by Ed Zenith
“Freight?”
Ash nodded.
“For my train?”
Ash nodded.
“No. No way.”
Ash’s face dropped.
“But…you said…” spluttered Ash.
“I said nothing. He said. And he’s an idiot.”
“But…”
“But nothing. I said we’d drop you off in Swindon and that’s all. Look around you. It’s your stop.”
Ash was crestfallen. His one chance to be in a place he felt he belonged had been dashed. Frampton tried to make a reassuring facial expression across the table at Ash.
“Now, Master Acton,” he began in calm, passive tones, as if placating a small child. “The lad didn’t mean no harm. He’s eager is all. We needs a job and an extra pair of hands wouldn’t go amiss now, would it?”
Acton slammed his pint on to the table and turned on Frampton.
“If you hadn’t noticed, he’s a runaway. The police will be looking all over for him and we’d do better to turn him in and collect a reward.”
Ash could stand it no longer and broke his silence.
“From what I can gather, you’re no friend of the law yourselves!”
Acton and Frampton were shocked at the boy’s outburst and looked about to see if anyone had heard. Acton leaned in across the table and spoke through his teeth.
“Precisely, which is why I don’t need the added attention of having a snotty little brat on board and why all of my jobs come from like-minded businessmen.” Ash looked blank, so Acton elaborated: “I means, they’re hooky. The last lot we delivered was chalk, illegally mined from the white cliffs of Dover. Why’d you think we turned up on that track on the Downs? That’s the only way to bypass customs. Maybe Captain Buggerlugs here forgot to mention that part.”
“But-” started Ash.
“NO!” bellowed Acton. “My train, my rules and I said no!”
9.
Ash could see that Acton required a little more persuasion. He was quite deft in this area and soon Acton was running out of excuses. The job would be over and done with in a matter of days, Ash would be on hand to see to the customer and once the job was done, Acton could throw Ash to the gutter once more, if he wanted. Acton was impressed, in spite of himself, with the boy’s resourcefulness and ingenuity. The fact that the customer could pay cash upfront also helped. He finally agreed.
“How’d you find this customer then?”
“Oh, I have my ways,” said Ash elusively. He neglected to mention that his ‘ways’ included getting knocked unconscious and pure blind luck.
It was approaching midday and they rose from their seats. The two men, a small boy and a very tipsy dog shuffled towards the door. As Acton laid his hand on the handle, a meaty fist forced the door shut. Acton looked up into the piggy eyes of a red-faced ogre. Kington Langley was the landlord of The Ballast Inn and from the look of his belly, his own best customer.
“Morning Mr Langley,” said Acton, sensing from Langley’s angry demeanour that a little charm wouldn’t go amiss. “The Fugglestone Red was particularly excellent today. Why don’t you have one on me?”
Langley snorted a laugh.
“On you? That’s a laugh Turville. I ain’t never seen you put your hand in your pocket in this pub. I’ve a slate out the back with your name on it so large I could re-tile my roof.”
Ash and Frampton exchanged glances. They were ready to run or fight on Acton’s command.
“And I’ll settle up soon, my friend. I just got to run a job first. Soon as I’m paid, you’ll be too.” Acton smiled. He certainly knew how to sing his way out of a bad situation, something he and Ash had in common. A few tense moments passed and Langley relaxed his grip on the door.
“Next time I see you in here, I’m taking my money, or you’re taking a beating.”
They hurriedly left the inn and went out into the smoky Swindonian air. Acton looked at Ash.
“Tell your customer to come and meet us.” slurred Acton, embarrassed at his confrontation.
“Too late,” grinned Ash sheepishly. “I already told her to meet us at the station with the freight at noon.”
He winked at Frampton and ran off down the railway sidings to meet his customer, sending a group of men scattering.
10.
