series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  Nathanial felt terrible. He had put her out of his mind so much since returning to Putney, caught up in his plight, he had not even considered that she, too, might be targeted by whoever sought to blame him for the destruction of Peregrine. She had been by his side through all the adventures of the past seven months, she had been there when Peregrine had been destroyed. He had assumed that she had not been arrested here because on Mars the sole charges had been directed at him. Now it transpired that whoever had pressed those charges had merely waited for her to step on British soil. As if she had not been through enough since they had crashed on Mars.

  “Sir Eleias, I thank you, but would it be too much to ask for you to find out just what she was detained for? And indeed why she was eventually released.” He was, of course, glad she had been released, but his own freedom had come about in the most mysterious of circumstances. Perhaps learning more of Annabelle’s situation would help him understand his.

  Sir Eleias considered this. Eventually he nodded his head. “Very well, for a fellow Savilian I will do so. But such information will not come easy, and most likely there will be a price to its procurement.”

  Nathanial waved that away. “Whatever the price I am willing to pay.”

  5.

  “SPLENDID, ABSOLUTELY SPLENDID!” Mister Burroughs said, and Nathanial had to confess he could not disagree. The mechanical leg was out-performing even his best projections.

  A former athlete, his career cut down in its prime by an unfortunate accident the result of which meant the removal of his right leg, was running a third circuit of the racetrack. The prototype leg had been built by Nathanial himself for this demonstration. Mister Burroughs was the owner of a company who wished to extend their portfolio beyond manufacturing parts for steam locomotives. As much as trains had improved life since their inception, it did not take a genius to work out that such travel was being superseded by the much more efficient aerial travel. Mister Burroughs could not compete with the companies that built aerial flyers, but with Nathanial’s designs he could become the forerunner (as it were!) in the manufacture of a whole new boon to society. Realistic mechanical limbs!

  The leg he had built was by far in advance of that which he had cobbled together for Annabelle on their return from Luna, and even then he had the mechanical leg he had discovered in the City of Light and Science as a starting point. That leg was a construction that merely responded to pressure points, using opposing springs to store and discharge energy at different points in the leg’s motion, secured to a knee-stump. This new leg, although still using opposed springs in places, contained many components utilising pistons and gears, and was powered by steam. It was also a complete leg.

  Mister Burroughs turned to Nathanial and pumped his hand enthusiastically. “I must congratulate you on an excellent design, Professor Stone. This is the way forward! Why imagine, never will a man truly be crippled again. We could, perhaps, even extend your design to those horses that are no longer able to run at Ascot due to damaged tendons! Professor Stone, you are a marvel, sir!”

  Nathanial basked in the adoration, and noticed Edwin beaming at him from his position by the side of the racetrack. Bless his brother. He had been invited to a social gathering of writers, but had rejected the invite in favour of accompanying Nathanial on this field trip.

  The athlete, the name of whom Nathanial could not remember, began to slow down as he neared Edwin’s position. Then disaster struck. One moment the man was slowing to a trot, and then next he was setting off at a brisk pace, a look of surprise on his face. Steam bellowed from the small pipe located at the rear of the mechanical thigh. And then sparks.

  “Oh dear,” Nathanial mumbled, but before he could say another word the leg collapsed upon itself, sending the athlete sprawling in the dirt. Several people moved to assist the fallen man, and one fellow pulled off the broken artificial leg which had now begun to burn. Nathanial remained where he stood, frozen by dismay. Burroughs walked over to him, smiling grimly.

  “Well, every new product has a few initial glitches.” He looked out at the racetrack. “Nonetheless, this was a resounding success. The leg itself works splendidly, like no other device of its sort in history! You should be proud, Professor Stone. There are some engineering problems to address, but they are minor compared to the achievement of the limb itself.” He offered his hand. “You have just sold you first Stone Artificial Appendage. What better way could one expect to end a year on? Congratulations.”

  Nathanial could only stare at Burroughs dumbly, as the man continued to shake his hand.

