Jim looked in all directions. Men pushed past him, scrambling for an exit. Jim was blind with grief; he wanted nothing more than to be clapped in irons, to court the judgment of his father, and Lord Cherleten, and anyone else who would come to crow at his downfall. He deserved it.
And then someone seized him firmly by the shoulders. Jim wanted to cry out, ‘Yes! Take me away. Lock me up and throw away the key!’ But he looked up, and saw John Hardwick, ever dependable, ever dutiful. Jim allowed himself to be steered through the labyrinthine house, too large, too winding to be real, until he was outside in the hot air that smelled of brimstone, under the shadow of ravening demons that scratched in his skull.
* * *
Thursday, 5th October 1893, 2.00 p.m.
NR. MUNDON, ESSEX
The coach rattled along unkempt roads, the flat, misty fields of the Essex countryside rolling by. Jim’s nightmare had again robbed him of precious rest; again reminded him of his moral failings, and how to this day he had failed to make amends for them.
Jim looked across to Miss Furnival, the dark rings about her eyes betraying the tumultuous night she’d had. The woman was dressed in a mannish fashion, with trousers, shirt and overcoat, and her hair tucked up into a soft cap. Better, everyone had agreed, if she tried to pass for a lad for her own safety. Better, she had said, that she be dressed ready for a fight.
‘I’m not sure why Cherleten sent you,’ Jim said to Marie, as she stretched and yawned once more. His own tiredness subsided, and the nightmare with it, and Jim wanted nothing more than to make conversation, as though words were a spell with which to lay the ghosts of his conscience.
‘You still don’t trust me?’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Jim sighed. ‘But with your uncle and all… maybe you should be with him. We’d have understood.’
‘He knew the risks, and there’s really nothing I can do. Better that I come along and make sure his efforts weren’t in vain.’
Jim looked to John Hardwick, who had remained silent for most of the journey. Hardwick gave them both a sideways glance.
In accordance with precise instructions sent to Cherleten by the Artist in the early hours, they had alighted the train at Maldon East, with seven other agents in tow, as well as two members of Special Branch. Five agents had ridden north, to scout the lay of the land around what was suspected to be the Artist’s lair: Osea Island. The presence of Charrington’s Ales’ wagons at the docks had all but confirmed that this was the island of Sir Arthur’s vision – Osea was owned by the heir to that business, Frederick Charrington, though if Sir Arthur’s intuition was correct, Charrington now had some less than desirable tenants. The man himself was proving impossible to reach, provoking fears for his safety.
Jim, Miss Furnival and Colonel Hardwick travelled to the rendezvous point at the head of the small convoy. The other two agents brought up the rear, travelling in a hired fly. The Special Branch men sat on the wagon between them, guarding their precious cargo – Elsbet – who slept within the confines of a large crate, little more than livestock. It was like transporting a corpse in a casket. Jim considered that appropriate; the girl spent more time communing with spirits than with the living.
Now, the three vehicles rolled towards the remote woodland of the Mundon Furze. There had been scant time for preparation, though Jim remained confident that Lord Cherleten would not leave them at the mercy of the Artist. And Sir Arthur’s foray into the spirit world had given them more to go on than they had previously hoped.
‘Your uncle’s efforts are appreciated, of course,’ Jim said. ‘I can’t begin to understand the risk he took.’
‘I can,’ Hardwick said. Jim and Miss Furnival had become so unaccustomed to the sound of his voice that they both turned to him in surprise. ‘Three years ago, I saw exactly the threat our world faced. I thought I’d defeated it. Sir Arthur Furnival was the man who told me that I had not. He told me the fate that had befallen the Otherside could still befall us. He showed me how to prevent that from ever coming to pass. And yet now he has done the very thing he advised me against. His actions may well have damned us all.’
There was an uncomfortable silence, before Jim spoke. ‘Hopefully it will not come to that. There is no proof that Sir Arthur has caused lasting harm. In fact, it seems unlikely that someone from our side could summon the power required to open the Rift.’
