by A. A. Glynn
‘Hurry inside before your father misses you. I do not know what advice to give you about this LUB matter, but it could plainly cause a serious diplomatic incident between Britain and the United States. It seems to me you must tell your father and Mr. Adams about it.’
‘Leave all that to me. I’ve been thinking about what must be done ever since I heard that fellow making his speech,’ she said firmly and the lamplight revealed that the usual mischievous twinkle had left her eyes and there was a determined look on her face.
He hastened back to the cab feeling the weight of the revolver in his pocket banging against his hip. It reminded him of the menace that had shown up in his life just before the hectic adventure in Cremorne Gardens—the false bearded horseman with the lame foot who was out to kill him and whom he was sure was from the Dixie Ghosts.
As the cab hurried him to Bloomsbury, Roberta made her appearance in the quarters she and Esther shared at the top of the house much to the relief of Esther, who only knew the mystifying fact that Roberta had disguised herself to go to Cremorne Gardens but was unaware of the reasons why.
‘Well, here you are at last,’ she said. ‘It’s nearly supper time and I was worried that you’d come to some harm at that terrible Cremorne place. And I was worried that Mr. Van Trask might come up here and find you gone—what could I possibly say to him?’
‘Oh, Esther, you need not have worried. You know Father never comes up here until after supper to wish us good night. I was perfectly safe at Cremorne. I met Mr. Dacers there and we had a very interesting time,’ Roberta said.
Esther raised her eyebrows. ‘Mr. Dacers was there, was he? I can’t think what he was doing in that dreadful place. Or you, for that matter and I shan’t ask but if he has any care for you, I hope he got you out fast.’
‘You can be sure we were there on quite proper business,’ said Roberta. ‘And he got me out very quickly.’ She smiled and added: ‘As for caring for me, I’m convinced he does. And it’s a very special kind of care.’
Esther read a significant message in Roberta’s smile and her eyebrows shot up again.
CHAPTER 10
NEWS OF MR. O
By the time they escaped from the infuriating pattern of paths and hedges that made up Cremorne’s maze, Lewis Sadler and Jefferson Dobbs were both in a towering rage. They had endured chilly hours of frustration with the rest of the party who thought they had chased the oddly dressed girl and the tall man with the long black sidewhiskers deep into the maze. They found themselves trapped in a black labyrinth while the fugitive pair had disappeared into thin air.
Their blunderings caused individuals to be lost in different parts of the maze but much hoarse calling and the use of many lucifer matches, finally resulted in the whole party gathering in one section then, by holding hands and moving through the darkness in a chain, they managed to come upon the way out.
The worrying disruption of the LUB meeting had ruined its whole purpose which was to encourage the supporters to spread throughout all the British Isles enthusiasm for the objective of replanting the flag of Great Britain on the State of Georgia. Hopefully, they would create a strong lobby to urge Parliament and influential trade and other bodies in what was developing into the British Empire to promote that end. With the meeting wrecked, Sadler and Dobbs had no opportunity to follow their agenda through. At this late hour, the participants in the meeting had gone home or, in the case of those who came from outside London, returned to their accommodation. The fiasco caused by the oddly disguised girl eavesdropper caused the audience to disperse, disappointed and grumbling.
It was dark, starless night by the time the escape from the maze was made. Almost all the attractions of Cremorne Gardens had closed down, though the gates had not yet closed and a few aimless souls, mostly intoxicated, wandered about the multiple paths.
The two men from Georgia, both glowering in silence, tramped one of the paths, looking for the way out of the gardens, when a small figure shambled towards them.
He stood in their path to halt them and the uncertain light from the few Chinese lanterns still burning showed a shabbily dressed little man with long, unkempt hair and a foxy face adorned by a straggling moustache.
‘I’ve been lookin’ for you gents. I was passin’ that party you was givin’ an’ I ’eard you say you wanted to find Mr. O,’ he said in a whining voice. ‘Well, I can tell you where you can find ’im—for a consideration.’
This was good news indeed for Sadler and Dobbs and it dispelled their gloom after the experience of the maze and the collapse of their vital meeting. Unless, of course, this unprepossessing specimen of humanity was yet another of the great tribe of ragged scroungers with which London seemed to be overpopulated.
‘A consideration?’ said Sadler.
‘Yus, you know—tin—gelt—money!’
‘Oh, you’ll get money when we get the information.’
‘Done! But don’t let ’im know it was me what gave you the office.’
‘What do you mean, ‘the office?’ asked Sadler, uncertain of the Cockney argot.
‘I figure he means it was him who told us where we can find O,’ Dobbs said.
‘How can we? We don’t know his name,’ Sadler said.
Their informant beamed. ‘That’s right. An’ I ain’t givin’ it. Mr. O can turn nasty an’ I don’t want to cop a packet from ’im, that I don’t. ’E lives in Putney. I dunno where but he takes ’is lunch in the Silver Moon chop house at about twelve-thirty every day.’
Where’s Putney?’ asked Lewis Sadler.’
‘And where’s the Silver Moon chop house?’ asked Jefferson Dobbs.
‘Putney’s near ’ere, ’ard by the river and the Silver Moon is in Putney, on the road opposite the river, close to Putney Bridge and the big church’ said their informant.
