Edwin beamed.
“Then it is settled,” Nathanial said, and added to himself, plus this will give me something to concern myself with other than Jacob Folkard.
Chapter Seven
“A Harrowing Holiday”
1.
BOXING DAY was a pleasant holiday, one with which Annabelle had not been familiar, but upon which wealthy people gave a present to their less-prosperous servants. Annabelle had never considered herself wealthy, but she was certainly better off than Rachael, Mrs Collingwood’s maid, and as Rachael had been particularly kind to Uncle Cyrus for the last week it gave Annabelle considerable pleasure to give the maid a folded two pound note and see the look of surprise on her face. She answered all of Rachael’s protests as to not being her servant with, “Well, this is how we do it in America.” That was nonsense, of course, but it satisfied Rachael’s guilt over the gift.
She had pulled the curtains earlier and watched a soft snow filter down but had drawn them once the gaslights were lit outside. The snowfall was more beautiful after dark but the wind had picked up and Mrs Collingwood’s windows were slightly drafty. Uncle Cyrus had been quiet all day long and George had visited earlier. He had spent Christmas with his family, which is to say his brothers’ families, but had returned by train that morning. So far their investigations—conducted by George as Annabelle remained here to watch Uncle Cyrus, had turned up little, although the information George had learned from Captain Folkard provided considerable food for thought. They had much to consider.
She pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders against the chill. George had given her the shawl as her Christmas present when he called today—a lovely paisley pattern shawl from Kashmir. She saw few women wearing them and she supposed it was because it would not hang well with a bustled dress. She did not care. She liked the way it felt on her shoulders and against her cheek, and in any case she did not own a single bustle, nor did she intend to fill her closet with them as she rebuilt a wardrobe.
She shivered—there definitely was a draft, although the curtains didn’t move. Perhaps it was from under the door. Perhaps someone had left a hall window open, although she had never seen any of the windows in the house opened and couldn’t imagine why anyone would during a snowstorm. She rose and crossed to the bell pull to call Rachael but before she got to it someone knocked on her door.
“Is that you Rachael?” she said as she opened the door. “I was about to…”
Instead of Rachael, two burly men in rough clothes and black knit masks faced her. She took a step back and began to call out when the first man seized her by the collar with his left hand and hit her hard in the face with his balled right fist.
She did not feel the blow, nor did she remember flying across the room or sliding across the floor into a side table, or snapping one of its legs off with her shoulder and bringing the contents of its drawer down around her, but all of those things must have happened. She lay there for a moment, surrounded by the important papers and few precious objects she owned which had been in the drawer, and she tried to make sense of what was happening around her.
“Fetch the old ’un,” the first man ordered in a gravelly voice. “I’ll finish ’er.” As the other man made for her uncle’s room the first one crossed toward her, pausing to pick up a bronze paperweight, cast in the shape of an Indian elephant, from the writing desk. He sat down on her waist, straddling her, and hefted the paperweight.
“Yer a right pretty one, an’ that’s the truth. A shame to crush yer skull in right away, it is, but nuthin’ fer it.”
In her panic she groped through the jumble of papers around her on the floor and her hand fell on a long, straight, intricately carved animal horn, the horn of a Martian aerial beast called a skrill, and for an instant time seemed to stand still as her mind went back to a moment months before.
“There is blood in the design.” Gillsa looked up. “You used it on an enemy? Did you kill him?”
“Yes, I did—use it I mean, and no, I did not kill him.”
Gillsa handed it back to Annabelle.
“Next time, kill.”
“Thank you I shall!” Annabelle shrieked and drove the skrill horn, held like a dagger in her right fist, completely through the brigand’s throat.
He made a wet, strangling sound and his eyes grew wide and seemed to protrude from his face in shock. He fell back off of her and pushed himself across the floor awkwardly for a few feet, strange grunting cries his only sound, his hands fluttering about the embedded skill horn—as if drawn to it by a powerful magnetic force but reluctant to seize firm hold of it. The blood came bubbling out of his mouth, spraying from the wound in his throat, spurting in thick, sticky gouts that splattered and stained the yellow-upholstered furniture and faded Oriental rug.
