“Yes. If proven, a price will be attached to it, with us and the Austrians determining just what it will be.”
Nathanial could see it. With gravitar, and the income it would bring, the Empire would spread out even further. Whoever controlled gravitar would, essentially, control the future of aether travel. There was no way the Empire would share such power. Not with anyone, and certainly not with the Austrians.
“Wait, the Austrians do not know about gravitar’s usage on Sovereign, do they?”
“Of course not. It was to be tested on Peregrine, which is why the Austrians had such a big stake in the construction and deployment of that station. As far as the public and the majority of our governments know, Peregrine was the prototype heliograph station built to improve communication between Earth and Mars. If successful, other stations would be built between Earth and Venus, Earth and Mercury… But the truth was, Peregrine was a testing ground for gravitar.”
“We should be glad, then, that no one else survived its destruction. Its secrets died with it.” But Nathanial was not glad, not really. Secrets had a habit of being exposed eventually, usually causing much damage along the way. “Which is just as well,” he added, “for I suspect Le Boeuf almost certainly would have known about the gravitar. He spent enough time on the station. If it served his purposes, he would have revealed all.”
“Then it is good he died on Peregrine.”
Nathanial let that thought settle between them for a moment. Despite all the sad loss, something good had come of Peregrine’s destruction. It was of little consolation, really, but it was something. “So, our wonderful government decided to test gravitar aboard its most advanced naval vessel?”
“Of course. The military application of gravitar was an obvious eventuality, and it makes sense that the Empire would not allow the Austrians to explore that potential first.”
“What troubles me most now, is that only someone in the government, privy to this secret, could be responsible for my death sentence. Just to ensure I keep my silence, and not reveal their duplicity.”
“There is plenty of blame to go around, Professor, and the Admiralty are keen to keep their secret, too. But those who knew of Peregrine’s secret knew that in all good conscience they could not keep you incarcerated after the evidence of the journals they removed from you. But,” Folkard said, his voice carrying the weight of the danger, “someone very high up in the government wants you quiet, it would seem. Both you and Miss Somerset.”
“Someone who works closely with the Austrian Ambassador, I would wager. And now, this someone has secured the patents to both mine and Doctor Grant’s propeller governor designs.” Nathanial lowered his head and rubbed his temples. “My head is heavy.”
“You did not sleep well last night,” Folkard pointed out, “and it is now midday. Perhaps you should follow the example of your brother? Sleep on all we have talked about.”
Nathanial nodded slowly. “Yes, there is much to think about.” He smiled tiredly. “When I awake I will tell you why I believe there are two people preying upon me.”
Folkard laughed. “Ah yes, we did get a little sidetracked by the triviality of Project ‘G’.”
Nathanial rolled his eyes, grateful for Folkard’s humour. “Yes, we did rather.”
3.
BEDFORD WAITED for Blount’s and Wyndham’s protests to run their course. Cartwright simply sat very erect and looked at him while Annabelle took his hand and studied him with a look of worry.
“Thank you for your concern, gentlemen, but if the key to the mystery is in Whitechapel, then we must go there. I assure you I am not so reckless as to venture there without a plan and a reasonable prospect of success. My mother’s wayward brother, Alton Smithwyck, the black sheep of her family, resided in Whitechapel before his untimely death. His son Horace is a used-clothing merchant there. I have recently re-established contact with him and let him know I may be calling on him. I had meant to see him to see if he knew of any thugs gone missing from gangs, in hopes the one Annabelle slew might have friends who remembered him.”
“You did not mention that, George,” Annabelle said.
“Honestly I had no real expectation of success so did not wish to raise your hopes. I thought it more likely the thugs who attacked were locally-raised and the survivor probably disappeared into the slums a quarter mile north of here. But now that we have a clue attached to Whitechapel itself, I think an expedition makes more sense. We will dress down to avoid attention, or to excite anyone’s greed, but still I would not mind Mister Cartwright’s company. Did I hear correctly that you have boxed?”
