series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  “So, work shall now resume in Surrey? I hear many of the well-to-do end up in Putney, not to mention inventors. That Henry Fersey Brown chap resides there, does he not?”

  “Yes, I have heard of Brown, but I have yet to meet him. Of course, I have been away for two years, so who’s to say how popular he is in Putney.”

  “Much less so than you, I’ll wager.”

  Sir Eleias was, no doubt, thinking he was being kind, but Nathanial cared so little for popularity contests. If Henry Brown wished to become the most renowned inventor living in Putney then Nathanial would not stand in his way. Indeed, to his mind, he had already settled on the notion that he would not remain in Putney for long. The last conversation he had with his father had cemented that. London offered many more opportunities. Which was, of course, the sole purpose for his visiting London the past two days.

  “Things change, Sir Eleias. It is time I returned to London.”

  “A superb notion!” said a voice Nathanial did not recognise. He turned to look up at the owner of the voice, and found himself facing a man of some girth, his large face surrounded by an abundance of hair. The man, his ruddy cheeks puffing at the large cigar in his mouth, smiled at Nathanial. “Forgive a gentleman for eavesdropping, but I could not help but catch the last of your conversation.” He reached out a large hand and grasped Nathanial’s in a heavy shake. “Archibald Lécuyer, your servant, sir!”

  “A pleasure, I am sure,” Nathanial said, looking across at Sir Eleias, who was examining Lécuyer with some bemusement. “Mister Lécuyer, we were having a private talk, and do not care to be intruded upon. Such is the privilege of being a Savilian, no?”

  “Sodalitas Convivium. Is that not our motto? Do we not make a point of talking to other Savilians regardless of previous acquaintance?”

  Nathanial raised his eyebrows at Mister Lécuyer. There was no hint of a French accent to his voice, one of the many upper-class Englishmen with fancy French names that London seemed to attract. “Normally that would be so, however even Savilians know when not to intrude. Manners are never to be taken for granted,” Nathanial said pointedly.

  “I have offended you, Professor Stone. Forgive me, for that was not my intention,” Lécuyer said with a bow, an impressive feat considering his bulk. “But I heard of your intention to return to London, and I assume you will need lodgings in such an event.”

  “Erm, yes.”

  Lécuyer beamed. “Then I am your man!”

  It had only been a day since he had started making known his need for accommodation, and a decent London lab, as such no such abode had presented itself yet. Accepting the lodgings of a stranger was, in Nathanial’s opinion, unadvisable… But then, Lécuyer was a Savilian, was he not?

  Nathanial bowed his head in a quick nod. “Then forgive me, and please do join us. That is, if Sir Eleias in agreeable?”

  Sir Eleias was smiling. “Always interested in making the acquaintance of a fellow of the Savile Club, of course.”

  “Then it is agreed.” Without further ado Lécuyer turned and retrieved a chair from a nearby table, not bothering to ask the occupants of the table if the chair was going free.

  Nathanial shook his head slightly. It was rare to find such an eccentric gentleman in the Savile Club, and Nathanial had to admit, to himself at least, he was suddenly rather glad that Lécuyer had intruded on their conversation. He missed French eccentricities.

  4.

  THOMAS ST JOHN Curnoble, 28th Earl of Chillingham and Adderstone-Lord Chillingham to friend and foe alike-sat quietly at his desk in Westminster and studied the newspaper. He had already twice read the story of the assassination of the Austrian ambassador on the previous afternoon and how the bomb blast had killed seven and injured a score more-none of them anyone who mattered, fortunately. Franz Deym, the Austrian ambassador, had been a boring and harmless nobody, scarcely worth the powder to blow him up, and Chillingham could not fathom why anyone had even gone to the trouble. Now he simply studied the paper, as if the physical thing itself might contain some clue, and wondered what impact the spreading shockwaves would have on his plans.

