Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  Houses here were more intact than in Whitechapel. The further west you travelled, the better the size and quality of accommodation. The only exception was within the Square Mile itself. But entry there not only required significant wealth but also the correct social status.

  It was rare that anyone crossed the rigid class divides, but it had happened occasionally. Tesla was one shining example, even though he was a scientist, and thus entrenched in the middle class. His inventions had paved the way for London to drag itself from the ravages of war, back into a new age of enlightenment. They said he had premises within the Inner-City’s financial district where he conducted his research.

  The fountain in Piccadilly Circus indicated that Simmons was drawing close to his destination. Its angelic statue poised with bow drawn was one of only a few landmarks that had survived the war intact.

  The invasion had been hard on London. More than half the city’s buildings were still empty shells and rubble. Though the government repeated their commitment to rebuilding, the process was slow and, like a ripple in a pond, emanated out from the centre.

  Most of the people Simmons met day-to-day had little time for those in power, and less trust in their promises. Nevertheless, they still loved their young Empress, Victoria II, even though they never saw her in person.

  The address was off the main street in Piccadilly. It was a different world to the East End, but it too had suffered devastation. Many of the once great houses lay in ruins.

  The hansom pulled to a halt, and Simmons stepped to the cobbled street by the skeletal remains of a building. Boards surrounded the plot to protect the public from any escaping debris. Two workmen attacked an interior wall, grunts punctuating the harsh sound of hammers on brick.

  Pemberton House occupied a road halfway along Piccadilly, on the northern side, but a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. Simmons hustled, crossing the street to avoid the worst of the dust from the demolition work, and made his way to his destination.

  He rang the bell and waited a few seconds before a short woman, wearing a maid’s outfit, opened the door. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  She was in her late twenties, and he recognised her voice from their telephone conversation. “Good afternoon. I am Sir Pelham Simmons. I believe we spoke earlier regarding an appointment to see Mister Pemberton.”

  “We did, sir,” she replied. “I’ll show you to him. Please come in.”

  The wide hallway was furnished and decorated in the modern style—too ornate and more than a little gaudy. The maid led him into a room to the right of an elaborate wooden stairway.

  Books filled the walls from floor to ceiling, and behind a dark polished desk, Pemberton stared through the large window that flooded the study with the mid-afternoon sun.

  “Sir Pelham Simmons to see you, Sir,” the maid announced, waiting by the doorway.

  The man turned. “Thank you, Lucy. That will be all.” The two men were of a similar age, but Pemberton’s well-groomed thicket of black hair and handlebar moustache spoke of a much easier life. He waited a few seconds after the door to closed behind the maid. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  Simmons snorted. “That’s the difference between us, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I take my responsibilities seriously. You said Annabelle was in danger and, regardless of how I feel about you, I won’t see her come to any harm.”

  Pemberton stroked forefinger and thumb down his moustache. “You always were a bloody stickler for honour and duty. You were never happy unless you could ram it down someone’s throat.”

  Simmons raised an eyebrow. “Is this supposed to be your attempt at making peace?”

  Pemberton shook his head. “Sorry, Simmons. That wasn’t an intelligent way to open this conversation. I am not myself—Annabelle is all I have left, and she’s out there somewhere.” He pointed out of the window behind him. “God knows what might have become of her.”

  Simmons took a deep breath and forced it out slowly. “What happened?”

  Pemberton crossed to a wooden globe and rolled the spherical surface open to reveal an assortment of bottles. He returned to the desk with two crystal glasses and a decanter.

  Simmons filled half his glass. A single sip told him this was a fine Lochnagar. It seemed their love of the highland spirit was one passion they both still shared.

  Pemberton settled into a chair behind his desk. “I don’t know where she is. She disappeared over two weeks ago, and there’s no sign of her.”

  “Two weeks? Damn it, man. Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

  Pemberton’s eyes narrowed. “Because I don’t want to be indebted to you of all people.”

  “This is your daughter we’re talking about. What the hell have you been doing to find her?”

  Pemberton scowled. “I’ve not been sitting on my bloody backside if that’s what you mean.”

  “All right, let’s start again. When did you notice her missing?”

  Pemberton sighed. “It was on the eighteenth of April. Anna went to the theatre with her governess—a Miss Porter—the stupid cow lost her at the intermission. Anna excused herself to use the facilities but didn’t return. I was bloody furious. I questioned Porter then dismissed her on the spot.” He paused, taking a sip, then sighed. “I suppose threatening to shoot her if I ever saw her again, and waving my pistol around like a madman, wasn’t the wisest course of action in retrospect.”

  “Did she tell you anything else of interest?”

  “She confessed that they hadn’t been getting on well. Anna seemed to have rebelled against the woman trying to discipline her—she’s too much like me in that respect.”

  A smile cracked on his grim face. “Anyhow it seems she somehow heard idiots spouting nonsense about workers rights and had asked Porter about it. ‘Why the Inner-City was the first to receive new technology when those in the outskirts were the ones most in need’—that sort of thing. Anna let slip she’d seen a man named Silas Cooper give a speech in some filthy dockside public house.”

