series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  Nathanial was, therefore, surprised to find his brother now sitting in a pew near the pulpit, waiting to assist the deacons of the church in collecting the tithe of the parishioners.

  Their mother sat beside Nathanial, she reading her own copy of the Bible so as to better embrace the words spoken by the Reverend with such conviction. Nathanial was content to simply listen, his eyes roaming the congregation, unsurprised by how little it had changed in the two years he had been away.

  For all his faults, the Reverend certainly commanded a loyal following. Nathanial supposed that was true of the loyalty he commanded from his family, too. Despite their distance, still Nathanial was glad to have such a strong man for his father. If only he could confide in the Reverend like he could his mother.

  “But woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up,” continued the Reverend, and at this Nathanial’s attention returned to the pulpit.

  Was this his father’s way of reaching out, to let Nathanial know that he understood his son’s pain? Such a choice of Scripture could not be coincidence. Nathanial would have asked after the service, if he could only expect an answer. The Reverend would, of course, insist that any such conviction in Nathanial came from the Lord speaking through His Word. Perhaps he would have been right…

  Nathanial caught his mother’s glance. She leaned in close. “Be open,” she whispered, “for you’re never truly alone.”

  2.

  15 DECEMBER, 1889

  My Dear Miss Somerset:

  I read your letter immediately upon its arrival, and then read it again, scarcely able to believe that two citizens of the United States of America could receive such disgraceful treatment at the hands of a Christian government. As a lawyer myself, I assure you that your conclusion as to the levying of a charge of treason against a foreign national is quite correct—it is a legal absurdity.

  I have sent word to the British authorities demanding your immediate release to my custody. If it is convenient for you, I shall call on you tomorrow morning (Monday, the 16th instant) at 9:00 AM. If the British authorities consent to attend, it is my hope we can resolve this distressing affair in short order and move you and your uncle to the security of the American Consulate by sundown.

  With sincere admiration for your courage in this matter, I am,

  Your most obedient servant,

  Robert Todd Lincoln,

  United States Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James.

  3.

  NATHANIAL WAS LOATHE to admit it, but there was something comforting about standing in All Saints’ Church once again. It was not that he had ever turned from God, indeed, it was quite the reverse. When given the chance to travel the aether he had hoped to understand His creation better, and in so doing to understand his own nature better. There was still so much Nathanial did not understand, things that even the Good Book could not tell him. The Reverend’s sermons had always served to deepen the void of confusion in Nathanial’s soul; even his dean at Mortarhouse College was unable to help. When the possibility of travelling the aether had presented itself, on that fateful day of secondment to Chatham Dockyard, Nathanial had written to Reverend Matthews. The dean, who knew more about Nathanial than his father ever would, wrote back imploring Nathanial to avail himself of the opportunity, and so when asked to join Sovereign on its first mission to Luna he had hoped to discover the truth of himself.

  That mission had ended quickly, however, and he was soon back on Earth, now with a ward in the shape of Annabelle Somerset. Secretly, he was more than happy to accept the request for help he had received from Miles Jericho on Venus a month later, and even more willing to continue travelling with Annabelle when she had suggested they visit her “uncle”, Colonel Shawbridge, on Mercury. Out there, Nathanial felt sure, was the truth he had sought.

  Looking back on those seven months of travelling, perhaps he did learn much about himself. Two faces came to his mind, and Nathanial smiled. Out there, in the aether, away from all that he knew, such exploration was safe, but here, surrounded by the familiar, he knew that he would never be offered such a chance again. The inherent danger in such a course was…

  It was time to accept that which he could not change.

  “Is that a smile I see, Nathanial?”

  Nathanial turned to his father, who had finally extracted himself from his flock. “Of a sort, Father. It seems that I discovered something of meaning in your sermon after all.”

  “The Lord shines his face upon you.”

  Nathanial tilted his head. It would not do for him to be seen to be in agreement with his father. “I must say, the church is coming along nicely.” He pointed to the two stained glass windows along the south wall. “These are new, are they not?”

  “Installed this past year. Justia and Caritas, both originally drawn for Calcutta Cathedral twenty-five years ago. It is my intention that when finished each window in the south wall will represent the main Christian virtues. Can you recount them?”

  “Reverentia, Fortitudo, Pax, and…” Nathanial paused, and stroked his whiskers, frowning in concentration. As expected, the Reverend supplied the final virtue.

  “Humilitas.”

  “Oh yes,” Nathanial said, as if he had forgot. He eyed the Reverend, and fought hard to suppress a smile. He knew the main virtues by heart, of course, he had been told to recite them often enough as a child. The Reverend was always so stolid in his dealings with Nathanial, a fact that used to bring out much the same in him. But Nathanial had changed in the two years away, discovered a less reverential side that he had hitherto never realised he possessed. It was a side his father would most certainly disapprove of.

  “A virtue your travels may have removed from you, I perceive, Nathanial,” the Reverend said, pointedly.

  “Perhaps so, Father, perhaps so. Now,” Nathanial said, and turned away from the south wall, “if you will excuse me, I have business to which I must attend.” With a slight nod and a smile, he made to leave.

