Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

Images flooded his mind as he lost himself in the flame. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, fighting back the painful memories of their joyless return to London, but after a while, the dancing light fractured into starbursts. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry, Surita. I’m so sorry—”

  His voice cracked, and he forced out a breath though his throat was tight. He held the flame between thumb and finger, heedless of the pain as his calloused skin blackened with soot. Then he closed them, snuffing it.

  He returned the precious items to their allotted places, before grabbing his current bottle of whisky, and stumbled to his bed.

  The Britannia public-house occupied two storeys at the corner of St Georges Street and Chigwell Hill. The clamour from the place echoed long before it came into sight. Laughter, shouting and the revelry of folk partaking of more than their fair share of cheap beer and gin.

  A wall of sound struck Simmons as he entered the dingy establishment, followed by the sour stink of bodies pressed too close together after a hard day of work. The stale smell of ale and the bright tang of poor quality spirits reminded him more of hell-holes he’d seen in India, rather than a once civilised Britain.

  “Stop bloody pushing, or I’ll put you on your arse.” The voice drifted from a stairway beside the bar. Simmons crossed to the stairs, the crowd murmuring consent and barking objections above. Cooper must have started his agitation a little earlier than expected. Simmons passed two rough-looking men squaring up for a fight, and into a large room which filled the pub’s top floor.

  All attention was focused on a small, wiry man in round-framed spectacles and a respectable brown suit. His jacket draped the back of a chair on an impromptu stage atop several pale wooden pallets.

  Simmons found a comfortable corner with a little space from the mass of bodies all straining to get as close to the front as possible. He leaned against the wall by one of three large glass windows that overlooked a small yard behind the pub. It was past seven, and the light outside was fading. The fog would follow soon.

  He drew his pipe from his inside pocket, lighting it while Cooper addressed the crowd. Four thugs stood before the stage to keep the throng from getting too close. They appeared practised in the act which comprised glares, snarls and the occasional raising of fists when anyone pushed too far forward.

  “Now, let me tell you something I have found that will chill your hearts,” Silas said. “Brothers and Sisters, we the underpaid, underfed and undervalued workers of the Outer-City have long toiled for little reward and less appreciation. While the toffs of the Inner-City drink their fine wines and attend parties where more food is thrown away than we could hope to buy for our families. They force us to work ourselves to exhaustion, so our young ones can share a crust and a sip of water that won’t leave them wheezing with the taint.”

  He worked the crowd, deftly pulling their emotions first one way then another. “While we rush to avoid the curfew, they drink late into the night, free to do whatever they want, whenever it pleases them. To top it all, they send their filthy Blaggards to keep us down in the gutter begging at their tables for scraps, like the mangy curs they take us for. Isn’t that right, my friends?”

  The crowd jeered their approval. It took Cooper a few seconds to bring the tone back down as he motioned for calm with his palms outstretched. “I tell you that there is a conspiracy. A silent, malevolent plan made by the toffs behind it all.”

  He gestured with open arms, palms upward this time. “Now, all that’s just talk, I hear you say. Where’s the proof you ask? Well, that is why I have gathered you here tonight. To hear the evidence that links the Blaggards directly to murders of innocent workers such as you and me. And not just one or two, mind you. I have met witnesses to these heinous crimes who were there when they happened, spoken with these people who are too frightened to speak out in public. Too afraid for what will become of them and their families and what retribution they might face from these cowards and their black-uniformed hounds.”

  Cooper paused, allowing the message to sink in, letting the tempers rise to boiling point. “But it goes way beyond the mere murder of working folk like you and me. This evidence tells of why we see so little of our beloved new Empress Victoria. God bless her.”

  A murmur of assent came from the assembled crowd. Cooper changed his voice to that of a whining child. “But, she’s unwell, sickly. The weight of loss hangs heavy upon her. I know you’re all thinking it.” Coopers mock-pity burned into sneering contempt. “Bollocks to that, I say. She isn’t ill. They keep her under lock and key in her own palace. Not protected, but imprisoned by the Blaggards and those who hold their leashes.”