  Try as he might, he could not see how he could turn this to his advantage, or at least not his immediate advantage. The bomb plot would excite public alarm, the papers would demand action, and Chillingham would sponsor a bill, had in fact already drafted it, to increase the police powers of the Lord Minister at Home. That was Belvedere’s portfolio so no one would see Chillingham’s bill as grasping at power for himself, and Belvedere would later find a way to show his gratitude. All of that went without saying.

  But as to his own projects, that was a different matter. He had engineered the secret cooperation with Austria over Project “G”, had even managed to turn the unfortunate destruction of Peregrine Station into a distraction from his own rather serious departure from the agreement on joint cooperation, and had then been able to keep Deym happy with distractions and half-truths when he came with his government’s questions. But now Deym was dead, and beside the newspaper a cablegram rested on his desk blotter, an official cable from Vienna announcing the appointment of Ladislaus Hengelmüller von Hengervár as Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary from the Imperial and Royal Monarchy of Austria and Hungary to the Court of St James.

  Hengelmüller! A disastrous choice.

  Ten years earlier, when Hengelmüller had been a senior assistant in the London Embassy, he had managed to extract a public apology from William Gladstone, head of the Liberal opposition in Commons, for an inflammatory and typically ill-considered anti-Austrian remark. Chillingham detested Gladstone and everything he stood for, and had applauded Hengelmüller at the time for giving the “Grand Old Man” his comeuppance. But Gladstone was one of the most stubborn men Chillingham had ever known—almost as stubborn as himself—and for Hengelmüller to have forced an apology from him…this was not another Franz Deym to be put off with flattery and vague promises.

  And why was Hengelmüller available for the post? He had been expelled from his last foreign post, as Minister to the court of King Milan of Serbia, expelled because of a British raid into southern Serbia engineered by General Buller as his first act upon being appointed Director of Military Intelligence a year earlier—a raid in which the Austrian authorities had been persuaded to participate. Chillingham had been distracted at the time with the early work on Project “G”. Now he kept Buller on a tighter leash, but in this case the damage had been done. Hengelmüller had not been consulted—or even informed—of the raid and so the accusations of treachery against him by the Serbs must have been particularly distasteful. He had always struck Chillingham as that sort of stiff, conventional Austrian to whom the opinion of others mattered, and of course he knew that Military Intelligence came under Chillingham’s own portfolio: Lord Minister Overseas.

  So an intelligent and determined ambassador, embittered at British policy in general and Chillingham’s shadowy tentacles in particular, would soon come knocking, representing a government increasingly suspicious of Britain’s intentions with respect to their sensitive secret agreement. Even the guttersnipe newsboy who sold him the paper had seemed to know trouble was coming. “Austrian Ambassador Assassinated!” he had shouted. “Angry Austrians Allege Anglo-Anarchist Atrocity!”

  What a bother.

  A soft knock came at his door and Fairweather, his secretary, stuck in his head. “Major Gordon to see you, your Lordship.”

  “Send him in.”

  Gordon had been with Military Intelligence for almost as long as Chillingham had held the portfolio controlling it, and despite his involvement in Buller’s fiasco of a raid the previous year, Chillingham had come to rely on him more and more. There was a coldness about him that Chillingham appreciated. Also, Gordon’s family had been Scottish but had moved to Northumbria a century or so earlier and as Chillingham’s ancestral holdings were mostly in Scotland and Northumbria, Gordon was one of his own. Not that Chillingham had any sentimental attachments of that
sort, of course, but men of Gordon’s class set great store by it, and so the lord sensed a loyalty from Gordon which extended beyond simple uniform, rank, and assignment.

  Now the young major came to attention in front of the lord’s desk. “Your Lordship,” he said.

  “I hope you have good news for me, Gordon. It has been an unsatisfactory day so far.”

  “I am sorry, your Lordship, the American woman refuses to sign.”

  First Hengelmüller and now this. Without the Grant patents, everything else became meaningless. He sat considering that and presently heard Big Ben, at the other end of the Palace, chime two in the afternoon. He looked back at Gordon’s blank, loyal face. “More pressure, Gordon. She must sign.”

