It looked like a mighty machine itself - a knowing one, with a mind and a will. And all the men she saw, and the hundred or more she couldn't, seemed not like individuals but like cogs or wheels or connecting-rods, and the mind that moved them all was housed, she could tell, in the three-storey brick building in the very centre of the valley.
The building was like a cross between a comfortable modern villa and a private railway station. The front door, complete with Gothic porch, opened directly on to a platform by a siding, and looked out over the heart of the valley. There were flower beds along the platform, bare now but neatly weeded and raked. On the other side of the house a carriage drive curved up to a similar though smaller door and around the corner to a stable, where a boy was raking gravel. On top of the building stood a bare flagpole.
As Sally stood looking down at this busy, prosperous, flourishing scene, she felt a strange sensation; as if waves of pure evil were coming from it, shimmering like a heat-haze. Somewhere down there they made a weapon more horrible than anything the world had seen, and the power that made the weapon had reached into her life, wrenched out the dearest part of it and dropped it dead at her feet, all because she had dared to question what was going on. Whatever could do that must be evil, and the intensity of it was almost visible in the shimmer and glint of the sunlight on the glass, the steel rails, the quivering air above the chimneys.
It was so intense that for a moment she quailed. She was very frightened, in a way she'd never been frightened before - more than a physical way, in the way that evil was more than physical. But she'd come here to face that. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, and the moment passed.
She was standing beside a grassy bank overlooking the valley. She found herself scrambling down a little way to the cover of a group of trees, where she sat on a fallen trunk and looked over the valley more carefully.
As the morning went by she noticed more and more details, and began to see a pattern in the work. None of the shunting engines, or the chimneys on the buildings, produced any smoke; they were probably burning coke, which accounted for the cleanliness of the valley. The three cranes she saw lifting lengths of steel pipe or sheet iron off the railway trucks seemed to have a different sort of engine, however: it might have been hydraulic or even electrical. Electricity certainly powered whatever went on in the most isolated of the buildings. Wires led to it from a little brick structure nearby, and whenever a shunting engine took a line of trucks to it, it didn't go up close as it did elsewhere, but stopped in a siding a little way off. There the trucks were collected by a different kind of engine altogether - one that looked as if it drew its power from an overhead wire in some way. At one point this engine broke down and, instead of allowing the steam engine to bring the trucks in, they harnessed a team of horses to them.
So that building, which was set off from the rest, and where they didn't want to bring live fire, must have been where they kept explosives.
She watched it all, immobile, free of feeling, as if she were just an eye.
Towards late afternoon she saw signs of new activity in the building with the flagpole. Upstairs windows opened, flashing in the sunlight, and a housemaid appeared at one of them, apparently dusting or cleaning. A tradesman's cart drove up, and something was unloaded; smoke appeared at two of the chimneys; another housemaid, or perhaps the same one, came out to polish the brass on the door at the platform side. Finally, towards sunset, Sally saw what she'd been waiting for: a signal changed beside the main rail line from the south, a locomotive whistle echoed through the valley, and an engine pulling a single carriage rolled in and through the maze of sidings towards the building.
The locomotive was one of the Great Northern Company's, but the carriage was a private one, painted a handsome dark blue with a silver emblem on the doors. As it came to a halt beside the platform a servant - a butler or a steward of some kind - came out of the house to open the carriage door. A moment later Axel Bellmann got out. His heavy build, the metallic sheen of his blond hair under the silk hat, were unmistakable even at a distance. He went into the house, and behind him a valet and another servant from the house unloaded luggage.
The locomotive, meanwhile, uncoupled from the car, steamed off and out of the valley. A minute or two later, a maid came out of the house by a side door with cleaning equipment - broom, dustpan, duster - and went into the carriage; and shortly afterwards, a flag fluttered up the flagpole, with the same emblem that was painted on the carriage door. She could see it clearly now in the rays of the setting sun: it was a single silver star.
Luggage, servants, a house. . . He'd come to stay, then. Sally hadn't expected it to be as simple as that.
