by Frank Tayell
“That he was doing the work of the righteous,” Ruth said. “When I asked what that meant he sort of repeated himself, using different words to give the same non-answer. He said that Ned Ludd was his name. When I told Isaac, he seemed to think the suspect was lying.”
“Because Ned Ludd is a folk hero who probably never existed. The name was used as a figurehead during the early years of the industrial revolution. His followers, or the people who used his name, wrecked the machines and mills that were putting them out of work. In the years since, Ludd’s been used as a symbol whenever some new technology comes along that threatens to destroy a previously secure sector of employment. I suppose it should be no surprise that someone is using it today.”
“A rejection of technology? That explains his clothes,” Ruth said. “He’s wearing hand made clogs, and a rough-cut tunic. The wire cutters he was using looked like he’d made them himself. They weren’t old-world make.”
“Even more interesting. Any ideas what the connection is between him and the coins?”
“No, sir,”
“Then let’s go and ask him.”
“Where’s Ned Ludd?” Mitchell asked the duty sergeant.
“Interview three,” the sergeant replied. He handed Mitchell the file.
“Ned Ludd, five-foot ten. You’ve got his fingerprints, but no age or address,” Mitchell said.
“He declined to give them,” the sergeant said with a tone suggesting that was both commonplace and not his problem.
“Take this to Assistant Commissioner Weaver,” Mitchell said, scrawling out a note and handing it to the sergeant. Mitchell and Ruth headed through the doors that led to the interview rooms.
Mitchell peered through the small, reinforced glass window, then stepped back to let Ruth see. The suspect sat, eyes closed, with a slight smile on his lips, and his hands together.
“It’s almost as if he was praying,” Ruth said.
“Interesting, indeed,” Mitchell said, and opened the door. The suspect didn’t open his eyes, not even after Mitchell sat down opposite him. Ruth stood by the door.
“Nice clothes,” Mitchell said. “Did you make them yourself?”
The trousers were little more than two shapeless tubes of cloth stitched together at the waist. The tunic was too long, but the arms were an inch too short. Both garments looked as if they were woven from undyed wool. There were no buttons or zips, just a wooden toggle around the man’s neck.
“And wooden clogs,” Mitchell continued, seemingly oblivious to the man’s silence. “Can’t you afford shoes?”
The man’s lips twitched, but his smirk quickly returned.
“I think the ensemble would be improved by a button or two,” Mitchell said.
The man sneered.
“I see. My name is Captain Mitchell. You’ve already met Officer Deering. What’s your name?”
There was another long pause, and Ruth thought the man would stay silent, but finally he said, “Ned Ludd.”
“No, it’s not. If he ever existed, Ned Ludd is long dead. What’s your real name, the one your family will use when they come here to report you’ve gone missing?”
“My family knows where I am.”
“Then it can’t hurt to tell us your name.”
He gave a dry, mocking chuckle. “Without my name, you can’t find me,” he said.
“Find you? You’re here,” Mitchell said. “We’ve arrested you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t,” Mitchell said. “Explain it.”
The prisoner threw a look up at the light bulb overhead and shook his head.
“Fine, we’ll call you Ned Ludd for now,” Mitchell said. “Let’s talk about the telegraph. Why were you trying to cut it?”
“Because technology leads us back to destruction,” Ludd said. “We have to move forward. Progress means rejecting the old ways and embracing the new.”
“By the old ways, do you mean things like buttons and denim?” Mitchell asked.
“Whether you believe it or not doesn’t change the truth,” the man said. “The telegraph has brought back the radio. Computers won’t be far behind. The AIs will be reawakened, and this time they will complete their destruction of the planet. I was doing my rightful duty.”
Mitchell glanced at Ruth. She took that as her invitation. “You said we have to reject the old ways. What are the new ones?”
“The ancient path,” Ludd said. “We have to… to temper our modern experiences with old wisdom. Thus do we reject darkness and evil.”