  With his fist in the air and speech rising in volume, he continued. “Now, I ask you, are we going to let these bastards imprison our Queen?”

  A resounding “No.” from the excited crowd.

  Cooper raised his voice a touch more. “Our Empress?”

  “Never,” they shouted as one.

  “Ruler of our great Brit—”

  The oration crashed to a halt with a gurgle. Blood gouted from Cooper’s neck hitting the roof. Stringy red droplets rained down onto the front rows. He sagged to his knees as another arterial spray pumped out of his rag doll form, then collapsed face first into the blood-soaked stage.

  The place fell into chaos amidst screams and shouts of confusion as the crowd jostled, pushing towards the single exit to the stairs.

  Simmons stumbled back into the corner and let the madness flow past him. He’d encountered situations similar to this in the Bombay food riots. The sheer panic that could lead to people crushing their neighbours underfoot to escape. They reverted to their primal urges to fight or flee.

  A man lost his balance, falling into the crush close by. Simmons raised his cane thrashing out in an arc in front of him, heedless of who he struck in the flow of bodies. “Go around, damn you. Out of the way.”

  It was like trying to cut through water as the crowd flowed by him: one moved away, replaced by another charging to fill their place. Between the shouting madman before them, and the whirling cane lashing out, the stream parted, pouring past as he got his feet either side of the body on the ground.

  Once the crush passed, the room resolved into a semblance of order. Shouts and screams echoed from the stairs. No doubt falls had caused more fear and confusion in their rush down into the crowd below. That left just four people—two of the heavies from the stage, himself, and the fellow at his feet. Simmons reached to help the poor man up. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I think so,” the man replied, grimacing as he stood while holding his left side.

  “Lucky I saw you fall. Could have been much worse.”

  “Thank you, mister?”

  “Simmons.” They shook hands, “and you, sir?”

  “Bazalgette. Nathaniel Bazalgette. I think I might have cracked a rib.”

  “A few stiff drinks, strap it up and don’t sleep on that side. Oh and take morphine if you have it. That’s what my orderlies used to say.”

  Bazalgette stared at him. “Thank you. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good man. Now, what the Devil is going on? Did you see that?” Simmons gestured with his pipe towards the body. “Damnedest thing.” He strode toward the two minders at the edge of the stage.

  “You two,” he said, reaching the confused-looking heavies. “This is Silas Cooper, correct?” He pointed at the body. Blood pooled around its upper torso. Drips still fell from the ceiling like rain from trees minutes after a downpour.

  “Yeah. It were,” one fellow said, his accent thick and uncertain. Streaks of blood smeared the side of his shaved head where he’d tried to wipe it. “I’m covered in this shit,” he said, looking down at his clothing. Several dark stains were still spreading through the material.

  Simmons waived his comment aside. “Yes, yes, but what do you know about Cooper?”

  “We don’t know nothing, do we, Reg?” the man said, turning to his com
rade.

  “Nah,” Reg replied, nodding at the body. “He paid us to keep things in order. Make sure things didn’t get out of hand. We don’t know anything else about him.”

  Simmons studied the two men. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Damfino,” Reg replied, “we met him here. It was supposed to be a simple job.” He grimaced, glancing down at the corpse, and backed towards the exit. “I’m off, don’t need no trouble with the crushers.”

  Simmons sighed. “Very well. I’ll deal with the police when they get here.”

  As the men headed to the stairs, still muttering and cursing about the mess, Simmons looked up to find Bazalgette stood there. “Why are you still here?”

  “I wasn’t sure if I should leave before the police arrived. I don’t want them thinking I absconded or had anything to hide. Besides, what on earth happened to Silas Cooper?”

  “Good question. You wouldn’t happen to be a medical chap, would you?”

  “I’m afraid not. I studied a little anatomy at the Royal College of Science, but that’s as far as it goes I’m afraid.”