Hardwick glared at Jim. ‘I have seen it done, by a group of mere gypsy girls, all of them from “our side”. And they did not have the benefit of dangerous doses of etherium.’
‘We’ve got to trust he knew what he was doing,’ Miss Furnival said. She was visibly upset, but kept some semblance of calm. ‘Perhaps my uncle saw what the Artist had in store, and decided it was worth the price.’
‘Meddling in the future always comes at a price,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Perhaps by attempting to second-guess the Artist, Sir Arthur has sped along his plans. Perhaps we shall never know.’
‘We will after today,’ Jim intervened, seeing from Miss Furnival’s expression that the conversation would soon turn ugly. ‘Cherleten said that the Nightwatch had been sending conflicting messages to the Artist to mask our intentions.’
‘More truthfully, he meant that a group of Otherside test-subjects have been thinking very hard about false plans, in the hope that the Artist might somehow divine them mistakenly,’ Hardwick grumbled. ‘I may have seen many fantastical things in my time, but Cherleten’s plan sounds very much like wishful thinking to me.’
‘Better hope it’s not wishful thinking, old boy,’ Jim said, himself bridling at John’s tone. ‘We have five men on their way to Osea, and a flotilla of navy chaps on standby. If the Artist knows our plan –’
‘Or if Sir Arthur was wrong and he’s not on Osea at all…’ John interrupted.
Jim sighed. ‘We have our orders.’ It was the best retort he could think of.
Hardwick nodded. ‘As you know, I always follow my orders,’ he said. ‘Even into certain death.’
‘I like your style,’ Miss Furnival said. She looked askance at Hardwick, and he at her. Did a whisper of a smile pass between them?
Jim shook his head in disbelief.
* * *
Daylight was fading even before the convoy took the winding road through the forest. It was hardly a welcome change of scenery from the flatlands that stretched to the coast on the Dengie Peninsula. The woods lined either side of the road, which rapidly became little more than a bumpy track; great gnarled boughs of ancient oaks reached overhead, bare branches thick enough to blot out the dying light. And then the woods began to thin a little, and the trees became stranger, twisted, until the coaches entered the furze itself – an unusual tract of petrified trees, impossibly ancient, standing sentry, black and ominous, against the approach of these strangers.
The road ahead was blocked by wagons. The silhouettes of men stood, not just with the blockade, but all around. More of them materialised from the cover of the forest like ghosts, watching the agents intently. They flanked the trail, perhaps a hundred yards on either side, shadows barely visible through the clearing.
The coach drew to a halt at the blockade.
‘No heroics,’ Hardwick said. ‘They may try to take me down, but if it’s a fight we cannot win, you must let them. If they try to renege on the deal, on the other hand, then we do what we must to protect our country. Understood?’
Jim nodded reluctantly. Marie Furnival was impassive. Hardwick checked the Webley revolver at his breast, ensuring his overcoat obscured it. He took up his cane – the one once carried by Ambrose Hanlocke, with which Hardwick had once stabbed the Artist – and exited the coach. Jim disembarked on the other side.
‘Stay here,’ Jim said to Miss Furnival. She considered this for a fraction of a second, before pulling her cap down to hide her eyes and hopping out behind Hardwick.
Jim looked towards the vehicles behind him. The Special Branch officers clutched rifles, and looked about sternl
y from beneath the brims of their black bowlers. The other agents – Carr and Fearnley – made their way forward, eyes alert to the danger all around.
‘That is far enough,’ a man at the blockade called out. His face was covered by hat and scarf, but his accent was unmistakeably Chinese. Jim thought he recognised the voice as the leader of the tong he had met aboard the Glarus. ‘Which one of you is Colonel Hardwick?’
‘I am.’ Hardwick took a step forward, with no hesitation.
‘I send to you my master’s regards,’ the man said. ‘You have the cargo, as requested?’
‘We do.’
‘Show us.’ He gestured to his men, and six of them, shadowy figures all, marched towards the wagon.
