The Fatal Engine

by Harriet Smart

  “I’d like to apologise, Mr Armstrong,” Giles began. “There has been a mistake. Rollins, please remove the cuffs.” Rollins did so. There was a slight risk in this, but there were two constables within calling distance, and Hammond would be with them soon enough.

  “Please won’t you sit down? Coffee? Or something stronger, perhaps? Holt, fetch the good cognac, would you?”

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir,” said Holt.

  “I think you will like it,” said Giles, when Holt had gone. “And I can only apologise again. We jumped to an erroneous conclusion. That note you sent Mr Blake. It was a challenge, was it not? You were calling him out, I take it, on some personal matter? A gentleman’s disagreement of some description?” Armstrong’s brow furrowed as he sat down.

  “You see,” Giles went on, “there has been an important development. Mr Blake has admitted to acquiring the gunpowder and setting the charge that night. He had hopes of an insurance claim. Please, sir, do have some coffee. I think you may be able to help us with some corroborating details, before we let you go, Mr Armstrong.”

  “Let me go?”

  “Why would we hold you?” Giles said.

  Holt returned with the brandy and Giles made sure a generous glass was set in front of Armstrong, along with a smaller one for himself.

  “What were you doing there?” said Armstrong, after tasting his brandy.

  “We’d had some intelligence suggesting that there was a quantity of explosives in the cellar,” Giles said. “Naturally, in the circumstances, it had to be pursued.”

  “And you figured it was me behind it?” Armstrong said.

  “Given that you left so abruptly, I had to assume that you were responsible. But Blake’s confession, which was freely given, says otherwise. Your health, sir!” He raised his glass and pretended to drink. Armstrong looked puzzled at this show of bonhomie. “And bon voyage. I understand you are intending to return to America?”

  “Did Blake tell you that?” Armstrong said.

  “He did. And that is the place to be, these days, I think,” Giles said. “It is an interesting country, altogether. They do not suffer from the limited thinking about society that is our great misfortune.”

  Armstrong drank a little more of his brandy.

  “That’s true enough,” he said.

  “A man is a gentleman there on his merits, not his birth, I understand. When did you first go out there?” Giles said.

  “When I was about twenty,” said Armstrong.

  “About 1820, then?” said Giles. “I think we are contemporaries, Mr Armstrong.”

  “Maybe,” said Armstrong, swilling the brandy around in his glass, before taking a larger mouthful.

  “What made you decide to go?”

  “I was not getting anywhere here,” he said after a moment.

  “You were a tailor, I think?” said Giles.

  Something flickered across Armstrong’s face, a slight sense that he was unsettled.

  “How do you reckon that?” said Armstrong.

  “The cut of your clothes. A man who knows how to dress. And as a trade, I have noticed that tailors, like printers, have a radical turn of mind. I think you have such ideas, yes?”

  “There is no crime in free-thinking.”

  “None at all,” said Giles. “I was speaking to a printer the other day, in Market Craven, and he reminded me of that very thing. Free speech, especially, is something we must defend with our lives.”

  Armstrong now leant forward and studied Giles.

  “You think so, do you?” he said.

  “Yes. It may surprise you, of course, given my position,” he said. “But there are sympathetic, reasonable voices in all parts of life, you know, Mr Armstrong. For example, I have been looking over the events of 1820 recently, and it strikes me that the men who were hanged should not have been. That the authorities committed a grave injustice and there ought to be some redress.”

  “It was tyranny, pure and simple,” said Armstrong. “A legitimate protest was taken as a criminal conspiracy by the authorities in order to repress the people. To keep them in their place with the noose.”

  “Crude but effective,” said Giles. “But times have changed, Armstrong. The voice of the ordinary man is beginning to be heard. I do not believe that such a miscarriage of justice could happen again.”

  “Do you not?” said Armstrong. “Conditions have not improved. If anything, they are worse. The workers have nothing, and men like Blake bleed them dry to pay for the silk dresses on the backs of their daughters.”

