by Andy Emery
Gedge threw himself into the cab. ‘You saw them?’
‘I made a move toward them, but Volkov pointed his pistol at me. Ah, if he harms Miss Rondeau, I will kill him, slowly!’
‘You’ll have to beat me to it. Lucky he didn’t realise you’re not just the average cab driver, or he’d have shot you then and there. Let’s go!’
Gedge leaned out of the window. Volkov was doing likewise, shouting up to his own driver, no doubt calling for more speed. But the street was too busy for any horse to move at more than walking pace; that wasn’t likely to improve as their quarry turned left towards one of the busiest intersections in London.
‘He’s going south. No chance of catching up with him yet, but make sure we keep him in sight. Check that nobody gets out of that cab.’
‘Of course.’ Darius, in the raised driver’s seat, had a much better view of the traffic ahead. He muttered an oath under his breath. ‘Tottenham Court Road, Oxford Street, Charing Cross Road. All of London is passing through this crossroads, it seems.’
Indeed, they were soon trying to push through a seething mass of humanity. On the pavements, wealthy shoppers mixed with barrow boys and hawkers, theatregoers jostled with office workers. And on the road, it was virtually gridlock, with the four streams of traffic locked together in a chaotic impasse: dozens of omnibuses, packed with passengers and plastered with gaudy advertisements; carts carrying all manner of goods, from lumber to milk churns to bolts of cloth; and of course countless hansom cabs. All this frenzied yet thwarted transit was played out below huge garish posters covering the upper stories of the encircling buildings, promoting everything from Bovril beef extract to Lipton’s tea and Rimmel perfume.
Darius ushered their vehicle through the narrowest of gaps in pursuit of Volkov. At one point, he managed to direct the cab between two omnibuses, resulting in a volley of curses from a neighbouring driver who seemed to imagine he deserved the space more. But a baleful glance from the statuesque Persian was enough to quieten the protests.
Darius directed these manoeuvres while continually speaking to Cinnamon in soothing tones: directions, prompts and encouragement spoken in the Persian, or Farsi, tongue. The big man had an innate understanding of horseflesh and a deep love for his hoofed friends. He could ride bareback and he never used a whip, unlike every other cab driver.
But despite this symbiosis between man and horse, they weren’t gaining on Volkov’s cab, and the anarchic whirlpool of vehicles swirled around them.
Gedge pulled back from the window. ‘This is like trying to swim through treacle!’ It occurred to him that he might be able to disembark and get to the other cab more quickly on foot, but he risked being crushed to death, and he could also jeopardise the safety of innocent bystanders.
At last, they emerged into Charing Cross Road, and the traffic eased enough to settle to a gentle walking pace. Their quarry was still about fifty yards ahead, but at least they had made progress.
There was still no chance of gaining on Volkov before they entered probably the most famous open space in all of London: Trafalgar Square. Here though, they were able to pick up speed, and traversed the square at a trot. With the National Gallery on their right, they passed beneath the towering Nelson’s Column and into Whitehall, the centre of British Government and the hub of the whole empire.
Gedge called to Darius. ‘Still heading south. He must be going to Hawthorne’s house.’
‘Yes. Perhaps we can overtake him somewhere a little less public. But not yet. We are almost at the Houses of Parliament.’
Three buses and a couple of hansoms now separated Gedge’s cab from Volkov’s. They’d closed on him, and when Gedge leaned out of the window to peer ahead, he again saw the Russian looking back at him. His adversary smiled, but then spoke to his driver with some urgency.
Another intersection. They had reached Parliament Square, with the famous clock tower housing the bell known as Big Ben on the left. They swept around the square, with more traffic crossing ahead, and continued onto Millbank, the road running adjacent to the Thames.
Darius looked back. ‘Still going south.’
‘Yes. This road carries on to Pimlico and Chelsea, all along the northern bank of the river.’ Gedge rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘It’s not far now.’
‘The roads are clearing. The traffic is getting thinner! We may be able to make our move.’