  Pemberton slammed his fist onto the desk and then stood, stalking back and forth behind it. “How could this woman allow my daughter to associate with people like that? Mixing with the lower classes. It’s not proper, is it?”

  “Indeed,” Simmons replied, trying to sound agreeable.

  “By now she was bloody crying and snivelling like some scullery maid. That’s when I threatened her with the pistol. She ran out into the night bawling, and good riddance.”

  Simmons steepled his fingers before his lips. “So, what have you been doing since then?”

  “I spoke to my contacts at the ministry. We notified the police, but they were bloody useless. After that farce, someone at the club mentioned you were making quite the name for yourself locating folk. I was too pig-headed. Instead, I paid three other fellows in your line of work, but they took the payments and either disappeared or said they couldn’t find anything. So, here we are. It’s probably too damned late now, despite how good people say you are.”

  Pemberton slumped back into the chair, head bowed. “I’m an idiot. I’ve doomed her to some terrible fate because of my pride.”

  Simmons sighed. “I won’t disagree with you, but there is always hope.”

  “So you’ll help? I can pay you. Name your price.”

  “I don’t want your damned money. I am doing this for Annabelle, not you.” Pemberton deflated under Simmons’ gaze. “Give me everything you have on the governess—letters of reference, description, photographs. I’ll need a recent likeness of Annabelle too.” She was just a baby the last time I saw her.

  Pemberton rummaged through his desk drawer and retrieved a large envelope. “I thought you might ask for something like this. Here are Porter’s references. And there is a photograph of her and Annabelle together—it’s a year old—but neither has changed since then.”

  Simmons accepted the small package as Pemberton rose, offering his hand. “Thank
you, Simmons. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

  “I’m not interested how you feel,” Simmons said, ignoring the gesture. “If you’d come to me earlier, I might have found her already. Now, it will be much more difficult.” He sighed. “You’re still the bloody same, Pemberton. It’s always about you—your feelings—how people will think of you rather than looking out for those who should be dearest. If you recall anything else useful, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch when I have more news.”

  Simmons strode from the room, not waiting for the maid to open doors for him, and burst onto the pavement. The late afternoon sun poured dappled light through the canopies of the huge oaks lining the street.

  He stopped, body wound tight. Breathe. It was Surita’s voice, and he struggled to recall her gentle words when he’d been boiling with rage. He sucked in a quick lungful of air, then let it out through his nose, a slow, steady stream of frustration ebbing from him. Another two breaths and he was thinking straight again.

  Surita had that effect on him from the start, tempering his hot-headed reactions. It had been so hard these past four years, but at times like this, he almost felt he could open his eyes to find her smiling back at him, an impish twinkle in her gaze. But there was only the empty street, and he wiped moisture from his right cheek. Damn it, Surita.

  Green Park was just across the Piccadilly high street, and the day looked pleasant. A walk might be precisely what he needed to clear his head and plan his next move.

  The contrast between the greenery and the ruins to the south-east of the park was stark—there stood the blasted remnants of Buckingham Palace. They hadn’t rebuilt it after the war, leaving it as a reminder of the horror of the alien invasion.

  All that remained was the new Victoria and Albert statue—a giant tower of marble and gold—that honoured the great monarch and all who fell defending the Empire. The memorial rose like a sword thrust in defiance. The sculptured designs were masterpieces, right down to the smallest of details in wrinkles and folded cloth.

  Simmons bowed his head, then headed west. The wall circling Hyde Park cast long shadows as they protected the royal residence at Kensington Palace. Fifty feet of matt black steel rose from the cobbles of Park Lane surrounding the whole estate.

  Horse-drawn carriages fought with the newer vehicles for control of the road around Hyde Park Corner. Automobiles cut in and out between the slower traffic. Steam boilers hissed, and sparks flew as their horns blared. Cart drivers responded with angry shouts and shaking fists. It was a scene of utter chaos.

  Simmons was unsure of this new technology. Locomotives seemed safe enough. If one of them ever exploded, you’d probably survive, if you were a few carriages back. But when you sat on top of the boiler? The results for the poor driver and passengers were horrific. Images of lobsters flooded his mind. He dismissed them before they got any worse.

  He’d stay with what he knew and trusted. At least horses had a modicum of self-preservation. They wouldn’t continue into danger at full gallop. That couldn’t be said for those mechanical contraptions.

  He hadn’t expected to find anything in the park. It was a chance to clear his head and put his options into perspective. The light dimmed as early evening approached, and he found a hansom cab in the busy Piccadilly traffic. The journey back to Whitechapel was slow, but he paid the cabbie an extra sixpence for his service before retreating to his rooms.

  Simmons needed to change the filter in his fog-gear before venturing out again. He had unfinished business with Maddox. A trip south of the river to investigate his latest lead was in order and, with luck, he might find more about this Silas Cooper.

  5

  The Tower Bridge checkpoint was the usual farce of questions from the Black Guard. After what felt like hours, they relented, accepting Simmons’ paperwork. With greatcoat flapping in the gale, he stepped from the covered bridge onto the southern shore as the protective gate crashed down behind him.