His accomplice emerged from the bedroom door with a bewildered Uncle Cyrus in tow. The man froze when he saw the gory scene in the front room. His eyes turned to Annabelle with a mixture of horror and rage. She tried to push herself upright but immediately became light headed, still suffering from the blow, and so she did something she had not done of a very long time. She screamed as loud as she could.
2.
“THIS STINK IS intolerable!” Edwin said.
The three of them sat in the back of Lécuyer’s private carriage, on their way to the Savile Club where they were to attend the annual Boxing Day celebration. Nathanial had missed the advantages of being a member of such a gentlemen’s club, and had forgot how much he had once enjoyed all the social occasions. As much as he enjoyed his work in the last two years, he definitely preferred the life of private inventor, no longer constricted by the rules placed on him by living on an official military instillation.
The carriage was passing through Piccadilly Circus. Lécuyer chuckled at the outburst, and sniffed. “Your brother is most correct, there is a definite stink penetrating this carriage.”
Nathanial knew precisely what it was, but it was a smell his respirator mask usually protected him against. However, with the closed doors of the carriage between them and the city outside, the need for a mask was deemed unnecessary.
“In short, Edwin, that would be the sewers,” he said. “The very reason we douse cloth with carbolic acid and hang it in the windows at the house in Russell Square. As you know, we tend to build up these days, as you have witnessed by the towers in London—which makes perfect sense, of course, since it would be very difficult to land dirigibles in the city, and so the towers make perfect docking platforms for the aerial flyers that navigate the London skyline. Nonetheless, digging still occurs and the massive sewer system beneath London is fit to bursting, straining under the burden of toxic chemicals. The result; rat infestations, pea soupers, and this unenviable stench. One gets used to it.”
“And the government have done nothing to combat this problem?” Edwin asked, bringing a handkerchief to his nose and mouth.
“It is an unending task, Edwin, dear man,” Lécuyer pointed out. “Believe me, we have tried. We have placed tripod platforms all along the Thames, dredging the river of waste, and we even tried using clockwork men in the sewers in an attempt to filter the detritus beneath our feet, but unfortunately such mechanical men seized with rust. Unless we can find a non-corrodible metal, the government must resort to conscripting those poor unfortunates in the workhouses.”
“Children!”
Lécuyer raised a hand to silence Edwin. “Please understand, we would rather not, but something needs to be done, and such manual labour is not easy to come by. The workhouses have the numbers we need.”
“But children?”
Nathanial shook his head. “You wished to explore the world beyond Surrey, Edwin, then you must be prepared for the ugly truth of living in the city. Granted the further you go out from the London, the less the pollution lingers, both beneath and above us. But in the city, the air is polluted as much by the aerial flyers as by the waste of industry. Are you certain you still wish to experience
life in London?”
Edwin nodded grimly. “I suppose so, after all if I am to write about life I need to experience it.”
“That’s the spirit!” Lécuyer said, patting Edwin on the knee, a simple act that burned a fire in Nathanial’s belly. “We do what we can, but we must embrace every aspect of this world if we are to have any hope of understanding it.”
“It does make one wonder about the price of progress,” Edwin mumbled, and Nathanial found himself agreeing.
“Enough of this depressing talk,” Lécuyer said, although he had shown no sign of being depressed by it, “it is Boxing Day and we have much to celebrate.”
“Indeed,” Nathanial agreed. “Besides which, I wish to introduce Edwin to the fellows of the Savile Club. Perhaps one day you may become a member, Edwin, until then I shall help you make the acquaintance of some artistic types. The Arts has never been much of a concern of mine, but I know several patrons frequent the Savile Club. You will find them splendid company, while I conduct business of my own.”
“Meeting with more private investors?”
Nathanial shook his head. “Not this time, no, I have an important meeting with Sir Eleias, criminal judge extraordinaire!”
