THE FATAL ENGINE
by
Harriet Smart
Copyright © 2018 Harriet Smart
Published by Anthemion
ISBN 978-1-907873-51-5
Made with Jutoh
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
For a list of the characters in this book, please see the Dramatis Personae.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Epilogue
Dramatis Personae
Also by Harriet Smart
The Butchered Man: Northminster Mystery 1
The Dead Songbird: Northminster Mystery 2
The Shadowcutter: Northminster Mystery 3
The Hanging Cage: Northminster Mystery 4
The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite: Northminster Mystery 5
The Echo at Rooke Court: Northminster Mystery 6
The True Value of Pearls
The Daughters of Blane
Green Grow the Rushes
The Wild Garden
The Lark Ascending
Reckless Griselda
A Tempting Proposal
About the Author
Made with Jutoh
Chapter One
December 1841
“I can’t interest you in checks for the trouser, sir?” said the tailor, placing a card of samples in front of Felix on the counter. “We have a new selection in, with a fine handle to the cloth, I must say, and of course much worn in London at the moment.”
“Dark grey,” Felix said, indicating his trousers. “Just the same as these. Two pairs.”
“As you wish, sir. Your name, may I ask? Are you a returning customer?”
“Carswell,” Felix said. “Yes. Where is Mr Loake? Is he not well?”
“He is retired,” said the tailor, and making a slight bow, went on: “Edward Edwardes at your service, Mr Carswell. I have taken over the business. If you will excuse me a moment, I will just look out your account.”
He disappeared behind the velvet curtain that divided the shop and Felix glanced at the sample card. The checks were large and gaudy – one a particularly unpleasant combination of mustard and muddy brown. Felix could not imagine Mr Loake even suggesting such a thing as checked trousers. He had had the knack of guessing what was wanted even when Felix had not been able to articulate it. He felt rather annoyed at his sudden retirement.
Edwardes returned with the ledger. He was smiling at what he saw, as well he might, given how much money Felix had spent there.
“Mr Carswell,” he said, laying it on the counter. “Of Hawskby Hall? An honour, sir, and thank you for favouring us with your custom,” he added with another bow. Then he glanced Felix over and looked down at the ledger again. “Might I ask you the favour of allowing me to re-take your measurements, sir? I see that you were last here for your wedding clothes in June. We find that gentlemen, when settled into married life, often need an adjustment here and there.”
If no man was a hero to his valet, neither was he to his tailor.
“Yes, if you must,” said Felix. “It will not take long, will it?”
He had arranged to meet Major Vernon there and did not want to keep him waiting.
“Not long at all. Just the trousers today, sir?”
“Yes. Dark grey, made of whatever these are.”
“Of course. This way, sir,” said Edwardes, sweeping open the velvet curtain. “Let me help you with your coat, sir.”
Felix found himself standing in his shirtsleeves in front of a vast looking glass in a gilt frame. This was an innovation since his last visit, as was the blazing gas light above. An assistant stood with a notebook while Edwardes set about with his tape measure, calling out the measurements to him. It was certainly more efficient than old Mr Loake with his stoop. Perhaps he had been right to retire.
Edwardes stepped back, and appraised his figure in a manner that Felix found disconcerting.
“You have reduced a little, sir,” Edwardes said. “Most unusual.”
“I was ill,” Felix said.
“My commiserations, sir,” said Edwardes. “Now, as to the style, I think this cut is not as elegant as it might be. Given your lean physique, sir. These pleats here, I think we might dispense with. The flat front is much in favour. I think Prince Albert himself –”
“No, just as these are, Mr Edwardes,” said Felix. “With deep pockets.”
“As you wish, sir,” said Mr Edwardes.
At this point the shop bell jangled and the assistant scurried out to see to the visitor. On his enquiring how he might help, Major Vernon was heard to reply, “Is Mr Carswell still here?”
“In here!” called out Felix. Major Vernon looked through the gap in the curtain. “I think we are done, yes, Mr Edwardes?”
“Yes, sir,” said Edwardes, drawing back the curtain to reveal the Major, dressed in the full splendour of his silver-laced, ink-blue frock coat, cloak and forage cap – surely a most impressive and interesting sight for a tailor. Edwardes looked him over with his practised eye.
“Is Mr Loake unwell?” asked Major Vernon.
“No, sir, retired. I am Edward Edwardes and I have taken over the business.”
“Did you not have a livery-making business?” said Major Vernon.
“Oh yes. It is just that when Mr Loake said he wished to retire and wanted to find someone of suitable quality to take over – well, we came to an arrangement. You are one of Mr Loake’s gentlemen as well, I take it, sir?”
