MOLLY’S AMATORY CAREER [LAWLESS]
“And this Lodestar.” Ruth poured the tea. “What are we to make of him?”
“An impressive young man.” I shrugged. “If Roxbury is yielding the keys of power to anyone, he is an ideal heir: energetic, sharp, charming—”
“Charming, yes.” She sniffed. “Everyone finds him so charming.”
“Where’s the harm in that? A business must charm its fellows, mustn’t it? An engineer has to talk to low and high. Draw plans at the top, build them from the bottom.”
“I only hope Molly does not find him too charming.” She gave me a look. “Reading between the lines, you know.”
I had no sense, from the pages of her letters, that Molly was infatuated with Lodestar. On his first arrival, his shining eye and mop of hair caught her notice; less so, when he dropped off Wilfred, languid and ironical.
“But Wilfred,” I said, “has taken a shine to her.”
“Bravo. Outstanding deduction, Sergeant.” Ruth clapped. “That was explicit. But have you noticed that young Nico also likes her, despite receiving scant encouragement?”
I frowned. “She likes Jem the stable boy.”
“Liked. At the outset, maybe. But he is taken.”
Our interpretative game continued. It seemed unkind to make sport of Molly’s burgeoning amatory influence. To be honest, I had barely ever thought of her as a girl. When I first knew her, she was a smudge-nosed tyke among the Euston Square Worms gang, of indeterminate sex, buttoned up to the gills in a waistcoat too large, coat too small, and boots she stomped so continually in that she wore them through. As her own troupe of miscreants emerged, the Oddbody Theatricals, she became recognisably female, I suppose, but with the sexless aura of an abbess, chaperoning her charges through the hazards of London, without a thought for her own person. To find her in that East End brothel, with those blockheads dead at her feet, was a double shock: that she’d contrived the mutual murders surprised me less than her role of fatal seductress.
“And Birtle?” Ruth sipped her tea. “What do you make of him?”
I had no idea. I confessed, I was a touch nervous of him. In Molly’s accounts, he lurked and watched, clearing up after visitors and giving newcomers a frosty welcome.
“Exactly. What does he get up to the rest of the time? Why so hostile to our Moll?”
“Hostile?” I was missing the obvious, again. “Perhaps he has a chip on the shoulder. Perhaps he sees through her.”
“There is nothing to see through, Campbell, you outdated prig.”
“She’s masquerading as a prim and proper drawing mistress.”
“Prim, no. But proper she is, and a drawing mistress. When will you realise that, in this day and age, one is not tied to the social milieu one has come from. To be a drawing mistress, one must simply teach drawing.”
“And have manners enough not to shock. And speech decent for mixed company.”
Ruth’s jaw twitched. “Similar, to be a policeman.”
“Or a librarian.”
“No. Librarians are scrutinised. Constantly. Wherever a woman is liable to speak to men, unchaperoned, on topics outwith her control, there will arise situations—” She sighed. “Now you’re just winding me up.”
It was a glorious autumnal day. The train raced northwards, afternoon sunshine dappling the carriage with golden light, making my fiancée crinkle her eyes and shade her brow intermittently, with that lovely gesture when she swept a stray lock from her eyes. It was so easy to love her: that pale face, framed by those jet-black locks, and the voice.
“Campbell, did you hear?”
I had been dreaming; and I loved to hear her use my given name, instead of Sergeant Lawless.
She shook her head. “Campbell, this French business. How concerned should we be?”
THESE EUROPEAN WARS [LAWLESS]
No explosions for weeks now, through the summer lull. But the threat was the sticking point.
Jeffcoat and I had caught nobody. None of the warning letters had led to anything, yet, and we had gone through mountains of them. I had brought the latest pile with me to scan on the train.
“Dear Sir,” they all began, “I’m worried about my neighbours. They’re planning an outrage…” There followed incoherent bleatings on how oddly the foreigners next door behaved, kept themselves to themselves, and had habits that seemed, well, not British. This clearly amounted to a plot against queen and country. They would not rest until the police had raided the house and deported the whole sorry crowd, clearing their street of malign European threat.