She was feeling stiff. She was hungry, too, and thirsty, but that wouldn't matter for long. Being stiff would matter. She got up and walked about under the trees, watching as the shadows lengthened, as the glow in the windows below seemed to get brighter, as the working pattern changed. When the valley was full of shadow, a whistle sounded, and a few minutes later she saw the first of a stream of men making their way out of the gates and homeward. Those parts of the works where a continuous process of manufacture was going on were still busy, staffed by a new shift, but the rest were closed down with a night-watchman outside each building. The area around the explosives building was lit as brightly as a stage, perhaps by electricity; the lights glared on the white gravel, and the place had an unreal air, like something on a magic-lantern slide.
It was getting damp. The grass Sally was walking on was already wet with dew. She picked up her bag and, without thinking, found herself clutching it to her breast like a child, and sobbing.
His quiet face in the rain, among the ashes. . .
She nearly broke down altogether as a wave of pity and sorrow and love and longing crashed through the barrier around her, and she cried his name aloud in the surging grief that nearly drowned her. But she clung in her extremity to the idea that had brought her here, like a drowning sailor to a spar, and the wave washed over her and receded again.
She had to move. She picked her way through the trees, concentrating on her movements, left foot around those roots, lift your skirts to avoid those brambles. . . Then she was on the road again, with a measure of control.
She brushed her skirt down, adjusted her cape, and set off down towards the valley, into the darkness.
As she'd expected, there was a man on guard. What she hadn't expected was the sheer size of the place, now she was close to it; and the massiveness of the iron gates, the solidity of the spiked fencing, and the brightness of the lights that illuminated the gravel inside the gate. The guard's uniform, with the North Star emblem on his breast and cap, his arrogant manner, as he strolled slowly to the gate, swinging a short stick, eyeing her narrowly from under the peak of his cap; it all struck a chill, even in her remote heart.
"I want to see Mr Bellmann," she said through the bars.
"You'll have to wait till I have instructions to let you in," he replied.
"Will you please let Mr Bellmann know that Miss Lockhart has arrived to see him?"
"I'm not allowed to leave this gate. I've had no instructions to admit anyone."
"Send a message then."
"Don't tell me my business--"
"It's about time someone did. Send a message to Mr Bellmann at once, or he'll make sure you're sorry for it."
"Suppose he ain't here?"
"I saw him arrive. Miss Lockhart is here to see him. Let him know at once."
She stared him down. After a few seconds, he turned and went into his hut, and she heard a bell ring distantly. He waited inside. Soon she saw a light approaching from the house, which became a servant carrying a lantern. When he got to the gate he looked curiously at Sally before going to confer with the guard.
After a minute, they came out. The guard unlocked the gate and Sally went inside.
"I have come to see Mr Bellmann," she said to the servant. "Could you take me to him, please?"
"If you'll follow me, miss, I'll see whether Mr Bellmann can see you," he said.
The guard locked the door behind them as Sally followed the servant along the path between the engine sheds and the main sidings towards the house. As they went along, feet crunching on the gravel, Sally heard a noise from the sheds on her left as of gigantic metal drums being rolled along, and somewhere further off there was a continual throbbing like a giant's pulse, with occasional flurries of hammering or the grinding whine of metal on stone; and from one building set back from the path, where the doors - great metal sheets hung on rollers - were open, came a hellish glare and showers of flying sparks as white-hot steel was poured.
Each of the sounds hurt her and frightened her. She couldn't help but feel them as inhuman and monstrous, the noises made by instruments of hideous torture. The further they moved into this world of metal and fire and death, the smaller and frailer she felt; and she grew more and more conscious of how hungry she was, and how thirsty, and how tired, and how her head ached and her feet were drenched, and of how untidy she must look, how weak, how inconsequential.
