by Clive Mullis
‘I’ve lit it,’ shouted Gerald, stepping back a bit to get a better view.
The flame on the end of the string disappeared into the outer barrel and then within a couple of moments the thing that was going to happen, happened.
Frankie didn’t expect something really big to happen, so he just stood there with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and jangled his coins when it did. Lenny peeked around the corner and wished that he hadn’t, while Cornwallis, Rose and MacGillicudy were the only ones who were truly expecting something to happen and had bent down protectively. Gerald’s two men were — well, one had decided to pick his nose while the other scratched his gonads.
The blast happened.
None of them had heard the like of it before. It was cataclysmic, like the biggest clap of thunder ever, multiplied a dozen times over, signalling the end of the world; a noise to make your eyes bleed and your ears implode, an awesome noise, made in a truly awesome way. The blast sucked the air from their throats as the noise reverberated around the pit, and the shed that they took cover behind, shuddered from the force, before collapsing in a heap around them, sending dust and debris everywhere.
Lenny stood there, partially bent over, with his hand still holding the brick he had grabbed as the thing went off. Dazed from the bang, he hardly noticed that the shed wasn’t there anymore. Frankie had ripped his trouser pockets clean away as he dived down to the ground in order to protect himself, while Gerald’s two men whimpered, in dire need of medical attention.
Cornwallis, Rose and MacGillicudy were holding onto one another and huddled closely together as the thing went off, but none of them were prepared for the extreme violence of the blast.
As the dust began to settle, Cornwallis raised his head to look. ‘Oh gods,’ he exclaimed, as he looked out into the pit: a small crater had appeared where the barrel once stood.
Rose and MacGillicudy tentatively raised their heads and looked over. Frankie rolled over onto his back and stared up at the sky in disbelief. Gerald had disappeared, and it wasn’t until a large dollop of earth began to shake that he emerged back into the light once more, spitting dust and dirt from his mouth. His two henchmen were at that moment good for nothing.
Cornwallis walked over to Lenny and guided him away from the mound of rubble, while Rose ran over to Gerald.
‘Are you hurt, Gerald?’ she asked, the concern etched over her face.
Gerald stared glassy eyed at her, a novelty for her, as normally people found that there were just black depths of nothing when looking into Gerald’s eyes. He nodded slowly, as if at that moment he dare not do any kind of sudden movement.
Cornwallis removed the brick that Lenny clenched tightly in his hand and then led him over towards the rest of them. Everybody still reeled in shock at the sheer scale of the blast, and it wasn’t lost on MacGillicudy and Cornwallis that what they had set off was only about half of the size of the one meant for the academy.
The damage would have been enormous.
CHAPTER 8
Lenny slowly began to recover his wits. He walked around in circles for a time in a dazed stupor until his nerves began to settle, and then he stood right where the barrel had been and surveyed the devastation.
Cornwallis and Rose were examining the shed that they had sheltered behind, while Frankie went to check on the horse. MacGillicudy stood in the middle of it all and seethed. Gerald just stared, still lost for words.
‘Look at that,’ said Rose, as she turned over a pile of bricks with her foot. ‘You can see where the bits of metal have got stuck in the wall. Look at it. That’s what could have happened to us at Pendon,’ she added with feeling.
Cornwallis nodded and gently stroked her back. If it wasn’t for MacGillicudy stopping the cart from coming down the street, he could have lost her in the most twearth shattering way possible — blown to smithereens. He stopped stroking her and instead wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tight against his chest, hugging as tightly as he could as he offered up a prayer of thanks to the Gods.
MacGillicudy’s colour had returned to his face as his temper began to cool down. He looked around, trying to make sense of the situation, and wondered why somebody would want to set something like that off? ‘What did Fred call the thing?’
Cornwallis turned his head and called over his shoulder. ‘He called it a bomb.’
‘Bloody good word for the damn thing. A bomb, eh? Well, when we find out who’s done this then I will stick the bloody bomb right up his arse.’
