Without awaiting any instructions, the coachman whipped up the horses and they rattled away along the road. Killigrew was conscious of the cold weight of his revolver against his thigh: if the man on his right had moved his own knee a couple of inches to the left, he would have felt it, too; in fact, it was amazing none of them had noticed the bulge in his coat. If he tried to draw it, the long-jawed man would be able to get his own revolver out first; Killigrew might have slipped a hand in his pocket and shot the man opposite him through the fabric of his coat, but then what? He would not be able to bring the revolver to bear on either of the men sitting beside him.
‘Would you mind telling me where we’re going, or who it is that wants to meet me?’ Killigrew asked the long-jawed man.
‘You have an appointment.’
‘Business or pleasure?’ He looked from the long-jawed man to the other man on his left, and back again, and when neither answered his question, he shrugged. ‘Mystery tour, eh?’ He tried to sound blasé, although his heart was pounding.
They headed north and soon entered the suburbs of London: Dulwich, Peckham, then up the Kent Road into Southwark and across London Bridge to the City. The streets were more crowded here, and the carriage slowed in the heavy traffic. There was a chance Killigrew could take his captors by surprise, jump out of the carriage and disappear into the crowd before the long-jawed fellow could draw his revolver and fire, but he decided against it. It was too risky: a better opportunity might yet present itself. Besides, the chances were the man they were taking him to see was Nekrasoff; and when they arrived, there was still a faint possibility that he could somehow turn the tables on them and round up the whole gang in one fell swoop.
And pigs might fly, he thought ruefully to himself.
The carriage passed down Cannon Street: they were heading east, into Whitechapel. They left the City on the other side by Aldgate, passing through the East End via Commercial Road until they turned on to West India Dock Road, which led them down to the Isle of Dogs.
At last the carriage entered a shipyard in Millwall and the driver reined in beside the office buildings. The whistle of a steam packet sounded in the distance as the four of them climbed out, and Killigrew could see the vast, scaffolding-covered side of Mr Brunel’s latest ship, as yet unnamed, towering over the buildings to his right.
The place was all but deserted. Flanked by the three men, Killigrew entered a dusty office building where a diminutive caretaker swept the floor, whistling a vaguely familiar tune. Beyond the office, they walked down a long corridor lined with lockers until they came to a door at the far end.
Killigrew sensed that the man he was being brought to meet was on the other side of that door. It was now or never.
He jammed an elbow into the stomach of the man standing behind him, and threw a right cross at the jaw of another, throwing him back against the lockers. As the first man tried to straighten, Killigrew slammed a fist against the back of his neck, knocking him down to the floor.
The long-jawed man turned back from the door, in time to receive Killigrew’s half-boot in the stomach as the commander lashed out with one leg. He closed in, delivering a right upper cut to that long jaw. The two of them grappled. Killigrew kicked the man’s ankles out from beneath him and threw him down across the first man, who was trying to rise.
The second man came at him again. Killigrew kicked him in the chest, slamming him back against the lockers once more. Before any of them could recover, he ducked through the door and closed it behind him, wedging the back of a chair under the handle. He dropped to one knee, pulling the penknife from his pocket and opening the blade in one smooth movement, holding it by the blade ready to hurl at his nemesis.
The well-dressed man who sat at the desk reading some paperwork was seventy if he was a day, but rakishly dressed for all that, in fashionable railway-stripe trousers and a tartan waistcoat. His white hair and bushy side-whiskers were dyed a garish shade of orange. He hurriedly removed a pair of wire-framed spectacles and hid them from sight, peering myopically at the commander.
Killigrew recognised him, of course. How could he fail to, when this man had been caricatured a thousand times in Punch?
‘L-Lord Palmerston?’ he stammered, as someone hammered frantically at the door behind him.
‘Commander Killigrew, is it? Well, stand up, man, stand up. I’m the Prime Minister, y’know, not the sovereign, what?’
Killigrew rose to his feet and pocketed the penknife. Behind him, the door burst open and the long-jawed fellow staggered through, looking flushed. ‘Is everything all right, my lord?’ he gasped.
