Kitty wasn’t sure how Mrs. Singh was going to handle two men at once, since she only had the one cloth, and anyway, chloroform didn’t go into effect instantaneously, whatever the films pretended.
As Mrs. Singh neared the men, she pulled a stone out of her pocket and tossed it underhand past the men. It skipped along the floor, pinging loudly against the stonework. Both men glanced in its direction.
“Whassat?” one of the men said.
“You heard something too?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll check it out.”
One of the men drew his gun and slowly moved along the corridor toward the noise. The other man looked after him, reaching for his own weapon. Mrs. Singh advanced on him with rapid, quiet steps. As the first fellow moved out of range, Mrs. Singh grabbed her target from behind and shoved the chloroformed cloth over his face. There was a struggle, of course, but Mrs. Singh kept a firm grip until the man slumped in her arms and she lowered him onto the ground. She then advanced again, and did the same thing to his companion.
“That worked better than I expected,” Mrs. Singh admitted, as the rest of them joined her.
Faith gave Mrs. Singh the bottle of chloroform to re-supply the cloth. “You doubted me, Mrs. Singh?” she asked.
“As the Russians say, Faith, trust but verify,” Mrs. Singh replied.
Kitty moved past the others and led the way toward the main room under the Commons. She remembered the shape of the floorplan almost exactly. Sometimes it was fuzzy as she tried to conjure up the specific twists and turns of the passages, but she flicked her fingertips together and exhaled in short, sharp bursts, and the image came back to her.
They encountered and subdued another pair of guards before they finally reached the room they were looking for. It was dingy and dim, with a low ceiling like the rest of the basement. Inside were several men with submachine guns. They clearly meant business and were prepared for a hard fight to carry out their objective. That made sense. Smythe had probably trusted this mission to only the most devoted of his followers. Most people would balk at destroying a building full of civilians, so these men obviously had no qualms about anything at all.
Kitty pressed herself against the wall and peered into the room. She saw the guards, and she saw Smythe standing in the middle of the room, holding a revolver in his hand. There were large boxes all around the room, covered in wires and dials.
Bombs. Those were the bombs.
In the very center of the room was a man tied to a chair. He wore a rumpled suit, and he looked very annoyed at his predicament.
It was Mr. Pryce.
“Look here, Smythe,” he grumbled, “if you’re quite finished slapping me about, why don’t we talk about this like gentlemen?”
Smythe gave Mr. Pryce a disdainful glare. “Shut up.”
“What do you think you’re going to accomplish here? Blow up Parliament and declare victory? This isn’t Germany. You can’t burn down the Reichstag and assume control of the government. We are still a democracy. The people won’t stand for it.”
“We’re going to wake up the British people, Pryce,” Smythe snarled. “They must take a stand against the hordes invading our country! If the Englishman doesn’t act against the tide of Africans and Indians and Communists ravaging our shores, we will be drowned in rivers of blood! But when we destroy the men holding open the floodgates, then true Englishmen will stand up and join our ranks! You’ll see.” Smythe paused, and a cruel smile crossed his face. “Well, actually, you won’t see, because you’ll be dead.”
“Going to blow me up with Parliament?” Mr. Pryce asked, his tone snide and taunting. “I suppose you’d better get a move on, Sir Richard. Don’t want the bombs going off while we’re still having this nice chat.”
“Thoughtful of you, Pryce, but there’s no need to worry,” Smythe replied coolly. “I’m not about to give you the chance to wriggle free and disarm anything. The bombs are on a twenty-minute timer. Once all the MPs are in their seats, I will set it, and leave you and them to your collective fate. And you, Pryce, can die with the knowledge that all of this will all be laid upon your doorstep.”
Mr. Pryce’s jovial façade fell away. “What do you mean?”
“My men have already destroyed your little ‘orchestra.’ When the police arrive to examine the scene, they will find a mountain of evidence that John Pryce and his agents are secretly Russian spies. Your death will open the door for our new government.”
“No one will believe that, Smythe!” Mr. Pryce retorted. “They will see you for what you are: a pathetic husk of a man playing at being a dictator. This mad venture will end in failure.”
“We’ll see,” Smythe said. “Oh. Wait. I’ll see. You will not.”