  “And for the brandy and cakes for his guests,” said Giles. “Of which you partook freely enough, Mr Armstrong.”

  “And why should I not? He’s a common thief. He has admitted so himself with his insurance fraud. Christ, it does not surprise me that he should be behind that blast! What a –”

  “Quite,” said Giles. “Tell me, how did you meet him?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Giles reached for his notebook and glanced through it.

  “It would greatly help the case against him if you could,” he said. “I think the innkeeper at Darnell’s Cross has some recollection of seeing you with the late Mr Roper, meeting with Blake there. Mr Roper, with whom you were apprenticed, I understand?”

  “I may have been,” said Armstrong.

  “And you kept up with him for some years. I believe you even recommended a servant to the late Mrs Roper. An old woman now, but she was full of interesting stories of you. And of course, her son –”

  “What about him?” Armstrong said.

  “Her son was hanged for machine-breaking. And you, being sympathetic to their cause, did all you could to help her. She told me that they beat a confession out of him.”

  “That’s true, they did.”

  “So you think he had nothing to do with it?”

  “They were all innocent men.”

  “Then who did break the machines that night? There was plenty of evidence of broken machines. A great deal of expensive damage, which caused a great deal of distress, as a matter of fact.”

  “Distress?” said Armstrong. “For who? Those factory owners did not go without bread, they did not live in cellars.”

  “No, but the interruption to the trade caused many workers to lose their livelihoods. There was a depression of some months, I understand, from reading the reports. Nobody gained anything. It was a futile act.”

  “Sometimes the spark does not catch the tinder,” said Armstrong.

  “And then you sailed for New York. Tell me,” Giles said, reaching into the case folder. “Did you take this young woman with you?” And he pushed The Ballad of Crimson Mary across the table. “I think you and she may be intimately connected.” Armstrong looked at it and pushed it back. “After all, she has recently been spotted here in Northminster, and certainly this little ballad has been reprinted in Market Craven. Perhaps you are both hoping the tinder will catch better this time? Perhaps the martyrs of ’20 will encourage the fires: William Burton, John Hubberd and James Walker.”

  “They were good men,” Armstrong said. “They gave their lives for a great cause, and the whole of Northminster knows that.”

  “Perhaps, but I think people will be interested to hear that those men were goaded into their foolish actions by a man who then left the country, a man who did not have the courage to stay and face what was coming to him.”

  “You do not sacrifice the general when the war has just begun,” said Armstrong. “Those men understood that. They were happy to die for the greater good. The good that will come, and soon enough!”

  “Oh, really? How?” Giles said, in the mildest manner he could.

  “There will be a revolution, mark my words, and you and your kind had better look out! The people will not bear oppression for long. They are suffering and they will not live like slaves forever. They will turn, and then where will you be?” he said, gesturing about him. “With your fine house and your servants and your
French cognac.”

  “And where will you be?” said Giles.

  “Leading the fight.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Giles. “And all movements need their leaders. I am sure you will make an excellent self-appointed general, Mr Armstrong. But that might prove a little difficult, at least in the short term. Especially after you have apparently thrown away your blasting powder in a fit of pique. What of the poor workers and their revolt then?”

  “Blake’s blasting powder,” Armstrong said. “That was nothing to do with me. You said so yourself.”

  “Do you really think I believe that?” said Giles. “Blake may be a greedy fool but he has a little more sense than to decide to blow up his own house. A little more sense than you, it seems.”

  Armstrong started up from his chair.

  “Sit down and finish your brandy,” said Giles. “You may as well. There are two officers on the door, and I can have you put in cuffs again as soon as I like. In fact, why don’t you take another glass?”

  He refilled the glass and Armstrong sat down again. “Now let us go back to the other night at Darnell’s Cross. You were wary when you saw me. My disguise was probably not convincing, and you were on your guard. Why would that be, now?”