‘Everything’s capital. Why? Is there a problem?’
‘Mr Killigrew attacked us, sir.’
‘I thought they were agents of the Third Section, my lord,’ Killigrew apologised. ‘The Russian secret police.’
‘Didn’t you identify yourselves to him?’ Palmerston asked the long-jawed fellow.
‘I showed him my treasury badge, my lord.’
‘I beg to differ, sir,’ Killigrew said coldly. ‘But you did no such thing.’
The man opened his coat once more and this time, in addition to the revolver holstered under his arm, Killigrew saw the treasury badge pinned there. ‘Oh!’ he said, feeling very foolish.
‘You mean to tell me the three of you allowed yourself to be drubbed by one man?’ Palmerston asked the treasury agent. ‘Why, that’s capital work, Killigrew, capital! I can tell you’re just the sort of feller I’m lookin’ for, what? Thank you, you’ve done your duty,’ he added to the agent. ‘That will be all.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ The man bowed out of the room.
Killigrew became aware of three other men standing at the other end of the room. Palmerston rose from where he sat and introduced them. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Sir Charles Wood and his private secretary, Mr Baring…?’
It was nearly four months since Wood had replaced Sir James Graham as First Lord of the Admiralty. He was in his mid-fifties, a tall man with receding grey hair, a long, thin nose and prominent cheekbones. Killigrew exchanged nods with the First Lord’s private secretary, remembering that he was the son of Sir Francis Baring, the banker who had helped Pitt the Younger underwrite the cost of the Great War with France.
‘I believe you already know Sir Charles Napier?’ added Palmerston.
Napier was in his sixties, a stocky man with white hair and bushy black brows. Even though he retained his rank – he might no longer be commander-in-chief of the Baltic Fleet, but he was still a vice admiral of Her Majesty’s navy – he was not in uniform, although that did not necessarily mean anything. ‘Dirty Charlie’ had always been notorious for his casual attitude to his own attire, even though he was strict about the appearance of his subordinates. Today he wore a printed cotton shirt, patterned with the figures of tiny ballerinas.
‘Sorry to hear about your dismissal as commander-in-chief, sir,’ Killigrew told the admiral. ‘The Russians must be delighted,’ he added, with a hard glare in Palmerston’s direction.
Whatever had brought the Prime Minister and the First Lord of the Admiralty to a dockyard on a Saturday afternoon had to be pretty damned important. Another man might have been intimidated to find himself confronting such powerful and influential men, but Killigrew had too low an estimation of politicians to be impressed.
‘Shall we go through into the next room?’ Palmerston suggested, gesturing to a door. It led through to what looked like a boardroom, with plush-backed chairs arranged in a precise manner around a long mahogany table. The curtains were drawn over the windows at one end, and a clean white linen bed sheet hung over them opposite the magic lantern on the table.
‘Do be seated, gentlemen.’ Palmerston sat down on the chair that Baring pulled out for him. ‘Now then, Killigrew… what d’ye know about these infernal machines, hey?’
‘Only what I read in the newspapers, sir. Two of them are supposed to have exploded against the Merlin’s hull in the Balti
c while she was reconnoitring Kronstadt, but no one was hurt and there was only minor damage.’
‘So, ye’ve no’ heard what happened on the Exmouth last week?’ asked Napier.
‘The Exmouth, sir?’
‘Admiral Seymour’s flagship,’ explained Wood. There was a hint of a Yorkshire accent in his voice.
‘He knows what the Exmouth is, Sir Charles,’ Napier told the First Lord of the Admiralty, rather testily. Like many Scotsmen, his accent seemed to grow stronger the older he became, like Scotch whisky matured in an oak vat.
He turned back to Killigrew. ‘It seems Seymour got one o’ these things out o’ the water and up on deck and was fiddling aroond wi’ it tae find out what makes them explode.’
‘Was he successful?’
‘In a manner o’ speaking. Fortunately no one else was seriously injured in the blast. The Exmouth’s surgeon assures us that Seymour may eventually regain the sight o’ the eye.’
