by P. N. Elrod
The people in the windows aimed at targets across the street, shooting over the heads of pedestrians—who, alarmed by the unexpected row of gunfire, began sensibly hurrying away.
Service members seemed to run out of bullets at once. Reloading would take precious seconds. Alex tensed and bolted, not for the entry—it was too much in the open—but toward the three fallen men. She’d get one of those damned rifles or die trying.
Brook shouted after her, but she was away, skirts held high. She made it to one of the trees and paused behind it to gauge distance.
The hooded figure around the corner of Downing Street stepped out and called an order to cohorts scattered along Whitehall. They snapped to and made a firing line, aiming at the Service building and the balustrade. If they had sufficient ammunition, it was a certainty that bullets would strike home between the squat columns. Brook and Sybil had no chance against that. Alex had two rounds left and was in a good spot to take out the leader of the assault. If he fell the others might run.
Unfortunately, he was also in a good spot to take her out. His rifle muzzle was pointed straight at her and if he fired, she did not hear, but something struck the tree at the level of her head. She braced her revolver against the trunk, allowed for distance and …
Too far to the right and too high to judge by the pockmark appearing in the building behind him.
Her last bullet. Again, she allowed for error … and missed.
He stalked forward, ignoring all else, shot after shot striking the tree or sheering past. She could stay pinned or be a moving target. The longer she delayed, the closer he got, the better chance he had to—
Then came the powerful and distinctive crack of a rifle.
The man’s relentless forward progress stopped. He rocked on his heels.
The crack repeated, and he fell heavily in the middle of the now deserted street.
She knew that sound; there was nothing else quite like the no-nonsense report of an American Winchester.
The shot came from a top-floor window of the Service building. The shootist had command of the field and took full advantage of it.
The crack repeated many times, the authoritative sound echoing off buildings and sending civilian stragglers shrieking for cover. Cloaked and hooded men fell, one after another in the space of seconds.
Silence for a moment: even Winchesters had to be reloaded.
Three cowering survivors seized the pause to escape, running north toward Whitehall.
Alex completed her dash, grabbed an air gun, ignoring the groaning and bloodied man on the ground near it. She hurried back to Brook, who was yet behind the low barrier. She counted softly, estimating how long it would take the rifleman on the top floor to reload.
He was quicker than she’d hoped. Two more shots: the farthest runner stumbled forward and fell, then the second farthest. The last cast away his weapon, yelling and waving his hands in surrender, but kept going. His right leg went out from under him. Rolling in the street, he howled and clutched his backside through his cloak.
From the top window, the shootist boomed a triumphant “Hah!” It, too, echoed off the buildings.
“Bloody hell,” Brook said, staring up. “Who’s the madman?”
“Be glad he’s on our side. That’s Colonel Mourne.”
“Good God.”
“Wrath of God, more like.”
“The Colonel Mourne is … is with the Psychic Service?”
“As an advisor.”
“He’s supposed to be the best shot in England.”
“I think he proved that just now.” She looked down. “Sybil? Are you all right?”
The woman, lying on her back on cold, wet pavement, grinned at her. “Now that’s an outing!”
Colonel Mourne called to them. “You three fools in front, get inside. I’ll keep the rabbits from popping from their holes—if any are left!”
Sybil immediately bounced up. “They’re gone. No more rabbits!”
“You sure about that, missy?”
She adopted the tone of a petulant schoolgirl. “Yes, Colonel. Gone-gone-gone.” Sybil spun once in place and abruptly wrested the air gun from Alex’s grasp. “Silent death, but not today. Not for us—it’s Christmas!” She whooped and spun again, laughing.
“Allow me,” said Brook, attempting to ease it from her.
“You can’t carry this in your pocket,” she informed him and thrust it back at Alex. “Under your cloak, there’s a good tweak.”
Alex didn’t know what else to do with the thing. She put the fat stock awkwardly under one arm, the muzzle pointing downward. Her cloak fell into place, covering everything.
Sybil gestured west. “Be in a place that isn’t here—make yourselves useful and do something else besides this botheration.” She gave an exact impersonation of Mrs. George.
“We have to go back,” said Alex, picking up her reticule.
She fixed Alex with a look. “You go forward. I do what’s backward.” So saying, she trotted off, still facing them, to the entrance. She avoided the body of the man she’d shot, went up the step without turning, and vanished inside.
“Were those orders?” Brook asked.
“I believe so. But for me. You stay here and report. I’ll find my way home.”
“Excuse me, Miss Pendlebury, but I don’t believe you, and I’m coming along.” He got her carpetbag.
“Lieutenant Brook, you’re witness to a shooting battle just steps from the PM’s house, there’s more than a dozen dead and wounded up and down Whitehall—Mrs. Woodwake is going to want to know what happened.”
“She can hear it from Sybil and good luck to her. If you’re leaving, then do so before someone comes to stop you.”
Argument meant delay, so Alex set a smart pace toward Richmond Terrace. Porters now looked after the two wounded on that side; the third man had a handkerchief over his features.
“Is that one you got?”
She shook her head. “Not that I wasn’t trying to kill them.”