Malford was impressed how quickly KRUM had rolled into action. He had barely begun to outline the details of their mission when Captain Fitzwarren started to bark orders at his team. The soldiers had jumped to attention and the speed with which they operated was something to behold. They had dressed and equipped themselves with specialised equipment in less than two minutes. Fitzwarren, or Fitz as everyone seemed to call him, barely had to say a word to the men, just gesture or glance in their direction and the responded accordingly. Within four minutes, they were marching out of the door.
“You!” barked Fitz at Malford. “Move. I need details.”
So Malford walked alongside them as they marched along the sidings of the railway.
“Cannings has always been a nasty piece of work. Her Majesty believes it is time he was, ahem…neutralised,” puffed Malford, struggling to keep up.
“Which is where we come in. He is located at the Great Western Home for the Unruly and Damned?”
“Quite. There are quite a few guards there. Will five men be enough?”
“I can raise an army of thousands if Her Majesty wishes, but to wipe out one fat bishop? Yes, five will be plenty.”
“Excellent. There is also the matter of the blade. We would like it retrieved, if indeed he has it at all and isn’t trying to execute some mad bluff.”
“Of course Mr Malford. And the belt?”
“Whereabouts currently unknown, but I’m impressed you know about it. You must know your royal history.”
Fitz made it his business to know everything that went on in the palace. He was, after all, employed to protect Her Majesty and the tiniest bit of information may prove vital one day.
He had been a soldier all his life, starting as a powder monkey in the army at the age of eleven. He toured the battlegrounds of Europe and due to his extreme bravery and an uncanny knack of staying alive, he was promoted through the ranks. He came to the attention of the palace when he was just twenty-five and appointed head of KRUM. Twenty-two years and hundreds of missions later, he was beginning to feel his age, his joints aching. He kept a hipflask of whale oil by his side at all times. He sipped from it now, disregarding the foul stench of it and swallowing it down, letting it ease his pain.
A small blond boy in dungarees sprinted past them, causing the regiment to part to let him past on the small path.
Malford had dropped behind the regiment slightly and jogged to keep up.
“Here’s Cannings’s file,” he said, handing over a brown envelope. “Needless to say, we’d prefer a discrete operation.”
It was needless to say, thought Fitz and so did not respond.
“Where are you going?” asked Malford. He was irritating Fitz now and the men could tell. Meysey jumped in to answer.
“We keep a shed about a mile down the track. It houses our locomotive, ‘The Black Viper’.”
“Well, you seem organised. I’ll take my leave here and expect to see you for a debriefing in due course.”
Fitz’s granite expression remained impassive, although beneath his steely exterior, he was thankful Malford had left. He had already begun to plan the mission in his head and it required concentration. Like a large mechanism, or a steam engine, if any part went wrong the whole mission could be derailed and he did not want to disappoint his Queen. The only part he could not figure out was the damned jewelled belt. If only he could get his hands on it, but he was unlikely to just bump into it in Swindon. That was what missions were for; to hunt for treasure and slay the enemy.
*****
Acton strolled back to the station with a head full of beer, shaking his head in admiration at Ash’s gall. Ash had known how prickly Acton could be
, yet he had gone ahead and scheduled a job on his train without his permission anyway. Growing up the Home had certainly made him a canny lad. Acton meandered down the siding, sloshing this way and that, until he crossed paths with a group of black-clad men. The path was narrow and they had to part the group to let each other pass. Acton misjudged his balance and bumped shoulders with one of the men.
“Oi! Watch it!” said the man. It was Haydon Wick.
“S’Alright son, no harm done,” slurred Acton. He looked up to see the identical Haydon and Badbury side by side. “Here, Frampton, how much of that stuff did I drink?” he laughed. “I’m seeing double here!”
Frampton laughed with him, but they soon stopped when they realised no one else was joining in. The Wick’s eyes burrowed into them.
“You owe my brother an apology,” said Badbury.
Acton was not afraid of apologising to someone. Some men saw it as a sign of weakness, but to Acton it was just good manners. What he hated however, was a demand for an apology. A demand like that reminded him of bullying and he had had enough of that to last him a lifetime.
