The Fatal Engine

by Harriet Smart

  Blake was led off protesting, and Carswell came to speak to Giles.

  “All well?” said Giles.

  “Yes. A certain amount of shock and hysteria, but nothing more. Quite a few of the guests live near at hand and most have gone home, taking some of the others with them. Mrs Jenkins – I think her name is – has taken in Mrs Blake and her daughters, as well as the women servants. You will want to talk to them, I suppose?”

  “Not at once,” said Giles.

  He glanced into the kitchen where Mr Hale was being given a cup of tea and consolation by Mrs Abbott, while Mr Abbott was talking with a group of local men. They were farmers, by the look of them, who had appeared at the inn summoned by the noise of the explosion. One talked of being thrown from his bed.

  “There is a beck runs along the side of the house,” he was saying. “We could get the water from there and go in from that side.”

  “I’ll get some of my men from Harbridge,” said another of the farmers. “Thank the Lord there’s no wind.”

  “And snow forecast,” said Abbott. He glanced over at Giles. “Do we know the cause of it, sir?”

  “There was a stock of blasting powder in the cellar – I cannot say for sure how much, and there may be a risk of further explosions. I urge extreme caution.”

  “Blasting powder?” said the farmer. “Gunpowder, you mean? What in the Lord’s name was he doing with that in his cellar?”

  “A good question,” said Giles, and went to find a horse. Carswell followed him.

  “I suppose are you are looking out for Armstrong,” he said. “I should have stopped him.”

  “No, it was more important to clear the house. He will not have got far, and perhaps he has been vain enough to stop and watch his handiwork – with luck.”

  “We could do with some of that,” said Carswell. “Should I come with you? I am not needed here, I think.”

  “Yes, indeed. Two heads are better than one.”

  And so they set off together on sturdy ponies borrowed from Mr Abbott’s stable.

  “He will have left by the main gate, at a guess,” said Giles, “and that leads onto the high road, and he has the choice to follow the road and go down to the village, or go over and up the back way towards Market Craven over the moors. It’s longer, but far safer, and it will give him a view of the scene, and then a good tramp and he’s in reach of a railway station and a swift escape in the morning.”

  They followed the track that led sharply upwards into the rough country beyond. It was a little after midnight, and in addition to the cold hand of the winter weather, there was an eerie stillness, as if the blast had frightened every living thing into shocked immobility. Below them the huge flaming mass of the burning house cast its strange unnatural light over the sky, illuminating their way, and at the same time, the pale yellow sky of an approaching snowstorm spread itself above them. If they were supposed to find Armstrong, then providence was in its curious way assisting them.

  It soon began to snow heavily.

  “Perhaps he has taken shelter,” Carswell said, pointing ahead of them to a stone sheepcot, high on the hillside.

  Giles nodded. It seemed possible. Certainly from that ridge he would have had a fine view of the proceedings below. He dismounted, handed his reins to Carswell and began, carefully, to climb up the hillside. It was steep and treacherous, but he was rewarded with what he thought was the faint smell of wood smoke. Had the fool made up a fire? Or perhaps this was some poor tramp seeking shelter from the snow.

  Of course, it was a mistake to consider Armstrong a fool. He was certainly not that, and Giles braced himself as he made his way as unobtrusively as he could towards the cot, keenly aware that he was not armed. Armstrong was violent and ruthless, and not to be trusted for a moment.

  He had now reached a point where he could look over the parapet of the sheepcot. A glance confirmed Carswell’s suggestion. There was a smoking fire, and alongside it lay Armstrong, apparently sleeping. He was wrapped up in the full magnificence of his green overcoat, his fur collar turned up, his travelling bag forming his pillow and a fur cap covering his eyes. He lay, sensibly, with his back pressed to the wall.

