Ripon, ever an opportunist, seized the chance to establish an official Secret Service Department. The government waved the money through, and the accounts would be passed at Ripon’s discretion. The service would gather intelligence, warn of foreign interference, and anticipate further attacks. This department, of course, already existed—Jeffcoat and I were among its first incumbents—but now we had money and political resolve.
The Globe’s insinuations about Fenians were lies. We didn’t deny it; it suited us to take the spotlight off the French menace.
O’Leary never forgave me. He must have been seen coming in; this reluctant collusion was punished through public opinion.
Only prisoners were killed, though guards, policemen and bystanders were injured. The line about babies in the womb was bunk. London Jacques was among the dead; Mersey Jacques was injured. Of Jacques the First, there was no sign.
Jeffcoat escaped severe injury by a hairbreadth; when we looked at the destruction to the wall beside him, it was hard to see how he had not been killed.
* * *
“If I ain’t injured, then I shall go.” Jeffcoat roundly cursed the nurses trying to calm him. I had never seen him so angry.
The nurse told him to bloody well sit down while she bloody well finished his bandages: his injuries might not be not life-threatening, but a pustulating sore could be.
“Well, get on with it.” The exhaustion of the day swept over his features. “Watchman, I don’t know what to— Give me a minute, and I’ll come in with you.”
I bade him lie back, and he gave in. I went searching, seeking, panicked. The wall that collapsed had been mostly moved, and everyone rescued, except for five poor souls who lay dead. On into the prison, I felt sure of our appraisal. It must be the French, trying to spring the three Jacques—or to kill them—before they could blab. Someone somewhere knew more than they ought; but was it the man dead under the rubble? Or was it Jacques the First?
My panic was rising. There was nothing to be done. I hurried back to ask Jeffcoat what happened before the blast. He thought back to the moment.
He was crossing the courtyard, Jacques the First walking ahead, staring at the gallows. Ruth was beside him, brought along by Jeffcoat to translate for the one genuine Frenchman. What happened next, he could not recall.
“Leave the poor man alone, Campbell—I mean, Sergeant.” Ruth was standing there. Just standing there unconcerned.
I threw my arms around her. She had dust in her hair and on her hands.
She was shaken, but she scoffed at my concern. “We found something among Jacques the First’s possessions, as we were signing him in. Deposit slips. Bank bonds. Should have been spotted when they took him in at Holloway. I was just asking him about them, when—” As she gestured at the rubble, the enormity of the danger hit her. She tottered, and I swept her up in my arms.
THE SECRET CHAPEL [MOLLY]
WATCHMAN,
SECRET CHAPEL:
FOUND.
MOLLY
Dear Miss V,
The little chapel had become filled with wonder for me. Staring at that bookcase, searching for the abracadabra, I longed for that dreamlike escape.
I was lounging around in the lower drawing room after lunch, reading on the divan. I half-thought Skirtle might inadvertently reveal the secret door. When Patience Tarn appeared, it occurred to me: I should ask her where the chapel is, if I could make myself understood. If she was scandalised, she couldn’t tell, for she cannot write.
Patience walked, with her ungainly grace, up to the bookcase. She glanced around, more from habit than expecting to be watched; but I was still as a statue, and she didn’t spot me. She reached out to the Walter Scotts on the shelf. She leaned upon them with a rhythmic sort of a sway. And she disappeared through the wall.
I blinked. I sat up. I looked, I listened. She was gone.
I ran up to the bookcase and stared. I peered and felt and scratched and stared some more. And finally, there, imperceptible between Marmion and The Bride of Lammermoor, were the hinges.
* * *
The thing I realise about Patience Tarn is, of course, she reminds me of my little friend Pixie, sadly missed. But even more than that, she reminds me of me. Me in a different world.
I was an unwanted child—orphaned or abandoned, I shall never know. My brother said he’d tell me the whole tale when I was older, but he’s gone and all.
Patience Tarn, I have the feeling, was another unwanted child, with no voice and no hearing. But here was a place she fitted in, even if she had been taken on as a kindness. Here she was loved, or at least needed.
