‘Hi,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m not Emily Holroyd.’
‘I should say not,’ said the man with the carnation. ‘May I ask who you are?’
‘Jack Harkness,’ said Jack, shaking his hand. ‘And you’re Mayhew?’
Mayhew nodded.
On stage, the singer gestured toward the balcony with one open hand.
The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me,
There he is, can’t you see, waving his handkerchief,
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.
Jack smiled down at the stage, and then turned once more to Mayhew.
‘D’you think she’s talking about me?’ he asked. ‘Only I forgot my handkerchief.’
Mayhew huffed. ‘Should I assume that you are affiliated with Torchwood?’ he asked, sternly.
Gauging the seriousness of his tone, Jack stopped smiling and nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You should. But what’s with the meeting place? It’s not exactly where I’d expect to find a well-heeled gent such as yourself. They’ve got Pirates Of Penzance at the Philharmonic.’
‘That’s exactly the point,’ said Mayhew. ‘Nobody would expect to find me here. Besides which, I can’t stand Gilbert and Sullivan.’
Jack laughed. ‘Each to his own,’ he said, and then, after a pause, ‘So what is it you know about HMS Hades?’
Mayhew said nothing at first, toying with the ends of his grey moustache with forefinger and thumb before answering. ‘We shouldn’t talk here,’ he said. ‘This was just to make sure I could trust you.’
‘And do you?’
Mayhew looked at Jack with one eyebrow arched. ‘You’ll do,’ he said.
Together they stood and made their way slowly out of the darkened auditorium, just as the song came to an end and the audience began cheering raucously, waving their tankards of beer (complimentary with their ticket for less than a shilling) above their heads.
As Jack and Mayhew stepped out into the rain-slicked and windswept street, they found it near deserted.
‘Not a carriage to be seen,’ said Mayhew. ‘How typical. That’s the only trouble with frequenting these parts of town. Not many coach drivers will come down here after dark, especially not in this weather. Come along. . . We may have better luck nearer the Square. . .’
They turned a corner, from the lamplight of Bute Street into one of the darker side streets, making their way towards Mount Stuart Square. Jack placed little stock in the notion of extrasensory perception, or at least in his own, but still he felt uneasy. Something wasn’t right.
His fears were confirmed by the clattering of horse’s hooves and the rattling of carriage wheels against the cobbled street. He had little chance to react.
As he turned on his heels, he saw the carriage and the silhouettes of men with guns. He heard the crack of gunshots and saw the bright flash of muzzle flares, one after the other. He felt the all-too-familiar warmth of hot lead passing through his flesh and the warm-but-wet trickle of blood on his skin. Falling to the ground, his vision blurring and the sounds around him fading away as echoes, he saw Mayhew fall beside him, a gaping bloody hole where his left eye should have been.
‘And you let him go?’ Emily was almost shouting.
Alice could barely look her in the eye, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
‘Actually,’ said Gaskell, ‘Miss Guppy didn’t want to. She tried to stop him. I suggested it would be the best idea.’
Emily turned to him and shook her head.
‘Mr Gaskell, really,’ she said. ‘I expected better of you. Captain Harkness remains an unknown quantity. We understand him little more than we understand those things that come through the Rift, and yet you have sent him out there in my stead?’
‘I’m sorry,’ replied Gaskell. ‘But you weren’t here. We didn’t know where you were.’
‘As I said,’ snapped Emily, ‘I was investigating possible activity in Crockherbtown.’
‘And was there any?’ asked Alice. ‘Activity, I mean?’
Emily shook her head. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I found nothing.’
She paused, taking a deep breath, and composed herself.
‘Now,’ she continued, ‘I think we should wait until morning.’
‘Morning?’ said Gaskell. ‘Really? But Harkness still hasn’t returned.’
‘No,’ said Emily. ‘But William Mayhew is just another eccentric with a taste for the obscure. It wouldn’t surprise me if their little rendezvous results in nothing more alarming than the discovery of some sideshow exhibit. A bearded lady, perhaps, or the nightmarish work of some deranged taxidermist, stitching together monkeys and fish and calling them mermaids. There’s little we can achieve by sitting here and worrying all night.’