  “It was a long shot,” Simmons said. “An educated man though? So you’d be a good observer, take in fine details?”

  “Well, I am a man of science…”

  “In that case, can you tell me what you observed here tonight about Mr Cooper’s demise?”

  Bazalgette produced a small cloth from his pocket and started to clean his spectacles. “There was a large fountain of arterial blood from the left side of his head, and he dropped to the ground.”

  “And what of the wound?”

  “I couldn’t see clearly, but I presume someone shot him, though I didn’t hear a gunshot.”

  Simmons beckoned Bazalgette over to the body. “All right, what do you make of this then?” He pointed to a two-inch incision at the base of Coopers’ neck above the collarbone. It was oozing dark blood. “That isn’t a bullet wound,” Simmons said. “I’ve seen my fair share of those. This is a clean cut, the thrust of a sharp blade.”

  Bazalgette stopped his cleaning. “But how is that possible? There wasn’t anyone else on the stage. Cooper was talking one minute, and the next he was showering blood over the front rows of the audience.” He pointed up at the ceiling. “Look there, a clear trail of blood under pressure from the wound.”

  Simmons nodded. “My point exactly. It makes little sense, yet we both saw the same thing.” He looked around the stage area and suggested Bazalgette check the rest of the room for anything unusual. After a few minutes, he was confident the makeshift stage held no new information.

  “Simmons, look at this.” Bazalgette stood by one of the three large windows nearest the stage. He was pointing at the window-ledge and a scuffed red patch on the otherwise grey stone. It was blood, but how had it found its way over to the sill? It was over fifteen feet from Cooper’s body.

  “How is that even possible?” Simmons asked.

  “It’s still damp. It must have rubbed off something, perhaps a boot?”

  “Have you checked the window?”

  Bazalgette looked at the large sash window. “It seems to be unlocked.” He pulled on the lower frame, and the window slid up with the help of the counterweights.

  “I need to check outside before the police show up,” Simmons said, and turned towards the stairs.

  “Wait for me. I don’t fancy trying to explain this to them alone.”

  Simmons pushed through the door at the top of the stairs and almost walked into the barkeep. The man was getting on in years, his once solid frame now leaning towards fat, and the reddened face spoke of a life of sampling his wares. His breathing laboured from dragging his bulk upstairs, and the dirty stains on his bartender’s apron told of untold spillages over the last week or more.

  “Here, what are you doing?” the man said, his face wrinkled in irritation. “I thought everyone left?”

  “Sorry my good man,” Simmons said, “but you will need to keep everyone else out of here until the police arrive. They will, no doubt, want to investigate the scene.”

  “But—”

  “Make sure nobody else comes up here till they arrive. All right?” He flashed his papers under the startled bartender’s nose and continued down the stairs motioning Bazalgette to follow. Simmons had no authority here, but the bartender didn’t know that—he probably couldn’t even read the travel permit.

  “So you’re with the police then?” Bazalgette asked as they crossed the deserted bar.

  “Something like that,” Simmons said, a grin growing across his face. “Let’s investigate the yard while we have the chance.”

  The yard behind the Britannia was filthy and strewn with rubbish. The only light shone from the upstairs windows revealing old barrels and broken packing crates lying around the exterior of the space. It was barely large enough to fit a cart into, and the amount of refuse made Simmons think they must make deliveries to the front.

  Bazalgette pointed up to the first of the three windows overlooking the yard. “That’s the one with the bloodstain, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, let’s take a closer look.”

  As Simmons moved to a point below the window, there was the unmistakable crackle of electricity, and a bright blue-white glow spread across the floor from behind. He looked back, Bazalgette had pulled a lamp from his leather satchel.

  “Sorry,” Bazalgette said. “I didn’t intend to startle you.”

  “You didn’t startle me,” Simmons replied, eyes intense in the brightening light. “But yes, next time you pull some electrical contraption out of your hat, I would appreciate a little warning. What is that anyhow?”