I did not attempt to go in while Patience was there. Instead I went off about my business. Perhaps Patience was religious. Just as likely, Skirtle had her cleaning the chapel, as she couldn’t give the secret away.
I popped down to the servants’ quarters mid-afternoon, and asked casually if anyone had seen Patience. They’d seen her at lunchtime, they said; they only ever saw her around lunchtime, and she ate as if she were starved. I made the strange discovery that Patience didn’t have a room in the servants’ quarters. Where, then? I couldn’t ask Skirtle; she would think me snooping.
Back in the drawing room, I watched and waited in case she was still to come out. Scouring the room, I felt a wave of affection sweep through me. All the games we’d played in this room: “When I embark on Auntie Mildred’s ship”; teaching Kitty the tricks of caricature to belittle her brothers.
I stood at the bookcases. I glanced around, as Patience had done, checking that nobody—nobody—was around. As I pushed at the dead centre of the Walter Scotts, the casement gave way before me.
* * *
The chapel was a wonder. It was warm, warmer than the rest of the house. The room was still, with the occasional gurgle of heat pipes. Tiny, but perfect, a wood-panelled cabinet. Pale shafts of light entered from ingenious skylights. The pew ends bore carved animals. Here I sat, finding peace on a bare wooden pew for that stolen half hour: a welcome escape, for one not given to seeking spiritual repose. The altar a simple wooden table. Above it, no painting, no idol, just a simple wooden panel.
When I came back to my senses, I thought I’d get back. But Skirtle’s warning came to me. “Don’t let anyone see you go in. Or come out.”
Standing at the panel where I had entered, I opened my mouth to protest: how could I be sure nobody was outside? I looked down and I looked up. Carved into the lintel were two angels. “Ask the angels,” Skirtle had said. Sure enough, between them, the angels held a mirror up to a long thin window I was sure I’d never noticed on the other side; must be disguised within the bookcase.
In that distorted reflection, I could see the whole drawing room. Marvellous contrivance. I shook my head in wonder, and returned to the ebb and flow of Roxbury life.
APPLE PICKING [LAWLESS]
WATCHMAN,
BEYOND SECRET CHAPEL.
HAVE FOUND CACHE OF DOCUMENTS.
MOLLY
Dear Miss V,
The apples are falling off the trees. Both the exotics in the glasshouses and the wild varieties of the orchard have had a bumper year, even here in the frozen north.
I barely mention the servants, but there’s a goodly number, as you know. Skirtle tells me it’s nothing compared to other great houses: Lord Derby had twenty-four just to serve him dinner. Of course, the earl reduces the load on his staff in many ways: no coal fires; lifts provided; hot water pumped round the house; hydraulic knife-sharpener, dish cauldron, dough tumbler, shoe-polisher. Still, the bustle of servants about the house is endless.
All at once, this afternoon, the house went silent. Everyone was called to the harvest. All the servants went to the orchard to pick or the glasshouse to load. The pneumatic packets save the backbreaking walk uphill, sending five hundredweight of apples up to the under pantry. There they are sorted and assigned either for the kitchen (apple pie, apple crumble, apple turnover, apple cake, apple Charlotte), the saucery (a
pple sauce, jam, chutneys, pickles and relishes as sweetener), or for fodder (sweetening pigs for the Christmas hams given to all on the Roxbury estate, and all in the town).
Everyone went out to the apples. Everyone except Birtle. And me. And Patience Tarn.
* * *
When everyone was called out, after lunch, I lurked around the servants’ corridor, waiting to see if Patience would go. Skirtle even decided she’d pop down. “It’s my only chance to nosy round the glasshouses,” she said.
I made my excuses. I was behind with the lizards and must finish the chameleon. I watched from the art room window, as they all trooped down the hill. Half an hour later, I heard Patience drift through the entrance hall and into the lower drawing room. I rushed to the bannisters. I could picture her, vanishing through the bookcase. I planned to wait a little, then go in after her. It would be awkward, no doubt; and I didn’t wish to scare the girl. But perhaps she could show me something I didn’t know about the chapel. After all, Skirtle had mentioned it being the central point of the house.