“So this is a religion?” Mitchell asked.
“Religion?” Ludd almost spat the word. “That’s just another tool of the machine!” His voice rose to a shrieking crescendo. “Another way of forcing compliance from the masses. You reward them with trinkets and threaten them with damnation. So is your will done!”
“It sounds like a religion,” Mitchell replied calmly. “And how does cutting the telegraph help in your cause? It wouldn’t have taken us more than an hour to fix.”
Ludd’s brow furrowed. He looked from Mitchell to Ruth. The smile returned as he shook his head. “Another lie from agents of the machine. It will take longer than that. And the next time? And the third? We are legion. Imprison me. Kill me. A hundred more are ready to take my place. You won’t listen to reason, and so we will act. We will change your behaviour until…” He paused, as if trying to remember something. “Until you change it yourselves,” he finished with far less enthusiasm than he’d begun the sentence.
“I see,” Mitchell said. “Let’s talk about Ned Ludd.”
“He is everywhere.”
“So he’s not you?” Ruth asked.
“I am he, and he…” And again the man stalled. “He is legion,” he finished.
“Why did you carve that name into the pole?” Mitchell asked.
“So that you shall know us by our deeds,” the man replied. “And by our deeds shall you know the truth. The name of the oppressor…” Another pause. “The name of the oppressor changes, but the name of our cause… it… it remains the same.” He smiled again as if he was happy with what was clearly extemporisation.
“Do you know that you misspelled it?” Ruth asked.
“What?” the man asked, his smug mask cracking.
“Ned Ludd. You spelled it wrong,” Ruth said. “It’s understandable. A lot of people don’t know how to write. I suppose you were trying to copy the letters as best you remembered them.”
“I can write,” the man protested.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Ruth said, keeping her tone patronising and patient. “Here, let me show you.” She took out her notepad and wrote Ned Ludd. “You see. That’s how you write a capital ‘L’. You had it facing the wrong way.”
The man laughed. “That’s how we write it. To show that though the enemy evolves, only revolution can bring about true evolution.”
“And who taught you that?” Mitchell asked.
“Ned Ludd,” the man replied.
“And where can we find him?”
“He sits before you.”
“I see,” Mitchell said. “What about the others who call themselves Ned Ludd?”
“They shall find you. Oh yes. The fifth is coming. Remember it.”
“The fifth man?” Ruth asked.
The man gave a hollow laugh. “Remember,” he said.
“Remember the fifth?” Mitchell asked. “Remember, remember?”
The smile vanished. Ludd twitched in his seat.
“Tell us about the man who told you about Ned Ludd?” Mitchell asked.
“You shall know soon enough. The fifth. Remember!”
Mitchell sighed. “We’ll get you a blanket. You’re going to be here for some time.”
It took Ruth an hour, and some dictated suggestions from Riley, before she finished her report on the arrest of Ned Ludd. Mitchell took it to Weaver’s office, but before Ruth had time to relax, a runner arrived, summon
ing her, Riley, and Longfield.
Weaver had taken over Commissioner Wallace’s old office. The name ‘Wallace’ had been removed from the sign by the door, but Weaver’s name had yet to be added. Nor had anyone added the word ‘Assistant’ above the title. Inside, the shelves were empty and the paintings were gone from the walls. Even the old leather and wood furniture had been removed, replaced with utilitarian metal cabinets, a small desk, and equally impermanent folding chairs.
“There are three telegraph lines into the city,” Weaver said. “One from Wales, Scotland, and the north, another from Kent and the east, a third from Devon and the farms to the west and northwest. Each was cut. Those in the north and east were cut in two places. The western line was severed in only one location. We lost communication with the rest of the country for two hours. Had that sixth line been cut, it would have been longer. The damage however, has been the same. Only priority messages are being allowed on the line, confirming that all settlements, towns, and depots are secure. Normal service won’t resume until tomorrow. However, as yet I can see no purpose to this sabotage.”