“You did, Commander,” Cartwright answered quietly, and Bedford thought he was assessing this exchange, trying to decide if it was a sincere request for assistance or a sort of challenge to his courage. Bedford could not say with conviction which it was himself—likely a bit of both, he supposed.
“Well, I’ll come as well, then,” Major Blount said, “and bring my revolver.”
“Thank you, Major, but I would esteem your assistance more here as guard, and you as well, Colonel Wyndham, if you please. I have just today received a note from a colleague. His identity is not important, so let us call him ‘F’. Annabelle knows to whom I refer.”
“Indeed I do. Is he well?”
“He is both well and dedicated to our cause, although he follows his own path in this. But his note tells me that an attempt was made against Nathanial’s life on or about the first of the year.”
“No!” Annabelle gasped and he saw the colour drain from her face. “You say an attempt. He is alive, then. Was he injured?”
“No, thank the Lord, he was not harmed. The assassins felled another by mistake, a friend they found in Nathanial’s lodgings while he was out. A Mister…” The name escaped him. He dug the note out and read. “A Mister Lécuyer. Hmmm. Wonder if the fellow was French?”
“Lécuyer? My God!” Cartwright exclaimed. “It cannot be. He was a man of considerable influence in government circles, although not formally holding office. He advised, suggested… But I have not seen him since the first of the year and that is odd. With all this business with the Austrians I would have thought… My God! Lécuyer dead.” He shook his head in shock and dismay.
“So you see, this has become even more serious than I thought a moment ago,” Bedford said. “I ask you two gentlemen to remain here and safeguard Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant.”
“Of course we will,” Wyndham said and Blount nodded in vigorous agreement.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Annabelle said, “for protecting my uncle, but I will accompany Commander Bedford and Mister Cartwright on the expedition.”
“Out of the question,” Bedford said.
Annabelle withdrew her hand from his and folded hers in her lap. “No, George, it is not. What was it you said several days ago? That we had, individually and together, faced far more dangerous foes than a pack of bowler-hatted bureaucrats, and you were quite right. We have also faced foes more dangerous than street toughs.”
“The last street tough was dangerous enough. He nearly killed you!” Bedford said.
“He had the benefit of surprise. That will not happen again. Besides, given what I currently have to wear I will not have to ‘dress down’ a bit. I certainly look as if I am in need of clothing,” she said with a jaunty smile. Then she again grew serious. “This is my life we are striving to salvage, George, and I will not send either of you into that sort of hazard without sharing at least some of the danger. If something were to happen…” Her speech had been confident and forceful up until then but her voice faltered at the end.
Bedford reached over and took her hand. “Very well. I’ll see about a revolver for myself,” he said.
4.
WHILE THE STONES slept, Folkard left his room to contact his guttersnipe. Once he had passed word on about the attack at Russell Square, he returned to his room. The professor was still sleeping on the floor, but his brother now sat at the tabl
e, nursing a sore head.
“Good day, Mister Stone,” he said, announcing his return. The younger Stone looked up, and forced a smile. “I did recommend not sleeping,” Folkard pointed out. “You took a nasty bump on the head. I have seen the worst cases of concussion, and it is my opinion that people often underestimates the effects it can have on a person.”
“Yes, Captain Folkard, but as you say, it was only a bump. I have been through worse when I was a child.”
“I find that hard to believe. Life in Putney Parish is not, I believe, fraught with danger.”
“Perhaps not,” Stone said, offering a weak smile, “and it is certainly true that nothing this exciting has happened to me before.” He looked down at his brother. “How is Nathanial?”
“I believe he will fare well. He has been through a lot in the last nine months. Did he ever tell you of our missions on Luna?”
At this Stone’s face lit up. He was still in some pain, but he was man enough to brush it aside. Folkard sat at the table, pleased to see such gumption in the younger Stone. It took the professor some time to find his own metal, but it looked as if Edwin Stone was made of sterner stuff.
