The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  ‘The cabbie, then. Local man?’ Lillian asked.

  ‘Dresden,’ the man gasped. ‘Jeremiah Dresden, off Butcher Row. That’s all I know, woman—leave me be!’

  Lillian withdrew the pin and pushed the man away. ‘There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? Sir Arthur, would you mind awfully checking if this man is telling the truth.’

  She stepped forward and took the gun from Arthur, keeping an eye on the shifty trio. Arthur cracked his fingers and stepped towards the cowed leader, one hand outstretched, the other held to his temple.

  The thug backed away as a look of dim comprehension crossed his features. Arthur feigned a look of intense concentration, half-closed his eyes, and moved forward slowly, until his hand almost touched the man’s forehead.

  ‘Mercy, no!’ he shouted. ‘You’re one o’ them! I swear I’m tellin’ the truth. I swear! Ain’t no need to scramble me brains.’

  Arthur opened his eyes. ‘No?’ His skills at telepathy were almost non-existent, but the thugs were not to know that.

  The man shook his head and sunk to his knees. ‘You already made me a grass; don’t go doin’ that ungodly stuff to me.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Arthur, haughtily. ‘But I have your measure now, sir. I could find you anywhere, blindfold in the dark. And I’ll be sure to bring her with me.’ He jerked his head towards Lillian.

  The man nodded fearfully, and Arthur left him kneeling in the dirt. Police whistles sounded in the distance as more officers arrived to break up the scuffles outside the Jolly Sailor. Sir Arthur and Lillian pushed past the three underlings, who parted warily, as if seeing Sir Arthur in a whole new light.

  ‘You played your part wonderfully, Sir Arthur,’ said Lillian, when they were out of earshot. She handed him back his pistol.

  ‘Well, I am a Majestic,’ Sir Arthur said. ‘I know the role well.’

  ‘Yes, well, there’s no point taking any unnecessary risks. Although he didn’t have to know that.’

  ‘Unnecessary…’ Arthur said, flabbergasted, waving a hand to indicate the fighting still erupting in the street.

  Lillian began walking up the street, ignoring the trouble she had incited.

  ‘And where are you off to now?’ Arthur called after her.

  ‘To catch a cab,’ she replied, looking back over her shoulder at him with a wicked grin.

  Sir Arthur Furnival raised his hands in resignation and followed her, as he always did.

  * * *

  John opened the shutter of his dark-lantern as much as he dared, casting a narrow beam of light around the windowless room. The office was ill kept and dirty, the desk scattered with papers. John looked through the only set of drawers in the room, finding them stuffed to bursting with accounts books and bills of lading and ledgers, seemingly without order.

  He rifled through the papers, scouring them for some clue. There were copies of receipts for steel from factories in Sheffield, and coal from as far afield as Newcastle, which John folded neatly and slipped into his pocket. A docket for the delivery of five hundred howitzer shells to a dockyard in Hull was likewise secreted away. He scowled when he found a similar dispatch note, and saw that the recipient was a private individual in Austria. The desk drawers contained several demands from the War Office for unfulfilled orders. Finally, he found a delivery note, positioned beneath a mould-filled teacup, and gave a smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Thursday, 16th October. A delivery of twenty-one carts of guncotton, three carts of gunpowder, and two carts of “sundries”,’ he read aloud.

  These were supplies delivered to the factory for the manufacturing process. John had no idea what the ‘sundries’ were, but he intended to find out. He scanned the right-hand column of the note marked ‘delivery area’. All of the powder had been dropped off at the warehouse adjacent to the factory. All except for the mysterious extra two carts, which had been taken to the cellars.

  John shuttered the lantern completely and slipped out of the office. He was about to head back to the stairs, but froze as a pair of shadows slid along the far wall, warped silhouettes thrown against the brick by blood-red light from the smelters.

  A moment later, John saw the unmistakeable forms of two men. John moved away as quickly as he dared to the door at the end of the catwalk. He guessed from the chill draught emanating from it that it led outside, but he did not know for sure. There was no other option.