“There have been no attacks?” Mitchell asked.
“None,” Weaver said. “An unidentified vessel was spotted off the southern Kent coast, near the ruins of Folkestone, but there were two sightings yesterday so I’m not concerned.”
“The suspect mentioned this time, the next time, and the third time,” Mitchell said. “Not the time after that, but ‘the third’. There’ll be another two similar incidents.
“And then there was that thing about the fifth,” Ruth said. “A fifth saboteur, maybe? I counted four of them by the telegraph.”
“No,” Mitchell said. “He said ‘remember the fifth’ and there was a definite reaction from him when I said ‘remember, remember’. I think it’s the date we can expect that third attack.”
“The fifth of October?” Ruth asked. “That’s four days from now.”
Weaver sighed. “Remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason, and plot,” she recited. “Haven’t you heard the rhyme? On the fifth of November in 1605 a group of conspirators planned to blow up Parliament. They hoped to kill the protestant King James and install a Catholic monarchy. Do you think there’s a religious component to this?”
“I’d need to speak to him again to be sure,” Mitchell said, “but I don’t think so. His speech is littered with slogans from dozens of competing ideologies. I’d say the words were chosen more for their poetry than for any deeper significance.”
“I see.” Weaver picked up a sheet of paper. “From Deering’s somewhat brief report, we can assume they were all unarmed. If there were four at each location, then we’re looking for twenty-four of them. You say this carving connects it to the assassination and the counterfeiting?”
“By the backward ‘L’,” Mitchell said. “That connects it to Donal, and to Wallace.”
“Who’s Donal?” Longfield asked.
Weaver frowned. “You are a cadet, Longfield, in the presence of senior officers. Remember it.”
Simon blushed.
“Lucas Fairmont,” Mitchell said, “was the assistant to the American ambassador. He was selling information to the two men, Donal and Jameson, on a beach near the rusting hulks. I arrested Fairmont and shot Donal. Jameson escaped, but Deering apprehended him after the assassination. Fairmont gave us the two men’s names.”
“Donal and Jameson. They sound Irish,” Weaver said.
“Jameson isn’t,” Mitchell said. “Not according to the brief conversations I’ve had with him. Conversations might be a bit too strong. He does nothing but smirk and sneer. We’ve learned nothing useful from him. What about Fairmont?”
“He is in custody at the embassy so, technically, he’s in American jurisdiction. According to…” Weaver picked up a different piece of paper. “Agent Clarke says he has provided information on three different locations where he traded information with those two men. The S.I.S. conducted the search, and none yielded any clues.”
“Can we speak to Fairmont?” Mitchell asked.
“I’m due to meet with Ambassador Perez this evening,” Weaver said. “I’ll ask. But for the moment, Donal and Jameson are both dead leads. Donal, quite literally.” She leafed through the other sheets of paper in the folder. “Emmitt’s rifle can’t be traced. The ink used to print those counterfeit notes could have been stolen by almost anyone in the Mint. The properties they’ve used were either unclaimed derelicts, abandoned, or vacant. Which brings us back to Ned Ludd. Unlike Jameson, the man is talking. Three attacks, you say, with the third on the fifth of November? We’ll increase the guard on Parliament.”
“And what if they chose a new target?” Mitchell asked.
“Indeed,” Weaver said. “And that is why we are here, isn’t it? So how will you proceed?”
“I’ve sent a message to Rebecca Cavendish of the Railway Company,” Mitchell said. “She’ll pass the word to all the train stations. Ned Ludd’s clothing is highly distinctive. Assuming his colleagues were similarly dressed, they’ll be easy to spot. If they used the trains to get to the sites where they cut the wires, we’ll know.”
“As he professes a hatred of technology,” Weaver said, “I doubt they would have used the railways.”
“Probably not,” Mitchell agreed. “It’s worth checking. And that clothing is interesting. It would have taken longer than a week to make. So this group existed before the assassination.”