“I think the professor made a mistake, wishing that you be returned home. We still have quite a journey ahead of us before we discover who is behind this plot to discredit and kill your brother, and I doubt we have seen the last of such attempts on his life. I for one am glad to have you by our side.” Folkard indicated the revolver on the mantelpiece. “You even have your own firearm!”
Stone beamed at this. “Well, one never knows when a weapon might come in handy. Nathanial told me of his adventures on Venus, and the rescue of Doctor Grant on Luna, and I just knew he would soon find some kind of adventure in London, too. There simply was no chance that I would remain in Putney after hearing that. You see, I wish to write adventure stories, Captain, and for me to do that I need to experience some adventures first hand.”
Folkard shrugged. “I have heard of worse reasons, Mister Stone.”
“And I would be pleased to hear some of your own stories. Nathanial mentioned you have served in the Royal Navy some years now.”
“Two decades of service. I daresay I can share with you some of the less secretive missions. I have always fancied myself a space mariner, but official duty prevents me from indulging my dreams. I believe I can, through you, live that…”
“Sshh!” Stone hissed suddenly. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Sshh!” he hissed again. Stone stood abruptly, his whole body agitated. He looked around quickly. Folkard frowned, concerned by the faraway look appearing in Stone’s eyes. He stood and moved to the young man’s side. Stone gripped his arm hard. “It’s outside the door!”
Folkard heard nothing. “Still yourself, Edwin,” he said, attempting to sit Stone down once more, but the young man would not respond. Despite the way his eyes were rolling about their sockets, his back was ramrod straight.
“No. Listen!”
His voice disturbed Professor Stone out of his slumber. He rubbed his eyes, looking around, clearly none the better for his couple of hours sleep. “What the deuce is going on?” His eyes locked on Folkard and Edwin. “What is it?”
“Can you not hear it, Nathanial? Outside the room!”
Folkard shook his head sharply, and gave the professor a pointed look which, he hoped, suggested he humour his brother. “Professor, please be so kind as to take a look at the landing.”
Professor Stone dragged himself off the floor, still a little groggy, and moved across the room. The younger Stone continued to fidget in Folkard’s arms, but he was at least quiet now, anxiously watching his brother open the door.
“Good Lord!” the professor exclaimed. “What do we have here? Funny looking critters.”
Folkard released Stone, and met the professor at the door. Scuttering along the skirting board were several mechanical spiders. They were no bigger than his palm. The professor crouched to get a better look, but Folkard held him back. “Professor, no! Do you not see the fuses?”
Out of the backs of each spider a short fuse protruded, each burning down as they looked.
“Bombs!” Folkard turned to Edwin Stone, who was leaning on the table, one hand to his head. “Mister Stone, move! You, too, Professor!” He shoved the professor onto the landing and pulled Edwin behind him. .
As he ran down the stairs, Folkard banged on the doors he passed, shouting for everyone to leave the house immediately.
At the bottom of the final flight, the professor skidded to a halt. The front door was blocked. A plank of wood, nailed into place, prevented them from exiting the house. People in nightclothes began emerging from rooms, blinking in irritation or confusion. An explosion boomed from somewhere up above followed by several more in rapid succession. The building shook, dust and plaster fell from the overhead, and the boarders began to shout or scream in fear.
“Out the back! Now!”
Needing no further encouragement, and probably used to Folkard’s orders, the professor raced across the hall and crashed through the back door. Edwin followed unsteadily. Several more spiders moved along the skirting boards on the ground floor. Pushing the professor on, Folkard shouldered his way out the door and was propelled the last few feet by another series of explosions, these on the ground floor. The shockwave from the blast threw them both into the wall, the heat suddenly searing in its intensity.
5.
THE HOUSE BURNED. In the distance Folkard could hear the whistles of policemen, and the cries of residents of Bedford Square. They could not stay here. Professor Stone was getting to his feet, moving toward the conflagration.