Again, Gedge leant out of the window. ‘Darius! Volkov’s cab is away! He’s off at a canter.’
Another oath in Farsi from the Persian. ‘I am unsighted by this omnibus in front of us. I have to overtake him. Hold on, Lucas!’
Darius shouted a command to Cinnamon and, to the consternation of the passengers on the bus, the hansom veered to the right and surged alongside. They were still picking up speed, and overtook the larger vehicle in a few more strides. Their horse was now galloping free, and the distance to Volkov’s cab was down to ten yards, with no more obstructions between them.
The smile drained from the Russian’s face, and he shouted orders to his driver, who proceeded to lash their horse with renewed ferocity.
‘Well done, Darius! We’ll be upon them in a few minutes!’
‘It is Cinnamon you should thank. I am merely here to focus his energies.’
‘You’re both doing a great job!’
They passed a series of wharves along the bank to their left, and warehouses lining the road to the right. As the street changed its name to Grosvenor Road, the walls of Millbank Prison loomed up ahead.
‘We’re going to catch him before he gets to his destination! Come on, Darius. Get us alongside!’
Cinnamon’s flanks were flecked with foam as he propelled them onward. He drew level with the rear of Volkov’s cab, and the other driver looked across at them with a snarl. Now the two vehicles were abreast. Darius and the other driver eyed each other, and inside the other cab, Gedge could see Polly’s face, staring at him wide-eyed. Volkov shouted more instructions, and their driver jerked on the reins. Their nag had something of the carthorse about him; he wasn’t as sleek as Cinnamon and probably lacked staying power, but he was strong. He lurched to the right, and the hansom went with him.
The side of the Russian’s cab crashed into Gedge’s, pitching him onto the floor. They were being forced towards the walls of the buildings on their right-hand side. Sparks flew from the clash of metal tyres, and the door handle and mudguard on the left side of Darius’s hansom were snapped off. On the other side, the cab’s wheel mounted the pavement, and the two vehicles locked together, Volkov’s driver forcing them ever closer to the buildings.
A foot away. Six inches…
Just as the right side of Darius’s hansom touched the wall of the nearest warehouse, with a hideous rending and splintering sound, a delivery wagon up ahead pulled out of Millbank Prison’s main gate. It was a huge double-height affair, and it was obvious that a collision with such an object at the speed they were going would leave any cab as matchwood. As the wagon made a ponderous turn onto Grosvenor Road, Volkov’s cab swung to the left, and Darius was able to ease away from the wall.
Gedge was tossed around inside the cab, as the right-hand side door swung loose; the wall had sheared through its hinges. It fell clean away into the street.
Darius aimed a high-pitched volley of Farsi at Cinnamon and they made for the narrowest of gaps between the rear of the wagon and the gates to the prison. Gedge held on for dear life.
With inches to spare on each side, they made it through. The two hansoms passed the wagon on either side, the latter’s driver staring after them open-mouthed.
No sooner had they got past, another obstruction was revealed for Darius. A tinker had set up a cart at the side of the road and was doing business with a small crowd of people. They’d probably never seen road traffic moving as fast as the two hansoms, and they were far too slow to get out of the way. There was an open road ahead for Volkov to their left, but Darius headed straight for the cart and its cu
stomers.
Again the Persian uttered a piercing cry in the direction of Cinnamon and wrenched on the reins, slowing them down and seeking a trajectory to cause least damage or injury. The people flung themselves out of the way, either side of the careering cab. He almost avoided the cart itself, but not quite. A glancing blow knocked the side out of the flimsy construction, collapsing it and sending pots and pans crashing into the road.
Gedge looked back. ‘They’re all alright! More than I can say for this hansom. The repair bill’s going to be huge.’
‘Should I stop then, Lucas?’
Gedge smiled. ‘Ah, you’re finally learning a Western sense of humour, Darius. No! As long as this thing doesn’t actually fall apart, keep after them. You’ve got ground to make up again now, although if I’m right, we’re almost at their destination.’
‘I do not think Cinnamon can keep going much longer, anyway.’
