by Paul Crilley
Tweed smiled at her. A proper, genuine smile. Not one of his usual half-grins.
“Good work, Songbird. I'm happy for you. Really, I am. Now. About those explosives you want to apply to this door? Are you sure it's a good idea?”
Octavia snapped out of it. “Of course it is. Stop being a baby.” She studied the door, then the wall to either side of it. “Actually, I think it would be better to attach them to the wall. Stone is weaker than steel, yes?”
“So I'm told.”
“Good. You'd better stand back a bit.”
Tweed moved to the rear of the cell, pulling the bed and mattress over onto their sides and crouching down behind them. Octavia attached one package at head height. She was about to put the second one lower down when she hesitated, thinking of the damage that was done to the front of the Ministry building.
She shook her head and put the second package back into her satchel. She stuck a fuse into the soft material of the bomb she'd set and struck a match.
“Ready?”
“Do it.”
Octavia lit the fuse, then sprinted along the walkway.
A few seconds later the package detonated. Octavia thought the explosion outside was big, but because this one was in an enclosed space, it felt much larger. The roar and clap of the explosion deafened her. Even with her hands over her ears, it was so loud that she staggered back in a daze. She actually felt the concussive wave as it bounced back and forth in the shaft, deep throbbing pulses that traveled right through her body.
Fragments of rock spun through the air into the shaft, tumbling down into the darkness. One massive chunk ripped straight through the safety railings, yanking the whole length out of the walkway and sending it crashing to the prison floor.
When it was over, Octavia straightened up, staring at the smoking hole in horror. What would have happened if she'd used both explosives? Tweed would be nothing more than a smear on the walls.
That's if he wasn't already.
Then she heard coughing from inside the cell, and a moment later Tweed clambered unsteadily through the hole, waving the smoke and dust away from his face. There were trickles of blood at his ears and nose. He looked around, then almost walked straight off the edge of the walkway, only catching himself at the last minute and turning to face her.
Octavia hurried over to him.
“THAT WAS LOUD!” he shouted.
Octavia winced. “Keep it down.”
“WHAT?”
“I said, no need to—” she began, then waved her hands in the air dismissively. “NEVER MIND!”
He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
Octavia had a worrying feeling she may have given him a concussion. She really hoped she hadn't. He was bad enough as it was.
There was so much confusion going on around them, it was simplicity itself to slip out of the Ministry. They took the same route Tweed had used to enter, preferring to stay away from the front of the building, and forty minutes after Octavia had blown up his cell they were standing in the alley waiting for Jenny to come pick them up, the prone form of Maximilian still lying where they'd left him, snoring and snorting next to the tracks.
“How are the ears?” asked Octavia.
“Getting better,” said Tweed. Still loudly, but at least he wasn't shouting.
“We need to decide what to do next,” she said. As they were hurrying through the complex, Tweed had recounted everything Barnaby told him. Frankly, it sounded like something out of an H.G. Wells novel, not something that was happening in the real world. “It's not as if we can go to the police with this. Who's going to believe a story like that?”
“I've been thinking about that,” said Tweed. “Whatever plan Holmes and Lucien have, they have to put it into action soon. The state banquet is tomorrow. That means all their pieces have to be in place before then.”
Octavia nodded. “True. But then why didn't they have their pieces in place ages ago?”
“I think Lucien wanted to. But they had to wait until they could get Barnaby, remember? I suggest we go to Downing Street and wait for Lucien to make his move. He might lead us to my dad.”
“And if he doesn't?”
Tweed hesitated. “I have no idea. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
At that moment the steamcoach limped around the corner and dragged itself toward them.
Tweed's eyes widened in horror. “What have you done to her?”
“Ah. Yes. She's been in a few scrapes today. Ministry goons chased us in their own steamcoaches. We…may have bumped into a few.”
Tweed walked slowly around the carriage, staring mournfully at the dents and scrapes.
“Sorry,” said Octavia.
The front door flew open and Jenny jumped out, yanking Tweed into a tight hug. Then she pushed him back and slapped him in the face. After which she pulled him in for another hug.
“Don't you ever do that to me again!” she snapped. “And I'm so glad you're safe,” she said in the same tone of voice.
Tweed stared at her with wide eyes and rubbed his cheek. Octavia snorted with laughter. Carter hopped out the back and clapped Tweed on the back.
“So, you saw him? Your old man?”
“Alive and as annoying as ever.”
“That's good. I think we should all head home for the night. Lie low till some of this panic has died down, yes? The city is going to be crawling with Ministry goons trying to find out who attacked their home base.”
Tweed glanced at Octavia. “Good idea.”
Octavia raised an eyebrow slightly, but said nothing. What was he playing at? Why didn't he want them to know they were going to watch Downing Street?
“Come on,” said Carter. “Let's get out of here.”
Octavia climbed into the front seat next to Tweed. She didn't say anything as he took the carriage out into the night and wended through the backstreets until he arrived at Stepp's house.
He helped the girl carry her equipment inside and stood talking to her at her front door. Octavia watched as he awkwardly patted her on the head.