  6.

  “WOULD THAT I could,” said Lécuyer, “but as you see, I am not at the best of health.”

  It was true; the large man was laid up on the couch, extra logs added to the fire, while a damp cloth rested on his forehead. When Nathanial had returned from the racetrack with the good news of the deal he had made with Mister Burroughs, he had found the housekeeper, Miss Carmichael, fussing about in the larder for herbs with which to make a brew. She had told Nathanial that Lécuyer had come down with some kind of fever, due, she pointed out, to too many late night excursions to that den in Chelsea. Having attended the place on a several occasions now, Nathanial suspected that Miss Carmichael would hardly credit what Lécuyer may have picked up there. On the surface, the Aesthetic Movement was harmless enough, but beneath the facade of fops and exquisites lay a darker secret.

  “It is a pity, for it looks to be a party to end all parties. Edwin has gone on ahead of me; he’s taken quite a shine to Mister Burroughs.”

  “The magnetic appeal of wealth drags many a young man to his doom, Nathanial,” Lécuyer said.

  “Perhaps, although I do no suppose that would apply to my brother. He is merely enticed by the social circles he has found himself in. As is perfectly understandable.” Nathanial looked around Lécuyer’s room. “Are you certain there is nothing I can get for you?”

  Lécuyer waved him away. “Go; enjoy your moment in the limelight. I suspect there will be many more occasions in which I will be able to bask in your glorious achievements. Miss Carmichael is quite content to fend for me while I endure this tedious bout of fever.”

  “Very well, then,” Nathanial said with a bow of the head.

  Lécuyer reached out a sweaty hand and Nathanial went to shake it. Instead, though, with effort Lécuyer leaned forward and brought the back of Nathanial’s hands to his lips. A gentle kiss, and he allowed Nathanial his hand back.

  Nathanial frowned for a moment, turned, and walked to the door. He stopped, the door half open, and looked back at Lécuyer. “If it is not too impertinent of me, I wish you a very Happy New Year, Archie. I feel 1890 will be an interesting year for both of us.”

  “As do I, as do I. Now go, I will still be here when you return.”

  A smile passed between them, and Nathanial exited the room, wondering just what the next year would bring for him and Lécuyer, for that they were in it together was absolutely certain.

  Chapter Eight

  “Murder in London Town”

  1.

  THEY RETURNED TO Russell Square a day later than planned, largely due to Edwin’s developing friendship with Burroughs. Nathanial would not have thought Burroughs would be the kind of man that would attract Edwin’s interest, but there was something about his dynamic and blasé attitude that appealed to Edwin. For his own part, Nathanial occupied himself with a long country walk and developing new designs for various limb replacements; designs that verily excited Burroughs, who had politely asked to retain them so he could show the designs to his engineers later in the week. Nathanial was happy to allow this, which, he now considered, was odd since he was usually so protective of his work. Perhaps Burroughs had impressed him almost as much as he had impressed Edwin, although in a different kind of way.

  Sometimes such things could be so confusing.

  It was a new decade, and, Nathanial decided, it had got off to a relaxed start—but a promising one. After the la
st few weeks, he had wondered if things would ever return to some semblance of normality, but moving to London had been a wise decision. Doors were once again opening for him, doors that allowed him to move forward, away from the disastrous events of the last few months of 1889. One such door was found in the rather opulent shape of Archibald Lécuyer; something Nathanial had not expected, and, he had to confess, it was still something to which he was not entirely sure how to react. If he embraced the life Archie offered him there would be consequences, perhaps damaging ones. Could he countenance such a thing now that his career was on the path he always wanted it to be on? He needed to seek the advice of older and wiser people, but in all honesty who could advise him on such things? Times were changing, and the older people often had the hardest time adapting to such change.

  Nathanial stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the door of Thirteen Russell Square, and looked up at the building. Edwin proceeded up the steps, and stopped at the door. He looked back.

  “Nathanial, please, we have travelled long and I am tired. Not to mention cold.”