Hardwick turned and nodded to the Special Branch men. One of them climbed onto the wagon, removed the tarpaulin, and took the lid from the crate. One of the celestial’s men hopped up too, and checked Elsbet’s breathing. He stood upright and signalled to his master that all was well.
‘Elsbet, that is her name,’ the leader said. ‘You once caused her death, and now you offer her a better life. How many men can say they had a second chance in such circumstances?’
Jim looked nervously to Hardwick. He saw the colonel’s fists bunch.
‘There has been a change of plan,’ the celestial said loudly. ‘The Artist wishes to treat with Colonel Hardwick personally, to discuss with him the price of betrayal.’
‘That was not the agreement,’ Jim called back. Hardwick held out a hand to prevent him saying more.
‘It is now,’ the celestial said. He held up a thick envelope. ‘In here is all that you were promised. The Russians – including a certain assassin you will be keen to locate. The addresses of several warehouses storing black-market goods. All here. And to sweeten the pot for you, we offer something extra. The wagons behind me contain salvage from the Lazarus Gate itself. Salvage that your scientists would give anything to see. We offer them to you.’
‘In exchange for Colonel Hardwick?’ Jim asked.
The man shrugged.
‘How is it possible that you have components from the gate?’ Hardwick said.
‘It does not matter. What matters is that we have them. And we offer them to you.’
Hardwick stepped close to Jim and Marie, and Fearnley and Carr drew in also.
‘We are outgunned, and we need that information. I should go with them,’ Hardwick said.
‘We cannot allow that,’ Jim replied.
‘I doubt they will give you a choice. You must ensure the goods reach London. I suppose we shall just have to hope that Sir Arthur was right – if he was, perhaps I shall see you at Osea.’
‘And if he was wrong?’
‘Then perhaps the Artist and I shall have one last dance before the end.’
‘Come, enough talk!’ the celestial shouted. ‘Colonel Hardwick comes with us. You take this wagon, we take yours. It is a simple offer; one that might expire if there is further delay.’
‘Expire?’ Jim broke away from the group and glowered at the man.
‘Yes. Decide now, or we take Colonel Hardwick anyway.’
‘Try it, and you’ll be the first to die.’
The celestial pulled his scarf away, revealing the familiar face of Bertrand’s killer. He smiled wickedly.
Jim felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Hardwick eased him back towards the others.
‘We accept your terms,’ Hardwick said. ‘But I insist on seeing my people safely away from here before I go anywhere with you.’
‘You are in no position to make further demands, Colonel.’
‘If you agree, I shall come quietly. Believe me, sir, you do not want the alternative.’
There was a tense silence. Jim could scarce believe Hardwick’s audacity, or the steely nerve with which he held himself now. This was barely the same man that Jim had met on the dockside more than three years ago, emaciated and wide-eyed. But Jim was not the same either, he reminded himself. The Order had a way of changing people, hammering them like iron in a forge.
The celestial laughed; quietly at first, then louder, his shoulders rising and falling. The men around him laughed, too, and more joined in, jeering.
‘You are lucky I am more generous than the Artist, Colonel John Hardwick,’ the man said at last, making a show of wiping away a tear of laughter. ‘Very well.’
He gestured to his men, who began to turn the nearest wagon about. The two men who had inspected Elsbet’s casket now took the reins of that wagon also, at the muted protests of Special Branch. Hardwick signalled the driver to turn their carriage around, which was not an easy task on a single track. The agents of Apollo Lycea stood to one side, seething, while the manoeuvring was conducted, until eventually both parties were ready to go their separate ways.
Jim insisted briefly on inspecting the wagon that the celestial had presented them, and discovered a veritable mountain of steel, copper and brass devices, and several crates containing complex machine parts, instruments and even weapons. Some of it was at least vaguely familiar to him, but the rest would no doubt be puzzled over by Cherleten’s engineers for some time.