  “Your mother says you are to remain in Putney.”

  Nathanial stopped and regarded his father. He wasn’t entirely sure, but there might have been an element of relief in the Reverend’s voice. “Possibly, I have yet to decide. It rather depends on a few variables, but I suspect I will most likely ‘set up shop’ in London. For the work ahead of me I will need a larger laboratory than the one I have on Charlwood Road.”

  “London is close enough.”

  Nathanial narrowed his eyes. “Close enough for what?”

  “Your mother misses you,” the Reverend said shortly, his stern features setting.

  “Quite.” Heaven forbid that the Reverend show concern for his son. “So much for a time to gather stones together,” he said, “or does the Word of God not apply to His servant? It is at times like these I rather wish you could see beyond your flock.” Nathanial shook his head. “What matter, I have much to do.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” the Reverend said, and turned away from Nathanial before Nathanial could think of a good parting comment.

  For a long moment he remained standing there, wondering how it was that his father had turned away first. Once again it was Nathanial who stood alone. Returning home was, regardless of his mother’s words, the wrong decision.

  4.

  THE LETTER FROM Mister Lincoln lifted Annabelle’s spirits, and, in a more positive mood than she had felt in some time, she explored the parts of Dorset House open to her and her uncle—the downstairs front parlour and several rooms on the second floor. There were many locked doors, however, including broad sliding doors which cut off the main hallways leading into the interior of the building. What those locks guarded she could not say, nor would the staff.

  As to the domestic staff, she met only four: Stanhope the butler and Dunstan the very young upstairs maid she had met when she first arrived, as well as Carlock the doorman. All three of them were polite and considerate in their reserved
way. Annabelle supposed that, whatever their sympathies toward her and her uncle, their loyalties must by necessity lie with their employer, whoever that might be—some government ministry, she supposed. “Guests” such as the two of them clearly must come and go, while the house and its proprietors endured. Annabelle soon resolved that she would not mistake their sympathy for an invitation to confide openly in them. That would simply put them in the awkward position of having to choose between betraying her confidence and betraying the trust placed in them by their master, a choice it was unfair of her to thrust upon them.

  The fourth member of the staff, Mrs Dubbner, was a decidedly less agreeable person. Older—perhaps in her forties—tall, thin, and severe, she served as downstairs maid but seemed to have more authority than that title might suggest, although Annabelle knew not how or why. Dubbner served their meals in the downstairs dining room, the food coming by dumbwaiter from, Annabelle supposed, a basement kitchen. Certainly the smells of cooking sometimes made their way into the lower floor. Dubbner served and removed without comment or expression, as a general rule, and if she ventured a look at a half-eaten meal or a bit of gravy dripped on the carpet, it was with clear disapproval. There was, of course, no question at all of confiding in her.

  Uncle Cyrus had lapsed into a confused silence and her efforts to engage him in conversation over breakfast produced nothing but shrugs and blank looks. By early afternoon he had grown restless and irritable. He spoke—or rather muttered to himself—but he made no more sense than he had earlier. At times his words were not even recognisable as English; at times they sounded Eastern European, although when she asked him to repeat what he had said he would simply shake his head and say it was unimportant. She knew that her uncle spoke both French and German, but no other language. Perhaps, she thought, he had spoken to himself in German, as he often did when working through a problem in chemistry, and she had simply mistaken it for something else.

  5.

  “MISS SOMMERSET, I am very pleased to meet you. Will your esteemed uncle be joining us?”

  The American envoy kissed Annabelle’s hand. Mister Lincoln was a distinguished-looking gentleman. He was bespectacled but not thickly so, greying at the temples, his closely-trimmed pointed beard all but white. Annabelle estimated his age as the mid-forties. His furrowed brow communicated a sincere concern for their welfare more eloquently than words ever could.

  “I am afraid he is indisposed. His experiences on Luna have left him mentally…exhausted.”

  Major Gordon, who stood silently in the open doorway to the sitting room, raised one eyebrow slightly at that description but offered no contradiction.

  “I have asked the maid to serve us tea here in the sitting room. Will you take a chair?” Annabelle gestured to the armchairs but the envoy bowed and gestured for her to precede them. Once Annabelle had arranged herself on the sofa, the two men took the armchairs either side and facing each other, with the American envoy taking the chair closest to the end of the sofa on which Annabelle sat. The arrangement was both natural and symbolic, with the two Americans facing the lone British officer.

  “Mister Lincoln, I could not help but notice your last name and wonder if you were related to our late president,” Annabelle said.

  “He was my father.”

  “Ah, I suspected as much. My uncle will be doubly disappointed as he is a great admirer of your father. I am as well, of course, although I was born after his death, but my uncle remembers his election well. He has often remarked that the terrible War of Succession might have had a far happier outcome had typhoid fever not taken your father from us so soon after his election.”

  “Your uncle is very kind, and I take that as an especial honour from so prominent a scientist. As to what might have been, only the Almighty knows for certain. But now let us turn to your situation. Major Gordon, are we to be joined by any other representatives of your government?”

  “No, your Excellency,” Gordon answered. “I have been directed to explain our position on this matter to you and answer your questions to the extent within which it is my power to do.”