“You’ve done this sort of thing before.”
“Not in London.”
They put more distance behind, passing Scotland Yard. Several constables were about, staring north. “Wot’s ’appened?” one demanded of them.
“Don’t know,” Brook answered.
“’Ere, is that you, Miss Pendlebury?”
“I think so,” she said, not stopping. “Have to go, Service business.”
He looked dubious, but let them continue on. They crossed to King Charles Street and were out of immediate sight of the Service building and the Yard. Alex slowed, her legs wobbling, sending her off course and into Brook. He caught her arm and steadied her.
“Easy,” he advised.
Her internal barriers were up, but she had to deal with her own emotions, the chief of which was annoyance … until it was replaced by—Oh, God, not now.
She pushed violently away from Brook, made it to the curb, and lost her Christmas dinner to the gutter.
* * *
“Refreshment?” asked Brook. He tilted a flask at her.
She took a sip, rinsing vile acid from her mouth, then spat. The peaty-tasting drink within was of better quality than that favored by Inspector Lennon. A shame to waste it, but she was unsure of her ability to keep anything down.
Sybil said I’d need whiskey.
“Sorry,” she said, handing back the flask. It was heavy silver, engraved with the letters J.M.S.B. She realized she did not know Brook’s first name. Not that she would require its use, but knowing that sort of thing about a colleague-in-arms was only being polite.
“A perfectly understandable reaction.”
“I’ve never, that is…”
“You shot people before,” he prompted. “Not in London.”
She puffed a laugh without mirth. “I was a girl, hardly fourteen. My father and I were in a large group crossing Mexico. It was wild country, no towns for miles, just a thin track the guides called a road and bandito
s. We had to make a run, shooting from horseback. I’m sure I got two of them, but I wasn’t like this afterward.”
“A younger mind has better protection against such violence. Does it feel as though it happened to someone else?”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve had scrapes, nothing quite so exciting as this, though. If you’re recovered, we should keep moving. Those attackers were after you and there could be more about.”
“Theirs was a planned assault on the Service, not me. No one could know I’d be coming out the front doors chasing after Sybil; I certainly didn’t.”
“Unless they have a Seer who knew you’d be there.”
“Good God.” What a terrifying thought. She began walking, glancing about for hooded threats.
“Of course, it could have just been bad luck and coincidence. We followed her and simply got in the way.”
“That first man … Sybil knew he was armed. However strangely she acts, there is purpose to it. She was there to stop him. Shot him in the back. Didn’t even blink.”
Brook sampled from his flask, then put it away. “That’s the coldest thing I’ve ever seen, but if he’d gotten into the building with that pistol, a nearly silent weapon like that, no warning—it’s unthinkable.”
“She saved all of them … and us.”
“Who are these men?”
Alex shook her head. “They attempted an organized attack. The first man was likely set to go in, kill and wound as many as he could, the others follow him—they’d have slaughtered everyone in the building. Nearly the whole Service destroyed in one move.”
“Two moves. Lord Richard’s assassination prompted the gathering of all under one roof in the first place. Someone knew what the reaction would be. But why the Service? Forgive me, but it’s not that important.”
“What?” She stopped, staring at him. “It most certainly is.”
“I don’t mean insult, but it’s not as vital as the police. Why not attack them?”
“Policemen are more easily replaced than those with psychical talent. All our most experienced people might have been murdered. It would take years to recover.”
“Therefore, the Psychic Service presents an obstacle to some greater plan.”
“Greater plan?”
“There must be something larger going on. As you said, it’s organized, and such things do not come into being overnight. Long thought and planning has gone into this—and a good deal of money.”
The Ætheric Society? They had wealthy patrons, but it was absurd. They were too small a group and had nothing obvious to gain from eliminating the Psychic Service. Mediums and their ilk would be glad to see the Service removed, but hardly the sort to band together. The nature of their ongoing business of fraud made them all rivals vying for the same customers. The Service was more nuisance to them than anything else.
“It could be a foreign government,” she said. “They’d have the resources. But speculation is pointless. The wounded from that attack will be questioned. We’ll make our contribution by—oh, dear God. I need a telegraph. This way!”
She rushed ahead, but he caught up and did not ask the reason behind her abrupt urgency. He must have come to the same conclusion.
Alex spotted an office across the road, ran over, and snarled upon seeing it was closed, the shades down. “Here!” She shoved the rifle at Brook and dug through her reticule for a small leather case. Within was her collection of skeleton keys. She tried one after another in the lock and hoped there was no bolt as well. The fifth key worked and she opened the door, quickly drawing Brook inside.
“Aren’t those illegal?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea.” She went around the front counter.
“Well, this is. We’ve broken and entered.” He appeared to be sanguine about it, though. How sensible of him.
“Just entered. We’ll be gone soon without breakage. I’d be obliged if you would keep watch in case a policeman comes by to rattle the doorknob.”
Someone had thoughtfully left a box of lucifers out, and she lighted the gas. A quick survey of the long room showed this to be a major routing nexus, with telegraphs for specific countries as well as a dozen machines with links to various other locations within England. She went down the line and found the one that connected to the Service offices. There had been debate in the government about the funding of such lines. A fearful number of politicians objected, arguing against the cost. More than one wag pointed out that if the Service was truly psychic, then they had no need of a telegraph.