Gaskell laughed, rising from his desk and putting on his bowler hat. ‘In which case, ladies,’ he said, as he made his way across the Hub, ‘I’ll take my leave. There’s a shot of rum and a lovely barmaid waiting for me at the Six Bells. Goodnight, both.’
As he left, closing the door behind him, Alice turned to Emily. ‘Are you still angry with me?’ she asked, a little timidly.
Emily thought this over for a moment before smiling. ‘Not really,’ she replied, gently brushing Alice’s cheek with one finger. ‘Just tired. Come along, Miss Guppy. Time for bed.’
By sunrise the clouds had dispersed, leaving only a thin layer of fog over the mudflats of the bay and the ramshackle streets of Butetown.
Gaskell made his way past the Norwegian Church and carried on until he reached the very edge of the docks. Descending a narrow flight of steps, he walked along the quayside until he came to an anonymous wooden door. It was covered, from top to bottom, in yellowing posters advertising past events: Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show at Sophia Gardens, the Maritime Exhibition of ’96, and Mr Charles Dickens’ reading at the Taliesin Lodge some thirty Christmases past.
Checking there was nobody around to see him, Gaskell unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Moments later he walked into the Hub to find that Alice and Emily were already sitting at their desks, waiting for him.
‘What time do you call this?’ asked Emily, rising from her chair and holding up her pocket watch for dramatic effect.
‘I know,’ groaned Gaskell, ‘and you have my sincerest apologies. . .’
‘Ah,’ said Alice, smiling. ‘Methinks our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.’
Gaskell shot her a glare of mock annoyance, and then winked, his mouth curling into a smile.
‘Well,’ said Emily, interrupting the moment. ‘I’m sure we’ll hear all the ghastly details at a later date. Captain Harkness still hasn’t returned.’
Gaskell took off his hat, his expression suddenly grave. ‘He hasn’t?’
‘No. And all attempts to contact William Mayhew have proven quite fruitless. In light of Captain Harkness’s disappearance, we are going to investigate the matter further. HMS Hades. . .’
Gaskell nodded.
‘What do you know of it?’
‘Not much,’ he replied. ‘Used to be a 42-gun frigate. It was one of the ships that accompanied Napoleon to St Helena in 1815. Decommissioned in 1869.’
‘Well,’ said Emily. ‘That’s rather more than “not much”, Mr Gaskell.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Gaskell. ‘Old naval trivia. They drum it into you.’
‘Of course. Does the name Sir Henry Montague mean anything to you?’
Gaskell paused for a moment, sitting on the edge of his desk. His head still throbbed and his mouth was dry, but now was not the time to feel sorry for oneself.
‘Admiral Sir Henry Montague?’ he asked, eventually.
‘The same.’
‘He’s well thought of, ma’am. One of the most respected naval leaders since Nelson. I met him when we were anchored at Portsmouth. He came to inspect the ship. He lives just outside Cardiff these days. But how does he fit into all this?’<
br />
Emily lifted a document from her desk and, reading from it, made her way across the Hub.
‘Admiral Sir Henry Montague,’ she began, ‘bought HMS Hades from the Navy shortly after it was decommissioned. It was brought from Plymouth to Cardiff and converted into a ragged school for wayward boys and orphans, under the management of Tiberius Finch and Mrs Gertrude Blight, often referred to as the Widow Blight.’
‘Sounds delightful.’
‘Finch is a local philanthropist. Studied as a surgeon at the Royal College Of Medicine, but failed to graduate following some kind of scandal in his final year. Blight is something of an enigma, I’m afraid. Hard to find out much about her, except that she’s a widow.’
‘So our plan. . .?’
Now Alice stepped forward. ‘Well,’ she said, with an almost coquettish smile, ‘seeing as you’re an old friend of Montague’s, we thought you might like to pay him a visit?’
‘And what about you two?’
