He quivered, as if suppressing a jolt of electricity.
“For the good standing of your company. For the health of London, Mr Lodestar.” My repetition of his name seemed to cause him unease. His identity I would not question, but I could play on his loyalty, and his thirst for recognition. This trump card I kept till last, pointing between us to suggest our link with Bertie. “And our beloved royals.”
He looked me in the eye, weighing whether I really had the connections to make surrender worthwhile. “I shouldn’t like to offend them.”
I smiled. “Especially when they’re taking such an interest in Roxbury.”
He made his decision. “You’re right, my friend. You sort out the deal, and I can save my country twice over.” He turned to his engineers, dazzling us with his smile. “That’s settled. We’ll go through the details on the way back.”
We shook hands, and concluded the meeting. I laughed uncertainly, enjoying my victory. It was the first time I had seen a trace of respect in his eyes.
* * *
Freezing rain drove into our faces. The pilot set off at a crawl. I joined Lodestar on the bridge. How easy it would be to fall in—or to be pushed.
I turned away from the blasts of the rain to remind him about finalising the details.
“Bricks, bricks, bricks.” He dismissed my concerns. “Enough business for now. I’m just the engineer overseeing.”
I bit my lip. But my reference to Bertie still had his attention: he was fascinated to know more.
“Look! That’s where the French would attack.” He pointed out the channels and the sandbanks, just as I had seen on the Guernsey papers. “And that is where the French will founder. We will blast them out of the water. If they come overland, they will be blasted to buggery from these forts, and enslaved like old Napoleon’s armies.”
“You imagine it very fully.”
“Engineers are prophets. We must imagine disasters and successes.”
“You believe the French would invade?”
“Of course. I know you agree. The French would love us to think it’s a game.”
“Our hatred of foreigners,” I said, “must be fanned.”
“Sergeant.” He gestured to the low grey skyline of the town, battered by the rains. “We unite against oppressors. This country is happy when it is united against a common foe. The tribes in Nyasa are the same, with the English to hate.”
We Scots, I thought, are no different.
“Louis Napoleon does us a service. He has revivified England’s enemy. Employment booms. Unions are beaten down. Industry’s coffers filled. The government plans real strategies, rather than their usual pandering to an electorate of dunces.”
“Are you not a democrat?”
“Deep down, nobody is. We all know we are fools. Let someone trustworthy take the decisions. Protect us from our own greed and narrow-mindedness.”
Someone trustworthy? I looked at him reproachfully. “Who could that be?”
He laughed. “Ridiculous, I grant you.” Growing impatient with the pilot’s caution, Lodestar pushed him aside, gripping the wheel to speed us onward, careless of what lay hidden in the fog.
NEWS IN THE PORT [LAWLESS]
There were wires waiting for me back at port. I had given the address of the Fortitude Tap to Ruth and the Yard. We stood aside as a group of Russians staggered out, brandishing their rum, with a priest leading their shanty.
Lodestar took on a local at billiards, while I went straight to the bar. Ellie was distraught: her husband had lost his job in the docks, with all the money diverted to the forts. I sympathised, briefly, but couldn’t hide how glad I was of the drink after that voyage.
I skimmed through the three wires, as Lodestar showed off his trick shots. I had to swallow hard in order not to gasp out loud. I learned three things. First, from Jeffcoat. I hadn’t expected him back so soon, but there it was.
Hemyng had fled. When Jeffcoat leaned on him—and persuasive methods he had—Hemyng hinted that the Hellfire Hounds were indeed afoot again, but would not say who was leading them, for fear he’d be killed.
Ruth sent on news from Molly.
* * *
SHE SAW LODESTAR WITH A FRENCHMAN:
JACQUES I, I’M SURE.
Some leap of logic. For Lodestar to be implicated with the Hounds was one thing; for him to be hobnobbing with terrorists, another. Ruth’s discoveries of Lodestar Senior’s antics and equivocations came back to me; only what exactly was the connection with our “Lodestar”?
Another garbled claim from Molly:
* * *
LODESTAR HAD BEEN TO EACH BLAST LOCATION,
EXCEPT GUERNSEY.