In reply, Stepp punched him in the stomach. Octavia grinned, watching as Tweed limped back to the carriage.
“What was all that about?”
“Nothing. She just didn't like being patted on the head.”
Next, they drove Jenny and Carter back home. The couple hopped out of the coach, but when Tweed and Octavia didn't join them, Jenny leaned over the door. “What are you waiting for?”
“I'm heading home tonight, Jenny. Need familiar surroundings while I think what to do next.”
Jenny set her mouth in a firm line. “I don't think so, sonny. There's no way we're splitting up again.”
“Jenny—”
“Uh-uh. No way.”
Octavia repressed a sigh. She was going to have to do this, wasn't she? It was the only way Jenny was going to let them get away.
Octavia leaned toward Jenny, resting a hand—just! It barely touched the material of his trousers—on Tweed's knee.
She felt Tweed's reflex reaction to jerk away and had no choice but to dig her fingers in. Hard.
“Jenny, Tweed and I…we have some stuff we need to talk about.”
That wasn't a lie, was it? They did have stuff to talk about. She was surprised to realize she felt quite horrid misleading Jenny. She actually liked the woman.
Jenny saw Octavia's hand and grinned, her eyes lighting up. “Oh. Er…Fine. I suppose. We'll see you tomorrow. Bright and early, yes?”
Tweed was barely moving. He swallowed nervously and nodded. Jenny banged the steamcoach door with her hand and hopped up the stairs to join Carter, threading her arm through his.
Octavia realized she still had her hand on Tweed's knee and jerked it away as if it were on fire. She stared straight ahead through the shattered window. “We'll never talk of that again. Agreed?”
“Agre—” Tweed started to say, but his voice caught in his throat, coming out in a high, squeaky pitch. He cleare
d his throat. “Agreed,” he said, moving the steamcoach quickly out into the road.
“Now, what's going on?” Octavia asked. “You don't think we could use their help?”
Tweed shook his head firmly. “No. I put them at too much risk tonight, Songbird. I underestimated how this would unfold. You and Stepp nearly got killed. You were shot at, chased through the streets…” His fingers turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. “If anything happened to those people, I'd never be able to forgive myself. I'd rather we did this alone.”
Octavia was silent for a while. “You didn't force them to do anything. It was their choice. They wanted to help you. To help Barnaby.”
“And what if Jenny had been killed? Or Carter? You've seen them together. I don't think they could live without each other.”
“Of course they could,” Octavia scoffed. “But I see your point.” Imagining Jenny cradling the body of Carter in her arms—or vice versa—sent chills of horror through Octavia. Maybe Tweed was right. They were endangering too many people. Not to mention Stepp, an eleven-year-old girl.
“So we're going it alone?”
“We are.”
Tweed headed toward Whitehall once again. He turned onto Richmond Terrace, a road almost directly opposite Downing Street. He parked the car far along the lane, so they could keep an eye on Number 10 without being seen by anyone passing by.
“Now we wait,” said Tweed sleepily. “You take the first shift, I'll take the second.”
Octavia opened her mouth to say that she'd had just as difficult an evening as he had, but she saw the glint of his eyes as he watched her through half-closed lids, the ever-so-slight tug at the side of his mouth.
She snapped her mouth shut and faced forward. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
About an hour after midnight, Octavia shot up in her seat (where she had her feet up on the empty window frame, shivering in her jacket) and slapped Tweed on the head.
“Wake up!”
“Husah? Wha…?” Tweed struggled upright, swatting invisible insects from the air.
“A steamcoach just pulled up.”
Tweed yawned and leaned forward, squinting into the night. “How long was I asleep?”
“About three hours.”
“Three…? Why didn't you wake me?” he asked in surprise.
Octavia shrugged. “Wasn't tired. Thought one of us might as well get some rest. Look, he's coming out.”
The Prime Minister exited 10 Downing Street and hurried to the carriage. “Look at the way he walks,” said Octavia.
“Off balance,” said Tweed. “Used to walking with a cane.”
Lucien climbed into the carriage, and it chugged off along King Street in a cloud of steam. Tweed pumped the lever and released the brake, pulling out of the side road and onto Parliament Street. Octavia glanced over the divide, keeping an eye on Lucien's carriage. Tweed kept their pace slow, allowing Lucien to get far enough ahead so that when the two roads merged into one they would be far enough behind that they wouldn't be noticed.
The carriage headed east through the sparse traffic, heading along the Strand, then onto Fleet Street, past Newgate Prison and into Smithfield.
Tweed let Lucien take a longer lead now, as they headed through narrower roads, taking back lanes and muddy alleys. There were hardly any carriages around at all now.
“What a disgusting place,” Octavia murmured.
“I live around here,” said Tweed cheerfully.
Octavia closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, silently swearing at herself. Well done, girl. “Sorry.”
Octavia wracked her brain for something else to say that wasn't patronizing or insulting, but she knew she'd mess it up, so she just left it.
Lucien's carriage pulled to a stop outside a rundown, two-story house. Most of the windows along the street were dark. In fact, the entire street was dark. No street lamps here. No Tesla power. Here and there she could make out the soft glow of candles in some of the houses, but that was it.