Then there were what we liked to call the French letters:
Dear Sir,
I am French and I live in [insert small town somewhere in England].
For many years, I have lived here peaceably. With these late rumours, my neighbours have observed me with suspicion. Last night, our windows were broken, today my children abused in the street.
Our opinion of your open-minded nation is forever tarnished.
Cordially yours,
Benoît and Renée LeClerc
Our call for informants was encouraging bigots, xenophobes, panic mongers and war hawks, no doubt. If the dangers were real, nonetheless, then we must protect the nation. If only we were sure our labours amounted to something. Now that Ruth and I were engaged, I could confide in her more fully. The relief of unburdening myself was immense.
* * *
“Fifty years of peace,” she said, “since Waterloo, in our quadrant of the continent.” For Ruth was a peace-lover and a friend to Europe, and assumed all right-thinking people were the same. “What on earth do these activists want?”
“They want, my love, to turn back time.”
THE PORTSMOUTH PAPERS [LAWLESS]
Does everybody not see how we have prospered in peace? Thus ran Ruth’s argument: we punished the French enough with the Treaty of Paris and Napoleon banished. That they have recovered much of their former glory—and conquering habits, as Signor Garibaldi reminded us—need not concern us, as long as they do not trifle with Her Majesty’s imperial business. A strong France makes for a stable Europe. A stable Europe helps us all.
Not me, shouts the working man in Chatham, whose shipbuilding was dwindled to nothing in peacetime, until the Crimea broke our reverie.
Not me, says the Sheffield steel man, whose forks and spoons are less profitable than knives.
Not me, the City banker, for whom foreign excitements make a killing, as the struggling burghers of London pour their pennies into Sardinian railways or Kentuckian kerosene, only to find the enterprise gone up in smoke; but I have fresh opportunities to offer, ever more chances for instant prosperity.
Not me, says the politician who has learned that only his outrageous claims make the headlines, viz: “A new Napoleon has arisen; none but I can lead the nation against this resurgent evil.” (Oh how he loves his resurgent evil.)
So he goes on, our popular demagogue, with thrust and counter-thrust, point of information and point of order. Ruth thought such bombast mere conquistador babble from a bygone era.
Far from it: many Britons are ready for the new European wars that, we are told, must inevitably come, as the Frogs and Krauts and Dagos and Wops and Slavs and Turks and Arabs and Parsees and Hindoos and Chinks and Aboriginals come a-chasing the riches of our industrial revolution. And if they cannot triumph through their own innovation, they will torch our navy, the wooden wall that both defends our isle but emboldens us to demand trading rights and taxes repealed and bribes overlooked. We are British, after all: our chaps never overstep the mark while seeking fortunes abroad. They made us what we are today, these heroes. We’ll defend them to the death. Beware John Bull’s wrath, which you only bring upon yourselves.
Until someone stands up to us.
* * *
La Gloire was more than a warship. It was Napoleon’s shot across our bows. Some called it incendiary.
Passivists (such as Ruth) cried, “Nonsense.” An
d the threatened invasions? They never came.
Now that the Guernsey papers were deciphered and delivered post haste to the highest echelons of government and military, I boggled at our naivety. If Louis Napoleon had intended to upset us, he’d have sent La Gloire up the Thames to cock his nose at us; we’d have condemned his effrontery and derided his ambition.
If he was serious, though, and really aimed to humiliate Britain and displace it as the foremost empire of the world, he need do only one thing.
Destroy our navy.
Even better, capture it.
* * *
Ruth and I talked through it one more time. Was the Portsmouth Plan credible? How outrageous were the plots described in the Guernsey papers? The first dated from a bygone era: Nelson’s charts of the Solent, sketches of Portsmouth dockyard, engravings of our ships, annotations of their new armada. These confirmed what Victor Hugo had recognised. This plan was a revision of that long-held French dream: to capture Portsmouth, and make it a French Gibraltar, an outpost to control our waters and quash our maritime dominion.