Kitty glanced at the others as they joined her.
“Is that Pryce?” Mrs. Singh gasped. “Well, that explains where he’s been.”
“There’s five of them,” Verity said. “What are we going to do?”
“Need to split ’em up,” Kitty whispered. “Then jump ’em. Can we cause a distraction?”
Faith fumbled with her satchel. “Wait, I’ve got just the thing.” She produced two small metal balls. Each one was divided down the middle into separate hemispheres. “These are automatic chimes. Twist ’em and they’ll ring.”
“Right, that’ll do it,” Kitty said. She took one of the chimes and twisted it until it stopped. “Like that, yeah?”
Faith nodded. “Roll it where you want it to go. Give it a few seconds and it’ll make a racket.”
Kitty crouched and threw the chime across the room. It made a little noise when it bounced on the ground, and one of Smythe’s men perked up. “Anyone hear that?”
Kitty took a second chime from Faith, wound it, and tossed it into the opposite corner. Then she waited. After a few seconds, she heard a loud, ringing noise, not exactly a wind chime, or a bell, or a rattle, but sort of all three at once. Smythe and his men turned in its direction.
“Someone see what that is!” Smythe shouted.
Two of the men broke off to investigate. As they went, the second chime began to ring, and everyone turned toward it. Now the men were scattered, spread across the room, looking in different directions. Mrs. Singh grabbed whatever cloth was ready to hand—kerchiefs, scarves, even scraps—and doused them in chloroform.
“Right,” she whispered. “Tommy, with me. We’re going to the right. Verity, take Kitty and Faith and deal with those two on the left.”
Kitty followed Verity along the dimly lit wall toward the nearest two men. Mrs. Singh and Tommy went in the opposite direction.
“Bring your man down and don’t let him aim his gun,” Verity said quietly. “I’ll help you as soon as I can.”
She leaped on one of the soldiers and grabbed him from behind. Her chloroform-soaked cloth covered his mouth and she held on tight as he struggled against her. Kitty and Faith rushed the other man. While Faith pinned his arms, Kitty grabbed onto his coat and shoved her cloth against his face. The man tipped over onto the ground, and they held him there, smothering him until he slipped into unconsciousness. Kitty found herself acting almost automatically, too overwhelmed by the noise and stress to think beyond the task in front of her. Chloroform, cloth, face. It was a simple sequence of actions.
Simple was good. Simple was easy. Simple would get the job done.
In the middle of the room, Smythe looked around, startled by the noise. They were hidden from his view, but he knew something had gone wrong.
“Sam?” he called. “Martin? Lads, someone say something!”
Mr. Pryce chuckled. “I think you’re in for a spot of bother, Sir Richard.”
Smythe growled in anger and shoved his gun against Mr. Pryce’s head.
“One more word, Pryce,” he snarled, “and I’ll put a bullet through your brain!”
“If the only way you can win an argument is through threats of violence, you are in for a poor career in politics,” Mr. Pryce said sagely.
Kitty saw Mrs. Singh sneaking up behind Smythe, but she couldn’t grab him as long as the gun was pointed at Mr. Pryce. At that range, even the slightest disturbance could be fatal. She could see in Mrs. Singh’s face that the agent was unsure how to subdue Smythe and rescue her friend without the one act making the other impossible. Kitty inhaled and exhaled three times. She knew what had to be done.
“’Ello, Sir Richard,” Kitty said, leaving the shadows and approaching him. She walked with a jaunty step, to keep his attention on her.
Smythe pointed his gun at her. “Who are you? Keep back!”
That surprised Kitty. She had expected Smythe to recognize her. Maybe her disguise during the Lowell trip had been more transforming than she realized. That made some sense: she was disheveled and bruised, a far cry from the refined houseguest. And she definitely didn’t sound Canadian right now.
“What have you done to my men?” Smythe demanded.
“They’re just enjoyin’ a little nap, sir,” Kitty said. “Thought the rest might do ’em good.”
Smythe narrowed his eyes. “You’re not alone. Who’s there with you?”
Mrs. Singh crept up behind Smythe and fell upon him in a flash. She circled his throat with her arm, and with her other hand she grabbed his wrist and shoved the gun toward the ceiling, before he could pull the trigger on Kitty.
