THE MENAGERIE, PART THE SECOND [MOLLY]
“Time to kill the birds,” said Roxy. “I’ll have Jem do as little harm to their plumage as he humanly can.”
We were examining the aviary birds. When he dropped this madness into the conversation, I stared at him like a loon. “What? No. No animals need be harmed.”
“I’ll have ’em brought to your studio.” He at least had the decency to look sad about it. “You’ll want to capture them as fresh as you can.”
“I’ll paint them here, in their cages. Alive.”
Roxy was funny enough about letting me in certain parts of the scientific quarter. What have they to hide? Old industrialist habits, I suspect, for his patents have often been copied. He spouted some flam about men with inappropriate manners and women’s place being elsewhere. I didn’t give a stuff for appropriacy, I told him, or I’d be long gone.
“Molly, my dear, they won’t hold still.” The macaw was preening itself. The earl smiled and extracted Edward Lear’s book of coloured lithographs from his bag. Leafing through, he compared the bird to its portrait. “Look at the detail. Fabulous colour. How will you do it?”
“I can’t see Lear having birds killed.” I frowned at the picture. “Look at those eyes. That’s a live macaw, if ever I saw one.”
Roxy frowned. “Tell you what. Let’s invite the fellow himself and ask him.”
I stared. Ever since you spoke of his illustrious guest book, I’ve joshed him about his reclusive behaviour. He was depriving me of the real country house experience. All those celebrated visitors I’d heard so much about. Not to mention eligible bachelors.
“I suppose we could have a few people up.” He gulped. “When the Norphans are back for exeat. Show the world we’re still alive and kicking, eh? Lear, if he hasn’t fled the country for winter yet.” He looked around the aviary, warming to the theme. “A photographer or two, to advise you about lighting.”
“Miss Ruth knows Julia Cameron. And Dodgson, a maths fellow at Oxford.”
“And I know some painters, or rather my wife knew them.” He pursed his lips and nodded abruptly, before he could change his mind. “We’ll have a party.”
NOT A BAD FELLOW [LAWLESS]
Lodestar was hard to track down. Everywhere I went, they had seen him; wherever I went, he had been. I wired Roxbury to seek his right-hand-man’s whereabouts. On a tour of the south, he replied, in London’s banking sector, arranging finance for the Palmerston forts.
In each of the banks, there was someone who knew him well. At Coutts and Co, I was directed to Joshua Postwood, who proved keen to boast of their special acquaintance.
“Oh, yes. We go out for lunch whenever Lodestar comes,” said Joshua. “Good lunch too. Fantastic raconteur. The things he’s seen. The procreating rituals of hippopotami—”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Yesterday. He’ll be round a few of the banks. Investments.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Terrific fun.”
* * *
Four more banks, two gentlemen’s clubs, and finally a Fleet Street restaurateur advised me to check his favourite coffee house.
I found him sharing a pot of Colombian with Bracebridge Hemyng. I knew Hemyng slightly: one of Wilkie Collins’s crowd, he wrote for the Penny Satirical, that out-priced imitation of Punch. He sat scribbling while we talked.
Lodestar welcomed me as an old friend, calling for fresh coffee before I could even sit down. “Business, my friend, or pleasure?” he said. “If it’s business, Hemyng can listen in, and his alias Jack Harkaway can pay.”
“Nothing serious.” Some instinct made me reluctant to chase the journalist away. I felt myself vulnerable to Lodestar’s charm, and was glad of a witness to our talk. “How did you come to Britain?”
“To make my fortune, I suppose.” He gave me an insouciant look. “Back to the old country.”
“I meant, by what means did you travel here?”
“By ship, of course. Why?”
“SS Great Britain, was it?”
Lodestar’s smile was not easily read, but if his journalist friend was not there, he might have been less amenable. “Yes. That sounds right. Why?”
“Your man.” I looked at him pleasantly.
“My man?”
“Yes, your valet, Zephaniah. Whatever became of him?” I blinked. “He was recorded as boarding with you at Cape Town.”
“Yes, of course. Zephaniah. That’s right.”
“You don’t retain him any longer?”
“No, no.” Lodestar sipped his coffee, looking at me directly, as a native-born Englander never would. “He skipped off.”
“The ship’s register, on arrival in London, makes no mention of him.”
“No. No, it wouldn’t.” Lodestar glanced at his friend. “This must be tedious for you, Hemyng.”
The fellow shrugged. “Was that the ship with the arsenic wallpaper? We’ve done a job on that already. I’m off to the Hounds. See you later, for a trouncing at billiards.”
Lodestar waved him off, then leaned forward.
I drank my coffee, waiting.
He bit his lip. “It’s just a tad embarrassing. Yes, Zephaniah. He skipped off somewhere.”
I sipped again, letting him stew a moment. “No record of his disembarking, though.”
“Oh, servants, though.” He tilted his head. “They don’t always take notice.”
“The records are very thorough. Where exactly did he skip off?”
“I wouldn’t know for sure. Up the Atlantic coast somewhere. Spain? France? I didn’t know where I was half the time; I was ill, you see.”
“You were ill?” I nodded slowly. “I gathered Zephaniah had been ill.”