  The cold air hit him, a merciful change from the smoke and heat of the factory behind. John stood on a platform atop a spindly iron fire escape, which clung tenaciously to the side of the massive building like ancient ivy. Left and right, huge chimney-stacks belched thick, black smoke into the chill air. So far from the chaos of the city, the skies did not burn with dreadful ethereal fire, and yet the rare treat was spoiled by the smoke from the forges, which blotted out the stars and moon. Beyond the iron stair, the roofs of a dozen huge storage sheds and warehouses stretched out for half a mile or more, before meeting a thick line of black trees.

  John knew he should make his way to ground level—he had what he needed, for now, at least. He should return to London at the earliest opportunity. But he felt that the owners of this factory had committed a great wrong; his indignation and curiosity got the better of him.

  He stooped at the door, pressing his eye to the keyhole. At first there was nothing to be seen—it was dark inside and out of the factory—but when his eyes adjusted, he saw two figures moving around outside the office door. One of the figures stepped out of view, and a brighter light soon illuminated the other man. His companion must have lit a lamp inside the office.

  The man who waited outside the office was impatient. He checked his pocket-watch, then turned around to face the factory floor. John made a mental note of his features; he was a pale young man of noble bearing, with thin black moustaches and a rather affected little beard. The second man—a shorter, older fellow—stepped out of the office, and the two began to exchange words. The taller man became agitated, gesticulating pointedly, before turning to stare out below him, hawk-like.

  They’ve discovered the dockets are missing.

  John had no sooner thought it than the tall man spun on his heel and fixed the outer door with such a penetrating gaze that John held his breath. The man took a step forward, and craned his neck like some predatory creature, staring at the door intently, until the smaller man seemed compelled to cease his agitated chatter and focus on the door also. John had the most irrational, creeping sense that the tall man was not only looking towards the door, but at the keyhole; through the keyhole, right at him. There was only one explanation…

  Majestic.

  John moved quickly and noiselessly from the door, and stole down the stairs. He reached a lower platform, but did not have time to descend the next flight before the door above opened, accompanied by the thrumming of machinery from within, and followed by a footfall on the iron decking above John’s head.

  ‘My lord,’ came a nervous voice from above, ‘I think you are being paranoid. I must have misplaced the dockets, that is all.’

  ‘Like you misplaced my caskets?’ came another voice, cold and assured. ‘Your office is as untidy as your mind, Hopkirk, and I will take no more chances.’

  Footsteps rang softly on the iron stairs as someone began the descent to John’s hiding place. John saw a pair of shiny black shoes through the gaps in the treads, and a pair of mud-splattered gaiters protruding beneath black trousers.

  ‘I told you, my lord,’ said Hopkirk, ‘no one could have got in. I’ve only been gone half an hour; most like I simply mislaid the dockets. As you said, I am a man of untidy habits, and—’

  ‘Stop your babbling!’

  Hopkirk was silent at once, and advanced no further.

  John held his breath, but he knew he could not evade discovery. He didn’t like working with Majestics, but now he rather wished Sir Arthur Furnival was present, to mask him from the uncanny senses of the man on the stairs. John set down the lantern
as quietly as he could, and pulled his gun from the holster at his breast. At this stage, he’d be glad of anyone to watch his back. Even Lillian, if their father would ever allow her to stand in harm’s way.

  The tall man took a few more steps before stopping, straining to hear his prey, or perhaps to divine the presence of intruders in some other, less natural manner.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ he said, his voice crisp and aristocratic. He took two slow, deliberate steps. ‘Who is… Lillian?’

  John almost cursed out loud at his own carelessness. He focused hard, trying to mask his thoughts from the Majestic’s probing.

  ‘Why don’t you come out of the shadows and face me like a man?’ the tall man goaded.

  ‘A fine idea.’ John stepped from behind the stair rail, gun cocked and aimed at his adversary. Hopkirk, standing at the top of the stairs, gave a high-pitched whine.

  The tall man merely smiled, and glowered at John through tinted spectacles. ‘You have taken something from me,’ he said. ‘They are perhaps of little import, but it’s the principle of the thing, you understand. Hand them over, and you may leave.’