  Apparently sleeping: for in such conditions, what man ever slept deeply? He was resting, conserving his energies for the next battle. At a touch – no, at a mere sound, he would be alert and ready for anything. Giles had a pair of cuffs at his disposal, and although the man’s wrists seemed temptingly vulnerable, it would not be an easy operation. Perhaps Carswell, who was so deft with his fingers, might manage it better, but Carswell was not at hand.

  He stole round the wall, and crouching down, went animal-like across the mossy earthen floor, through the midst of what was now a regular blizzard. Armstrong stirred and rearranged himself a little. Giles froze, astonished that he was not observed, and thanking Providence again, he crept forward a little, clasping the cuffs in his hand so that their chink should not betray him. Then, he leant forward and clapped the circle of metal about Armstrong’s wrist, feeling its satisfying click, and grabbed the other wrist even as the man began to stir and rouse. He had just managed the second when Armstrong became fully sentient. He gave a roar of surprise, and – jerking his limbs – succeeded in giving Giles a violent kick in the ribs, enough to wind him and send him falling back onto the ground.

  “What the –?” Armstrong was struggling, attempting to work out what had happened to him.

  “You are under arrest, Mr Armstrong,” Giles managed to say as he got back on his feet. He was short of breath and he suspected that the kick had done him some serious damage.

  Armstrong was now trying to get to his feet, but Giles pushed him down onto the ground again, and managed to keep him there, face down, his foot in his back.

  “I was right,” he heard Carswell saying. He glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see him, and even more relieved to see he was carrying a length of stout rope.

  ~

  “A good night’s work, all in all,” Major Vernon said, getting up from his chair by the fire. They had been eating a belated supper in the bedroom assigned to them in The Greyhound. Felix noticed, not for the first time, that he seemed to be in pain. “We should get to bed, though.”

  “Are you all right?” he said, for the Major had pressed his hand onto his chest as he straightened.

  “Armstrong gave me a bit of a kick in the ribs, that’s all. There will be a nasty bruise, I expect.”

  “Let me look at it. There may be more to it than that.”

  “I’m not sure it merits –”

  “Let me be the judge of that, sir,” said Felix. “Your breathing has been laboured. I think there may be a fracture.”

  The Major consented to an examination. In fact, he had to be helped to remove his shirt, for the damage that had been done was making even the simplest movements awkward and painful. The area of damage was clear enough.

  “Now take a deep breath – if you can bear it,” Felix said, gently pressing his fingers to the area of contusion, and noted the distinct clicking of a fracture as well as the difficulty the task of inhaling was causing the Major.

  “Two cracked ribs,” he said.

  “Ribs heal themselves, generally, I think,” Major Vernon managed to say.

  “Yes, if you take care of them. You will have to rest. Indeed, you can keep Mrs Vernon company.”

  “Quite,” said the Major, laughing, but only for a moment because it clearly hurt him.

  “There’s a fair bit of inflammation. A poultice will take that down. Fortunately I shan’t have to look far for ice,” Felix said, indicating the window and the blizzard beyond. “I will give you some laudanum as well, and secure everything with a bandage.”

  “I am half afraid to touch laudanum now,” said Major Vernon when Felix offered him the dose, “after what happened to poor Miss Roper.”

  “At least Armstrong will face a jury for that,” said Felix, and went to construct a poultice of snow.

 
When he returned, the Major was still sitting as he had left him, propped up on the pillows on the bed. He flinched as Felix applied the poultice, but it was clear that the laudanum had had its effect.

  “I hope I can get him to talk,” said Major Vernon.

  “Armstrong you, mean?”

  “It will mean nothing if he does not confess.”

  “He may not have enough of a conscience to care,” said Felix. “To blow up a house full of people – on a whim.”

  “You think it was a whim?”

  “Remember that exchange of words he had with Blake, that I overheard?” Felix said. Major Vernon nodded. “I think that was what provoked him to it. Blake was dismissive and put him in his place. He probably disliked that. He was showing his strength. Hence the warning.”