“Did you? Yes. Well. Useless on the voyage. Barely saw him.”
“Was he not in your rooms?”
“No. Rather, he had been. Kipping in the anteroom. I packed him off to the servants’ quarters, where he’d get a decent berth.”
“And he sneaked off ship, did he?”
“I imagined so. With some crowd of slackers, at Cadiz or Dieppe. A tad workshy. Got a better offer, I suppose.”
“Galling for you.”
“To be frank, his African manners wouldn’t have gone down well here in London.”
I frowned. Simpson had described the body as Caucasian.
“These natives, you know.” He rubbed his nose. “I’ve managed better without him. I’m capable enough, and free-spirited. It was my father insisted a gentleman shouldn’t travel without one.”
“Your father? Was he not dead before you sailed?”
“Before, yes; but not long before. He knew Roxbury from Oxford.”
“Rugby football. Great social milieu.” I frowned. “Same age?”
“My father was older. His studies were interrupted, because of Waterloo. Went back later to get his degree. Home Office preferred it.”
“And your father suggested trying Roxbury?”
“He wrote me several letters of introduction. But he always said Roxbury was the one. There’s no one like him in the whole empire, you know. It’s a privilege to be on his team. And a pleasure.”
“His right-hand man, the girls call you.”
His smile showed that he liked the title. “Sergeant, if that’s all—”
“Not quite.” With a heavy heart, I took Numpty’s sketch of the African basket from my satchel. I turned it to show him. “I’m wondering if we may have found your man.”
Lodestar was moved; whatever Simpson had thought, Lodestar recognised the basket. He did not go pale—his complexion was too swarthy for that—but he took up the drawing, mumbling under his breath, words I did not hear, or did not understand.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” He recollected himself, blinking. “Zeph. Zephaniah. Was this—but has he…? He hasn’t done something wrong, has he? Where did you find this?”
“I’m dreadfully sorry. I must inform you that he’s dead.” I placed m
y hand on his arm. “He’s buried in the police graveyard.”
“What? Where?”
“Here. In London.”
“No.” He clutched his coffee cup. “I imagined he ended up in France somewhere.”
“He was found dead, in a lifeboat.”
“In a lifeboat?” He tightened his grip. “What the devil?”
I explained the circumstances, and how he had ended in an unmarked grave. “We can’t rule out foul play, but he was malnourished. Tubercular.”
“He was never robust.”
“Is the basket something you recognise?”
“Basket? No, no, it’s one of their rituals. He brought it with him in case of—in case something happened. This woven mask, it’s part of the tribal funeral. So, Zeph, farewell.” Lodestar placed his fingers on the drawing, then drew them to his lips. “Could you let me know where he is buried? He was not a bad fellow. I was fond of him.”
DISCOVERIES [MOLLY]
WATCHMAN,
PREPARING TO PAINT.
EARWIGGING HARD.
MOLLY
Dear Miss V,
With the children away, I work at my illustrations every day, but I know my limits. Inveterate peeker that I am, I am gradually exploring parts of the house I had not found.
The second floor was receiving its autumn clean. The music room and the ballroom had lain under dustsheets through the summer. Servants folded away the sheets and set about their tasks, with resin cleansers, alpaca dusters, and contraptions depositing dirt into a bag by means of electrical charge.
I contrived to be walking past whenever doors were opened. I enjoyed seeing the decor of each room, stylishly coherent, each with differing views, each a different atmosphere, suited to different moments: a card game on a rainy morning, a stolen moment over cocktails at sunset. The servants never bothered about my inquisitiveness. After all, who doesn’t want to poke their nose into the corners of such a house?
JACQUES THE THIRD [LAWLESS]
Jeffcoat spotted the third Jacques. He was standing opposite Scotland Yard, watching coppers leave, noting it all down: times, exits, lamps illuminated and extinguished. Jeffcoat walked round the block the long way, in order to come up behind him.
The fellow didn’t run, but he tossed away his bag. When we got it out of the ditch, we found money, copper wire and diagrams of inexplicable arrows and dots.
Jeffcoat cuffed him first, asked his name after.
Jacques.
* * *
Ridiculous to have three suspects with the same name. Or claiming their name was the same. To distinguish them, in our minds and our notes, we denoted them: Jacques I (Jacques the First), Jacques II (Mersey Jacques), Jacques III (London Jacques).
O’Leary’s advice gave us direction.
We hushed our noise about popular vigilance. We commandeered extra men to watch French activist strongholds: de Beauvoir Town, Bethnal Green, New Cross. We asked Ripon if we could intercept their post, but that had caused political furore with past activists, and he blocked the idea. About their telegram messages, however, he made no mention; it cost us little to commandeer copies from their local offices.
I got pally with some bankers, as O’Leary suggested. They weren’t keen on sharing records, naturally enough. I seduced them with the idea that tracking down any one single bomber would make their bank heroic in the nation’s eyes. Links between Frenchmen and military or industrial companies; clients who gave their name as Jacques LePeintre, Jacques Dessinier or plain Jacques the Painter.
Our luck was turning, I was going to make sure of it.
