearing a low-cut top that directed eyes straight down to her cleavage.
“Lookin’ for a good time, squire?” she asked the man.
He turned to her in surprise. Octavia could just make out the figures through the mist. He bowed low. “Madam, I am already having a good time, I assure you. The attentions of one such as your good self while no doubt increasing my enjoyment of the evening air will leave me feeling empty as my purses. In short, I have not the money.”
The prostitute waved her hand at the man in irritation and walked off. The tramp chuckled and disappeared into the mist.
Octavia fished around in her jacket and pulled out her pocket watch, flicking it open. “Almost midnight.” She closed the lid with a sharp click and looked around uneasily. “What exactly are we going to do to stop Moriarty?”
Tweed pulled something out of his coat pocket and held it up to her. It was a weapon similar in style to her own Tesla gun, but rather more basic in design.
“Where did you get that?” she asked in surprise.
“Carter's house. Hopefully I won't have to use it, though.”
They waited some more. Tweed shifted impatiently from foot to foot, rustling the grass. Octavia tried to ignore the sound, instead focusing outward, listening for anything that sounded out of the ordinary.
Like a scream.
The sound pierced the night, coming from off to their right. Octavia and Tweed exchanged glances, then set off
at a run trough the trees, ducking beneath low branches that loomed suddenly out of the fog.
The scream echoed through the night again, much closer now, then the sharp crack of a gunshot cut it off.
Octavia slowed slightly, pulling her own Tesla gun out of her pocket. They moved more cautiously, trying to stay off the fallen leaves.
Octavia peered through the fog to her left and saw a familiar-looking black carriage. Moriarty. She stopped behind a tree and peered out. Tweed joined her. A woman lay on the ground—the woman Octavia had seen earlier on talking to the tramp. Her chest was covered in blood, her sightless eyes staring upward.
Octavia heard a scuffling sound from the other side of the carriage, then two figures staggered into view. One was Moriarty. He still had the mask covering his face. The second figure was tall and distinguished, dressed in a smart suit with a black overcoat and scarf.
The tall man had Moriarty's hand in a tight grip, trying to keep the gun Moriarty held away from his face. The two men staggered back and forth, each trying to wrest the weapon away from the other.
Then Moriarty shoved forward. The man slipped, his back leg giving way. Moriarty used his weight to drive the man to the ground. As he did so, they both swung around so that Octavia and Tweed could get a close look at the victim.
Tweed gasped in surprise. Octavia felt her mouth drop open in shock.
The man Moriarty was attacking was none other than Sir Arthur Balfour, the Prime Minister of Great Britain!
Balfour flailed with his hands as his attacker leaned over him, and he grabbed hold of Moriarty's mask. He dug his fingers in, obviously trying to go for the eyes. Moriarty jerked his head away, and the mask was pulled from his head.
His back was to them, so Octavia couldn't see his features, but Balfour could. He stared up into his attacker's face, his eyes widening in shock. That moment of distraction was all Moriarty needed. He yanked his gun hand free and swung the weapon hard against the Prime Minister's temple. Balfour's head jerked hard into the ground and his body went limp.