They passed more wharves on their left, and then Vauxhall Bridge. Volkov’s cab was now a couple of hundred yards ahead, and as they passed around a sharper bend in the river, it disappeared from view. The speed of both cabs had declined; the horses propelling them were running out of energy.
As they turned the corner, a rare green space opened up: townhouses surrounded a square with trees, shrubs and lawns. They were in Pimlico, and this was St George’s Square. And there on the corner of it: Hawthorne’s house, with Volkov’s hansom parked outside, a great gash along its right side. The driver was still in his seat, but slumped over.
Gedge shouted ‘Let’s go!’
Darius brought the cab to a screaming halt and they both leapt out. Gedge needed only a glance to see that the driver must have fallen foul of Volkov. He leaned into his cab and pushed the man’s body back upright. Blood oozed from a stab wound in his chest.
The pair exchanged glances and hurried up the stairs to the house. An incongruous pile of old mattresses lay in the tiny garden to the right of the door, presumably awaiting collection and disposal.
As Gedge reached the front door, it was thrust open from within, just by a few inches. Enough for him to see Hawthorne’s thick-set retainer Busbridge levelling a shotgun at them.
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Gedge shouted to Darius. ‘Move! Gun!’ They both hurled themselves sideways: Gedge to the left of the door, and the Persian to the right. Busbridge pulled the trigger. Pellets whipped at Gedge’s coat-tails, and the blast tore razor sharp splinters from the edge of the door frame.
But they’d both escaped injury, and, hearing Hawthorne’s man crack open the shotgun to reload, Gedge glanced at Darius and nodded. The Persian booted the door open and Gedge threw himself inside, rugby-tackling Busbridge to the floor. The shotgun and cartridges he’d been unable to load skittered across the tiled floor.
‘You were a bit too confident there, Busbridge.’ Gedge used his weight to keep the man pinned down. ‘Now, where are your master and his friend Volkov?’
Busbridge’s face contorted with fury and he writhed about, trying to break free. Darius stepped forward and clamped his limbs to the ground.
‘Where?’ Gedge got an arm free and brandished his dagger.
A commotion from upstairs. The raised voices of Volkov and Hawthorne.
Gedge looked at Darius and nodded in the direction of Busbridge. The Persian leant down and applied his fingers to a vein in the butler’s neck. Busbridge’s writhings ceased and his head flopped to the side.
Gedge glanced at Darius. ‘Out for the count. Let’s go.’
He led the charge for the staircase. They leapt up the carpeted stairs two at a time, hauling themselves up using the spirally fluted supporting columns. They reached the first floor landing and could still hear the voices above, but as well as the two men, now Gedge could make out Polly’s higher pitched cadence. He surged ahead, leaving Darius in his wake.
They passed the second floor. Each landing was festooned with display cases full of ancient relics, framed paintings and fragments of manuscripts. There was even a complete Egyptian mummy, standing to attention and mounted on its own plinth.
The staircase narrowed and turned back in the direction of the front of the house. The walls had closed in; the third floor above could only consist of one small room.
He turned back to Darius, pointing up. ‘They’re in the tower we saw from the street.’
‘Lucas, be careful! You don’t know what you’ll find.’
Gedge waited for Darius to catch him up, and they both drew their revolvers.
There was just one door—ajar—on the third floor. The occupants had gone silent, perhaps hearing Gedge and Darius approach. Gedge pushed the door open, gun at the ready, with Darius close behind.
The room was octagonal and only about fifteen feet across. A desk and a crackling fire occupied the space to their left, while on the right were floor to ceiling bookcases. Hawthorne, Polly and Volkov stood by the opposite wall, in front of a pair of closed, purple velvet curtains.
Hawthorne, in his smoking jacket, appeared edgy, his eyes darting around the room. He gripped the grimoire with both hands. Polly looked shattered. Colour had drained from her face and she held onto the wall with one hand.