  “With respect, your Lordship, can we be certain the Lord Chancellor will return the charges we desire?”

  “Not your concern, Gordon…but yes, we can. The Baron of Halsbury wishes to become the Earl of Halsbury. Since it is already unheard of that a criminal lawyer—and that’s what he was, if you didn’t know—reach the woolsack, if he expects to advance further he needs my support. Besides, all it takes is a mention of Fenians, bombs, or communards and Halsbury begins foaming like a mad dog—and this business has all three. He will do what is required of him. Now you must do so as well. Take whatever steps are necessary, but get me her signature. If not, she will have to be put out of the way, but a signature would be less…complicated.”

  “I understand, your Lordship.”

  Chapter Five

  “Officers and Gentlemen”

  1.

  “YOU SHOULD JOIN us in the summer, Nathanial. A retreat to St Leonard’s-on-Sea might be just the thing for you. Plus, of course, your help with the patients would be invaluable.”

  As they walked through the grounds of the Royal Hospital of Incurables, Nathanial regarded his mother with incredulity. “Really, Mother, I am a scientist, not a doctor! As much I pity the poor unfortunates who find themselves in this place, I do not think I will ever feel the need to help them.”

  “Yet you will create things to help man’s greed?”

  Nathanial chose not to respond. It was very unlike his mother to confront him so, that was usually his father’s preferred method, and Nathanial could only assume that her work at the hospital was putting great strain on her. After a short moment of silence, his mother placed her arm in his and began telling him more about the hospital. Of course, he had known of its existence since he was a boy, but he knew little of its history.

  The current location for the hospital was on the grounds of what used to be Melrose Hall on West Hill; twenty-five acres of land, the hospital had its own farm and livestock, as well as an orchard and market garden which provided fresh produce for the patients’ meals. The land had once been owned by Lord Spencer, part of his estate in Wimbledon Park. His mother explained that Florence Nightingale herself was consulted on the design of the hospital, which had undergone many sympathetic extensions since 1863, the last of which had been the northern facade built in 1879, the foundation stone of which was laid by Prince Edward.

  “An impressive history, Mother, but it does not change my view. I will be the first to sing of the work you are doing here, but my future is not in Surrey.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow, but she refused to comment on his announcement. Nathanial suspected she already knew about his intention to return to London. If not the Reverend, then certainly Edwin would have told her. Nathanial had spent some time with Lécuyer since Tuesday, and was almost certainly going to accept the offer of lodgings. He had seen the place in question, the upper rooms of a three story house in Russell Square owned by Lécuyer, with more than enough space for Nathanial to set up a lab. It would feel good to be inventing again, patenting designs that would improve the lives of many. A line in extra mechanical limbs, perhaps. He certainly had no intention of designing anything that would bring him to the attention of the Navy again.

  “Do you have any concept of the work I do, Nathanial?” his mother asked, interceding on his thoughts, “or the opposition I have in such work?”

  “I believe it has something to do with helping the patients to read.”

  “Something, yes. I’m one of very few Authorised Lady Visitors; naturally the hospital administrators do not consider a hospital such as this as a place for ladies, despite the example Miss Nightingale shows in her own life. Nonetheless, I am one such, and I visit four to six patients a week, to help them with writing letters, reading, and playing cards.”

  Nathanial stopped and took his mother’s hands in his. She looked up at him, her eyes searching. “Mother, I could not be more proud of the help you give these poor souls, but I fear you mistake me for Edwin. I will accept that when I returned to Putney on Saturday I was less than I am usually, but I have since decided to pick myself up. As you have always taught me, I will amount to nothing unless I try.”

  His mother shook her head, and placed a gloved hand on his cheek. “Nathanial, you are my son, you will never be nothing.”

  “I have achieved much in the past two years, seen so many amazing things. But my travels from Earth cost me much, too.” He turned away. “Perhaps I will one day tell you of…” He shook his head, unable to even conclude the thought.