  ‘Returning to London with evidence of a crime is one thing,’ John said, ‘but apprehending the culprit is quite another. It’s the principle of the thing, Lord…?’

  ‘De Montfort,’ the man said flatly. His grin broadened.

  ‘Enough talking. I think it better that you come with me, one way or another.’

  In a trice, de Montfort was no longer on the step in front of him, but beside him, striking a blow that sent John staggering backwards towards the railings. John squeezed the trigger as he flailed back, and heard Hopkirk scream. John dimly comprehended the fat little man hopping on one leg upon the top landing before crumpling to the walkway, out of sight.

  A vice-like hand in a black leather glove gripped John’s wrist; another hand tightened around his throat. De Montfort hoisted John from his feet and pressed him back over the railing. His strength was devilish. John’s head tipped back, and he saw a darkened alley some four storeys below.

  There was no time to lose. John wrapped his right foot around the crook of de Montfort’s knee, and let go of the rail. The sensation that they might both fall caused de Montfort’s grip to slacken, just a fraction. Just enough.

  John brought his hand up between them, the uppercut cracking into the man’s jaw. It felt like hitting a brick wall. The aristocrat barely flinched. John kicked his heel into the back of de Montfort’s left knee. The tall man twisted back a little, giving John an inch to push off the railing. They hurtled away from the precipice, crashing into a metal stair post.

  De Montfort twisted John’s arm so hard that he dropped the revolver. John replied by thrusting an elbow into de Montfort’s nose, and driving a knee into his midriff. The tall man finally relinquished his hold on John’s throat, and John took a gasp of air, which was quickly expelled again as de Montfort dealt him a hooking blow to the gut.

  John struggled to stay upright, but spied his gun upon the platform and dived for it. As his fingertips touched the cold steel, de Montfort gave him a hard shove, sending him hurtling down a flight of stairs to the next level, while the gun spun over the edge of the gantry and down into the shadows below.

  John hit the floor hard, pain shooting through his legs. Head spinning, he pushed himself upright, summoning all of his strength, remembering his training. Never allow yourself to be put on the back foot. Always get up; always attack.

  He spun to face his opponent, who wasn’t there.

  A brutal jab came from nowhere, crunching into John’s ribs. De Montfort had somehow cleared the flight of stairs and was already on the offensive. John raised a forearm to block another strike, and winced as pain flared though his bruised arm. He hoped it wasn’t broken.

  ‘You could have walked away from this,’ snarled the aristocrat.

  ‘So could you.’

  With a flick of his wrist, a knife flashed from up his sleeve, and John punched it into de Montfort’s shoulder, withdrew it, and slashed out, cutting the tall man’s porcelain-white face.

  De Montfort staggered back two paces. No blood issued from the wounds. John frowned in disbelief.

  At that hesitation, de Montfort surged forward, shoving John hard in the chest and sending him toppling over the railing. John reached out desperately, catching the edge of the platform with his left hand, his right useless with the spring-loaded knife in the way. He looked up at de Montfort, who had stooped down to pick up a few scattered items that had fallen from John’s pockets. In his hand, de Montfort now held a small, ivory card.

  ‘Lieutenant John Hardwick, The Apollonian Club.’ De Montfort smirked. ‘I wondered how long it would take the Order to come calling. Oh, I do hope you’re a relative of Lord Hardwick—that will make this all the more personal, don’t you think? I hear he’s quite masterful when he’s angry.’

  John grunted with pain, and tried to shake the knife loose so he could get a grip on the metal ledge. He was dimly aware of a shrieking voice from somewhere overhead wailing: ‘He shot me; I am shot, sir!’ And then de Montfort trod on John’s hand, twisting a boot-heel into his fingers.

  John gritted his teeth against the pain, and looked about desperately for some escape. There was none. De Montfort stamped again, and this time John’s fingers betrayed him. He let go, and plummeted to the ground.

  John called upon his training once more, letting his body go limp as the wind whistled past his ears. When he hit the ground, it gave beneath him, enough to absorb some of the impact, and bounce him momentarily upwards before he crunched to a halt. His head spun. He believed he could make out de Montfort’s face, gleaming in the darkness above. Then he heard an ominous cracking and creaking, like the timbers of a wooden ship taking water, and he realised he was atop a pair of huge cellar doors. Half-rotten, wooden cellar doors.