‘We’re going to Hades,’ said Emily. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
It was difficult, if not impossible, for Alice to imagine HMS Hades ever being a warship. Stripped of its masts and sails, its cannons long gone and its hatches transformed into soot-covered windows, the Hades sat with its hull half-buried in the muddy east bank of the river. Where once there had been decks there were now cobbled-together shacks, like mismatched houses, running from one end of the ship to the other, making the place look more like some disastrously constructed version of Noah’s Ark than a majestic frigate that had once escorted Napoleon to his exile.
From its decaying rooftops crooked chimneys belched out thick, acrid clouds of black smoke, but there were few other signs that anyone might be onboard.
‘And they call it a ragged school?’ asked Alice, as they stepped onto the ramp leading to the ship’s only entrance.
‘Yes,’ replied Emily. ‘A school for destitute and homeless boys – orphans, urchins. . .’
Alice paused before the large and windowless wooden door, in the centre of which was a fearsome wrought-iron knocker cast in the shape of Cerberus’ three heads.
‘Just think,’ she said. ‘If I’d been born a boy I might have ended up here.’
Emily turned to her, as if surprised by the statement, but then nodded sympathetically.
‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘I suppose you might have.’
She reached forward and slammed the knocker three times. They waited for an age, standing on the wooden ramp, listening to the sounds of clanking and hissing machinery in the belly of the ship. Eventually the wooden door opened, and they were greeted by a short, stout woman dressed in black.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the woman.
Emily extended her gloved hand.
‘We are from the Torchwood Institute,’ she said. ‘I was wondering whether we might speak with the proprietor of this establishment?’
The woman looked from Emily to Alice with an expression of disdain, and then back again. She shook Emily’s hand very briefly.
‘I am the proprietress of this establishment,’ she told them. ‘My name is Mrs Blight. How may I be of service?’
‘We were hoping to visit the ragged school,’ Emily continued. ‘Our work includes local philanthropy in and around Cardiff, and we have heard so much about your good work here. . .’
‘I am afraid that will not be possible,’ snapped Mrs Blight, coldly. ‘We do not permit female visitors to the school. As I’m sure you will appreciate, our wards are all boys, some of them approaching maturity. It could prove most disruptive if two young women such as yourselves were to enter their place of learning.’
Emily narrowed her eyes, scrutinising Mrs Blight very carefully, not caring if the older woman realised it.
‘I see,’ she said, at last. ‘Of course. Well perhaps you could pass our best wishes on to Mr Finch. Good day, Mrs Blight.’
‘Good day, Miss Holroyd. Miss Guppy.’
Nodding politely to them both, Mrs Blight closed the door, and both Emily and Alice heard the sound of several bolts being slid into place on the other side.
‘Curiouser and curiouser. . .’ said Alice, as she and Emily made their way back down the ramp.
The grandfather clock chimed eleven, and in its ornate cage a zebra finch fluttered from its perch. Gaskell waited in the hall outside the Admiral’s study, sat on a wooden chair. The tiled floor before him was lit up in a kaleidoscope of colours, projected from a distant stained glass window. From the study he heard the voice of Montague’s butler, Mr Phillips.
‘Sir, there is a gentleman here to see you. . .’
‘Yes, Phillips? Who is he?’
‘A coloured gentleman, sir.’
There was a long pause. Gaskell smiled to himself and tried not to chuckle.
‘Really?’ said Montague. ‘Is he looking for work?’
‘No, sir. He says he’s from the Torchwood institute, and that he would like to speak to you.’
Another long pause.
‘I see. Well you’d better show him in.’
Seconds later Phillips emerged from the study.
‘Mr Gaskell, if you would care to follow me.’
Gaskell rose from the chair and followed the butler into Montague’s study. Two of the study’s walls were lined, from floor to ceiling, with book shelves. A third was decorated with boiseries on which were hung paintings of naval battles. The Admiral’s desk was situated before a vast bay window, beyond which there lay the fields above Penarth’s headland and, further on, the sea.
Admiral Sir Henry Montague was a tall, lean gentleman, dressed in a tweed three-piece suit, his hair a silvering mixture of grey and black. He smiled warmly as he stepped out from behind his desk.
‘Mr Charles Gaskell,’ Phillips announced.
Montague approached Gaskell and shook his hand.