If that was significant, it would imply terrible crimes behind all the Hellfire Hounds, their property speculation, and their profits; more likely, it was coincidence.
* * *
My mind was spinning. Each strand was inconclusive; their profiteering was immoral, but surely not so diabolically conniving.
“I head north.” I put his drink on the table. “I have business with Roxbury.”
He paused in his shot, eyeing the wires in my hand. “Do tell.” What magic Molly’s idea was working—for he longed to know more.
I tapped the side of my nose. “You’ll hear, soon enough.” I was prodding at his aspirations, his nouveau riche egotism. “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a wire for you.” I sat down, attempting nonchalance, as he perused it.
This proved the coup de grâce. I saw those bright eyes twitch, though he recovered himself at once. “Shall we share a compartment to London?”
* * *
It was from Roxbury. Molly had arranged that he would summon Lodestar, adverting to a possible royal visit.
How Lodestar liked to be centre of attention. His job was constructed around that tenet. If someone more important than he was to visit, he couldn’t bear not knowing about it. And the royals—well, really!—what could be better?
From his travelling bag, he took out his notebook, a dogeared affair, and tucked the wire into it. He narrowed his eyes and scored through his appointments for the next day. I needed him to stick with me; it was this clinched it. He would come all the way to Roxbury House alongside me.
WATERLOO TRAIN [LAWLESS]
On the train from Portsmouth and Southsea, I bribed the guard to keep our compartment free, and I let him see me do it. I could have asked him to lock us in—as we do with prisoners in transit—but I wanted to play a subtler game. The only one of his crimes I had proof of was his imposture. I knew what he had done with the real Lodestar’s body, and that was a crime too. But of greater crimes, yet no proof, nor any certainty. And nothing would do as well as a confession.
I sat back and took a deep breath. “Who are you?”
“Lodestar.” He grinned. “You know me, Sergeant.”
“Can we not be frank, after all your games?”
“I’m Lodestar.” No sense of shame, no sense of fear. The train plunged into a cutting, and made his features appear satanically dark.
“But you’re not.” I stared at him, fascinated; I had found his broad grin so charming, but was it delusional?
I took out Numpty’s drawing of the basket we’d found filled with stones. Beside it, I placed the pale daguerreotype: in the glaring African sun, the old goat, Lodestar Senior, sits like an emperor among his harem of servant women, with a boy or two among them. Seated beside him—the names of the whites were written at the bottom—that pale willowy youth with the prominent teeth whom Jeffcoat and I found in that boat, a discarded skeleton, all those months ago.
“You are not Nathaniel Chichester Lodestar. It was he met his end on the SS Great Britain, not Zephaniah. You put the mask in the tarpaulin with his body, and weighed it down, to take him to the bottom.”
“But it didn’t go to the bottom.”
“No.”
He pushed his hand through his hair, and looked at me sideways. “I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”
“Apart from improper disposal of a corpse?”
He opened his mouth to deny it, but thought better of it. “Well done, Sergeant.” He snatched the photo up to the light, examining it minutely. His eyes widened, seemingly in pleasure, rather than shock. The gentle hills of Hampshire rolled past: green copper spire, deer leaping; a brook, a rill, a pensive bridge. “I knew this day would come, but I had not imagined it thus.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“I thought I might be discovered one day.”
“So who are you? You’ve passed yourself off as Nathan Lodestar. You’ve taken his identity. Tried to take his inheritance.”
“Oh, your lawyers.” He rolled his eyes. “Rules and edicts. I had a certificate, I had papers. I am effectively Nathan Lodestar. You Britons, why must everything be a problem?”
“Your problem.” I found his nonchalance unnerving. “Impersonating the deceased. False inheritance claim. How did you come by his papers?”
“He had them. He was coming to claim the inheritance.”
“When he died, did you buy them from his man Zephaniah? How livid you must have been when you discovered the estate debt-ridden.” I was missing something. “How long had you known Chichester Lodestar?”
“How long? Why, all his life.” He tapped at the picture. “I’m his brother.”