“Or their clothing has,” Riley said.
“Quite,” Mitchell said. “We’ll start looking for Luddites tomorrow, when the rest of the unit’s new members arrive.”
“Where?” Weaver asked.
“The university, the docks, the power plant,” Mitchell said. “Anywhere the adoption of new technologies might imperil employment.”
“Then the farms and mines would be the most logical breeding ground for recruitment,” Weaver said.
“There’s not many coal mines in Twynham,” Mitchell said. “Of course, there’s another possibility. Though Ned Ludd may think sabotaging the telegraph was part of a grand scheme to halt technological progress doesn’t mean he’s right. Emmitt might have intended it for some other purpose. Stopping a message getting through, perhaps?”
“Indeed,” Weaver said. “I already have officers going through the telegraph messages that were sent before the wire was cut, and those messages that were delayed. If any are suspicious, I should know by tomorrow. Whether they are or not, until these saboteurs are caught, this matter is not at an end. Dismissed.”
“Weaver’s odd,” Simon said.
“So’s Mitchell,” Ruth replied. “And Riley. I don’t think normal people join the police.”
“And what does that say about us?” Simon said. “But it’s nice being out in the fresh air.”
There was a chill wind coming in off the sea, bringing a salty mist with it.
“Personally, I’d rather be in the warm,” Ruth said. “It’s going to be at least another hour before we get back into shelter.” And another two hours and a three-mile cycle ride before she was home and warm.
“Trust me, this is much better than sitting behind a desk all day,” Simon said.
He and Ruth were on their way back to where she’d arrested Ned Ludd. According to Mitchell, this was so Simon could see the crime scene first-hand, and so Ruth could confirm that the S.I.S. officer processing the scene had collected all the evidence.
“A ladder, and the wire cutters,” she said. “It’s not like anyone could miss them.”
“What’s that?” Simon asked.
“Oh, nothing. I think Captain Mitchell wanted to get us out of the way. But he could have loaned me his bike.” Hers was still by the telegraph pole, and that was the reason she had to walk. Her collar already felt damp as she pulled it up, higher around her neck.
“I was wondering…” Simon began after a few minutes of silence.
“Yes?”
“Well, there doesn
’t seem to be a rota. I mean, I expect that they’ll put one together when the rest of the new officers arrive tomorrow,” Simon babbled. “But I was thinking, well, I was wondering, um…”
“What?”
“Well, which days do you get off?”
“Me?” Ruth smiled. “I’ve not had a day off yet, not really. Weekends, weekdays, it’s all the same. I think we’re expected to work the case, and if there isn’t anything to do, we’re supposed to sneak away before anyone notices we’re not busy.”
“Oh.” Simon sounded genuinely downhearted.
“I tell you what is nice,” Ruth said before Simon could say anything else. “Having you in Serious Crimes, and being used as a proper police unit.”
“Because it wasn’t a real unit, was it?” Simon said. “Tell me again about Commissioner Wallace. Captain Mitchell shot him, didn’t he?”
Ruth sighed and began the story she’d told many times before.
Before joining the academy, Ruth had looked forward to the short winter evenings. They’d meant an early dinner and an excuse to curl up with a book in front of the fire. Tonight, it meant a three-mile cycle ride across damp potholed streets back to The Acre.
After re-inspecting the crime scene – which had barely taken more than a minute – they’d caught a train back into Twynham. Simon had headed north, to Longfield Castle, a rambling mansion his family owned to the south of the old village of Burton. Ruth doubted that the roads he’d use on his journey home would be in such poor repair as the ones beneath her wheels. The potholes filled with mud weren’t too troublesome. The bicycle’s thick tyres could find some purchase, though the wheels sprayed dirt all over her legs. Those filled with nothing but rainwater hidden underneath a coating of leaves were far worse. She was almost jolted from the bike a dozen times before she reached her home.
“The roads are getting worse,” Ruth said as she closed the door behind her.