“Is that so? Maybe I do, but I don’t think he’ll be getting one, not today.”
The Wicks tensed, itching for a fight. If truth be told, there wasn’t a minute in the day that they weren’t in the mood for a good scrap, but that was what made them so useful to KRUM. The Wicks glanced at each other, then grabbed one of Acton’s lapels each, lifting the stout man up off the ground.
“Easy boys,” came a voice from down the track. Marston Meysey sauntered up to the fracas. “Well, well, well. Mr Turville, as I live and breathe.”
From Acton's elevated position, he could look the tall Meysey in the eye and he did not like what he saw.
“Ah, Marston. You couldn’t persuade these lads to put me down, could you?”
“No, no, you keep him steady chaps. Mr Turville is a slippery person to get hold of, so keep a tight grip on him. We’ve got a bit of business to discuss, if you remember?”
Acton did not remember. Meysey turned his charming smile to Frampton, who was rolling up his sleeves, readying to assist his master if it came to a fight.
“It’s alright, Mr Cotterell. There’ll be no fisticuffs today, though your loyalty to your employer is heartening.”
“Here! How’d you know my name?” said a bemused Frampton.
“You could say it’s my job old man. I doubt you’ll find anyone in Swindon I don’t know the dirt on. As for Mr Turville here, well he’s a celebrity in his own time, isn’t that right?”
Acton managed a shrug.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about fella.”
“Let me enlighten you. The Reckless Engineer Tavern. A few hands of cards. Several tankards of ale. An unpaid gambling debt.”
“Oh. That,” said Acton.
“Yes. That,” said Meysey. “You owe me a fair old wedge old chap. I’m busy at the moment, but now I know you’re in Swindon again I’ll be calling on you presently to collect it. I may even bring Haydon and Badbury here.”
“’Ow’d you even know where we’ll be?” said Frampton.
“Again, I make it my business to know,” said Meysey, turning away and strolling down the tracks, leaving Acton dangling between the Wicks.
Fitz had seen the whole set-to and decided he wanted his regiment’s energies to be spent on the mission in hand.
“Stand down, boys.”
The Wicks reluctantly dropped Acton and backed off.
“That’s it. Back to Daddy,” taunted Acton, smoothing his suit down. Haydon turned. Acton could see he was restraining himself. It took every ounce of willpower for Haydon to back down and turn back to his regiment. Badbury couldn’t resist a parting shot though.
“If we meet again, I’m going to have to take that apology by force.”
Acton collected himself as he watched the mysterious black-clad men walk away. Frampton looked on at his embarrassed master.
“It ain’t my place to say Master Acton, but you don’t half get yourself into some trouble.”
“You’re right Frampton,” sighed Acton, turning to him. “It ain’t your place to say.”
*****
Acton, Frampton and a very tipsy Studley returned to the siding where they had left the Horton and drove it slowly back to the station. Ash had told them which platform to wait at and sure enough, as they glided into the station he was there, unloading boxes from a cart onto some flat bed trailers which the customer had rented. Frampton applied the brakes smoothly and Acton hopped onto the platform. Ash stood proudly amongst the boxes.
“Don’t look so smug boy, not least till we’ve been paid,” smiled Acton, helping to unload the final few boxes.
“She’ll pay alright Master Acton. Proper lady she is, well-heeled.”
“Yeah? Where is this angel then? Done a runner already?”
“She’s sending a telegram, so’s folks know we’re coming at other end. Hang on, here she is now.”
Acton had just lifted the final and heaviest box from the cart and was inching his way to the trailer.
“Master Acton, allow me to introduce Miss Sandy Lane.”