I looked closer and gasped.
“See?” In the photograph, behind Lodestar Senior and Nathaniel Chichester Lodestar Junior, among the Negro women stood a lanky half-caste boy. Only the names of the whites were inked at the bottom, but there was something familiar about his cocksure expression. Beside the half-caste boy stood an imposing Negress, her hand on his father’s shoulder, her lover. “And there is my mother.”
Now I looked close, it was certainly he, younger and willowy, and darker in the face, but still he. “You are Zephaniah.”
“Zephaniah Chichester Lodestar, mark you.” He laughed again.
For a man whose world has been upended, he was ebullient. His imposture we could prove; that was a crime. But he had not gained from it. He had made his own way. Gained respect, and friends. He had supporters who would argue for clemency. I must bide my time: entrap him for the greater crimes we suspected him of? I would flatter him, admire his ingenuity, keep him talking. Off his guard, he might tell all. How much of a risk could that be?
He was enjoying my obvious discomfort. “Such a shame. If I could remain Lodestar, I might marry her. Your Molly. If you unmask me, I will just have to bed her and drop her.”
I should have guessed that he would not take a blow without striking back.
“Polite society has these pitfalls, compared to colonial life. Advantages too, don’t mistake me: the clothes, the status; beds, instead of mud floors; not being beaten, or worse. That’s how my mother died, when I was still a youth.” He smiled a broad smile. “No, no sympathy, please. I was old enough for her to fill me with conceit. She told how father loved her, despite appearances. She whispered how I could be great, greater than his legitimate son. Father loved her, you know. I am sure of it. When he spoke of her, he spoke with true affection. It was my African blood that made him love me, more than his real boy. Poor sickly Chesty! A sickly child. Hateful to his father. Useless companion. Couldn’t run, couldn’t throw. Such a weakling. He only had to survive the journey from Cape Town to London, and he couldn’t.”
I gave him a moment. “How did he die, the real Nathaniel Chichester Lodestar?”
“Chesty? You want to know how Chesty died?”
Nothing would surprise me now. “Did you kill him?”
“Not at all.” He sat back, laughing. “I was trying to keep him alive.”
I found his consternation strangely credible. “I doubt it.”
“Yes! I wanted him to get to London, collect the inheritance, and then die.”
“So how did he end up in the bottom of a lifeboat?”
“Should have been the bottom of the ocean.” He shook his head. He was weighing the loss in sharing his confidences. He adjudged there might be gain in it. “He was sick the day we left home; and the trip to the Cape was not easy. Aboard the ship, he took straight to his bed. Nobody knew us from Nyasaland. I presented myself as Nathan Lodestar from the outset. Why not? I put it about that he was my servant and he had fever, and must be quarantined.”
“Drop of poison in his medicine?”
“No need. His own medicine did for him, but he would insist on taking it.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Father always hated Chesty’s mewling. Father took nothing for his own pain, when his stomach was eaten away, bar a little opium. I took to wearing Chesty’s clothes: rather skinny and long in the leg, but they served. He didn’t even notice. I didn’t let it spoil the voyage. I enjoyed the pleasures of ship life. Stood me in good stead for the Hounds. I played dice, cards and billiards. Nobody knew me. I reinvented myself.”
He had sat and watched the real Lodestar die, sick and neglected, in order to steal his identity. “And you let him die.”
“I hoped he’d last the trip.”
“You never planned to push him overboard.”
“Come now.” He shrugged. “What benefit in keeping his body for burial at home? What would they have done, pickle him in aspic?”
“Therefore you just got rid of him?” I glanced at the two pictures. “Pushed him overboard in the night, with the scout’s help.”
“What point in explaining everything? It was the easiest thing in the world. Nobody lost by it, but myself.”
And the daguerreotype. “Mr Lear knew you weren’t Nathaniel Chichester.”
“The painter? Chesty talked about him. He had a cartoon alphabet he cherished.”
“Your brother’s keeper.” I shook my head. “Easy to step into his shoes. Culpable, still.”