  “You do not need to, I have seen the hurt. I can feel it.”

  Nathanial turned back to her, and smiled. “I know,” he said softly. “You always were the strongest in the family. So much more than the Reverend.”

  “Do not be too harsh on your father. He loves you as much as I; he understands that you are hurting over something so deep that you cannot tell us. But…” She smiled at him. “Your father is a complicated man, Nathanial.”

  “If you say so, Mother.”

  For a short while they walked on, once again linking arms, and Nathanial drew from her strength.

  “I am petitioning for the development of a Ladies’ Association,” his mother began, “with a view to collecting money to help ‘unbefriended candidates’. There are so many who need the service the hospital provides, but lack the funds to pay for such. We will help them gain admission.”

  As his mother continued to tell him of her plans, Nathanial’s mind drifted away to another strong woman he knew. Ever since he first met her in Arizona, he had been drawn to Annabelle. He had never quite understood why, although he knew the reason had little to do with what Cyrus Grant had thought at the time. Now, in the presence of his mother, it all made sense. All his life he had been around a woman of such inner strength that it was perfectly natural for him to find other strong women compelling. Most men would probably disagree, opposed to the suffragette movement, but Nathanial knew he was not most men. In so many ways he was different to the men he knew.

  Now he was, once more, back in touch with his fellows in the Savile Club, it was time to discover just what had happened to Annabelle. For nearly two weeks now they had not been in contact; as far as he knew she could be back in America, or even away on further adventures in the aether in the company of George Bedford. It seemed inconceivable that she would have made no attempt to contact him, but then what effort had he made? Certainly he had attempted to get the governor of the Chatham Convict Prison to find out, and had even implored Director White for information, but neither man had been willing to help. Indeed, Director White had been most obstructive on that point. That had been almost a week ago.

  He had wasted enough time, Nathanial decided, and he would waste no more. He would discover the whereabouts of Annabelle Somerset.

  2.

  “TREACHEROUS BRITISH COWARDS,” Uncle Cyrus muttered when Major Gordon entered their sitting room. “You’d have blown them all up if you had a lick of sense.”

  “I did not blow anyone up, Uncle,” Annabelle answered with an air of resignation. Her uncle’s comments grew increasingly random and carried little meaning any more, aside from a reflection of his current mood. “It has been two days since your last visit, Major Gordon. Have you come with a
new bribe?”

  As usual, his face registered no offense at the comment, or even reaction. “No, and I must apologise for my absence. The Queen’s business has kept me away. I trust you have both been well?”

  “The Devil’s business, more likely,” Uncle Cyrus snapped.

  Gordon smiled at him as if he had wished him good morning. Annabelle considered her own retort—that they had prospered rather than suffered from his absence—but following her uncle’s remark she realised she would have sounded like just another petulant half-mad American. She was powerless at the moment, and these little gestures of angry defiance did not disguise that fact, she suddenly saw, but rather emphasised it.

  “We are both well, as you can see. What business brings you here, Major Gordon?” she asked.

  “I had intended to send you a note but duty brought me near Dorset House and so I thought I would look in on you.”

  “Where is she?” She heard the familiar voice echo from the downstairs parlour, up the stairs, and down the hall.

  George!

  Gordon half turned to the doorway with a look of surprise. “Who the devil is that?”

  As she heard the stairs taken at a run, two at a time, she tried to compose herself. Why George, how good to see you, she would say, and offer her hand. Or was that too formal? How wonderful to see you. No, how very wonderful to see you. How–

  The door burst open and George Bedford paused for a moment, face red with emotion and exertion, snowflakes still off-white on the shoulders of his naval greatcoat, and then he brushed past Gordon as if he were the doorman and enfolded her in his arms.

  “Oh, George!” she said, and then could say no more as her tears choked her.

  “I will leave you,” Gordon said, but George turned on him, one arm still protectively around Annabelle’s shoulder.