I painted on, perhaps fifteen minutes, when I heard a servant’s buzzer in the hallway. No surprise normally, except that there was nobody in the house. Back at my bannisters, I saw Birtle cross into the drawing room, taking a lamp. Descending as silently as I could, I caught the faint clunk, as he too went through Walter Scott’s portal.
Well, well. Birtle pursuing Patience into the chapel. Or had she rung for him to follow?
I listened, eagle-eared, at the door. No sound of voices. But then Patience could not speak, nor hear Birtle if he spoke to her. Why would she summon him?
I stared at the bookcase, growing agitated. My mind could only conjure clandestine purposes: she might be murdering him while everyone was out. Or a lovers’ tryst. I could go back to my work and think no more about it. Or I could follow my instinct. Open the door and go in, casual as you like. I would find them there, and excuse myself. Make my apology: I was simply coming for my own meditations; I had permission from Skirtle—but I would learn what they were about. I might even be the heroine of the hour.
I pushed at the hinges, thrilling at that give between the volumes. I awaited Birtle’s exclamation of surprise and annoyance and Patience’s mortification—
They were not there.
ANOTHER WAY [MOLLY]
There was another way out. I’d never seen Patience emerge. That was why: she simply passed through.
I scoured the little chapel’s walls. It was so small, but I knew there were hidden interstices where the wires and pipes intertwined.
Devil take Birtle. I never thought he would be able to vanish under my nose.
I looked up above the altar, where most churches place the sacrificed Jesus, pained and gazing askance. I imagined him there. I considered a prayer. I’m sure he’s heard a lot of rot. I pictured a priest, centuries past, hiding from his persecutors. If he needed an escape in the middle of his service, he would be at the altar. Every chapel faces east. The way out must give on to the east wing. Behind the altar table, two wooden steps led up to the panel on the wall. No handle, no hinge, but this must be it: the door through which both Patience and Birtle had vanished.
Soundlessly, I stepped up, glanced back over the pews and pushed.
* * *
I entered timidly. I was scared, I who have seen thefts, murder and derailment.
The fear of being unmasked, I suppose. When I was a street urchin and a copper clasped your arm, I thought, “Fair cop, Watchman, I done it, and you know I done it, and what else did you expect of me?” Here, I have masqueraded as a drawing mistress of middling repute. I pictured Birtle’s eyes. I could hear his triumphant tone. “Got you, you draggletailed scamp!” He thought me a thief from the start. Then I would be shamed before the earl, the lovely earl, and Skirtle who trusted me. And I’d be letting Watchman down, and you, Miss V.
Dark. Stillness. Nothing. They are not there: I would feel it. But I can smell books.
My eyes grow accustomed to the dark. A line betrays a shuttered window. Dare I open them? I haven’t a lamp, though I can smell the paraffin from Birtle’s. I find the catch and daylight streams in.
Books. Magazines. Papers, files, folders arranged on an old bureau. A trunk. I gaze in awe at the books, row upon row upon row. Popular novels, poetry, plays and women’s literature, as they like to dismiss it, on lovely oak bookshelves: Austin, Behn, Braddon, Eliot, Gaskell, Radcliffe, Sappho and many more. The library behind the chapel.
Lady Elodie’s library.
BANK DUTIES [LAWLESS]
The papers recovered from London Jacques’ apartment contained nothing overtly incriminating. There were, however, bank slips: notation of bonds deposited at Overend and Gurney on his behalf. These might well lead to Jacques’ master, the one paying him and the others, coordinating their plans and providing the means to do their worst.
Overend and Gurney were the prodigies of the banking world. From a parochial concern, they had exploded into prominence, exploiting the relaxation of bond regulations. Their latest bonds, backing African investments, sold out within hours of issue. The consequent clamour drew letters to newspapers about the disorderly queues. There were questions in the house.