“Yes, Major Giles Vernon. I hope Mr Loake has not left Northminster? I should like to wish him well.”
“I think he has gone to Swalecliffe – his sister lives there,” said Edwardes.
“That is Northminster’s loss, then,�
� said Major Vernon.
“Yes, certainly, sir,” said Edwardes, “but I hope I will be able to continue to serve in a manner to equal, and perhaps surpass him. I have great experience of the London trade, Major Vernon, and although, of course, no true gentleman can ever be a slave to fashion, he must wish those who make his accoutrements to be aware of all that is most current and elegant.”
Major Vernon smiled at that, and Felix felt an urge to burst out laughing. He pulled on his coat, anxious to be gone. Mr Edwardes had other ideas, and positioned himself in the middle of the shop.
“Before you go, gentlemen, might I just remind you that with the Christmas season fast approaching, and so many dinners and parties in hand, it is a splendid moment to consider the matter of evening dress? I only mention it, as we have – fresh in – the most exquisite collection of evening suitings, as well as all the latest fancy silks. There is nothing more cheering at the festive season than a bright waistcoat.”
He reached for a sample card and held it up in front of him. “Something to suit all tastes.”
“Another time, perhaps,” said Major Vernon. “Business calls, I’m afraid.”
“Of course, of course,” said Edwardes and ushered them to the door with great ceremony.
“Good God!” exclaimed Felix, as they walked away from the shop. “Whatever happened to subtlety?”
“Not in fashion,” said Major Vernon. “It is a shame about old Loake. He was an excellent fellow.”
“I am not sure I can bear Mr Edwardes,” said Felix. “But where else would one go?”
“A good question,” said Major Vernon. “If his work is as good as Loake’s, we will have to learn to bear him. Unless, of course, he adds a premium for the flimflam.”
“Where are we going, then?”
“To Water Street to see Tom O’Brien. I have something I need you both to look at.”
They turned down the steep and winding lane that led down to Water Street. Rain was falling heavily and on the verge of turning to sleet, making the cobbles slick and treacherous. It was a relief to step inside the tiny shop that fronted O’Brien’s now considerable printing works. They were at once shown upstairs to O’Brien’s office, while below them an assortment of large and complex machines, watched over by adept hands like children tended by careful nursemaids, thumped and screeched and spat out sheet after sheet.
O’Brien came out to meet them, and they stood for a moment in the typesetter’s room, admiring the scene below through a large window.
“Major! It’s good to see you,” said O’Brien. “And Mr Carswell! Now, what do you think of my new steam press? The one with the eagle, at the front there.”
“Twice the pages an hour, isn’t that what you said?” Major Vernon said.
“Well remembered!” O’Brien said. “Yes, we are up to nearly a thousand pages an hour. As a result it’s doubled the circulation of The Bugle.”
“Remarkable,” said Felix.
“Largest newspaper operation in the North of England,” said O’Brien. He laughed, and said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I am practising my patter. I have Mr Oliver Truro, no less, coming to see me later in the week.”
“The novelist?” Felix said. “What’s he doing in Northminster?”
“He has taken a house here, apparently, and brought his family for the winter. In his letter he said he is researching Northminster in the Middle Ages for a new novel, and looking to study the condition of the North of England for a series of articles in his magazine.”
“We had better watch what we do and say,” said Major Vernon.
“Certainly, and he’ll be wanting to talk to you, Major,” said O’Brien. “That was in his letter too. He mentioned that he was an admirer of The Bugle and your exploits. I’m surprised he hasn’t written to you.”
“Perhaps it is in the post,” said Major Vernon.
“Northminster in the Middle Ages?” said Felix. “My wife will like that.”
“It will be a great thing for the town if he does write it,” said O’Brien, showing them into his office. “I heard that people travel to see the spot where the two children died in that one – now, what was it called?”
“The Lantern Bearers?” said Felix. “Eleanor cried for hours over that.”
“I’m ashamed to say that Mrs Vernon and I were moved only to laughter when we got to that part,” Major Vernon said.
“You have a heart of stone, Major,” said O’Brien. “The public adored it. Now, here is his letter. Ah yes, he’s staying out at Hawksby. Isn’t that where you live, Mr Carswell?”
“Yes,” said Felix.
“At White Lodge,” said O’Brien, glancing at the letter.
“He will make for a interesting neighbour,” said Major Vernon.
Felix nodded, picturing the pleasure with which Eleanor would greet this news.
“But you haven’t come here to talk about Truro, have you, Major?” said O’Brien.