“Hold, now. I am the surviving heir. That is exoneration enough. Alongside my character references.” He was truly unashamed. “And, as you keep telling us, Roxbury’s work is vital to the nation.”
I shook my head, impressed. “Have you no fear of me broadcasting this?”
“I’ve been a better son to my father than Chesty ever was. I have been a son to Roxbury too, when he needed one, and the idiot Wilfred was off chasing women and money. Do you grudge me what I have done? Try me, if you dare. I have no fear. If you succeed—and you won’t—I’ve had a better life than if I’d stayed in Africa. Father’s money I couldn’t give two hoots about. It was Chesty’s place in the world I wanted. Illegitimate half-caste boys are denied that. But father brought me up British. To seem Father’s rightful heir, I simply had to play the white boy, burnt by hours in the colonial sun. Credible, is it not? Though my mother was black, I am pale enough to pass for a European born under the skies of Empire.”
WHAT DO WE REALLY KNOW ABOUT LODESTAR? [RUTH’S LETTER, DELIVERED TO WATERLOO STATION]
NOT TO BE READ IN PUBLIC
(THE FOLLOWING ENCODED)
Campbell, my dearest love,
I fear for your safety. Below is what I have gleaned from researches at Somerset House and, with Jeffcoat’s help, the Home Office.
What if Lodestar is Diderot? If he is, being an arrogant beggar, let’s tempt him. Molly says he has Jacques I in hiding at the Shepherd’s Refuge. They are practising blasts. What if they are behind the devilments you have been investigating?
Bring him to our favoured table chez Great Northern. I have a scheme cooked up with Bertie. Disparage the prince all you can; discourage any thought of them meeting. That is your role, and see that you stick to it. A bang on the table will seal it.
Stick with him. If you get the chance, set his watch slow: five minutes should be enough. Molly will be at the Pump House at midnight, watching the turbine.
Tread carefully. Take care of that impetuous head of yours.
Your devoted
Ruth
STATIONS OF THE JOURNEY [LAWLESS]
Arriving at Waterloo, I stuck close to him.
At the wire desk, I found the letter from Ruth, alongside the following telegram:
BERTIE PLAN AFOOT.
LODESTAR MAY BE MASTER OF THE JACQUES?
PERSUADE HIM TO ROXBURY.
WILL TRAIL YOU THERE.
JEFFCOAT
I was relieved he was back; and that he and Ruth had worked together to anticipate these dark conclusions. When Ripon sent him to New York he took it as a rap on the knuckles; I knew it was to let him heal.
Lodestar had wires too. Roxbury chasing him to come north forthwith, as royal plans were developing nicely.
The second wire he kept hidden from me. From Jacques the First? A rendezvous in the hills behind the house?
“Join me in a cab, will you?” he said. He had considered skipping off, I am sure, after our dialogue in the train. Not now. Oh no, not any more. “Our plans are intertwined after all.”
* * *
LAWLESS, LODESTAR, LONDON [LAWLESS]
At King’s Cross, we made two rendezvous, to Lodestar’s detriment.
In the corner of the ticket office lurked a couple of blokes. Lodestar didn’t notice them, as they looked out through the window, spying on us. Jeffcoat! God man. His coat sleeves disguised the handcuffs that attached him to the prisoner: Mersey Jacques. Jacques could confirm it. If we had any lingering doubt, he could attest that Lodestar was the mysterious man who paid him: Lodestar it was who blew up the Florence Veigh.
This was our best evidence yet. Was it enough to convict him? Lodestar conjured up the blast, but he lit no fuse. Mersey Jacques was a stupid mule; and my prey was slippery. Lodestar could deny it flat. He could claim Mersey Jacques mistook his intention; the goods were given, in good faith, to be delivered to Africa; and there was Jacques contriving to blow it all up. Why should we slander Lodestar’s name, for outrages others had wrought, and those in error?
* * *
We stepped into the Great Northern Hotel to await our train. I led him, head racing, towards the booths at the back, where people could lurk with some anonymity.
“Ho, there.” Lodestar stopped me with an outstretched arm. “Isn’t that the Prince of Wales?”
Lawless and the House of Electricity Page 31