  “I didn’t like the look of you. Rightly enough, it seems.”

  “But why would it bother you then that a hired waiter didn’t seem right? Because you were nervous, yes? Lord, I think anyone would be if they knew they had acquired that much gunpowder and it was stashed so near at hand.”

  “I know nothing about that,” said Armstrong. “I just don’t like men I can’t place.”

  “And you don’t like Blake much, I suppose,” said Giles. “A necessary evil in the great cause, perhaps? At first you must have thought you had struck lucky with him. Someone willing to pay you a great deal of money to commit a crime that you wished to commit anyway! You must have enjoyed that, surely, Mr Armstrong? You must have been pleased when Roper introduced you to him.”

  Armstrong said nothing, but drank some of his brandy.

  “Tell me, did Roper agree with your political ideas?” Armstrong shook his head. “But he knew useful people, and he knew how to get money out of them.”

  “You might say that,” said Armstrong.

  “And he had a pretty daughter.”

  “She’s a little whore,” said Armstrong.

  “You did your best to make her so, certainly,” said Giles. “Tell me, which one of you came up with the idea of drugging her sister?”

  “She did.”

  “That’s not what she says.”

  “She will be lying,” said Armstrong. “I wouldn’t give her any credit.”

  “I don’t give her much, certainly,” said Giles. “But she was not seen in the Infirmary just before Miss Roper, who had been on the road to recovery, took a sudden and disastrous turn for the worse. Someone matching your description, Armstrong, visited her shortly before this happened.”

  “I may have been there,” he said after a moment. “I was fond of her mother. I felt I owed her that. But she was sick already.”

  “She was given a fatal dose of opium which destroyed her already weakened constitution. It seems likely that her visitor gave it to her.”

  “You can’t prove that,” said Armstrong, sitting back in his chair. His calm insolence was impressive.

  “Perhaps not at this instant,” said Giles. “But I will do my best, I swear it. She deserves our greatest efforts, after all, this innocent young woman. I think it will not be impossible to find the apothecary who supplied you with the raw opium. After all, you have a memorable face, Armstrong.” He picked up The Ballad of Crimson Mary and studied it. “And perhaps it will be your undoing. Witnesses remember you. ‘Like the great Duke,’ they all say. Is that what your mother said, I wonder? Did she encourage you in your ideas of greatness? Or did you decide for yourself that it meant you were destined for fame? Is this why you allowed this portrait to go about? It cannot be an accident. No ordinary man would have allowed it, but you are not ordinary, Armstrong.”

  Armstrong drained his glass.

  “Whatever you say,” he said.

  “There will be a great many ballads sold when you go to the gallows,” Giles went on. “You won’t have fame, but you will have notoriety. Which is perhaps less fleeting. The Ballad of Billy Armstrong. I can imagine nursemaids frightening their children with it.”

  A smile passed across Armstrong’s formerly impassive face.

  “A man so bold,” Giles went on, “that he set an explosion to teach an uppity manufacturer a lesson not to treat him like a servant. That will be remembered, I’m sure of it.”

  “Blake was out of line,” Armstrong said.

  “As was Roper, I am sure,” said Giles.

  “Roper was a damned fool, a whining little fool,” said Armstrong.

  “So you set a dog on him,” said Giles said, “in the form of the late Edward Edwardes.”

  “His death was none of my doing, I’ll have you know, though it would have been a pleasure. It was Ned Edwardes that smashed his head open.”

  “It must have been satisfying to learn that both your old confederates were dead.”

  “It was,” said Armstrong, picking up his empty glass.

  “Have another,” said Giles, refilling his glass. There was a knock at the door and Holt came in with a note. Giles read it and had to work hard not to smile at its contents. He gave Holt a nod in answer to it and turned back to Armstrong. “And I suppose that the day my colleague met you at the workshop you had gone there to collect his stash.”

  “I may have done,” said Armstrong. “But if you think I will tell you where that it is, then –”

  “Oh no, I have my own ideas about that,” said Giles. “And I don’t think you will be too pleased about it.”

