‘Unfortunately, Miss Furnival is not privy to tonight’s business,’ Holdsworth answered for her. The man had waited patiently while John had been momentarily disorientated. ‘Indeed, Miss Furnival, your uncle requests that you find entertainment in the ladies’ waiting room until his business is concluded.’
John saw the young woman’s nose wrinkle almost petulantly, just for a moment, and then she smiled sweetly at Holdsworth. ‘Of course, Holdsworth, I merely wished to make the Colonel’s acquaintance – his reputation precedes him.’ She turned back to John and gave a curt bow. ‘Colonel.’
‘Madam,’ John bowed in return, and watched Miss Furnival make her way to those club rooms that were reserved for the wives and family of ordinary members.
Denny stepped forward, and nudged John’s arm. ‘Best not keep Old Toby waiting.’
‘Keep an eye on that one,’ John said.
Denny only nodded.
* * *
‘It will doubtless come as little surprise that events have moved on in your absence, Captain Denny,’ Sir Toby said.
Pleasantries had been brief, which was how John preferred them. He glanced at Denny, who appeared confused.
‘Moved on, sir?’ Denny asked. ‘I’ve been gone less than a day.’
‘Our enemies do not wait on you, my boy,’ Lord Cherleten barked. He sat in a shadowed corner, as had always been his wont, wreathed in cigar smoke that Sir Arthur Furnival, seated by his side, periodically made a show of waving away. ‘While you were in Kent, a delivery was received. A letter, signed allegedly by Tsun Pen, and a package containing one of the Artist’s customary paintings. It appears, Colonel Hardwick, that our enemies know that you are here. Whatever their plans, they involve you. We were right to recall you to active duty.’
‘Or perhaps you have brought me into the lion’s den,’ John said. ‘These objects have been inspected? By Sir Arthur, I mean.’
All eyes fell upon Arthur Furnival.
‘They have, and by more skilled hands than mine, Colonel,’ Sir Arthur replied. ‘Each of the Nightwatch returned a singular phrase when shown the painting.’
‘Go on,’ John prompted. He knew what Sir Arthur was about to say, just as surely as if he were psychic himself.
‘The house of the dead,’ said Sir Arthur, confirming John’s suspicion. ‘They said it over and over; there were no dissenting voices, and sadly no further clarification.’
‘Then it is of little use,’ said John. ‘While it may point to Tsun Pen’s return, or merely the rise of the organisation he once led, the house of the dead is gone. That is, the House of Zhengming. If the tong have founded another base of operations in this name, we must uncover it.’
‘All in good time, Colonel,’ said Sir Toby. ‘For argument’s sake, let us assume this really is the Artist, or at least someone using his name. First, we must decide what to do about his demands. He has given us much intelligence that remains somewhat unpalatable. He claims that our enemies close in on us even now, and have already opened negotiations with this Zhengming gang regarding the control of Otherside artefacts and considerable quantities of etherium.’
‘Enemies?’ John asked.
‘Russians, primarily. The letters contained the name and address of a certain Russian agent operating here in London – the details are being ratified as we speak. But there are twelve others, supposedly, along with unknown numbers of agents from other nations, all seeking the same prize.’
‘How could the Artist possibly have this much etherium, sir?’ Denny interrupted. ‘We’ve scarcely seen this quantity in all the time we’ve been operating. Even the wreckage from the Thames could not have yielded as much.’
Sir Toby glanced sidelong at Cherleten, then stood and strolled to his customary place beside the tall sash window, hands folded behind his back.
‘We have known for some time that stockpiles of etherium exist beyond what was seized at the Thames,’ Sir Toby said. ‘Either it was placed here by the Othersiders before the attempted invasion, or it has been somehow transported here since.’
‘Since?’ Jim gasped. ‘Then you believe there is still a threat from the Othersiders?’