  For a moment Nathanial ignored his brother. He would have to talk to Archie, express his concerns about the damage such an acquaintance could mean to his career. Perhaps Archie had a solution.

  Nathanial took the steps, two at a time, and opened the door for Edwin. His brother dashed the keys out of his hand and ran up the stairs to the rooms on the third floor. It was such improper behaviour, but since Miss Carmichael was not about to witness it, Nathanial allowed it to pass without comment. Miss Carmichael was, he believed, still visiting her family and was due back later today. If he knew Archie, then Nathanial felt sure he would not allow his fever to stand in the way of her two days off. Archie was a robust man; Nathanial did not expect the fever to ail him for long. Nonetheless, he should probably look in on Archie before he settled himself at home once more.

  He knocked on the door to Archie’s rooms and waited patiently. He did not expect Archie to bound to the door, although such a profuse response to Nathanial’s return home would not go amiss. Several moments passed. The first inkling of concern scratched at Nathanial, and he leaned in close to the door. There was no sound of movement on the other side.

  “Archibald, are you there? It’s Nathanial, old man.”

  Still nothing. Nathanial reached for the door knob, fighting against propriety, and began to turn it when Edwin shouted down from the floor above.

  “Nathanial! Quickly!”

  Something had clearly excited his brother, so deciding to attend to Archie later, Nathanial ran up the stairs and into the living area of his home. He staggered to a stop at the sight before him. His blood ran cold, his heart leaping into his throat. This was impossible!

  Lying there, curled up before the burned out fire, was Archibald Lécuyer. A look of horror was frozen on his face; mouth agape, eyes wide. And in his hand, scrunched at the middle by his dying grip, was a rolled up piece of paper upon which were the schematics for the artificial leg Nathanial had demonstrated to Burroughs two days ago.

  Edwin looked up from where he was kneeling next to the body. “Nathanial…he’s dead!”

  2.

  “THE BLUE LOCUSTS are on their way,” Edwin said, as he reappeared through the door.

  Nathanial looked up from where he’d been resting his head in his hands. He was sat in the armchair beside the fireplace, barely inches from where Archie’s body lay, now draped in a sheet from the linen cupboard on the landing outside. “Really, Edwin, show a bit of class. We’re not from the East End.”

  Edwin visibly bristled at the reproach, but he was clever enough not to argue the point. Instead he regarded his brother with some concern. “Once the local blue…erm, bobbies realise who you are, I am certain they will do everything they can to find out who the assailant was,” he said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.

  “A very conscientious assailant, it would appear. Look around you, Edwin; do you see any signs of a struggle? Did you notice any damage to the door when you entered?” Before Edwin could even put together a response, Nathanial continued, his tone harsher than had ever been directed at Edwin. “None whatsoever. And look where we are. Our rooms, Archie holding plans I drew up. There can no doubt as to who the intended victim of this crime was.”

  The penny dropped as soon as the words exploded from Nathanial’s mouth.

  “You mean you? Nathanial, why would anyone wish you harm?”

  It was a fair question, but one Nathanial had no answer for. It was perfectly clear to him that the murder of Archie, no doubt in the mistaken belief that he had been Nathanial due to the pure circumstances of his location and the paper in his hand, had to be connected to the events he had experienced from the moment he stepped foot back on British soil at the beginning of December.

  Things were unravelling around him again.

  What a fool he had been!

  “It makes no sense,” Edwin said, after he realised his brother had no answer for him. “Lécuyer looks nothing like you. How can anyone possibly confuse the two of you?”

  For a moment Nathanial was dumbfounded by the enthusiasm pouring out of Edwin; his entire being had become animated by the mystery. Not because he was excited by the prospect of someone wishing Nathanial harm, but rather because of the extreme difference from his rather humdrum life in Putney. For his own part Nathanial felt a sort of disjointment about the entire scene. He knew he should feel something other, perhaps an ounce of compassion for the life ended in this very room, but he had seen his fair share of death since embarking on his travels through the aether. Archie’s body was no less worse than Professor Fournier’s, found buried under tonnes of rock in the caves of Mercury, and was in a much better state than his friends whose bodies had been rented asunder when Peregrine Station had been dragged into the primal forces of the aether vortex.