* * *
I fought past the queues and demanded an interview. We found Jacques’ account. He had indeed received bonds from an unnamed account.
I gripped the counter. “Tell me: who?”
Quite impossible.
“Don’t dither. Scotland Yard requires that information with the utmost urgency.”
The banker apologised, but, really, there would be no way of tracing the payment now that the bond was transferred.
He had to be ignorant, or lying. An untraceable payment, when banks made so much of their transparent bookkeeping? Perhaps he was equivocating, to protect their anonymity. “What about the teller who made the transaction? It’s only a month ago. They might remember something.”
The fellow obfuscated for all he was worth, rather than try to help.
“I’d like an appointment to see the head of the firm.” I said. “Kindly speak to your manager. Obstructing enquiries will land him, and you, in serious bother.”
He showed me out nervously, saying he would be in equal trouble if he didn’t sell any more bonds by lunchtime.
OBFUSCATIONS [LAWLESS]
I retreated to Ripon. He wrote a letter, on Home Office stationery, requiring the bank to release the information in the national interest, whatever their normal practices of confidentiality.
Ripon had unwelcome news. He was telling Jeffcoat to take time off to recover from his injury. Jeffcoat had flown off the handle when he told him. No wonder. He was raging about it all: the blasts, Jacques who was dead, and Jacques who’d escaped, our impotence in catching them.
“I’m sending him to New York,” said Ripon. “Tidy up loose ends in the Muller case.” Muller had committed murder on the Metropolitan Line; he then fled to New York, only to be apprehended as he stepped off his ship.
I stared. “Surely someone else can go. He’s in no fit state.”
“Jeffcoat will benefit from a little jolly.” Ripon looked at me. “Make him sit around for a week. The Muller paperwork will make him feel useful. Another week at sea should calm him down, before the bugger’s back at work.”
I felt disgusted with Ripon’s intrusion, when we had suffered so much and were so near a breakthrough. But by the time I’d reached the Yard, I knew it was the right thing. Jeffcoat was resignedly packing; he was quietly furious, but that only proved Ripon’s point.
* * *
Ripon’s letter in hand, I rubbed my hands at the prospect of slicing aside the bank’s bureaucracy. I arrived the next morning to find the queue around the block. I nearly got myself lynched, fighting my way past the queue.
The manager was unavailable; he was off sick, due to acute strain of work. Off, for tiredness? A likely story. Is that how people behave in private companies?
The unde
r-manager politely looked up the file. He worked out who the teller must have been, but warned that they were unlikely to remember any transaction from a month ago, considering how many they processed.
He was right. The teller shook their head. As they looked in the file relating to the account, I saw an envelope peeking out with an insignia on it:
HOUNDS CLUB
“What’s that?” I exclaimed in disgust. “That envelope you’re hiding: is that where the payment originated?”
Yes, but then payments were often made through gentlemen’s clubs, with valets sent to make deposits. Besides, young Mr Overend was a member of the Hounds Club, so it could equally have been given to him to drop in on someone else’s behalf.
The bank enquiry would get me no further.
THE LIBRARY BEHIND THE CHAPEL [MOLLY]
I determined not to linger. Birtle might return any moment. Yet sometimes butlers have roundabout routes, to keep out of the way. Yes, he had gone on. Somewhere here, there was a door. The door that led to another part of the house. Here.
I had done a little homework, sketching up a plan of the building. I viewed it from the rockery in front; I viewed it from the crag behind. In sketching the ground floor plan, I realised that the chapel lies central in the house, just alongside Birtle’s pantry with Skirtle’s rooms above. From their vantage points, Birtle and Skirtle may spring out, anywhere around the house, resolving troubles. Ingenious design. This door must give on to the whole series of rooms out on the east wing, the part of the house I had never seen. Ever so softly, I tried the handle.
Locked.
No! Skirtle said they never locked the doors: the earl wouldn’t want that. But this door wouldn’t budge. If not locked, then blocked somehow. Rather than simply go back through the door by which I had entered, I might as well explore. I did what you would have done.
Lawless and the House of Electricity Page 21