‘This is what I have been afraid of for some time,’ Cherleten interrupted. ‘The Othersiders were defeated at London Bridge, yes, but they still outclass us in technology if not in numbers. This is why my armoury should be –’
‘Please, Lord Cherleten,’ Sir Toby said. ‘Time will tell if you will be proved correct. But this is not the time for us to re-tread this ground. The Prime Minister will not tolerate the militarism of Apollo Lycea without far more tangible evidence for the Othersiders’ return. Besides, everything we know – everything that we are able to glean from the Nightwatch, at least, suggests that such a thing is impossible. More likely it was stored secretly by their agents to pave the way for their invasion of our world, then left to gather dust.’
‘And anything that can be kept secret can be uncovered by Tsun Pen,’ John mused.
Sir Toby sighed resignedly, and turned about to face John. ‘Colonel Hardwick, we await permission from Gladstone to proceed with our plan, but I am certain it will be forthcoming, for the stakes are too high.’
‘Permission for what, sir?’
‘As I said previously, Tsun Pen has made a list of demands. Grotesque demands, really. If he truly has the leverage he claims, then we must answer those demands, for fear of what might happen to us, to the world at large. If he does not… then perhaps making a show of appeasing him will at least draw him out. It is not without regret, however, that I even entertain the thought of –’
A sharp crack interrupted Sir Toby mid-sentence. Glass exploded from the window-pane. Blood burst from Sir Toby’s chest, dark claret. The Lord Justice made a sharp cry, and fell. John was beside Sir Toby before he even hit the floor.
‘Stay down!’ John snapped, his hands already pressing on the wound to staunch the flow of blood. The bullet had struck close to the heart. Perhaps too close. The old man groaned.
Denny crouched by the window. ‘I see him!’ he cried. ‘The Carlton Club – on the roof.’
‘Sir Arthur, take a handkerchief and press down on this wound,’ John barked.
The baronet did as he was told, almost in a daze, and John was away and through the door the next instant. He raced along the corridor, shoving clubmen out of the way. Holdsworth was rushing towards the office, but turned at once to run alongside John, waving members and servants aside to speed John’s passage. John took the stairs three at a time. He emerged onto the great balcony, saw the stairs filled with gentlemen who gawped at his approach, and leapt instead at the curved handrail, sliding rapidly to the marble hall and continuing towards the doors without breaking stride.
‘You. My gun,’ John shouted at a confused-looking servant as he bore down on the lad. Behind him, fingers clicked; Holdsworth, presumably, signalling the boy to obey.
Mere seconds had elapsed. John was now out on the street, discarding the leather case of his Winchester rifle, his ragged breaths misting on the frosty air. He heard a cry from the Carlton Club, saw shadowy figures pushing through a crowd, and leaping into a waiting carriage, black, unmarked. Reins cracked, the horses were away, terrified pedestrians leaping aside as they realised the carriage was not about to stop.
John’s heart pounded in his chest. He’d had time to load only two rounds into the repeater, and fired one off immediately. He swore as the shot went wide; cursed his one eye and flustered aim. He took a deep breath and worked the lever of the rifle. The coach was almost out of range. Someone across the road screamed.
And then the rifle was pulled from his hands. John was ready to fight or die, until he saw the slender form of Marie Furnival beside him on the street corner. She raised the rifle to her shoulder in a fluid motion; her eye flickered, her finger squeezed the trigger.
John squinted. At the extreme of the weapon’s range, in the dark, she had struck home. The vague silhouette of the coachman
slumped forward; the carriage careened into the middle of the road, drawing distant shouts of alarm.
Captain Denny ran past John and Miss Furnival, feet pounding the cobblestones. He tore along the street in pursuit, but not fast enough. The shadowy coachman straightened, the carriage righted its course, and in moments it had disappeared around the next corner. Denny stopped running, his shoulders sank.
‘Damn.’ Marie Furnival handed the Winchester back to John, a look of dismay on her face.
‘Devil of a shot,’ John muttered. ‘Nearly two hundred yards.’
‘Two-ten,’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t good enough.’
Denny returned, red in the face, and crestfallen. A few Apollonian servants and members of the Order had already taken to the streets, spinning some tale about a police operation and burglars at the Carlton Club; anything to stop the crowd of influential gentlemen of clubland asking awkward questions about young ladies firing Winchester rifles in the street. Once all attention had been drawn to the Order’s people, John passed the rifle to a nearby servant, and strode towards the Carlton.