Lenny walked about picking bits of debris up and looking closely at the damage. He wanted to find the remains of the barrel, but apart from a few charred bits of wood, he could find nothing. ‘This is really interesting,’ he said, to no one in particular, but mainly to himself. ‘The whole barrel has disintegrated. The theory behind it all is so simple; I can’t understand why this hasn’t been done before. The gonepowder is packed tight, so I suppose that when it’s ignited it must expand, which explains why the whizz-bangs go up in the air. So, a lot of it expanding at once must—’
‘Lenny,’ interrupted MacGillicudy. ‘I don’t give a fig about that at the moment. I just want to know who did it. You know all the alchemists, so ask around; find out anything you can. I need to catch the bastard before he decides to do it again.’
‘Jethro,’ called Cornwallis, as he and Rose came over towards him. ‘That fire at the watch-house the other day: I’m wondering if it’s connected in any way with this.’
A light appeared in MacGillicudy’s eyes. ‘That’s a very good point. Maybe I should go and have another look at the place.’
‘You mean we will have another look. I’m thinking that someone has started a vendetta against the police.’
MacGillicudy nodded as a reply, but already he had his mind deep in thought, with the thought being; who amongst Gornstock’s criminal society had the organisation skills and resources to carry out something like this?
Frankie came back leading the horse and cart. Thankfully, both were undamaged, but as Frankie explained, there seemed to be a lot of shit on the ground around the horse. ‘Poor thing probably wondered what the bloody hell that bang was.’
‘It’s not the only one,’ responded Rose, scratching its head in sympathy.
They all piled back on the cart for the return journey, understandably, a bit more subdued than the journey out. Gerald’s minders still nursed their wounds: one trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood from his nose, the other taking great care in positioning himself for protection against the lurches and bumps as the cart negotiated the rough track.
It took them a bit longer to get back to Lenny’s, and when they did, they all traipsed through to his workshop to look again at the barrel of destruction. It sat there, on the workbench, looking benign and innocent, just an everyday run-of-the-mill barrel. Nothing remarkable about it at all, except of course, what it contained. A bomb. The new word ran around the tongues of all of them again and again. Bomb — it said it all really.
They dropped Gerald off at the edge of the Brews. After having witnessed the devastation caused by the bomb, he stated his determination to find out if anyone within his domain had anything to do with it. He’d explained to MacGillicudy, Cornwallis and everyone else what he’d seen as it exploded. He’d thought he had come to the end, that if anything could have done some damage to him, then he had now found it. He’d felt the blast in a way that went far beyond his experience. Knives and crossbows were one thing, but that…
He’d stood just a few feet away and watched with a detached air as the string fizzed and spat then disappeared into the barrel. A couple of seconds later it all happened as the flame hit its mark. The barrel seemed to just vanish before his eyes with the blast sending shards and flame straight through him. The earth around the barrel had billowed up in the air and had settled over him as the shock made him lose control. Before he knew it, he became solid once more, the earth covering him like a shroud.
&n
bsp; Fortunately, nobody got in his way as he marched through the Brews. His two minders were at that moment minding themselves and still struggling with their injuries, as, in his determination to get back to his place, he had left them far behind. His mood being the blackest that it had ever been, the King of The Brews would make sure that if someone from the Brews was involved, then he would get to them first. Retribution would be swift, sure, and very very painful.
Frankie parked up at Scooters Yard and gave the old nag a final pat on its nose before following the others into the building and up the stairs to MacGillicudy’s office. For some reason the horse had already got under his skin and he wanted to persuade Cornwallis to take it off MacGillicudy’s hands. They had a stable at the back of the office which housed Cornwallis’ other horses, and he reckoned another wouldn’t be much bother; it may not be a thoroughbred, but by the Gods, could it move when it wanted to.
A young constable carried in a big tray of coffee and placed it on the table. MacGillicudy played mother and doled out the drinks. In the corner lay the pile of clothes that he and Cornwallis had found in the alley and had retrieved from his house on the way back, sitting there, exactly the way they had found it. The wearer wanted to blow up the academy and all those inside, and they stared at it, trying to get a picture in their minds of the person involved. MacGillicudy had summoned an artist to get it pictured before they examined it properly, and they waited impatiently, all eager to get their hands on it to find out if some clue lurked there.