3.
“BLOODY FOOLS, that’s all the police are!” Major Blount exclaimed, his round jowly face redder than usual. “The idea that this was a robbery attempt! They were clearly trying to abduct your uncle, Miss Somerset. Well, let that scoundrel try again and we’ll be ready for him.” He brandished his revolver for emphasis.
Annabelle still felt light-headed from the attack. The perfunctory interview by the police detective, and the matter-of-fact way two working men under a constable’s supervision had rolled the body up in the bloody carpet and hauled it out like a broken piece of furniture, had added to the surreal sense of the incident. Had it really happened? Yes, it must have; her dress was still spattered with blood, as was the yellow upholstery of the sofa.
“Thank you, Major, I appreciate the sentiment more than you can know. Have you heard how Mister Cartwright fares? Has the doctor finished with him?”
“He has,” Mrs Collingwood answered from the doorway, “and Mister Cartwright will recover completely. The doctor described the wound as superficial and applied five stitches and a bandage.”
“It was very brave of him to come to my assistance unarmed,” Annabelle said. “I am certain the second man would have killed me and escaped with my uncle had he not intervened.”
“He is fortunate to have escaped with only a cut,” Mrs Collingwood answered, and her voice remained formal and remote as she moved to the centre of the room. “He is a promising writer and rising member of the diplomatic corps, so it would have been a great loss had he been slain. Miss Somerset, my boarders live here, in part, because they expect a degree of security in their lodgings, a degree of tranquillity, which has now been disturbed. It has been disturbed in the most profound manner imaginable. Mr Blessingham has already given me notice of his intent to move to other lodgings; his bank simply will not look upon this sort of incident with anything but disapproval.”
“I… I understand, Mrs Collingwood, and I am very sorry.”
“I have no doubt that you are and I am certain you had no intention to bring this upon us. Nevertheless, that has been the result and I see no remedy short of asking you to leave. Of course I will allow you time to find suitable lodgings, but—”
“Gordon did this!”
All three of them looked sharply to the bedroom door and saw Uncle Cyrus standing unsteadily in the archway, hair still dishevelled from the attack, eyes wild, and finger pointing at them. “Mark my words, he is behind this somehow!”
Major Blount went over to Uncle Cyrus and put his arm around his shoulder, guiding him to a chair. Mrs Collingwood looked from Uncle Cyrus to Annabelle, brows coming together and mouth pursed with an intensity of expression Annabelle had never seen on her. “To whom does your uncle refer?”
“Major Walter Gordon, although we have no evidence of his involvement in this.”
Mrs Collingwood paled visibly, backed up a step, and sat heavily in a straight-backed chair. “Walter Gordon,” she repeated, but softly, as if to herself, and she shook her head.
“Walter Gordon of the Northumberland Fusiliers?” she heard and looked up to see the elderly Colonel Wyndham in the doorway to the sitting room, resting part of his weight on his black cane. “What was your business with him, if I may ask?”
“He was our jailer,” Uncle Cyrus answered, “and a smiling serpent in our midst!”
All eyes turned on Annabelle and she felt the colour come to her cheeks. “That he was our jailer is true enough. We were held in the Tower of London for over a week, and then in a private home maintained by some government agency, I do not know precisely which.” Then she told them the entire story of their imprisonment, Gordon’s blackmail, and how they had come here. When she finished, Mrs Collingwood shook her head again.
“I would expect no better from Walter Gordon,” she said. “My husband Charles was a subaltern in the same regiment with him. When Gordon’s battalion was sent to Afghanistan on campaign, he convinced Charles to exchange with him, so Gordon could stay here in London, safe and sound. We were short of funds and the prospect of prize money was seductive, but Charles never came back. He died in Gordon’s place.”
Gordon was about thirty years old, Annabelle judged, and if Mrs Collingwood had been a young bride ten years earlier, she must be about the same age, but Annabelle had assumed she was at least ten years older. Sadness and loss had aged her well before her time.