The British Navy had been the best in the world. HMS Warrior was developed as a riposte to La Gloire, to fight fire with firepower. Strategically, though, with half the navy deployed on the other side of the world, meddling in the American war, harrying the Far East and dealing with Indies, West Indies and Antipodes, what was left? If the French came, and unexpectedly, what ships were left to face them?
Oh, but our spies in the ports would know if the French were gathering a fleet. Wouldn’t they? This was the genius of the Guernsey papers’ plans. The French would never need to face us, fleet to fleet.
Picture it. Their army gathers for manoeuvres, near the coast. A militia of irregulars stands ready for the call. Boarding in secret, they sail to undefended harbours within march of Portsmouth. Overnight, they land 400,000 on the south coast. They stream overland. They overwhelm the defences to cross on to the island of Portsmouth. They take Her Majesty’s dockyard with ease. They walk aboard our ships, in harbour, swatting aside any resistance, seizing at a stroke the most powerful fleet in the world.
A secondary French force marches on London. They demand surrender, threatening a fleet invasion. The call goes out to our navy abroad; but they can never retake Portsmouth Harbour, defended by a quarter of a million French troops. They cede London, keeping Portsmouth as an enclave; or, buoyed by their successes, they attempt greater domination of our country.
We could only guess. The Guernsey papers only went so far.
Thank God we had stumbled upon them. It was a stroke of luck, and timely. Before the Royal Commission reported, they heard my evidence. On the strength of these revelations, they sought Parliament’s approval to resuscitate the Palmerston fortifications.
The Palmerston Forts’ initial budget had been huge, beyond the Crimean crisis. The forts were begun in 1860, just, only for the government to change. The nation returned to buoyant arrogance. Defence was unnecessary, budgets slashed. The artificial island forts guarding Portsmouth Harbour, however, were already under construction mid-Solent. They told the contractor to complete them for half the price; the contractor was not best pleased.
Jeffcoat and I counselled the commission we had no alternative: apologise, we advised, revalue, and pay in full at whatever rates, on condition of urgent completion.
As Ruth and I batted these grim notions back and forth, I was buoyed up with love. What could be more romantic than protecting the security of the nation, over a first-class lunch in a first-class dining car? To share world-shaking events with one’s intended, whose insight turned catastrophe to hope?
“But, Campbell.” She laid her hand on my forearm; she smiled, tolerant of my spoony smile. “I have three objections to raise. Serious objections.”
I paled. I thought she meant our marriage.
“To your theories, you fool.” She shook her head in exasperation. “If the French intend to invade, why alert us with these ghastly bombs?”
I had no immediate answer.
“Second, this Guernsey bomber: why these papers, and no others? No passport. No pen. No personal effects.”
This objection I parried. “He kept them on him.”
“But the contents of the satchel were intended for delivery. To Portsmouth, perhaps?”
“To a French spy.” I nodded. I must visit the docks and spread our motto of vigilance.
“Third.” She frowned. “Vis-à-vis Roxbury. Surely his malaise, or withdrawal, or whatever we’re worried about, has happened since his wife? It’s perfectly normal.”
I opened my mouth. The timing was right. “That doesn’t mean it’s all right.”
“What more can Molly tell us, though?”
I glanced askance. Broad pasturelands flashed by. Just as the sun was fading behind the distant lines of trees, my magical mood was fading
“Can you smell smoke?” I asked her. “I can smell smoke.”
“It’s the documents.” She held up a file stuffed with papers. “From the Antony Gibbs Shipping fire. I must work through them, but I can’t seem to muster—”
“Leave it be, my love.” Poor Ruth: she would never forget poor Sarah Smithereen. “It’s a fruitless enterprise.” To distract her, I took out the sheet where Jeffcoat and I had scribbled our own puzzle: JO TWO CHE.
“Anagram, is it?” Ruth perked up at once. I explained they were partial words, possibly something to do with a mechanism.
“Ha! Very good. And is it just for fun, or are you testing my knowledge?”
“Why?” I turned the sheet for her to see. “Have you solved it?”