Rose sipped her mug delicately while Frankie gulped his down and went for a refill. Cornwallis dunked a biscuit and then watched as the wet part fell off and splashed into the mug. MacGillicudy grinned as Cornwallis pulled a face.
‘Police biscuits,’ observed MacGillicudy wryly. ‘The cheap ones. The ones in the old days wouldn’t have dared drop off.’
‘So, it’s your fault, then,’ remarked Cornwallis. ‘Seeing as you are now in charge.’
MacGillicudy shook his head. ‘It’s down to Bough. He wanted to save money, so he made sure the cook only baked the rubbish ones.’
Cornwallis dipped a spoon in and tried to fish some remnants out, but just came up with a spoonful of mush. ‘Well, I hope you’re going to make some changes in that direction, Jethro, or I might have to start declining your invitations to come to Scooters Yard.’
‘Is that a promise?’ responded MacGillicudy eagerly.
‘Rose,’ said Cornwallis, turning his head. ‘It looks like the commander has had enough of our company.’
‘I didn’t ask if Rose would promise.’
‘Ah, but we come as a pair, as you well know.’
MacGillicudy sniffed and then grinned. ‘Bugger.’
A tap on the door and the entry of the police artist brought their conversation to a close. MacGillicudy pointed to the pile of clothes and then left the man to get on with it. As one of the regular artists, he knew what to do. Everyone watched as he set up his easel and prepared his paints. A couple of minutes later the brush splattered paint onto the wooden board — the police would never indulge in canvas, being far too expensive. Another few minutes and the artist announced that he had finished. He’d honed the speed through years of practice and they now had a fairly good representation of the pile of clothes. MacGillicudy paid him his three dollars and the artist packed up his things and left. The artist used quick drying paint and it was already dry to the touch.
‘Right, then,’ said MacGillicudy. ‘Let’s have a proper look now.’
They all gathered around the clothes and MacGillicudy, pulling rank, began to lift each item up, one at a time. He picked up the hat first and turned it over in his hands before running a finger around the inside. He found nothing, so he passed it along to Cornwallis who did much the same before handing it to Frankie, and then over to Rose. They treated each item the same, with everybody examining it in his or her own unique way. Once they’d finished, MacGillicudy shook his head.
‘Nothing. You’d have thought the man would have the decency to leave at least a little clue, wouldn’t you?’
‘He did,’ said Cornwallis. ‘The way he folded it, don’t forget.’
‘Well, yes. But I wanted something else.’
‘What do you mean by the way he folded it?’ asked Rose.
‘Army or sea service,’ replied MacGillicudy to her question. ‘This lot is folded in a disciplined fashion. I should imagine that the man spent some time in one of the services, and he can’t get out of the habit. Most of the men in this city would just chuck stuff in the corner.’
Rose flicked her eyes to Cornwallis. ‘You’re telling me. I’m getting fed up of clearing up just to find the floor.’
‘But our friend couldn’t do that,’ continued the commander. ‘He had to fold it properly.’
Rose still had hold of the coat and ran her hand down the lining. She then stopped suddenly, feeling something beneath her finger. ‘Hmmm,’ she mused, and began to examine it closer. ‘There’s something here,’ she announced.’ The others gathered around and watched as she delved into a pocket. ‘There’s a hole in the pocket. I think something has slipped through.’
She waggled her finger into the hole and began to pull as much of the coat up around her finger as possible. Soon a ruff of fabric ran up her arm as her finger delved deeper and deeper in order to locate the object, a frown of concentration upon her face.
Cornwallis leant over to help and took hold of the hem to lift it up. ‘You’re right, there’s definitely something here. I can feel it. Hang on; let me work it towards you.’
He did, and soon Rose’s fingertip touched something cold and metallic. She bent the finger, caught the object in the fleshy part, and pulled it out. Nestling in her palm lay a small key.