The armed men who had stood silently in the petrified wood now advanced. Two dozen, with more hanging further back. They were not all Chinese, indeed the majority were white, hard-faced, stern and haggard. Jim hoped they were Englishmen in the Artist’s employ, and not foreign agents – if the latter, the ramifications of the transaction they were now completing would be too horrible to consider.
When it came to it, the agents, policemen and coach-drivers were ordered to their own convoy, which now pointed in the direction of home. For good or ill, Elsbet was taken by the celestials and loaded onto one of their wagons – not, Jim noted, painted in the Charrington’s livery this time. Jim was the last to obey, instead turning to Hardwick.
‘We shall see you again, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Depend upon it.’
Hardwick only nodded.
Jim stepped back solemnly, and the colonel was led away.
‘Listen, agents,’ the celestial called as he walked backwards towards his wagons. ‘Go straight back to London. I warn you, do not try to follow. My master has ordered me to shoot Colonel Hardwick if you do.’
Jim gritted his teeth, and climbed into the coach. He did not know if there would truly be reconciliation if indeed John got out of this scrape, but he liked to think so. He would move heaven and earth to make it so.
The reins cracked, and the coach moved off.
‘What’s the plan, Captain?’ Miss Furnival asked.
For a moment, Jim entertained the thought that Miss Furnival was behind everything, or somehow involved. He wanted to give her short shrift; to send her back to London. But there was something about her that he could not dislike, something that he trusted despite himself. ‘We get to the next village, make sure we aren’t being followed, then you and I find some horses and double back,’ he said. ‘We head for the coast as planned; with any luck we can rendezvous with the Navy, and put the fear into these scoundrels. Besides, I’ll be damned if I entrust the life of our most celebrated agent to the vision of a psychic.’
‘Uncanny,’ Miss Furnival said, with a wry smile.
‘Why?’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking. It’s like you read my mind.’
SEVENTEEN
John sat on the back of a wagon, a sack over his head, hands tied behind his back. He had submitted to these indignities, though not without some guile; he had slipped similar bonds in his time, and could do so again if he wished.
The men beside him rarely spoke, and when they did they exchanged coarse words in Mandarin Chinese. John had a smattering of the language, though he could discern nothing that gave him any clues as to their plans. He gleaned that their leader – their ‘headman’ – was named Xiang, and that he had been summoned from exile in the United States to serve the Artist. The men were afraid of him, but that was not so uncommon in these gangs. Before the hood had been
put over his head, John had counted five wagons, with Elsbet being loaded on the frontmost of the convoy. He was certain at least one other wagon had joined them a few miles along the road, adding its clattering wheels to the throng. Perhaps a third of the men he had seen at Mundon Furze had clambered aboard the wagons – he knew not where the rest had gone. He hoped they had not gone after Jim and the others.
They had been travelling for nearly an hour, along uneven roads, and the bench upon which John sat was unforgiving. If they were going to Osea, they should be nearing the causeway by now. There was a tang of salt on the air. A bitter wind blew at them, suggestive of coastal roads. But he also heard the wind rustle through trees. He had heard no sounds of civilisation, nor had the wagons moved over any metalled road – the north road to Osea passed through the town of Maldon. Likely that the celestials would take back roads, away from prying eyes, which would add considerable delay to the journey. If they were going to Osea at all.
Soon, with pitched calls and whistles, the wagons came to a halt. John heard voices from the head of the column. There was some kind of exchange occurring; it was difficult to hear. He thought he could discern thick accents, not Chinese, or oriental at all.
‘This is he?’ The voice was nearer. It sounded familiar. What was that accent? Turkish perhaps?
‘Leave him be.’ That was the celestial, Xiang.
John sensed they were talking about him.
‘Maybe I kill him now, and save you the trouble.’ The new man again.
John felt a more certain glimmer of recognition this time. The accent was Romani. John’s heart beat that much faster.
Rifles were cocked. ‘You have your orders,’ said Xiang.
‘You won’t kill me. She would not allow it.’
‘Are you so certain? And what about your men?’
‘Maybe it would be worth it to gut this dog.’
The Apollonian Case Files Page 18