“Professor, you’ll be killed,” he said, scrambling to his own feet. He grabbed Stone by the arms and pulled him back. “We need to move now,” he said, thinking they could scale the wall behind them, and escape via Caroline Mews and onto the busy Great Russell Street.
“Where is he?” Stone asked, his voice barely a whisper beneath the crackling of the fire.
Folkard looked around the garden. Of Edwin Stone there was no sign. He had been right behind them but either the sudden explosion or his previous concussion must have got the better of him. Folkard spun the professor around, but the tall man wasn’t looking at him, instead he tried to turn his head around, in a vain attempt to see his brother through the flames. “Professor Stone! Nathanial!”
Stone’s head snapped back at him, but he was not seeing Folkard. His eyes looked vacant.
“Nathanial, we need to move now. I am very sorry about your brother, but we cannot stay here. Let whoever did this believe we died in the fire.”
“But Edwin is… I promised to keep him safe, bring him to London, to build his future. He has to be a writer. It is his dream.”
Folkard shook his head. As much as he felt for the professor, it was imperative they moved before the place swarmed with police and fire fighters. “I’m sorry, Professor, truly.”
Without another word, Folkard pulled Stone away from the fire. His mind elsewhere, the professor offered little resistance when Folkard helped him climb the wall, and urged him up the garden on the other side.
Chapter Eleven
“Deadly Secrets Revealed”
1.
“HELLO, HORACE,” Bedford said, taking off his respirator. He hadn’t seen his cousin in several years and they had not been kind years. He remembered Horace as an angular young man with a spark of wit. Horace was now round in the middle, his face fleshy and sagging, complexion greyish, and the wit in his eyes had been replaced by cunning. Horace pushed aside a large bundle of linens on the cluttered counter and folded his arms across his chest.
“So it’s you. Never think of old ’Orace unless you need summat, huh?”
“As I recall, the last time I heard from you was to ask for a loan,” Bedford said.
“As I recall, last time was when I repaid it. What’s it about, then?”
Bedford walked to the
counter, in part to make room for the others in the narrow aisle behind him. Crude shelves rose almost to the ceiling to either side, bulging with folded or rolled clothing, with dusty bundles of sheets filling some of the open spaces between them. Cartwright drank in the sights of the store as a parched man at a desert oasis drinks in water—grist for a writer’s mill, Bedford supposed. As he moved into the more open space before the counter Annabelle followed him into the small circle of dim light cast by the lantern hanging from the ceiling. Horace looked at each of them with an expression of superiority bordering on contempt until he saw Annabelle resting her weight on her cane. He leaned forward and looked at her skirt as she took a step forward, heard her peg tap on the coarse boards of the floor, and he sucked in his breath, his eyes going wide with fear.
“You brought the one-legged woman here? You bloody fool! You’ve killed me, like as not, or made me a tidy sum if I turn you over. Did anyone see you?”
Annabelle had only just taken off her veil and respirator and froze in surprise, looking from Horace to Bedford.
“There are people about on the street, Horace,” Bedford said. “Of course someone saw us, but Annabelle’s face was covered, as were all of ours. The soot is particularly thick today.”
“Who cares about ’er bloody face? How many peg-legged nobby young blowens do you suppose are about these days? Here, take this.” He thrust a round bundle of cotton sheets, the corners of the outer sheet tied together on top, into Bedford’s hands. “Now cut your lucky, fast, before someone comes snoopin’ for you. As soon as you’re gone I’ll close up and nip down to Coggin’s boozing-ken, report you to the can, and someone’ll come lookin’—so don’t dawdle takin’ in the sights.”
“You’ll have your reward that way, will you?” Bedford asked.
“I’ll have me neck, damn you, and so will you! Anyone sees you leave will see the sheets, think you come on business, coincidental-like. No one knows we’re kin, nor needs to, but if I don’t welsh on you and someone else does, my number’s up.”
Bedford saw the genuine fear in his cousin’s eyes but shook his head. “It won’t do, Horace. We need to know what’s going on here and you obviously know something.”
series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence Page 16