She'd once stood at the foot of the Schaffhausen Falls in Switzerland, and felt overwhelmed by their sheer power. If she fell in, she'd be swept away in a moment as if she didn't exist. She felt the same now. This enormous enterprise - millions of pounds, vast intricacies of organization and supply and economy, the secret connivance of great governments, with hundreds if not thousands of lives directly involved in it: all moved with a momentum infinitely greater than anything she could bring against it.
That didn't matter.
For the first time she allowed herself to think of Fred directly. What would he do, faced with something so much stronger than himself? She knew at once: he'd measure himself coolly against it, and if it was stronger, well, he'd know, that was all; he wouldn't hesitate - he'd laugh happily and attack it all the same. Oh, how she loved that bright-eyed courage! Never foolhardiness: he was always aware - as if he were more conscious than anyone else in the world. He always knew - so to do what he did in the burning house needed, oh, so much courage.
She stumbled and found herself helplessly sobbing on the dark path, clutching her bag, weeping with racking, choking spasms while the servant stood a little way off holding the lantern. After a minute (two minutes - three?) she brought herself under control, mopped her eyes with her shredded handkerchief, and nodded to the servant to move on.
Yes, she thought, that was what he'd do: measure the odds and attack all the same, and do so joyfully. So she would do that too, because she loved him, dear Fred, she'd do it to be worthy of him. She'd face up to Bellmann though she was horribly afraid; she'd be like Fred and show no fear, though now she was closer the fear of Bellmann gnawed at her entrails. She could hardly put one foot in front of the other
But she managed. And, head high, tears still glistening on her cheeks, she climbed the steps behind the servant and entered the house of Axel Bellmann.
Late on Sunday morning, Jim Taylor had woken up to find himself with a headache and a crippling pain in his leg - which, he saw when he dragged himself to a sitting position, was in plaster to the knee.
He didn't recognize where he was. For a minute, in fact, he had trouble remembering anything. Then it came back - or some of it did - and he sank back into the comfortable pillows and closed his eyes, but only for a moment. He remembered Frederick going back up to that crazy bitch Isabel Meredith, and he remembered pulling himself free of Webster or Mackinnon or someone and trying to climb back up after him. But that was all.
He pulled himself upright again. He was in a comfortable, even luxurious room he'd never seen before, and he could hear traffic outside the window, and there was a tree - where the bloody hell was he?
"Oy!" he yelled.
He found a bell-pull beside the bed and yanked it hard. Then he tried to swing his legs over the side, but the pain defeated him, and he yelled again.
"Oy! Fred! Mr Webster!"
The door opened, and a stately figure in black came in. Jim recognized him; it was Lucas, Charles Bertram's manservant.
"Good morning, Mr Taylor," he said.
"Lucas!" said Jim. "Is this Mr Bertram's place, then?"
"It is, sir."
"What's the time? How long have I been here?"
"It is nearly eleven o'clock, Mr Taylor. They brought you here towards five in the morning. You were unconscious, I understand. You'll notice the doctor has seen to your leg."
"Is Mr Bertram here? Or Mr Garland? And Mr Mackinnon - where's he?"
"Mr Bertram is helping at Burton Street, sir. I could not say where Mr Mackinnon is."
"What about Miss Lockhart? And Frederick? Young Mr Garland that is? Is he all right?"
A flicker of compassion crossed the man's calm features, and Jim felt something like a cold iron hand clutch at his heart.
"I'm very sorry, Mr Taylor. Mr Frederick Garland died in the attempt to bring a young lady out of the building. . ."
Suddenly the room dissolved into a watery blur. Jim sank back and heard the door close quietly as Lucas left, and then found himself crying as he hadn't done since he was a kid - great shaking sobs of overwhelming grief and, mixed in with them, cries of anger and denial - denial that he, Jim, was crying, denial that Frederick was dead, denial that Bellmann should be allowed to get away with this - for he knew how it had happened. Bellmann had killed Frederick as surely as if he'd thrust a knife into his heart. And he'd pay, by God. How could that happen to Fred - the fights they'd survived together, the way they'd ragged each other and teased and laughed -
Another storm of weeping. Men didn't cry in the fiction Jim read and wrote, but they did in real life all right. Jim's father had cried when consumption had carried off his wife, Jim's mother, when Jim was ten; and the neighbour, Mr Solomons, he'd cried when the landlord had evicted his family and left them in the street - cried with storms of curses; and Dick Mayhew, the lightweight champion, had wept when he lost his title to Battling Bob Gorman. There was no shame in it. There was honesty.