  A motley crew stood along the jetty, swathed in a variety of fog-gear. Most of it looked serviceable, though a few wore nothing more than ill-fitting layers of sackcloth over their heads, held in place by goggles.

  Their vessels bobbed on small swells as the river continued its rise. Wooden hulls hitting the stone quay with a dull, rhythmic thump.

  Most of the boats were broad punts, poled along by their owners. A few, however, had engines allowing them to traverse the deeper areas of the submerged city on the south bank of the Thames.

  He approached the first waterman. “I’m looking for a man named John Maddox, I believe he came through here a few nights past. Have you heard of him?”

  “Sorry gov, no idea.”

  He repeated the questions with each of the others to no avail as he moved along the dock. He turned to leave but stopped as a gruff voice rose from below the quay. “I know Maddox. Runs with the Red Hands.”

  Simmons glanced over the edge. A thickly wrapped figure on one of the motorised vessels stared back at him. He’d been difficult to spot, but those sharp blue eyes were familiar.

  “Isaac?”

  The old waterman frowned. “Mr Simmons, isn’t it? Long time no see.”

  “I’ve been tied up with jobs north of the river, but now it seems I need to explore the south bank.”

  “If you’re looking for Maddox, I’d suggest starting in Greenwich,” Isaac replied. “There’s deep water between here and there. You’ll need more than a regular pole pusher.”

  “Well, it’s fortunate I ran into you then,” Simons said with a wink. “Still sailing these waters for profit, eh? You old pirate.”

  “You know me,” Isaac said with a chuckle. “I sail all the backwaters that these youngsters ain’t never heard of. And I’ll get you where you need to be. None of this ‘I don’t go there, sir, too dangerous, especially in the fog’ nonsense. I set a fair price for the destination. If you want me to wait or pick you up later, I’ll be there on time.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “No. If that’s all right with you, we can do business.”

  Simmons held out his hand. “Fine by me.”

  Isaac clasped it and helped him onto the vessel. “Welcome aboard, sir. So, Greenwich, is it?”

  “In a moment. Just a few more questions if you don’t mind?”

  Isaac drew his pocket watch. “Right you are, Mr Simmons, but we’ll be on the clock now we’re working.”

  “That sounds fair. Maddox isn’t much more than a name to me. Heard he was in trouble with the Red Hands.” Simmons was lying, but he knew men like Isaac. They couldn’t resist correcting a well-dressed stranger.

  “Ha, you city folks got it all twisted. He’s not in trouble with ‘em, sir, he’s their bloody enforcer. ‘Mad Dog’ they call him, though not to his face. Suits him down to the ground from what I hear, a real loose cannon. His reputation is well-known Fogside, and you won’t find many ready to cross him over here. I thought even your lot knew that.”

  “I see.”

  “Mind you, it ain’t just the law who’d like to get their hands on ‘im. I’ll tell you that for free, sir.”

  “I thought there was honour among thieves?”

  Isaac laughed. “Not when it comes to Diamond Annie.”

  Simmons paused, thinking. “She’s with the Elephant and Castle gang, isn’t she?”

  “More than just with ‘em. She’s fighting for the bloody leadership. She already runs the Forty Thieves, and a lot of the rank and file think the current leader’s too soft.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard any of that.”

  “So they say, sir. The rabble see Annie as a breath of fresh air. Brutal, mind. She don’t take no shit from nobody, and she’s not one to bury the hatchet—unless it’s in someone’s back.”

  “So what does this have to do with Maddox?”

  “Well, Maddox caused quite the ruckus on Diamond Annie’s doorstep at her place in Lambeth. Not a wise move when there’s already bad blood between th
em and the Red Hands.”

  “So, she has an axe to grind with him?”

  Isaac produced a gap-toothed smile. “You could say that, sir. I can take you there if you want to poke around?”

  Simmons nodded. “That sounds like a splendid idea.”

  Simmons watched as Isaac navigated them through the thickest patches of red weed with consummate ease. It wasn’t until the half-ruined towers of Westminster appeared through the fog that the boat slowed.

  Isaac tapped him on the shoulder. “We need to pick our way through the remains of the bridge. Most of it got destroyed during the war. The rest, gravity took over the years.”

  “Do you need me to do anything?”

  “We should be all right, but you could stand at the prow and signal if it looks like we might hit anything.”

  “Right,” Simmons replied, trying to keep his voice confident. He wasn’t keen on the idea that Isaac might miss seeing debris from the collapsed bridge. The chances of surviving falling into the Thames seemed slim. If he didn’t drown from the weight of his cumbersome fog-gear, becoming entangled in the vice-like grip of the weed would do for him.

  “If you kneel in the prow so you can see forward, then signal with an arm to direct me left or right. Just hold it out straight so I can see. If we need to stop, hold both arms out like a scarecrow, you understand?”

  “Yes, left or right and both for stop. Got it.” Simmons spotted a bundle of folded canvas and laid it in the prow to make kneeling more comfortable. His knees ached enough in the damp weather as it was.

  Water broke on the prow, sounding a lot less playful than earlier and the thickening curtain of fog parted, revealing the remains of Westminster Bridge.