  “And also showing a short temper,” said Major Vernon, sinking back on the pillow a little. “We are to presume that the powder was meant for the machine-breaking plot on Christmas Eve, I think?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said Felix.

  “Then it’s a great mercy he has a short temper. If that blast had gone off in the city without any warning, then the consequences would have been unimaginable. We should thank Blake for provoking him, whatever his murky part in all this.”

  “Perhaps,” said Felix. “Now, please sit up a little now, sir, and I will get you bandaged up.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “The question remains, Mr Blake – why did you allow Armstrong to store the powder kegs in your cellar?” Giles asked.

  “Because I did not know it was powder.”

  “But you gave him money to acquire powder?”

  “Not specifically. I asked him to devise some means of disrupting Mr Williamson’s business. I did not imagine that he would take matters so far and fill my own house with gunpowder. Dear God, no!”

  “Some means of disrupting Mr Williamson’s business?” said Giles. “So you gave him carte blanche?”

  “Yes, I can see it would seem so, but we never discussed such an extreme act as that. Never. I should never have countenanced that.”

  “What did you have in mind, Mr Blake?”

  Blake considered for a moment.

  “Light damage,” he said. “Nothing more.”

  “A few broken windows?” Blake nodded.

  “That sort of thing,” he said.

  “That would hardly warrant the amount of money you have spent on this. You might have got a schoolboy to do that for a shilling, and it would hardly disrupt Williamson and Collworth’s business. It would not even inconvenience them. You are being disingenuous, sir. You had something far more serious in mind.”

  “I swear I did not,” said Blake.

  “Then why do it?” Giles said. “You admit you wanted to disrupt his business. Come now, Mr Blake, I am not a fool.”

  Blake did not answer, and Giles decided he must unpick a little more.

  “Well – perhaps you might tell me how you met Armstrong?” Giles said.

  “It was Roper who introduced me,” said Blake.

  “And how had you become associated with him?”

  “At first it was through his offering me a sewing machine. He came to my works at Market Craven and said he had perfected a mechanism, and when he showed it to me, it was indeed impressive. So I agreed, in the first instance, that I would help him develop it further, on an exclusive basis of course. And then he mentioned that Williamson and Collworth were, apparently, investing in that area. Which was no great surprise, but Roper said he knew how I might be able to keep ahead. There was a man –”

  Blake went silent, shaking his head for a moment.

  “Armstrong?”

  Blake nodded.

  “You have to understand how it is in this business, Major Vernon,” Blake said, breaking his silence. “It is ruthless. You take every advantage you can get. I have two large concerns with many hands employed, and if they had gone down, then –”

  “You were feeling the pinch?”

  “Williamson and Collworth do not play fair!” Blake said. “So I didn’t see why I should. And Armstrong is – well, an agreeable fellow, with a sense of purpose about him. And good company.”

  “And a gambler, like yourself?” Giles said.

  “Yes, we had that in common. And not afraid to play for high stakes. I liked that in him.”

  “And was it he who said he could deal with your commercial rivals?”

  “Yes. And I trusted him...” His voice trailed away. “Damn him,” he muttered.

  “Trusted him so much that you did not ask for details of what he planned, Mr Blake?” Giles said. “I would have thought you would be more careful than that, in such an important transaction. It is hardly convincing that you would have trusted him to such a degree that you would not be curious about what your money was to be spent on, and what the plan was. That would be uncharacteristically stupid.”

  There was a long silence as Blake considered his words.

  “Yes. I admit I knew it was there. But it was going to be moved early next week. But he told me it was perfectly safe. That it had all been carefully packed. That there was no risk involved. I should never have let him put it there if I had known he was going to –”

  He broke off.

  “So you had a clear understanding of his plan to blow up the premises. It was perhaps not his plan alone, Mr Blake? Perhaps you had some hand in devising it?”

  There was a long silence. He glanced at his lawyer. It was clear he was not yet ready to go this far, and Giles was suddenly exhausted and in some pain. He got up from the table.