  He shook his head. This was no good. Beyond the obvious, there was certainly something wrong about Archie’s death that troubled Nathanial, although he was not sure the source of such. Perhaps allowing Edwin his moment of excitement might help.

  “I would have thought the answer to that was obvious, Edwin. But please, consider the methods of that detective chap in Doyle’s story. Look, what do you see?”

  “You mean you read the book?”

  Nathanial nodded his head. “I am familiar with Doyle’s work, although obviously not as much as you.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Archie’s body. “Focus, Edwin, what do you see? Deduce from that!”

  “I…” Edwin stepped further into the room. “Well, for some reason he is in your rooms, and as you stated earlier there is no sign of foul play to gain entry, which means Lécuyer must have had a key to these rooms. The assailant presumably also had a legitimate means of entry. A key to the premises? If not, then Lécuyer surely must have let him in.”

  “I would suggest not, if Mister Lécuyer and the assailant had conversed, then it’s clear that Lécuyer’s identity would have been revealed by his regional accent. He is, quite clearly, not from Surrey.”

  “If we believe Lécuyer was thought to be you.”

  “We do.”

  “Very well.” Edwin scratched his nose thoughtfully. “The assailant had a key, let himself in and found Lécuyer in this room. Ah!” He smiled ruefully. “Very clever, Nathanial. He holds plans you designed, and this assailant would take his presence in this room, and that he was holding the plans, as evidence that Lécuyer was, in point of fact, you. Brilliant deduction!”

  Nathanial shrugged. “Elementary, I should think. Even a bobby would be able to work that out, would you not agree, Constable?” he asked, looking over Edwin’s shoulder at the door, where, indeed, a police constable stood. Nathanial had seen him stop at the doorway while Edwin first supposed how the assailant had gained entry.

  The constable nodded. “Very good, sir. From all this, am I to take it that you are the rightful resident of this room?”

  Nathanial stood and straight
ened his clothes. “Indeed, I am Nathanial Stone.”

  The constable nodded. “Yes, I believe I have heard word of you. A professor, unless I am mistaken?”

  “You are not.”

  The constable walked further into the room, and knelt by Lécuyer’s body. “Foul play indeed, sir. And an interesting theory,” he added, glancing up at Edwin, who beamed in response. Nathanial shook his head, now shamed by his brother’s excitement. “But there will still be questions that need answering. I feel sure that my sergeant will wish to question you.”

  “You don’t think Nathanial did this, do you?” Edwin asked.

  “That’s not for me to say, sir. I’m only a bobby, after all.”

  If Edwin took the pointed response to heart, it did not show. Instead he looked around. “Where is your sergeant, then? We need to get to the bottom of this.”

  The constable frowned and stood up. He looked at Nathanial, who got an unmistakeable whiff of ale off the constable, and shook his head. “Does murder always excite this young man, sir?”

  Nathanial opened his mouth to respond, but found he had no defence for Edwin. It was going to be a long day.

  3.

  “MY PREVIOUS WORKS have been tragedies in verse,” Fairfax Cartwright explained to Bedford and Annabelle. “They have been performed a number of times as well, but what I am working on now is a novel of The City, one which exposes the dalliances and infidelities of the richest and most powerful men in London.”

  Bedford was not sure he liked Cartwright, and that knowledge brought with it a tinge of guilt. The Foreign Service officer had clearly saved Annabelle’s life, at considerable risk to his own, and for that Bedford had nothing but gratitude—or at least should have had. Perhaps, Bedford reflected, it was simply petty jealousy which irked him, the thought that someone else had supplanted him, even momentarily, as Annabelle’s champion and protector. That was unworthy, he knew, and yet it sat there in a dark part of his mind like a weed in a garden.