Tweed stopped his steamcoach before turning onto the street. They watched as Lucien climbed out of the coach and hurried into the building. After a few moments a light bloomed in one of the upper windows as a candle was lit. They saw Lucien appear as he pulled a tatty curtain closed.
Tweed climbed into the back of the carriage and fished out one of his spiders. He frowned and looked out the window.
“What's wrong?”
“I'm going to have to take it in. I don't know the layout of the building well enough to send it up using the viewing screen. You get the transceiver warmed up. I'll be right back.”
Before Octavia could say anything, Tweed slipped out into the night and closed the door firmly behind him. She saw him sprinting across the road, heading straight for the house.
Tweed paused at the front door to the tenement and listened. He couldn't hear anything so he pushed it slowly open and slipped inside, finding himself on a dark landing. There was a door to his right and a set of stained concrete stairs to his left.
The building had an unused, empty feeling to it. That made sense. Lucien wouldn't want anyone else around when he was having secret meetings.
He sprinted up to the next floor. A single, guttering candle had been placed on the floor outside one of the rooms, casting flickering shadows across the walls and ceiling. Judging by its position it was the room Lucien was in.
Tweed moved to the door of the adjacent room, staying close to the wall so he wouldn't creak any of the floorboards.
The door was unlocked. Tweed pushed it open just enough so he could squeeze inside. Dim light filtered into the room from outside the dirty windows. The room was empty, its contents long since scavenged.
Tweed entered the bedroom, leaving clear footprints in the dust that coated everything. He moved to the wall that adjoined Lucien's room. He was hoping to find a hole or something he could slip the spider through.
It turned out he didn't need to. The walls were thin, rotting. He could hear their words almost as if he were in the same room.
“I do wish you'd stop looking at me like that. It's most disconcerting.”
“I apologize,” said a second voice. An accented voice. “It is just…we have talked about this for years, but I still find it hard to believe it is you.”
Octavia whispered in Tweed's ear, “That accent is Russian.”
Tweed jerked around, then swallowed nervously, trying to force his hammering heart to calm down. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.
“There was no image on the transceiver. I came to see if you needed rescuing again.”
Tweed ignored that. But Octavia was right about the voice. It was definitely Russian.
“Do you have it?” asked Lucien.
“Of course.”
There was a pause, then Lucien continued, “And it's definitely real? The Ministry has ways of checking for forgeries.”
“It is real. We have had Herr Klein in custody for years. He was the leader of a German anarchist group that was trying to cause trouble back in Russia. Just make sure your man flees along St. James's Street. The authorities will find Klein lying in the road with a fresh bullet hole in his head…a disagreement among comrades.”
“Who do you have doing it?” asked Lucien. “He is trustworthy?”
“Of course. The head of my secret police. He has been with me for over a decade. Speaking of which. Your man, he is careful, yes? I am seated next to the Queen. I do not wish to be shot by mistake.”
“Don't worry about that,” said Lucien. “The shooter is one of the best. A man called Moran. He won't miss.”
Octavia and Tweed looked at each other in shock. The Queen? They were talking about shooting Queen Victoria!
“What will you do with the passport?” asked the Russian.
“I will feed it to the authorities. It would look suspicious if it was just found on Klein's body. No one would believe an assassin was carrying his own passport with him while murdering the
Queen. Better it turns up a day or so later.”
“Da.”
There was the sound of hands clapping. “Then we are done!” said Lucien. “By this time tomorrow the Queen will be dead and Germany will be blamed. How does it feel, Nicholas? Knowing that all our planning is finally coming to fruition?”
“I feel relief, Lucien. Relief that I do not have to keep pumping money into your research. You have nearly bankrupted me.”
“It will all be worth it. You know that.”
Nicholas? Tweed sat back on his haunches. Nicholas II, the Tsar of Russia? The way he was talking about his secret police, about how he was sitting next to the Queen at the banquet…It had to be him.
The Tsar of Russia, plotting with Lucien to assassinate Queen Victoria. Tweed had gotten it wrong. So very, very wrong. All along he'd been thinking the Tsar was the target, but he wasn't. It was the Queen.
Tweed nudged Octavia, gesturing for her to follow him. He carefully moved through the rooms, out into the hall, and down the stairs into the street.
“What are we doing?” asked Octavia.
“Heading back to Meriweather's house. Barnaby said Lucien used the engineers to build their Lazarus Machine, then killed them so they couldn't talk. Meriweather's the only one left alive who knows where the machine is—where Barnaby is! We have to find him.”
Forty minutes later Tweed and Octavia stood in the dark landing of Meriweather's house. Tweed found a candleholder on the entrance hall table—a precaution for when the Tesla Towers stopped working—and put a Lucifer to the wick.
“Bedroom first, I think.”
They climbed the stairs and entered Meriweather's bedroom. It was exactly as Octavia had described it: empty of anything that indicated it had ever been used. Nevertheless, they started their search. Tweed opened the bedside cabinet and peered inside. All it contained was a Bible. He riffled the pages, but there was nothing inside. The cabinet on the other side was empty.