  “What?” said Armstrong.

  “Women, you see,” Giles said, tapping the note in his hand. “Wronged women, slighted women – they have a way of turning the tables. And when you get two of them together, sharing their grievances, the results can be quite unfortunate.”

  There was another knock at the door and this time Hammond came in with an ancient lady on his arm. For a moment Giles struggled to place her, for she came accompanied by an expensive rustle of silk, and was swathed in a fur trimmed cloak while her bonnet was lavish with black lace. Hammond held a frayed basket in which was sitting a black and white cat that Giles immediately recognised. This, apparently, was mutual, for the cat jumped out and approached him at once.

  “Mrs Walker, how good of you to come,” Giles said. “You will excuse me if I don’t get up, but I am, as you can see, slightly indisposed.”

  “My new landlady doesn’t like cats,” she said, when Hammond put down the basket. “Big old house like this needs a good mouser, I’m sure.” She nodded to Armstrong. “How do, Billy?”

  “What in hell’s name are you doing here?” he said.

  “Helping the police with their inquiries,” she said, relishing the phrase.

  “Sit down, Mrs Walker, won’t you?” Giles said, gathering the cat onto his lap. “You are looking very well. That’s a fine cloak.”

  “Got it down at St Luke’s,” she said.

  “With the late Mr Roper’s money,” Giles said, “I have no doubt.”

  “Miss Amy told me to take my share. For my trouble.”

  “But she hasn’t been back for the rest?”

  “No. The rest is in there,” she said, pointing to the basket. “He said I’d better bring it – or else,” she added with a dark look at Hammond.

  “Or at least most of it is, I expect?” said Giles.

  “It’s a hard winter,” she said. “How am I and the boy to get through otherwise? I only took enough to get us comfortable. It’s only what I’m owed. Half the time I worked for them they never paid me!”

  “That seems perfectly reasonable, don’t you think, Armstrong? After all, I’m sure you were going to g
ive Mrs Walker her fair share at last, after all she has done for you over the years?”

  “You vile old bitch!” exclaimed Armstrong, jumping up and looming over Mrs Walker. “What did that little cow say to you? What did she say?”

  Hammond pulled him away from her, and he struggled in his grip, attempting to lash out and strike Mrs Walker.

  “That you were going away and intending to take it all with you and cut me out again!” said Mrs Walker. “And I wasn’t having that, Billy, not after what you did to my Jim!”

  “Cuff him, Hammond,” said Giles. “Superintendent, take him down to Constabulary Headquarters and have him charged.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Rollins. Together with Hammond he put Armstrong, who was now fairly writhing, into the cuffs and escorted him from the room.

  “So you’ll look after my cat?” said Mrs Walker.

  “I don’t seem to have much choice about it,” said Giles. She was now asleep on his lap.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Wake up, for goodness’ sake! Wake up!”

  Felix struggled into consciousness. Eleanor’s hands were on him, shaking him.

  “What?”

  “It’s Truro,” she said.

  Now he was awake. He sat up, and found he had a throbbing head and felt slightly sick.

  Eleanor now rushed away from the bed and pulled open the curtains, flooding the room with harsh grey light.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, staggering out of bed and across the room.

  Eleanor was still standing by the window, her hands pressed to the glass. She was wearing nothing but her nightdress. He glanced at the clock with bleary eyes. It was half past eleven. They had been asleep for hours.

  “I shall be as quick as I can,” said Felix, picking up his dressing-gown and going to the door. “Who brought the message? Tell them to go back and say I’m on my way. I’m sure he will be perfectly all right.”

  “No!” Eleanor said, and began to sob. “No, he won’t. He’s dead!”

  “What?”

  “He’s dead!” she said with a howl. “Dead! And I killed him!” Felix attempted to wrap his dressing-gown about her, but she pushed him away. “That stupid punch! Why on earth did I serve it?”