  “Perhaps you should talk to Mr Harding,” he said. “We will talk again later.”

  Giles walked down the passageway, irritated at the way it had gone. He found Chief Inspector Rollins and Sergeant Hammond coming from the room where Armstrong was held.

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing yet, sir,” said Rollins. “I have sent him back to the cells for now. He is not ready to talk.”

  “It is a pity I cannot –” Giles could not help wincing as he spoke.

  “I think you should go home, sir,” said Rollins, “in all honesty.”

  “You may be right. Talk to Pierce, would you? He was in with me just now, with Blake. I think I must go and see Mr Peterson.”

  “Very wise, sir,” said Rollins. “And don’t worry, we shall break Armstrong eventually. There is always a way – you have always said so.”

  Giles was surprised to find Carswell in Peterson’s immaculate consulting room.

  “If I’d known you were here,” Carswell said, “I should have sent you home at once.”

  “I’ve come in to get signed off,” said Giles. “I should not have come in. But Blake is now talking – after a fashion.”

  “But not Armstrong?” Giles shook his head. “Might I examine you?”

  “I think you’d better,” said Giles.

  Carswell went about the business, delicately enough, but Giles still found himself in some discomfort.

  “This third rib is concerning me,” Carswell said. “I think the fracture may be a little longer than we anticipated. I am afraid there is only one cure for that – you must go and lie on your bed and move as little as possible. I will replace this bandage with something a little more substantial.”

  “I can keep Mrs Vernon company, as you suggested.”

  “Yes, and I will go back with you and see how she is doing.”

  “Good God, what a pair we will seem,” Giles said, and laughed, and then regretted doing so. “Oh, and we will have to cry off from your party on Friday.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Carswell.

  They went back to Rooke Court in a carriage, and coming into the hall, Mrs Patton came rushing downstairs to meet them.

  “Oh, thank the Lord you’re here, Mr Carswell!” she said. “Mr Holt was about to go and get you. It’s the mistress – she’s – oh, I don’t know – come at once, will you?”

  “What?” said
Giles, starting for the stairs, but Carswell overtook him and said, “Go and rest somewhere. I will tell you as soon as I know what’s what.”

  Giles, despite all his desire to go to her, knew he had better trust Carswell’s instincts, nodded and let the others go up, while he followed, realising that the business of climbing stairs was making him breathless with pain and anxiety. He staggered into Hamish and Sandro’s room, and found all the children there, with Greene, their nurse. The older two were engaged in a nice game of building up towers of blocks for Sandro to demolish.

  “Aunt Emma said there was an explosion!” said Hamish, seeing him at the door.

  “There was,” he said.

  “I wish I could have seen it,” said Hamish.

  At the same time Sandro toddled over and stretched out his arms to be lifted up by Giles, as had become the normal pattern.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t, Sandro,” Giles said. “I have cracked ribs.” The child of course did not understand, and stood there waiting patiently.

  Greene took him up instead, which seemed to satisfy him.

  “It is a good thing he likes you, Greene,” Giles said, reaching out and touching the child’s soft curls.

  “He should have his cap on,” said Greene. “Excuse me, sir,” and she carried him out of the room. Giles perched on the edge of a chair and watched as Sophy diligently tidied the blocks back into their basket. Then suddenly she rushed to him and kissed him.

  “I hope you are better soon,” she said, and then ran out after Greene and Sandro.

  “Aunt Emma said –” began Hamish, but at this moment Carswell came in.

  “I will tell you all about it later, Hamish,” Giles said. “I need to speak to Mr Carswell first, if you will excuse us.”

  The boy nodded and went to the door. He hesitated, his hand on the latch, and asked, “She will be all right, sir, won’t she?”

  “Your aunt?” said Carswell.

  “Yes,” said Hamish.

  “Yes, she will be,” said Carswell, and Hamish grinned and left them. When the door had shut, Carswell went on: “But she is miscarrying. I’m so sorry.”