“Of course. Haven’t you?” Ruth’s smile wavered: she had not meant to embarrass me. “Nothing important, is it?”
“Important enough.” I explained in a rapid undertone where the puzzle originated. Ruth had come on board with the Guernsey papers; the previous investigations I had not shared with her.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, but it’s—”
“Don’t even think of saying it’s easy.”
She bit her lip, and swiftly wrote in the missing parts:
JOseph
WhiTWOrth
ManCHEster
I wired Jeffcoat when we changed to the branch line: we should pay a visit to Whitworth post haste.
SPLENDID DINNER [LAWLESS]
“And the thing about young Lodestar here,” said the earl, urging his protégé to pour the white wine (in Birtle’s absence) for me, for Ruth, for Molly and the earl, “is he gets things done. Quick too. Quicker than I ever did. Which leaves me to potter about here: gardening, experimenting, tinkering with odd inventions—”
“Inventions?” I said. “I’d thought you’d taken early retirement.”
His eyes flickered mischievously between Molly and me. He knew we were acquainted, but she had played down the depth of our friendship: did he suspect our complicity? This was the closest viewing of Edward, Earl of Roxbury. We had met at the Fairchild Enquiry, where I thought him a good egg.
He himself welcomed us at the grand entrance. He chatted, showed us round, and served aperitifs concocted in his own laboratory: sloe gin labelled in his own hand, neat and scientific, diverse vintages. He escorted us to dinner himself. This was not the way Molly had painted him: kindly, but absent-minded or absent completely. My first impressions were more immediate. Perhaps we summoned hospitality he did not owe Molly, as an employee. But then Ruth is fearfully attractive; men will drop everything to attend her.
Lodestar dashed up from the glasshouses in time to join us. Again, I found him charm incarnate. Ruth regarded him with a strange eye, as if a hawk were a-scouting and we were field mice considering a leisurely stroll. I could see her antipathy; he did not.
Molly had to be called from her art room. Unusually taciturn, she barely seemed pleased to see us. She was trying, she said, to capture the view in different lights; this autumnal gloaming was her final effort. Charcoal and chalk. “I do so wish to finish it before—”
Wilfred came in. The silence was audible. At the sight of Roxbury’s son and heir, his eye on the way from red to purple-black, we all reacted slightly differently. It looked the outcome of a bar-room brawl. Lodestar’s mouth twisted, in an effort not to titter. I gasped.
“What the devil, Wilfy-boy?” said the earl, without fondness. “Playing with the orang-utan, were you?”
This gave us an excuse to laugh, aside from Wilfred. Molly maintained her sanguine air. Ruth worked out soon enough how his eye got blackened, but did not explain to me till later.
“Steak’ll be cold,” said the earl. “Bloody shame.”
“Could put it on that eye,” muttered Lodestar.
Wilfred spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll have Birtle heat it.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Roxbury continued eating. “Not when you come so late to dinner.”
Wilfred Roxbury gave his father an insolent stare, more like a mewling toddler’s rather than an army man’s. How strange families are.
“I must dash.” Lodestar checked his pocket-watch and folded his napkin. “I do apologise for my rudeness. I’d hoped to challenge you at billiards.”
“No fear.” I smiled. “Vanquish me with your trick shots?”
He grinned. “As you know, Sergeant, and you, Miss Villiers, the capital’s summons cannot be ignored. Though you will not rush back, I hope.”
Roxbury went to rise but Lodestar raised his palm.
“Please, sir, enjoy your dinner. My compliments to Skirtle, for the conception, and cook, for the execution. Both excellent, as was the wine.” He paused a moment in the doorway, as if to make a declaration; but the declaration was just a knowing sweep of the room with his dark brows, which seemed to say, “Wilfred, you are a fool and a cad; the rest of you are damned fine fellows; and you, Miss Molly, I shall be back to see another day.”
Molly sipped her wine, flushing. Her expression was only unguarded for the merest moment, but Ruth caught it: a look of smitten awe.
Lawless and the House of Electricity Page 14