He let it wash over him and subside a little, and then pulled himself upright again and pulled on the bell-rope. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he swung himself sideways and put his feet on the floor. A moment later Lucas came in with a tray.
"Miss Lockhart," Jim said. "Where's she, d'you know?"
Lucas put the tray on the bedside table and pulled it around in front of Jim, who noticed for the first time that be was wearing a nightshirt of Charles's. There was tea on the tray, and toast, and a boiled egg.
"I understood Mr Bertram to say that she left Burton Street not long after the firemen brought Mr Garland's body out of the building, sir. I couldn't say where she might have gone."
"And Mackinnon? Sorry if I've asked you before, Lucas. I'm more than a bit dazed. What d'you know about what happened?"
Lucas stood by while Jim drank the tea and buttered some toast, and retold what he had heard. At five that morning Webster had sent a message asking for Charles's help. Charles had gone at once to Burton Street, to find Jim in need of medical attention after falling from the knotted sheets trying to climb up after Frederick. He'd sent him back to Lucas at once and arranged for a doctor to set his leg, and he was still in Burton Street with Webster, where he was likely to remain for some time. Sally had vanished, and so had Mackinnon. Jim closed his eyes.
"I'll have to find him," he said. "Has Mr Bertram told you anything about this business, Lucas?"
"No, sir. Though of course I was aware, in a general way, of something unusual. I must advise you, Mr Taylor, that the doctor who set your leg was particularly insistent that you should not move. Mr Bertram told me to prepare the room for you and make you comfortable for a long stay, sir. I really would advise--"
"That's good of him, and I'll tell him so when I see him. But I can't sit around - this is urgent. Would you call a cab for me? And clothes - I suppose mine are burnt, or something - dammit, I was in me nightshirt, I remember
now. Can you find me something to wear?"
Fifteen minutes later, wearing an ill-fitting tweed suit of Charles's, Jim was in a cab bound for Islington. When the cab stopped outside Sally's door, Jim called up to the driver to wait, and hauled himself (with the aid of a stick he'd borrowed from Lucas) up the steps and rang the bell.
Only a moment later, Sally's landlord opened the door. He was an old friend; he'd worked for Frederick in the old days, before Sally had arrived, and he knew them all well. He was looking worried.
"Is Sally here?" said Jim.
"No, she left earlier on," said Mr Molloy. "She come in, I dunno, about five in the morning, I suppose, changed her clothes and left. She was looking terrible. What's going on, Jim? What's happened to your leg?"
"Listen, old boy; there's been a fire at Burton Street. Fred's been killed. Sorry to spring it on you like this. But I've got to find Sally, 'cause she's going to put herself in trouble. She didn't say anything about where she was going?"
The little man had gone pale. He shook his head helplessly. "Mr Fred -" he said. "I don't believe it."
"I'm sorry, mate. It's true. Is your missis here?"
"Yes. But--"
"Tell her to wait here for Sally, in case she comes back. And if you want to help, you couldn't do better than cut along to Burton Street. I reckon they could do with a few spare hands right now. Oh -" A thought had struck him, and he looked around the neat hall. "Got anything of Sally's? Here, this'll do."
Mr Molloy looked up, blinking, as Jim reached up and took a bonnet Sally often wore off a hook near the door.
"But where are you going?" said the little man. "What's going on, Jim?"
"I've got to find her," Jim said, hobbling down the steps as best he could. "Go and help Mr Webster, that's the best thing to do."
He swung himself into the cab, gritting his teeth against the pain, and called up, "Hampstead, mate. Kenton Gardens - number fifteen."
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