“Just another one of Pryce’s socialists, Sir Richard,” Mrs. Singh said. “Easy, easy,” she continued, as Smythe struggled against her. “Drop the gun and give in. It will be much less painful for you.”
As Mrs. Singh subdued Smythe, Kitty rushed to Mr. Pryce and untied him.
Mr. Pryce stared at her and blinked a few times. “My goodness—Miss Granger? What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I thought that were obvious, sir,” Kitty replied. “We’re ’ere to rescue you.”
Mr. Pryce chuckled as he got up. His movements were very stiff, and he rubbed his wrists, which were raw from the rope. “Much obliged, Miss Granger.”
Mr. Pryce stepped aside as Mrs. Singh disarmed Smythe and shoved him into the chair. Smythe started to get up again, spitting fire and vengeance, but he stopped when Mrs. Singh pointed his own gun at him.
“How the tables have turned, old boy,” Mr. Pryce said cheerfully. “Verity, if you’d be so good as to tie up Smythe’s accomplices . . .”
“On it, Mr. Pryce,” Verity replied.
Mr. Pryce crouched in front of Smythe and looked him in the eye. “I’m not a resentful man, Sir Richard, but after the past twelve hours, I look forward to hand-delivering you to the authorities.”
“Ah, shut up, you bloody ponce!” Smythe shouted. “It’s degenerates like you who are destroying this country!”
Mrs. Singh grabbed Smythe by the collar and snarled, “Unless you’d care to start confessing, Sir Richard, I suggest you hold your tongue.”
Smythe snarled at her. “You don’t frighten me, you Punjabi dilettante. Playing at a man’s game, are you? Got tired of parading around with your fancy dresses and parties, eh?”
“Rant and rave all you want, Smythe,” Mrs. Singh replied. “Some of us work for a living, unlike you.”
“You have lost, Sir Richard,” Mr. Pryce said. “Be a good sport. Blowing up Parliament didn’t work for Guy Fawkes. Did you really believe the second time was the charm?”
“Parliament or no Parliament, it doesn’t matter!” Smythe shouted. “You think you’ve won, but you haven’t! There are more of us than you can imagine, just waiting for a signal to rise! The trueborn Englishman cannot be stopped by the likes of you! The purification of Britain will come to pass! If not now, then soon! If not by my hand, then by one who has yet to arrive! You’ve only delayed the inevitable.”
The sounds of boots in the corridor interrupted him. Kitty turned and saw a dozen men in British Army battledress rush into the chamber, carrying automatic rifles. They circled the team and held them at gunpoint. Kitty felt herself starting to panic. She hadn’t expected this, and going from a hard-won victory to capture by armed men was frightening. The world started getting hazy again.
Head together, Kitty. Head together.
Kitty couldn’t risk flicking her fingers in case the soldiers got the wrong idea, so she clenched her jaw and pressed one foot against the ground. It wasn’t perfect, but the pressure helped draw her back from the cloud of stress.
The two soldiers in the middle parted, making room for Gascoigne to come forward. He was stern-faced, but he looked slightly triumphant.
“What have we here?” he asked.
Mr. Pryce approached his fellow agent and held out a hand. “Easy, Gascoigne,” he said. “We’re on the same side.”
A couple of the soldiers shifted their aim to Mr. Pryce, but Gascoigne waved them off.
“Don’t even try explaining this away, Pryce,” he said sternly. “I find you here, surrounded by explosives, preparing to blow up the House of Commons as soon as it’s in session . . .” He looked at Smythe. “My God, man! Is that Sir Richard Smythe?”
“It is,” Mr. Pryce answered, “and if you would only listen—”
Gascoigne grabbed Mr. Pryce by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him forward. “You really have lost your mind, haven’t you? The Old Man said you were obsessed with Smythe, but I never imagined you’d kidnap him to make sure that he dies too!”
Smythe seized on Gascoigne’s words immediately. “Officer! Please, you must help me!” he cried. “These people are insane! They kidnapped me from my house last night! They’re going to murder me!”
This blatant lie was really too much. Kitty looked at Smythe long enough to give him a furious glare.