  Bazalgette perked up. “This is an arc-lamp. It’s based on Tesla’s street lighting in the Inner-City, but it’s my design.”

  “You made that?” his voice sounded more surprised than he had intended.

  “Yes. I use it in my work,” Bazalgette said, his tone a little perturbed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Simmons said, moving closer to inspect the artefact. “It’s amazing that you’ve made it so small.”

  Bazalgette brightened. “Oh, yes. It took some work to find the right power source. I’m still having a few issues with controlling the luminosity though.” He fiddled with a control on the lamp and the light dimmed. Simmons realised that he was squinting as the lighting became more bearable, but still bright enough to illuminate the entire yard.

  “I thought it might be useful if we are looking for any signs of someone exiting that window,” Bazalgette added.

  “Good thinking.” Simmons pointed to the foot of the building below the window. “Point it over here.”

  As the light passed across the broken remains of barrels, pallets and crates, something shifted beneath the pile.

  “Hold it there,” he told Bazalgette, reaching for the revolver inside his coat. He drew and aimed the pistol in the sound’s direction. “Whoever’s in there, you better come out before I shoot.”

  “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot me,” a child’s voice came from behind the rubbish. A small, grimy figure emerged from the pile, hands held high in surrender. “I’m not doing nothing, just having a kip, that’s all.”

  Bazalgette focused the arc-lamp on the child who narrowed his eyes in the brilliant light.

  “Who are you?” Simmons asked. “What are you doing here?”

  The lad looked no older than ten and dressed in a motley of worn and mismatched clothing, all of it filthy. “My name is Charlie, and I ain’t stole nuffink.”

  Simmons lowered his voice. “It’s all right, Charlie. I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know why you are here, and if you’ve seen anything unusual tonight. You’re not in any trouble.”

  The lad seemed none too impressed with the offer, his eyes darting left and right seeking a route to freedom.

  “How about we make a deal?” Bazalgette asked. “You tell us what Mr Simmons here wants to know, and I’ll give you this shiny
penny?”

  Charlie cocked his head to one side squinting at Bazalgette, Simmons could hear the cogs whirring in the young lads head.

  “How about sixpence?” Charlie asked.

  “Oh,” Bazalgette said. “I’m not sure I’ve got—”

  “No, son. Not a sixpence,” Simmons said. “Do you want the penny or not?”

  “I’ve got thruppence,” Bazalgette added.

  “Deal.” The young lad spat on his hand, thrusting it towards Bazalgette.

  Simmons sighed. “After,” he said before Bazalgette could deliver the coin to the cheeky urchin.

  Bazalgette pulled his hand, and the thruppence, back to himself. “Yes, after you tell us.”

  “Right, Charlie. On the promise of thruppence from my friend here. Why don’t you tell me what you saw tonight?”

  Charlie relaxed and lowered his outstretched hand. “Well, I’d fallen asleep, but woke when summat hit the deck with a thump. So, I takes a peep, and it were one of them filthy Blaggards what was turning his coat inside out and putting it—”

  “What? A member of the Black Guard, are you sure?” Simmons asked.

  “Yes, sir, honest it was. I seen his sword on his belt. He wasn’t wearing a proper uniform, but he was one of ‘em. It were a Blaggards long coat when he turned it over, but it didn’t have none of the buttons or stripes they normally have on ‘em.”

  “If it wasn’t a uniform, what was he wearing beneath the coat?”

  “It were common work clothes.”

  Simmons’ mind ran wild. “What about the sword?”

  “Yeah it were a Blaggard sword, but it was under his coat, not like they usually wear ‘em, and it were smaller. Once he put the coat on, you couldn’t even tell it were there.”

  “All right, Charlie, that’s good. Anything else you remember?”

  “Well, he had this pocket watch what was in in his hand before he switched his coat about. It were a real pretty piece. A fancy gentleman’s watch with silvery swirls and cut-outs in the case.”

  “Filigree?” Bazalgette prompted.

  “If you like. Is that what it’s called?”