‘In the meantime, we’ll just have to get used to calling him “See-Less”.’ Killigrew knew the quip was in bad taste, but he would not have been Kit Killigrew if he had been able to resist it.
Napier glowered at him. ‘Och, very poor, Killigrew. Even by your standards.’
‘Sorry, sir. But someone had to say it.’
‘Aye, but why the devil’s it always got tae be you?’
‘Well, at least he’s fit for duty,’ said Wood. ‘At least, as fit for his duties as he ever was. Loss of sight in one eye didn’t stop Nelson from becoming a great admiral.’
‘Indeed, no, sir,’ said Killigrew. ‘If anything stops Seymour from being a successful admiral, I’m sure it won’t be his eye.’
‘Rear Admiral Dundas also had a close shave with an infernal machine,’ said Napier. ‘It seems that same day he tried to study the workings of one of the things in his cabin on board the Duke of Wellington. Fortunately, the powder charge had already been removed, so only the detonator went off. I’m told his eyebrows will grow back in due course.’
‘Nincompoops,’ growled Palmerston. ‘The people of this country are lookin’ to me to bring this damn’ war to a swift and satisfactory conclusion, and I have to rely on nincompoops like Dundas and Seymour!’
‘At least he had the decency to risk only his own life,’ said Wood.
‘That’s not the point, Sir Charles. The point is, Dundas and Seymour had no business tinkerin’ with those things in the first place. It’s quite bad enough that the captain of the fleet managed to blow himself up, without the commander-in-chief doing the same! Do they want me to order them to hand over command of the whole fleet to Admiral Pénaud?’
‘I hardly think that will go down well with the men of the fleet, my lord,’ said Napier.
‘Or with the voters here in England,’ added Wood.
‘I know, I know,’ sighed Palmerston. ‘Still, at least we didn’t appoint the damn’ fools. But that’s not why I’ve called you here today. What’s significant is that the reports of Napier’s spies have been proved to be based on a real threat. If these infernal machines really do exist, what other secret weapons that the Russians are supposed to have in their armoury are also real?’ He turned to Killigrew. ‘Been readin’ your report about your little jaunt into Finland back in January. Very interestin’. That drawing Jurgaitis gave you – seems Graham at least had the sense to pass it on to one of our top men to take a look at. He recognised the blessèd thing at once, and wasted no time in drawin’ my attention to it once I was Prime Minister. Well, let’s have him in, shall we?’
Baring opened another door and spoke to someone on the other side. ‘If you’d like to join us, sir?’
A man wearing smart, sober clothing entered. He was in his late forties, a small, olive-complexioned man with receding hair.
‘Sorry to keep you waitin’, Brunel,’ said Palmerston. ‘I’m obliged for the use of your offices.’
‘Not at all, my lord,’ the engineer replied easily. ‘I’m honoured that you took the trouble to travel all the way to Millwall for this. I’m aware that your time must be precious, especially having come to office so recently, and I could easily have attended you at Downing Street.’
‘Too many pryin’ ears at Number Ten,’ snorted Palmerston. ‘Still don’t know which members of staff I can trust, and which ones will go off bleatin’ to the Tories. Or – worse still – to the papers. If this contraption is as important as your telegram implied it might be, we could go settin’ off a national panic if word gets out, what? Well, let’s take a look at the confounded thing. You have the floor, Brunel.’
‘Thank you.’ The engineer struck a match and lit the candle in the magic lantern. ‘Could I trouble you to turn down the gas, Mr Baring?’ As the lights were dipped, Brunel moved to stand by the screen. ‘The first slide, if you please.’
Killigrew saw the technical schematics he had brought back from Finland projected on to the sheet, the bloody thumbprint unmistakable in one corner. Whoever had developed it had done a fine job. It looked a lot less blurry somehow, and at that size it was possible to make out some of the details: vaguely cylindrical, with a large box at one end and a screw-propeller at the other.
‘Well, Brunel?’ said Wood. ‘Any notion what the confounded thing might be?’