The issue was resolved in a most astonishing manner by Lord Richard Desmond (senior), who paid for it out of his own pocket. Many questioned why he’d thought it important, many still did. Alex accepted training to learn Morse code as just part of the job.
The telegraph mechanism was not engaged, but she put it in order and made use of the one wired to the Service’s telegraph office. She tapped the code to signal an incoming message, waited, tapped again, waited.…
It took a few moments before anyone responded. No one could be blamed for that, considering the circumstances. The place would be stirred up like an anthill.
When a response came, Alex tapped in the words STAND BY, grabbed pencil and paper from a desk, and wrote her note. Her Morse was adequate, but she knew she’d get muddled trying to spell everything in her head. Once started, she attained a fair speed.
She ended her message and waited for a reply. It was not the expected MSGE RCVD. Instead, the clicks commanded RETURN AT ONCE.
Alex hadn’t given her signature, but someone had worked out the identity of the sender. Their code people were so good they could identify a sender’s tapping style as readily as hearing their voice.
Mrs. Woodwake was probably looming over the Service operator, looking grim.
Better to err on the side of good manners.
FLLWING INQUIRY CNFRM OTHER HQS WARNED.
The confirmation came, and Woodwake repeated her order, RETURN RETURN RETURN, as though she’d caught Sybil’s peculiar speech pattern.
SORRY MSGE END.
Alex shut the mechanism down, putting things back as found, taking the paper she’d written upon, and turning off the gas. “Done.”
“Dare I ask for details?” said Brook.
“Had to warn them that ours might not be the only Service office subject to attack. They might have come to it on their own, but I wanted to be sure. I wanted to ask if everyone was all right, but Mrs. Woodwake—we should go now. Someone will guess how close we are and come to retrieve us.”
“Then lock the front and we’ll leave by the back.”
She made use of the key again. “They may not know you’re with me. I want to keep it that way. You’re to return and make a report, whatever’s needed.”
“You’ve no idea how ridiculous you sound,” he said. “I’m staying.”
“Lieutenant Brook, my actions have just now guaranteed that I will be dismissed. There is no point in you also being dismissed.”
“They’ll do no such thing. With an unknown group making bold attacks, the Service will need everyone they can muster.”
“You might be safe, but I’m disobeying a direct order from Mrs. Woodwake—several, I should think.”
“But you’re obeying an order from Sybil, and if I judge things correctly, she holds a higher level of importance than Mrs. Woodwake.”
“I doubt Mrs. Woodwake will see it that way.”
“Nonetheless, I’m staying. Sybil didn’t exactly include me, but neither was I excluded.”
“I had the impression you didn’t take her seriously.”
“She is an impossibility, but since she saved our lives, I will accept the impossible for the present. Now, where are we going and why?”
They’d made their way, stumbling and bumping into things in the black recesses of the office, to a small chamber with a single window and a locked door. This one was bolted, but Brook remedied that while Alex tried her keys again.
A moment later, they were outside in a narrow alley, the door relocked.
“We need to get to Mayfair, Berkeley Square,” she said. “I want to consult an expert on air guns.” She put the keys away and took the rifle from Brook. “He’s in my shooting club and might have an idea where this was made. That could lead us to the ones behind the attack.”
“Have a look at it yourself,” he suggested. “If you spot something we could go back to the Service office and avoid further ire from Mrs. Woodwake.”
What an excellent idea, she thought.
The rifle’s general form didn’t appear too different from others she’d seen and fired, except for the bulky stock, which was made of dark metal, not wood. She could find no maker’s stamp anywhere.
“Custom made, expensive,” she pronounced.
“No smell of gunpowder to it.”
“They don’t use powder. Compressed air propels the bullet, which no longer needs a cartridge. This is the air reservoir.” She tapped the stock. “One of the problems is having a metal of sufficient strength to withstand the internal pressure of that compression. By the time it’s thick enough to support multiple firings, the weapon might be too heavy to carry. I wish Mr. Sexton was here to give an opinion on the metallurgy.”
“You seem to know a lot already.”
“I know air gun enthusiasts. None have anything like this, though. Theirs fire only a few shots, and then the reservoir must be pressured up again by an attached pumping mechanism. I don’t see any obvious opening for air to go in.”
“How many rounds might this one fire?”
“I don’t want to break it open just yet to see. It could blow up in our faces if we get that wrong. It has power, but lacks balance. Distance accuracy is rotten, though that was fortunate for us. However, if you shoot often enough in the right direction…”
“I know.” Brook removed his top hat and pointed out two holes just above the brim where a bullet had passed clean through. “It fell off when we ducked. Rather glad I didn’t have it on at the time. Not a large round to judge by the damage.”
“There’s probably a trade-off between bullet size and weight against its effective range, but these are enough to kill.” The awful memory of Lord Richard taking shot after shot intruded on her mind’s eye for a moment. She blinked it away as best she could, looking at Brook.