They craned over to look at the key and silence descended. They all looked up and glanced at each other, a feeling of dismay running through them all.
MacGillicudy’s voice dripped with anger as he spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Well, I think we all know what that is.’
Each of them delved into their own pockets and brought out identical looking keys, official police issue handcuff keys.
‘I’m sorry, Jethro, this looks far worse than any of us thought,’ said Cornwallis, with an edge of sympathy.
‘Of all people: a police officer, a feeler — one of my own.’
The standard issue key, given to every officer in the force, opened every handcuff the force possessed. Ex-Sergeant Grinde, the old Senior Sergeant, became fed up with officers continuingly losing their keys, so made sure that every key and every handcuff lock was the same. That way, he didn’t have to keep going to the locksmith to get felons released from their shackles.
‘The only good thing is that it will narrow down our search. A feeler who used to be in the army,’ observed Rose. ‘How many of them do you know, Jethro?’
MacGillicudy sighed and leant back in his chair, his face set hard as stone. ‘Too many,’ he replied. ‘When I joined, most of the feelers were ex-army, and there’s still a good few old feelers around.’
‘The big problem here is that I don’t think there is just one rogue feeler,’ said Cornwallis. ‘There needed to be a bit of organisation in all this. This fella might be an old feeler,’ he continued, pointing at the coat. ‘But who’s to say that younger ones aren’t involved too.’
MacGillicudy bore his eyes into Cornwallis’. ‘You mean we can’t let anyone else know what we know in case that person lets someone else know that we know.’
Cornwallis nodded. ‘This is going to have to stay with us. I’m sorry, Jethro; but we can’t trust any feeler at the moment.’
‘It will make a normal police investigation impossible,’ added Frankie. ‘How are we going to question people?’
‘At the moment, we can’t,’ replied Cornwallis. ‘What we need is someone on the inside to listen out.’
‘But who?’ asked Rose.
Cornwallis grinned. ‘I know just who we need. Jet
hro; what happened to the Yard’s last cat?’
CHAPTER 9
A bloodcurdling screech, reminiscent of a toddler having caught its finger in the door, rent the air, followed buy a high-pitched wail of pain that set the teeth on edge, then a low moan of disappointment. There came a scurrying sound, and then a bang and a clatter as something fell and rolled away. Isabella looked up from her knitting with the needles poised in mid-air. She shook her head and smiled before carrying on with knit one, pearl one, knit one, pearl one.
Frankie pushed open the front door and strolled in with Rose close behind. He looked at Isabella sitting by the fire, oozing domesticity. ‘Hello, my little darling,’ he said, his voice softening as he beheld the love of his life. ‘Not doing too much I hope; are you keeping yourself nice and warm? We don’t want you to catch a cold. You comfortable like that?’
‘Frankie, I’m perfectly all right, thank you. Rose, could you tell him that women have been in my condition since the Gods were alive. It’s a perfectly natural state to be in, and all his fussing won’t change a thing.’
‘I just don’t want anything to go wrong,’ he protested, planting a big soppy kiss on her cheek. ‘We’re going to be a family.’
Isabella laid down her knitting and stood up to give Rose a hug of welcome. ‘Can’t you get Jack to keep him away until the baby’s born?’ she asked, a bit of hope in her voice. ‘Just a couple of weeks, it won’t need to be for long.’
Rose smiled in sympathy. ‘I’ve tried telling him not to fuss, but you know Frankie; he’s like Jack, they both think they know what’s best.’
‘What they think and what they know are two totally separate things,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘I suppose that I’ll just have to put up with it.’
Isabella once rented rooms from Cornwallis, to set up her business as a lady who spoke to the dead. She got embroiled in one of their cases, and she and Cornwallis very nearly became involved with each other; a stunning looking girl with long dark hair and big doe like eyes. Frankie very quickly became smitten, and when Cornwallis and Rose formed a union, so did he and Isabella. Ever since then, they formed so much of a union that they permanently held union meetings, hence the big lump now prominent in Isabella’s tummy.