  Lincoln shifted in his chair and frowned slightly. “That hardly seems the proper task of a serving officer in the…what was it again?”

  “The Northumberland Fusiliers, Excellency. You are correct, but I am currently serving on detached staff duty, seconded to the Department of Military Intelligence. I suspect that may be confusing to a civilian but I…”

  “I quite understand, Major,” Lincoln broke in. “I was privileged to serve as Secretary of War for four years, so I am familiar with the rudiments of military staff responsibilities. How is General Buller these days?”

  “Healthy, your Excellency.”

  “But not happy, I shouldn’t imagine, stuck behind a desk.” Lincoln turned to Annabelle and explained. “General Redvers Buller is the head of British Military Intelligence, has been for slightly more than a year, if I recall correctly.”

  “Your Excellency is well informed,” Gordon answered.

  “Well, please give him my kindest wishes when you report the substance of our discussion to him,” Lincoln said. “Now as to that substance, it is my understanding that you are considering charging Miss Somerset and her uncle with felonies, among them high treason. As I am sure your own Foreign Office will tell you, there is no legal basis for Britain to charge an American citizen with treason. As Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant are not British subjects that should be obvious. So what are you actually after?”

  Gordon picked up a thin leather portfolio which he had leaned against the leg of his chair when he sat down. “First, your Excellency, let me clear up a misunderstanding. The Crown contemplates no charges against Doctor Grant. He is held here only for his own protection. As Miss Somerset rather circumspectly suggested, his mental faculties have become so confused by the shock of recent events that to release him would simply endanger his own safety. At present, he is non compos mentis.”

  “His mind will return to him,” Annabelle said. “I am certain of it.”

  Gordon inclined his head. “I join you in hoping for this outcome, Miss Somerset, as does my government, although I have less certainty in its eventual fulfilment than you profess, for understandable reasons. But that is beside the point. Evidence has come into the hands of the government which suggests a collaborative involvement between the suspected saboteur, a Fenian revolutionist by the name of Dolan, and Miss Somerset.”

  “Dolan? He nearly killed me!” Annabelle protested, but Lincoln held up his hand to calm her.

  “And the nature of this evidence?” Lincoln asked.

  “That I am not at liberty to say, sir, although if the matter comes to trial it will become public.”

  Lincoln frowned and shook his head. “Thin soup, Major Gordon, very thin soup indeed. But in any case this does not address the obvious point of the impossibility of Miss Somerset having committed treason against a government to which she owes no allegiance. Under the circumstances I must insist, on behalf of my government, that your government either produce the evidence it claims to hold against her, or release her and her uncle to my custody at once. And let us hear nothing more about treason.”

  Gordon released the clasp on his leather portfolio and drew out a folder. He opened it, studied the first paper for a moment, and then turned to Annabelle. “Your father was Ezekiel Somerset?”

  “Yes.”

  “He immigrated to the United States from Australia?”

  “Yes,” she answered, but more cautiously. Where was this going?

  “This is a notarised copy of Ezekiel Somerset’s baptismal certificate, showing he was born 19 August, 1842 in the hamlet of Pontesbury, Shropshire, England.” Gordon handed the document to Mister Lincoln who examined it for a moment and then nodded. “This is a notarised copy of the trial judgment entered against him in the municipal court in Liverpool for theft, on 7 August, 1859, wherein he was sentenced to be transported to the Australian colony of New South Wa
les. Here is a copy of the passenger manifest of the S.S. Argonaut, including his name, which arrived at Sydney on 23 December of the same year.” Again he passed the documents to Lincoln who examined them thoughtfully.

  Lincoln studied the wall of the sitting room for a few moments, but Annabelle could tell his eyes were unfocussed, his mind lost in thought. He glanced at her and his eyes bore a suspicion and a warning. He seemed to know where this trail of documents led, or at least might lead.

  Gordon produced several other documents, one establishing Ezekiel Somerset’s residence in New South Wales, one showing his service in the New South Wales Lancers for two years, a transfer deed involving purchase of a small sheep farm and then sale of it three years later for a substantially higher price, and then another passenger manifest, this for an American steamer which carried him to the port of San Francisco in 1867.

  “Although we do not yet have a copy of the marriage license,” Gordon went on, “we are confident we will be able to obtain it and other documentary evidence establishing a complete record of Ezekiel Somerset’s movements up to the time he sired Miss Somerset.”

  “Your point, Major?” Lincoln asked, but something in his voice suggested to Annabelle he already understood the point, although she certainly did not.

  “Ezekiel Somerset never renounced his British citizenship, nor does your State Department admit to having a record of his naturalisation as a United States citizen. As a result, Miss Somerset is a British subject.”

  “I am an American!” Annabelle exclaimed. “Even if my father were British, my mother was American and I was born in the Arizona Territory. That makes me American, does it not?”

  Mister Lincoln leaned back in his chair and removed his spectacles to rub his eyes, as if suddenly very tired.

  “We do not dispute your American citizenship, Miss Somerset,” Gordon explained patiently. “We assert only that you have dual citizenship, and are entitled to it until such time as you renounce one or the other.”