‘Mr Gaskell,’ he said. ‘How do you do? Please, take a seat. Would you care for tea, or coffee, perhaps?’
Gaskell politely declined the offer, and Montague dismissed his butler. As Montague returned to his chair, Gaskell looked around the study. He had never imagined he would find himself there, in the home of Sir Henry Montague, being asked if he’d care for tea or coffee. It took some effort just to mask his excitement.
‘So,’ said Montague, ‘Mr Gaskell. . . How may I help you?’
‘Well first of all,’ said Gaskell, smiling, ‘I’d just like to say what an honour it is to meet you again, sir.’
‘Again?’ queried Montague. ‘I’m sorry, my dear fellow, but have we met before?’
‘Yes,’ said Gaskell. ‘HMS Atropos. We were anchored in Portsmouth. You came aboard to inspect the ship, sir.’
Montague smiled. ‘Ah. . . You’re an old sea dog, then?’
Gaskell nodded.
‘Well why didn’t you say?’ Montague bellowed. ‘I’d have offered you something stronger than tea or coffee! So you say you’re with the Torchwood Institute?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Hmm. Can’t say I know much about that. It all sounds very clandestine. Not sure how I can be of service, though. . .’
‘Well, sir, as it happens we’re making enquiries about the Hades, sir.’
Montague’s smile faded a little and his eyes narrowed. ‘HMS Hades,’ he said, drumming his fingers on the desk. ‘Well. . . Of course, I am the owner of the ship. My name is on the deeds. As for the day-to-day running of the place, I have little involvement. I visit them once every few months, see how the boys are doing. You know, they’re all so very cheerful, aren’t they? The poor, I mean.’
‘Quite,’ said Gaskell. ‘But we have received a rather alarming telegram from a local journalist by the name of Mayhew. He claims to have important information regarding the Hades.’
‘Important information?’ Montague blustered. ‘Mayhew, you say? Hmph. . . Think I’ve heard of the chap. What kind of important information does he claim to have?’
‘We’re not exactly sure, sir. It appears
he may have gone missing.’
Montague leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, laughing softly. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, if you ask me, this Mayhew sounds like just another provincial hack with too much time on his hands. That’s the trouble in peacetime, you see? Not enough news to cover, so fellows like him go around concocting plots and sinister motives from nothing.’
‘Well, sir, Mayhew hasn’t mentioned anything about a plot, or—’
‘Give him enough time and he will do.’
‘As I said, sir. . . He may be missing.’
Montague shook his head and huffed. ‘Typical journalist,’ he said. ‘Probably sleeping off a surfeit of gin on the floor of some tavern, just you mark my words.’
Gaskell laughed, and Montague smiled for the first time in an age.
‘You can have my word on the matter,’ Montague continued. ‘There is nothing sinister going on aboard the Hades. Mr Finch and Mrs Blight do sterling work with the boys there. It speaks volumes of this dismal age that some would cast suspicions and doubts upon their charitable endeavours. Now, Mr Gaskell, unless there is anything more that I can help you with. . .?’
‘Not at all,’ said Gaskell, rising from his chair and shaking Montague by the hand. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Deep in the belly of HMS Hades, in a room without windows, Tiberius Finch gazed down into his microscope at a cluster of cells and smiled approvingly.
Finch was a tall man of generous proportions, his unruly grey hair tamed into a short ponytail, and his face adorned with a fine beard and moustache. His face, or what could be seen of it above the beard, was blemished by a network of ruptured capillaries, the result of his fondness for whisky, giving him a perennially ruddy complexion.
He was surrounded, in this darkened room, by mementos from his days studying medicine – volume after volume of medical journals and textbooks, framed anatomical diagrams and models rendered in wax. Each model resembled nothing so much as the work of a butcher or a madman: the severed human head on a bureau in the far corner, its hideously lifelike skin peeled away revealing the glistening orb of an eyeball, the cheekbone, and the muscles of the jaw; or the section of a woman’s abdomen rent open to reveal a tiny, perfectly detailed waxwork foetus. Each ghastly object was illuminated by little more than the flickering of the oil lamp on Finch’s desk.
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