“You bloody lyin’ bastard!” she shouted. “You was the one what planned to blow up Parliament!” She turned to Gascoigne and pointed a finger at Smythe. “It were ’im, sir. We only just rescued Mr. Pryce.”
The combination of speaking and making eye contact under this much stress was rather difficult, but Kitty knew that it was important to make as strong an impression as possible. She fixed her eyes on Gascoigne’s collar, which was near enough that the man would hopefully think she was looking at his face.
“Look, there is no point in telling stories, girl,” Gascoigne scolded her. He turned back to Mr. Pryce. “The Old Man already warned me that you might be up to something. Said he was sending a team to investigate your headquarters to be safe, and he put me on standby here in Westminster. And it’s a damn good thing he did. One of my men saw your people sneaking in. We assumed you were going to assassinate someone, but this? Blowing up Parliament, Pryce? You Welshmen really are full of surprises.”
“I am telling you, Gascoigne—” Mr. Pryce insisted.
“He’s lying!” Smythe interrupted.
Faith pushed her way forward, holding up a mechanical pen for Gascoigne’s inspection. “Sir, if you’ll just—”
The soldiers immediately aimed at her, and Faith backed away in fright.
“Drop the weapon!” one of them shouted.
Without thinking, Kitty planted herself between Faith and the soldiers, shielding her friend. “It’s not a weapon, it’s a bleedin’ pen!” she snapped. “An’ we’re on your side, might I add!”
Gascoigne motioned for his men to lower their weapons. “Easy lads, I’ll handle this.” He beckoned Faith forward. “What do you want, girl?”
Faith approached Gascoigne cautiously and showed him the pen. Kitty gasped as she recognized it as a recording device. Faith must have brought one in her handbag of gadgets. Well, of course she had. Faith probably kept one on hand at all times, like any sensible person would do. It was still a pen, after all. One could never have too many of those.
“I think you might like to have a listen to this, sir,” Faith said. She twisted the top of the pen to rewind the tape, and fiddled with it to make it play.
“You have lost, Sir Richard.” That was Mr. Pryce’s voice, crackling a little from the recording, but easy to hear. “Be a good
sport. Blowing up Parliament didn’t work for Guy Fawkes. Did you really believe the second time was the charm?”
Smythe’s voice answered, “Parliament or no Parliament, it doesn’t matter! You think you’ve won, but you haven’t! There are more of us than you can imagine, just waiting for a signal to rise!”
The color drained from Smythe’s face as his full rant played back. He began talking over the recording, stammering excuses, but no one listened to him. Gascoigne’s expression fell as he realized how badly he had been duped.
“Smythe was the one behind the plot?” he asked in disbelief.
Mr. Pryce smirked in triumph. “It may shock you to learn this, Gascoigne, but my lot of foreigners and socialists have successfully saved Britain from a coup. So perhaps you would like to have your men put their guns down.”
Gascoigne held out a hand and slowly lowered it. His soldiers pointed their weapons at the floor, all of them looking confused and apprehensive.
“I’m sorry, Pryce,” Gascoigne stammered. “I . . . I assumed . . .”
“I know, Gascoigne. Maybe next time you’ll see fit to trust me and my agents.”
Gascoigne still looked unsettled. “But—the Old Man. How could he not know?”
“The Old Man were in on it!” Kitty exclaimed, forgetting to keep out of the conversation. “We got photos of ’em an’ everythin’!”
“Is this true, Pryce?” Gascoigne asked.
Mr. Pryce looked at Mrs. Singh for confirmation.
“It is,” Mrs. Singh said to Gascoigne.
Gascoigne hesitated for a few seconds, considering something. Then he motioned to his men. “Take Sir Richard into custody.”
“This is outrageous!” Smythe shouted, as a couple of the soldiers hauled him out of the chair. “This is not the end of this, Pryce!”
“Oh, shut up, you whiny fascist,” Mrs. Singh said to him. “Gascoigne, there are some more of Smythe’s men there, and there . . .” She pointed to the corners of the room. “And a couple more in that corridor over there.”
Gascoigne nodded, and motioned to his men to handle it.
The Secret Life of Kitty Granger Page 21