Acton threw down the box he was carrying and wiped his hand on his waistcoat. The two shook hands, barely noticing each other at first. Acton had to look away and look again at his new client, for he certainly hadn’t seen a lady so beautiful since…well, ever. The kind of establishments that Acton frequented did not attract beautiful ladies like Miss Lane. He had seen some in the music hall of course, on the stage, but that had been from afar, never in close quarters like this and certainly never shaking her hand. Acton suddenly realised that he had been staring at her for some moments now and was no longer shaking her hand, more holding it. He began to panic and let her hand drop. Had she noticed him noticing her? Had he made a fool of himself even before he’d opened his mouth?
Sandy, for her part, was completely oblivious to Acton’s temporary infatuation, as she had her eyes all this time on a clipboard with a freight manifest attached to it. She would unwittingly deal with these unwanted attentions anyway with her next sentence:
“Are you sure your engine will survive the journey? She looks a little clapped out...”
Acton’s face fell. In the railway fraternity, insulting a man’s engine was akin to pointing out to a mother that her newborn baby was a bit fat and certainly wouldn’t win any beauty contests.
“The Horton is a fine, strong engine Miss. You’ll find no better.”
“Hmm…” said Sandy. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”
Silently fuming, Acton curtailed his anger. “Regarding the bill, Miss-”
“That’s all been arranged with your assistant.”
Assistant? Acton frowned, then saw Ash smiling as he helped load the heavy crates onto the train.
“Has it indeed? Excuse me.”
Acton left Sandy to her clipboard and strode off down the platform, grabbing Ash by the collar and lifting him off the ground as he passed. He pinned the confused boy up against a notice board.
“What did you say to Lady Muck over there about money?”
A frightened Ash dangled in the air, certain that he was in trouble no matter what his answer would be.
“Not much. She wanted a quote and I didn’t know how much, so I took a guess.”
“It better’ve been a good ‘un!” Acton now had taken an instant dislike to Sandy and was looking for any excuse to get rid of her. And Ash, come to that.
“So I said…”
“Come on boy, spit it out!”
“I said…”
Tired of Ash’s stammering, Acton dropped him on the floor. He tried the gentle approach.
“Boy, I’d had a rough day already so far. It’s unlikely to get any better with her highness over there thinking she owns us, so just tell me, tell me you haven’t sold me down the river for a pittance and I won’t have to dunk you in the water tower.”
Ash finally said the amou
nt.
Acton, ready to pick up Ash and hurl him into an open manhole, stopped. If he’d heard right, the fee was roughly four times what he would usually take for such a job, enough to pay off Marston Meysey and the bar tab at the Ballast. He asked Ash to repeat himself.
“Twenty-seven pounds and six shillings. I started at thirty, but she said it sounded rather high, so she haggled me down.”
“Rather high?” thought Acton. If only she knew. “Alright boy, I suppose I can do it for that.”
“And can I stay? As crew I mean?”
Acton looked at Ash. He was a hard man, but not even he could break the spirit and expectations of a poor young sap like Ash. Not yet, anyway.
“Alright, but you’re on trial. Now back to work.”
Ash sped off to help load the crates while Acton returned to his client.
“What was that about?” Sandy asked.
“Hmm? Oh just congratulating the lad on striking such an excellent deal.”
Acton, charm turned up to the maximum, helped Sandy into his carriage where they would spend the rest of the journey. Once aboard, Sandy smiled grimly as she took a seat on the chaise longue amongst the filth and grease, while Acton made a half-hearted attempt to tidy, before a knock on the window signalled that Frampton was ready to move.
“Do you have the route?”
She handed over a folded piece of paper, which Acton glanced at quickly.
“York?”
“Problem?”
“No, no. Shouldn’t be.”
“Good. My contact there will be waiting to receive us.”
A silence passed, until the carriage suddenly jolted.
“Just Frampton coupling the trailers. I’ll pass him the route,” explained Acton. He ducked out of the doorway. Today was looking up, he thought as he strolled along the platform. He had freight to pull, debts as good as paid and a beautiful, if slightly irritating woman in his carriage. He looked forward to the jaunt up North. He hadn’t been in Yorkshire for years. Money, freight and steam; nothing could spoil his day now.