THE THREE JACQUES [LAWLESS]
We interviewed the three Jacques separately.
Jacques the First still found it funny. Jeffcoat added a little more information about hanging, which Ruth delivered with relish: the type of gallows, the short drop, death by strangulation, and the timescale before the victim loses consciousness.
He was unmoved.
Jeffcoat told him he was to be moved to the Clerkenwell House of Detention, to be jailed with other political prisoners, awaiting the trial.
Jacques the First, finally, stopped laughing.
* * *
Mersey Jacques was miserable. We kept him in a solitary cell. He called himself Yatsek now, but still couldn’t spell it. Try as he might, he could add nothing to his confession.
* * *
Jacques the Third, that is London Jacques, was altogether more intriguing. He had been caught in the act, but he wouldn’t explain what the diagrams represented, why he had wire, or who had paid him.
Jeffcoat and I were so impressed by Ruth’s vitriol, we asked her to give London Jacques the same spiel: gallows, drop, strangulation.
He protested, somewhat hesitantly, then looked to Ruth to translate for him.
She stared at him, her eyes dark. “His father, he says, was a shepherd and his mother was a sheep.”
“Hold on,” Jacques said, half-rising. “That’s not what I said.”
Ruth tapped her papers tidy and stood up. “You won’t be needing my translating services. As you can hear, this Jacques the Painter is not French either.”
* * *
We had to make them talk. We had to convince them their situation was severe. They were our surest way to the source of the panic that was souring the country. If we could prove the French military were behind it, diplomatic measures could be taken; if it was renegades, we might isolate them, even ask the French for help identifying them and tracking them down.
I asked two journalist friends to mock up articles: sensationalist pieces on the treason act; the police catching other bombers; the rare but potent sentence for treason. The editorial opined that the government would be delighted to hang a few blasted Frogs to show they were in sympathy with the popular intolerance toward foreigners. A public witch-hunt: string up the ringleaders, and Palmerston would soar to a fresh majority.
We printed the mock articles privately. We deposited them around Clerkenwell and Holloway, for prisoners to gossip over.
One article must have been brought out by a visitor or a guard; it was reprinted verbatim in the cheaper weekend rags. After these persuasions, London Jacques believed that we had the ear of government and could exonerate him; but he still was resisting. He must have been paid so much it was worth serving time. But no payment is worth dying for.
As our fictional threat gained notoriety, Jeffcoat upped the stakes. The governor of Clerkenwell, with Ripon leaning on him, was happy to collude. On the day Jacques the First was to arrive at Clerkenwell, they would be erecting gallows in the recreation square.
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[THE ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS]
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THE ELECTRICAL ROXBURY [MOLLY]
WATCHMAN,
SEEKING SECRET CHAPEL. FRUSTRATED.
ROXBURY FASCINATING CHAP, THOUGH.
MOLLY
Miss V,
As it forms one narrative, I shall keep these sheaves for you to read when you visit.
He was of artisan stock, Roxbury told me. His shoemaker grandfather made a life comfortable enough to start his son in business. He thrived in the developing cities of the north. Roxbury had an elder brother, a rebel
dreamer who went to fight in the South American revolutions, to throw off the dire Spaniards. He taught Chileans to rear sheep and Argentinians to raise cattle, sending his fortune home to his grateful family while Edward was still in his studies, before dying in a rearguard action at Montevideo.
Young Edward kept himself to himself as a child. He loved their trips to Yorkshire where the brooks and rills and burns and rivulets fascinated him, winding through dale and dell, vale and moor. To please his father, he studied to be a lawyer, but gave over all his time to experimentation.
“As a child,” he said, “I loved rubbing amber on my shirt. I would watch in awe as the tiny fibres of cotton were pulled towards it. I rubbed pieces of glass smoothed by the sea upon my trousers, then held them by the window, watching the dust rise magically from the sill. Thunder scared me; lightning thrilled me. Storms remain a fascination. I spent my schooldays persuading the science teacher to show us his turbine. He was a churl, forever coiling wires during our lessons. He would turn the handle to generate current through the coil. At last, once we quit our tasks, he would amaze us by generating a spark between two electrodes. To me, this seemed godlike. Persuaded I was in earnest as a student, he gave me monographs on the subject of electricity. I was astonished to learn that my childhood games with amber replicated experiments of the Ancient Greeks. That’s why William Gilbert, in 1600, chose the Greek word for amber to describe this force: elektron.”
I loved the image of the earl as a troublesome pupil caring more for the properties of fluff than his studies; for I was just such a pupil in my ragged school at King’s Cross, dilatory but obsessive.
“In my youth,” he said, “travelling shows exhibited electrostatic influence machines. It was wonderful. Your hair standing on end. Medics made claims, as they do today, for electrical waistcoats and corsets. Electrical socks, I ask you. There may be truth in it. Our nervous system is undoubtedly electrical. Since Galvani, we scientists have sought the role of electricity in our musculature. In Yorkshire, there is an asylum for the infirm of mind and body, where Doctor Jackson treats malaises with voltaic shocks. He sends reports, and I provide him with batteries.”
Lawless and the House of Electricity Page 19