‘Yes, Sir Charles. It’s a submersible boat.’
Chapter 8
On Her Majesty’s Naval Service
‘A submersible boat?’ echoed Sir Charles Wood. ‘You mean, a boat that can travel underwater? Is such a thing possible? Either a vessel floats, or it doesn’t, surely? Are you trying to tell me this boat can sink and then float again? With men inside?’
‘Indeed,’ said Brunel. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of Archimedes’ principle?’
Blank faces stared back at him.
The engineer sighed. ‘Any vessel completely or partially submerged in a liquid is acted upon by an upward, or buoyant, force, the magnitude of which is equal to the weight of the liquid displaced by the vessel.’
‘What does that mean in English?’ demanded Palmerston.
‘A ship floats because the weight of the volume of water it displaces exceeds its own weight,’ explained Brunel. ‘However, if we can create a watertight vessel which can vary its own displacement, it becomes possible to create a vessel that can rise and sink at will. Van Drebel built a working submersible as long ago as 1620 – King James the first is said to have accompanied him on a voyage up the Thames – and in 1776 Bushnell built the Turtle, which was used to attack HMS Eagle at New York by attaching explosives to her hull. The attack failed, but the theory was sound. Since then there have been several attempts to construct a submersible vessel, with varying degrees of success, not least of which was Fulton’s Nautilus—’
‘Be a good fellow and spare us the history lecture, Brunel,’ cut in Palmerston.
‘Was your associate Mr Russell no’ working on something similar a while back?’ asked Napier.
Brunel nodded. ‘A little too similar, as it happens. But I’m afraid it sank with all hands during trials.’
‘And now it seems the Russians have developed one as well,’ Napier said grimly.
‘Wouldn’t have thought they’d be interested in something like this,’ said Wood. ‘Not exactly forward-thinking, these Russkis. Very backward, in fact, and proud of it. I’m told they regard Western technology as a corrupting influence.’
‘Perhaps so, Sir Charles,’ said Palmerston. ‘But I understand the Grand Duke Konstantin is a very forward-thinkin’ young man. Eager to modernise the Russian navy, whether their Admiralty likes it or not. I think if someone showed him the plans for an underwater boat, he’d give the project his patronage.’
Killigrew remembered Nekrasoff’s remark about the grand duke’s new toy. But he suspected that all this was missing the point. ‘Mr Brunel, when you said that the underwater boat Mr Russell is working on was too similar…?’
‘Better show ’em the other slide, Baring,’ said Palm
erston.
‘This was taken from the plans for Russell’s underwater boat,’ explained Baring, inserting the second slide without removing the first. ‘We had to do some fiddling about to get the two to line up, but from this I think you should be able to see—’
‘Good God!’ said Wood.
‘An exact match,’ remarked Napier.
‘The Russians must have a spy in this shipyard!’
‘I wish it were that simple,’ sighed Palmerston. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell them, Mr Brunel?’
The engineer took a deep breath. ‘Four years ago – about the time of the Great Exhibition – a Bavarian engineer named Wilhelm Bauer approached Prince Albert, seeking patronage for an invention he wished to build: an underwater boat. He called it his “Seeteufel” – the Sea Devil. His Highness was sufficiently impressed to give Bauer a letter of introduction to Sir James Graham. Graham set up a committee of scientists and naval experts to consider the plans, and after some months it reached the decision – erroneous, in my opinion — that an underwater boat is simply unfeasible. Bauer then took his plans to Mr Russell. The two of them worked on the Sea Devil, but I’m sorry to report that it was not a happy collaboration. Herr Bauer was very protective of his designs and disinclined to share his secrets with Russell. He also repeatedly rejected my advice to submit his ideas to the patent office. Last year Russell grew impatient with Herr Bauer and dissolved their partnership, confident that he could build an underwater boat without Bauer’s help.’ Palmerston nodded. ‘I saw his design. Even suggested a few modifications of me own.’
‘This would be the one that sank with all hands?’ asked Killigrew. Butter would not have melted in his mouth.
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 15