“No, I am calling a discreet counsel of war,” said Major Vernon, taking some papers from his coat and spreading them out on the table. “What do you make of these, gentlemen?”
Felix picked one up and studied it.
The Return of
CRIMSON MARY
by Popular Demand.
A Much Lamented Lady,
Friend of the Working Man,
has Returned to Northminster,
Urged by her Welch Cousin
Mistress Rebecca
and her Beautiful Dusky Daughters.
To offer HOPE and
SALVATION
to the Oppressed and Hungry
to be DELIVERED
FROM THOSE
Cruelly used by Unjust and Greedy Masters!
RISE UP, Men of ENGLAND
In the Name of LIBERTY AND JUSTICE!
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said O’Brien.
“It’s somewhat vague,” said Felix. “No specific instruction as to a time or a place.”
“No, fortunately,” said Major Vernon.
“Where were these found?” said Felix.
“Inspector Coxe found them stashed in a hole in a wall down by Williamson and Collworth’s Manufactory. They had been put there in haste, perhaps. How much would it cost to print such a thing?”
O’Brien rubbed the paper between his fingers, and considered.
“Not a great deal. Quarter sheets of low grade paper, not well set, all in all. Shoddy, in fact. Probably one of those cheap little shops. There is one on the road to the station – I forget the man’s name – I took his son on for a while, but he was a clumsy so-and-so, and not as well trained as he should have been. I had to let him go. I suppose he went back to his father.”
“And do we know who Crimson Mary is?” Felix said.
“Oh, certainly,” said O’Brien. “She was quite the thing twenty years ago – well, more than twenty years ago. When I first came here, which was back in 1820, she was the talk of the place. I’m not sure they ever caught her.”
“No, they did not,” said Major Vernon.
“Though there were quite a few arrests and they hanged at least two men,” said O’Brien, “and it struck me then, that it was not entirely just that they did. The evidence against them seemed –”
“Contrived,” said Major Vernon. “Yes.”
“What were they hanged for?” said Felix.
“Machine breaking,” said O’Brien. “There was a gang that went about for a few months, on and off, always at night, and in heavy disguise. Women’s red petticoats and cloaks. Hence Crimson Mary, their leader. They did a great deal of damage – there was a new manufactory, one of the most advanced of its kind, and they nearly brought the place to its knees. They were clever about it, too – it was impossible for the authorities to pin anything on anyone in particular. There was even a ballad printed, with a woodcut of Crimson Mary on it, and you could not move for seeing it. In fact,” O’Brien said, getting up, “I have a copy still. I kept it. It had me thinking abo
ut the power of a scrap of paper with a picture on it, for getting people stirred up.” He began searching in a drawer. “The whole town was in a fever because of it! And it was my trade at the heart of it all. Here we are: The Ballad of Crimson Mary. Look at that, will you!”
He was smiling and shaking his head at the same time.
The image of Crimson Mary was certainly a striking one. Tall, muscular, with bare legs, but swathed in ragged petticoats and shawls, Crimson Mary’s face was partially obscured by a huge bonnet, but she was clearly a man, with a prominent nose, suggestive almost of the Duke of Wellington. The figure carried a smoking pistol in one hand and flaming torch in the other. Below was printed the ballad and the instructions that it was to be sung to the tune of Lillibullero.
Come gather round, O one and all, and mark the tale
Of bold Crimson Mary and her gallant band,
Who broke the back of Satan’s rank machines,
And brought the strains of freedom to this land.
“It’s printed on the same size paper,” said Felix.
“Could be the same press, now I look at it,” said O’Brien. “Nothing sophisticated. But the idea of it. The cheek of that ballad! I loved it, I’m ashamed to say it, even though they were a gang of troublemakers out to ruin people’s livelihoods.”
“The fear of progress,” said Major Vernon.
“I’m ashamed to say I went to the hangings,” said O’Brien. “My curiosity got the better of me. The militia were there. I think it was touch-and-go that we did not have a Peterloo. The crowd knew that those men were not behind it. You could feel that they knew those were just some poor idiots that had been rounded up and strung up for the sake of it!”
Major Vernon studied the ballad again.
“You didn’t write a journal in those days, did you?” he said. “A fair-minded record of those events would be of great use.”
“No, I didn’t, and if I had, I’m not sure you would have liked what I would have said, Major,” said O’Brien. “We were different fellows back then, that’s for certain.”
The Major nodded, and then tapped the ballad with his finger.
“This is artful stuff, in its crude way. To put their argument in such a fashion – might we guess that it is the same hand at work on each? I wonder if they will put this one out again.”
The Fatal Engine Page 1