‘Come on,’ he said to Denny. ‘You too, Miss Furnival. We have work to do.’
John pushed through the crowds that gathered still, bolstered by onlookers now spilling out of the neighbouring Reform Club. He drew some attention as he got closer, until his way was physically barred by stewards on the front steps. John fixed them a glare from his one eye, but it was Jim Denny who stepped forwards, touching John’s arm, indicating he should stand down.
Denny flashed his card to the stewards, and spoke quietly to them, remonstrating only gently when he met resistance, nodding patiently as they explained the situation at the club in discreet half-whispers. Soon, the stewards stood aside, allowing the agents to pass, looking with some suspicion at John, but reserving their most disdainful expressions for Miss Furnival.
‘I’ve dealt with these chaps before,’ Jim said quietly as they crossed the threshold. ‘Being officious is the best form of attack. And well dressed. You look like a merchant seaman in a suit, if you don’t mind me saying.’
John recalled how Denny had often taken advantage of his newfound status, using his club privileges to stay in the best hotels, hire cabs so that he never had to ride the omnibus again, dine well and dress smartly. He recalled once being concerned with appearances a little too much himself, but that seemed like a lifetime ago.
‘He’s got a point,’ Miss Furnival said. She strode past him, and cast a look upwards.
From the entrance hall, more opulent than the Apollonian’s, two staircases led to a mezzanine balcony, which swept around three sides of the building, drawing the eye to a great glass atrium, glowing deep blue in the moonlight.
‘The chaps outside said the intruder was mistaken for a member at first, due to his attire,’ Jim said. ‘All of this commotion started because, in his hurry, he bumped into the wife of Lord Dalmeny, and knocked her to the ground. A hue and cry went up and that’s when the servants saw the man had a gun case. Unlike the Apollonian, that sort of thing isn’t the norm here. They followed cautiously, and saw him jump into an unmarked carriage. The rest, we already know.’
Denny summoned the nearest servant and quietly explained that the intruder had been seen on the roof of the building. The servant pointed to the north-east corner of the balcony, mumbling directions to the roof, and Denny led the way. From the first floor, where angry discussions were being held in the library about the intrusion on the club’s sanctity, the agents took another set of stairs to the less grand environs of the private chambers and offices, and then up once more, squeezing up a narrow access stair to the roof.
‘Where was he?’ John asked.
‘Over here, I think.’ Denny led the way to a stone balustrade, cold wind whistling through its embrasures.
John looked over the edge, down onto Pall Mall, where police constables now arrived, doffing their helmets to the great and good who all had a piece to say. John did not envy the common constabulary, having to calm a crowd of solicitors, judges, peers and politicians, all of whom felt they had a right to know what was happening; most of whom would be disappointed in that regard. Across the road, on the corner of St James’s Square, the upper windows of the Apollonian were dark. On the street outside, a carriage driver took direction from Holdsworth, and then drove slowly by, doubtless circling around to the concealed rear entrance.
‘Oh God,’ Denny said. ‘Sir Toby… I mean, that carriage…’
‘I don’t know,’ said John, a sense of inexplicable emptiness growing within him at the prospect of Sir Toby’s passing. ‘Let us hope it is the doctor, and not the undertaker.’ John cast his eye carefully across the rooftop around the balustrade. ‘Here,’ he said, kneeling to indicate what he had found.
The stub of a cigarette, and a tiny mound of ash. He picked up the stub carefully, examined it, and sniffed at it. He passed it to Denny.
‘Smells a bit off,’ Denny said.
‘Foreign, and not one of the more common brands. Wouldn’t be a stretch to guess at Russian,’ John said.
‘Oh, really,’ said Miss Furnival. ‘How could you possibly –’
She stopped as both John and Denny turned to stare at her.
‘You said yourself his reputation preceded him,’ Denny said. ‘Colonel Hardwick is a veritable Dupin.’
‘He knelt here,’ John said. ‘There are three scuff marks on the balustrade, the rearmost one more pronounced than the others. A small tripod. The trajectory of the shot would confirm this as the gunman’s position. The shot was quiet, but powerful. The bullet went right through Sir Toby and into the wall behind me.’