“I never cared much for him myself,” Colonel Wyndham said.
“You knew him?” Annabelle said. Major Blount and the colonel exchanged a look.
“Both of us knew him, although I don’t know that anyone knows him well,” Wyndham answered. “We are both retired from ‘The Old and Bold’, as the Northumberland Fusiliers are known. I can’t say I had as bad a time with him as poor Mrs Collingwood, but he never made a good impression on me.”
“No,” Blount added and shook his head vigorously. “Kept to himself too much, never really fit into the mess. He was always a bit too keen for my taste, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t do for an officer to be too keen, not in the fusiliers, at any rate. Better off in the sappers or the artillery if you run to that sort of thing, what?”
“We took our lodgings here,” Wyndham continued, “I suppose at first to help the widow of a fine fellow-officer, but over time that common thread of our regiment has made it a more like home. That Gordon would be involved in something like this…well, it’s embarrassing. He is still a member of the regiment, you know, although he’s been seconded to the staff for years.”
“I am terribly sorry,” Annabelle said. “Of course we will seek other lodgings at once, but—”
“Other lodgings?” Mrs Collingwood said and rose suddenly to her feet. “Why you will do no such thing! I would sooner lose this home and have to go begging to my relatives than refuse my protection to a victim of Walter Gordon.”
“Now that we are alert to the danger, I think you will have less to fear,” Colonel Wyndham added. “Blount has his revolver, of course, and I recall a time years ago when he was a passable shot. Let’s hope his aim has not deteriorated too much. As for me…” he raised the black-lacquered straight cane he habitually carried, pressed a button on the silver handle, and drew it out a bit, exposing the first six inches of gleaming steel sword blade, then snapped it shut again, “…I was always a respectable fencer.”
“And I boxed at Eaton,” Mister Cartwright said from the hallway and then came to the open archway. Annabelle stood up, leaning on her cane for balance.
“Oh, Mister Cartwright! I am entirely in your debt, and happy your injuries were not more severe. I hope you will have no further need for violence. This fight is mine and my uncle’s. You must—”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Somerset, but I cannot agree,” Cartwright
said cutting her off. He stood beside the colonel and absently fingered the fresh bandage which swathed his left forearm. “Wyndham and Blount dedicated their lives to public service, and I intend to as well, in my own way. That your antagonist may be a member of their regiment, and my government, makes our obligation to you not simply one of duty, but also of honour. If there is a stain on the bodies we serve, we must by our actions remove it.”
Major Blount nodded in vigorous agreement and Colonel Wyndham looked at Cartwright with the mix of affection and amusement older men often direct at enthusiastic but well-intentioned youth.
Annabelle felt a flood of relief, but a surge of apprehension at the same time, tinged with guilt. Had she simply managed to entangle more innocent people in her own troubles and put them in harm’s way? Cartwright already sported a bandage. Would that be the most serious injury to come to them from this, or the least?
There was one way to minimize their risk and allow them to help: they could see to her uncle while she and George carried out any needed expeditions and inquiries. She was becoming adept enough with a cane that she felt up to it, with his assistance.
4.
WITH THE MEAL finished, and Edwin safely ensconced with a couple of patrons of the Arts, Nathanial was able to retire to a private room with Sir Eleias.
“I am afraid I have very little information to offer you, Professor. Whatever has transpired for Miss Somerset, it has involved some of the highest authorities in the British Empire. As you can imagine, very few wish to speak for fear of the political hue and cry such talking would rain down on them. I can tell you, however, that Miss Somerset is no longer being detained, and…”
Nathanial turned from the window overlooking Green Park. “Detained? What the deuce! Detained by whom, and for what?”
“For the latter I have no information, but for the former, she was detained by the Crown, held for some time at Dorset House.”
Nathanial was no expert in law, but he felt sure Dorset House was often used as a place to hold those facing criminal charges of a political bent. What could this possibly mean for Annabelle? She was an American citizen, surely, so what power could the Crown hold over her?
series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence Page 11