  They gave way beneath him. Cold, damp air that tasted of iron and old earth filled his lungs, before he hit a hard, wet floor, and consciousness was knocked from him.

  FOUR

  The cabman’s wife cuffed her husband once more about the head. Lillian disguised a smirk at the man’s discomfort. Mrs. Dresden, it seemed, was a formidable woman, broad of features, blunt of opinion, and possessed of a strength earned from working the mangle all day long. Jeremiah Dresden, by contrast, was the sort of fellow who stayed quiet whatever the situation, keeping his own counsel whether it was wise to do so, or foolish.

  ‘You tell this lady an’ her fine gen’leman what you were doing carting a hussy about at all hours,’ Mrs. Dresden barked. ‘And tell me while you’re about it. I didn’t see no extra shilling for the private hire, and I wouldn’a wanted it, neither, had it come about by some disrep’uble means.’ The woman gave an awkward curtsey towards Lillian and her fine gentleman, seeking their approbation.

  ‘It’s why I didn’t tell you ’bout it, woman,’ said Dresden, sheepishly. ‘I knew how you’d carry on if’n you knew. But we needed the money.’

  ‘And where is the money, Jeremiah Dresden?’ his wife glowered. ‘I see no coin, and now we have fine folk knockin’ on our door, askin’ us about missing harlots. Why, I curse the day we married!’ She reddened, perhaps fearing she had said more than she could rescind, once this trouble was done with and life returned to normal. Dresden merely stared at his feet.

  ‘Please, madam,’ Lillian said, ‘I’m sure I speak for both Sir Arthur and myself when I say that we make no judgement on your husband or upon your household. What a man must do to earn a living in these difficult times is his own business. No one is saying that Mr. Dresden was cavorting with ladies of disrepute, nor that he had any hand in the… murder… of this unfortunate young girl, barely more than a child, God rest her.’ Lillian emphasised the words ‘disrepute’, ‘murder’, and ‘child’, which had the effect of turning Mr. Dresden quite pale. His wife’s sharp eyes darted towards him so fixedly that, had she been a Majestic, her husband would have been stricken sen
seless where he stood.

  ‘Murder…’ he said, dumbly.

  ‘Oh indeed,’ Lillian continued. ‘It is almost certainly murder. Perhaps many would not have noticed the loss of another such lowly soul, but this one has been noticed, and has come to the attention of our agency.’

  ‘Agency?’ asked Dresden, tremulously.

  ‘A very special agency,’ Arthur interjected. ‘We report to Lord Hardwick himself; perhaps you have heard of him.’ Now it was Mrs. Dresden’s turn to pale—everyone had heard of Marcus Hardwick. The former head of the War Office, a man who had been given his title by Gladstone, on the Queen’s orders, and tasked with restoring order after the devastating effects of the Awakening. The man who, it was whispered, had ordered a thousand tortured souls to vanish without a trace for the ‘greater good’, and who fought every day to destroy the Riftborn that preyed on the innocents of the Empire. At mention of his name, Mr. Dresden gulped.

  ‘I don’t want no trouble,’ he stammered. ‘I took the job, I don’t deny it, because the gent paid cash up front. I drove him around for a couple o’ hours, and I turned a blind eye to his doings, as is the cabman’s code. Everyone does it, from time to time, when pickings is slim.’

  ‘Did the gentleman give a name?’ Lillian grew impatient. It seemed that Dresden was stalling for time, perhaps so that his dull mind could come up with some cock-and-bull story.

  ‘No, but they never does.’

  ‘So you have done this more than once?’ she said. ‘It is, of course, against the law to engage a hansom on these terms. A fine is the usual punishment, but given the seriousness of the crime…’

  ‘Please, there’s no need for that. I’ll help as best I can, but I can’t really remember… it’s been a long while, you see, and—’

  ‘Calm yourself, Mr. Dresden,’ Sir Arthur said. ‘My companion, Agent Hardwick, is simply very eager to get to the bottom of this affair, by whatever means necessary.’