‘Could the shot have been meant for you?’ Miss Furnival asked.
‘No, I wasn’t standing in line at the time. But the gun has to be something unusual, definitely a rifle with a strong recoil, and quiet report.’
‘Mauser.’
‘Very good, Miss Furnival. We shall need to inspect the round to be certain. Regardless, it raises the question of how long this has been planned.’ John stood, casting his eye around the roof once more, before looking back across at the Apollonian. ‘Someone has infiltrated the Carlton Club. A well-dressed man, yes? So someone posing as a club member managed to bring a rifle and tripod up here, and wait God knows how long for Sir Toby to stand by his window.’
‘He often stands by his window,’ Denny pointed out.
‘But I doubt he can be seen doing so from the street. Someone had to observe his habits. Someone had to know precisely when he would be at the club – why not strike at his home, or at chambers? Our enemies sent that package to the club today to ensure Sir Toby would be there. Whoever did it knows that important meetings are frequently held in his office. And as they seem rather keen to involve me, they doubtless timed their assassination attempt to coincide with my presence.’
‘I wish I could say you were being conceited, old boy, but I think you have a point.’
‘You say “assassination”,’ Miss Furnival said. ‘You’re sure they meant to kill Sir Toby… not just send a message?’
‘The bullet was mere inches from his heart,’ John said. ‘The gunman could not have been certain of merely wounding him – he could be dead now, for all we know. Even you, Miss Furnival, could not have made that shot with the certainty of the target surviving.’
‘Well… with an optical sight…’ she moved her head from side to side as she weighed up the possibility.
‘Now you’re being conceited,’ Denny said. John noted a sharp edge to the reprimand, which Miss Furnival ignored with grace. ‘Besides, even if the shot was not fatal, Sir Toby could die from his wound. That being the case, we should get back across the road and find Lord Cherleten.’
‘Very well,’ said John. ‘But remember: speak to no one in this club. At best it is compromised. At worst, someone here is complicit in the crime.’
John led the way back downstairs and onto the street, pushing again through the throng. Th
ey were plucked from the crowd by Holdsworth, who fell into step with John, his face pale and pinched. John saw the normally unflappable steward’s moistening eyes, and feared the worst.
‘Where is he?’ John asked.
‘They’re taking him to an ambulance carriage, sir, at the back doors to avoid a fuss. It… it does not look good, sir.’
‘Take me there at once.’
Holdsworth led the way, past the kitchens, through the servants’ hall, and outside into a frosty courtyard surrounded by tall buildings. Cherleten stood outside overseeing the loading of the carriage, puffing on a cigar. A man was about to close the rear doors, when John strode forward, bade him stop, and hopped aboard.
Sir Toby lay still, face ashen. He looked suddenly smaller, shrunken and frail.
The ambulance man at his side said, ‘You can come with us, sir, but we must away.’
‘No!’ Sir Toby spoke, some strength still in his voice. With a great effort he pawed the man away, and beckoned John close.
‘We must away,’ the man repeated.
‘You will wait,’ Sir Toby wheezed.
John nodded to the man to move aside. ‘Sir, I –’
The baronet held up his hand, and John was silent. The hand fell to Sir Toby’s side, and the old man took a ragged breath. ‘I am done,’ he said. ‘You will do me the duty of writing to my wife. Madeleine… she thought such days were long past. Tell her… oh, tell her whatever men should tell the women who have suffered much out of love. You always were… the writer.’ He coughed, wincing in pain at the effort.
‘The hospital, Sir Toby. There may yet be time.’
‘No. No time. Listen – I am glad it was you here… at the… the end. There was so much I needed to say. The things I have asked you to do… they were for the good. I want you to know that. I suppose I needed your father still, and hoped there was just the right amount… of the man I knew living on in his son. I was right, I think. But this life I have given you… it is not the life your mother would have wanted for you. Dear Dora… I hope she would forgive me, knowing the stakes. I hope you will too, in time.’
The Apollonian Case Files Page 14