In between the two of them, Volkov stood with a leather bag slung over his left shoulder and a large calibre revolver trained on the newcomers. He had a confident smile on his face, and there was something about the glint in his eye that unsettled Gedge.
‘So, Gedge. Another confrontation. And you’ve brought a friend, I see. Well, the more the merrier, as I believe you say in this country.’
Gedge ignored Volkov. ‘Polly, are you alright?’
‘Lucas…’
Volkov watched her for a moment. ‘She’s my daughter, Gedge. Why would I harm her? It’s true our nascent relationship has soured over the course of the last few hours. I haven’t been able to convince her of the righteousness of my cause. I’m afraid she will not be accompanying me back to the motherland. I should not have entertained such a fantasy.’
Polly let out a strange little laugh. ‘You’re wrong. It’s nothing to do with your cause. If only you knew how I yearn to help with the struggles common people face in this unfair world. But I have no faith in the way you’ll go about trying to change things.
‘It’s you. There’s something wrong up here.’ She tapped her head. ‘The things you’ve told me, things you’re proud of. Murder, cannibalism even. That story from your youth. The cousin. What good did you think telling me that would do? You’re unstable. The last person who should lead a revolution. I never wanted to know who my real father was, and even if your sudden appearance made me waver, it was only for a few seconds. I’m as sure as I ever was that Claude Rondeau was my father in all but the legal niceties. You could never ever have replaced him in my affections.’
The smile had disappeared from Volkov’s face. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Not quite. Lucas, to cap it all, he’s told me what he plans to do with the proceeds from the sale. He’ll buy dozens of Maxim guns. Have you heard of them?’
‘Of course. It’s a machine gun that relies on its own recoil to reload, so it doesn’t have to be hand-cranked. It can fire hundreds of rounds a minute. You could mow down dozens of people in that minute. Absolutely deadly.’
‘Yes, and he aims to deploy them in Russia’s major cities. Supposedly against the regime. But it’ll be carnage. Innocent people will die.’
Volkov grabbed Polly with his free hand and pointed the pistol at her.
Gedge stepped forward. ‘Volkov! Don’t do anything stupid. We’ve reached an impasse. Surely you can see you can’t get away? You might as well give up. No point harming your daughter, however you feel about each other.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you? But you are overconfident. I will get away, with enough money to fund any number of attacks on the Tsarist regime, thanks to my generous customer here.’ He nodded at Hawthorne, who looked increasingly nervous, but still clutched the grimoire to his chest. ‘I�
��m afraid Mr Hawthorne underestimated me when he thought he could simply back out of our deal.’ He tapped the bag by his side. ‘Hawthorne now has the grimoire, and I have the money: lots of it.
‘And as my daughter has disowned me, our relationship is at an end. Why wouldn’t I then harm her? Even kill her? But it’s obvious, Gedge, that you are close to her, no? That is why you will let me go. You will have no choice.’ He poked the barrel of the revolver into Polly’s ribs, making her wince.
Gedge shook his head. ‘But even if you were to get away from this house, you’d never get out of London and back to Russia. You must see that?’
‘Not at all. You think I am working alone? Not so. A network of likeminded souls provide assistance. My escape route is mapped out. Forgive me if I don’t give you the details.’
The smile had returned. Volkov reached behind him and wrenched the curtains apart, revealing an open window. A thick rope was tied to one of the metal loops used to hold back the curtain when open; it trailed out of the window.
‘You can’t be serious. You won’t be able to get to the bottom without us shooting you.’
‘Don’t be too sure about that.’
Volkov ripped the grimoire from Hawthorne and hurled it in the direction of the flaming logs in the grate behind the desk.
Time stood still as the tome looped through the air. It seemed to be falling short of its mark, but it bounced on the edge of Hawthorne’s desk, and was deflected straight into the glowing embers.
Hawthorne howled and threw himself towards the fire.
Darius shouted. ‘Lucas! The window!’
Volkov’s distraction had worked. He was over the ledge, the end of the rope thrumming as he scrambled down. But he had only made it as far as the second floor when Gedge reached the window and looked out.