Sadler suddenly grabbed the little man by his skinny neck and pressed his Adam’s apple with both thumbs.
‘Now, give me your name and quick,’ he demanded. ‘You surely didn’t think we would let you remain anonymous when you might have served up a pack of lies, did you? Name, quick, or you’ll be throttled colder than a Thanksgiving turkey.’
‘’Arry Squibb an’ I ain’t told any lies.’ The man gurgled. He was shivering like a leaf.
‘And where do you live? If you’ve put us on a false trail, we’ll come after you, hotfoot.’
‘In a doss ’ouse in Thames Alley, Putney an’ I ain’t lied. I knows Mr. O takes ’is lunch at the Silver Moon because I works as part time potman there an’ ’e’s well known there. ’E’ll be there tomorrow lunch time.’
Sadler released his grasp on the man’s neck and Harry Squibb quickly regained his dignity—and his eye to the main chance.
‘What about my consideration?’ he asked.
Sadler shoved his hand into the pocket of his long topcoat, found a handful of coins, pulled them out and handed them to Squibb. He was still not fully acquainted with the values of the bewildering variety of English coinage: the sovereigns, half-sovereigns, half-crowns, florins, so he did not know how much he handed over.
Squibb scooted off into the darkness and under one of the last Chinese lanterns still burning, he examined his haul of cash then spluttered a string of invective against those he called ‘bloody Yankees.’ There was not a single gold half-sovereign among a clutch of lowly copper and silver coinage.
Harry Squibb had an exaggerated notion of American life and he marvelled at how tight-fisted the Americans could be when they lived in a land where money grew on trees and when there was a poor crop, one could always go to the goldfields and dig up a supply of precious metal.
Squibb gave a disgusted snort. ‘Blimey,’ he growled. ‘I gave them coves valuable information an’ got damn all in return. If I ever bumps into ’em again, they’ll get nothing more out of me!
The following morning, in invig
orating winter sunshine, Lewis Sadler and Jefferson Dobbs walked through Putney, having arrived by the suburban railway, one of the newer innovations now linking the capital’s scattered outlying centres of settlement.
Putney in 1867 had a pleasing aspect. It was rapidly becoming a desirable middle-class riverside suburb with well-appointed new houses being built for those who had the wherewithal to settle into comfortable lives. The River Thames here had none of the smoke, squalor and din it had in the deeps of London where it became the mast- crowded ‘Pool of London’, the throbbing heart of the capital’s shipping industry.
Along the river banks of Putney the only vessels to be seen were the those of a recreational nature, the bulk of them now sheeted in canvas and laid up for the winter. Their presence was testimony to Putney’s gentlemanly interest in spare-time yachting and boating.
Lewis Sadler and Jefferson Dobbs walked along the road flanking the river, having been put on the right path for the Silver Moon Chop House by a man passing by. Behind them lay the almost unbelievably rickety wooden structure of Putney Bridge, linking Putney with Fulham across the river. Over the years, this venerable bridge was patched and re-patched until its dangerous condition caused constant public agitation. Just opposite the bridge rose the tower of the old parish church of St Mary and Putney High Street opened just beyond the church.
It was a little after noon on the day following the rumpus at Cremorne Gardens and Sadler and Dobbs hoped to target Mr. O when he visited the Silver Moon for lunch. They found the chop house facing the river, a building not greatly differing from the average pub in appearance. It was fronted by a small garden, planted with winter-bare shrubs and an old oak.
Only a short time before the arrival of the two Georgians, Mr. O had stepped into the dining room of the Silver Moon with his usual self-assured and cocky walk. He had recently settled in Putney and, after his summer wedding, intended to make the home of his wife and himself there. He had become known to many of the regular customers of the Silver Moon, for the most part, representatives of the middle-class businessmen and traders domiciled in Putney and a number of them uttered a greeting or nodded an acknowledgment when he entered.
The designation ‘chop house’ characterised the Silver Moon as male territory. Ladies were excluded. The air was filled with the burr of male conversation, cigar and pipe-smoke and the aroma of wines and spirits. The regulars at the Silver Moon fully fitted its atmosphere. They were most middle-aged with elegant whiskers and well-fed paunches on which gold watch chains bounced. O presented a hail-fellow-well-met façade towards them but he secretly despised their smug complacency. Any one of them might easily be courted by some skilful flattery until he fell for a well organised confidence trick. O thought that, some day, he might try it.
There were a few diners at tables set for meals in the room and O sat down at one of the empty tables, signalling with an amiable nod to Walter, the room’s elderly, side-whiskered waiter. Walter shuffled over to the table and stood with stolid dignity at O’s side.
‘I’ll take the today’s ordinary with a glass of pale ale, if you please, Walter,’ said O.
‘As you please, sir,’ droned Walter. The “ordinary” was every Victorian hostelry’s substantial daily set meal, a favourite with the businessmen of the era and, when dining at the Silver Moon, O desired to fit convincingly into the part of a busy man of affairs.
It was just at that point, that the part-time potman, Harry Squibb, with his tattered clothing covered by a long, off-white apron, chose to emerge from the kitchen where his duties of washing pots and pans lay. The kitchen’s doorway stood to one side of the main entrance of the Silver Moon and Squibb’s path almost brought him into collision with two lean men just entering the hostelry. They were tall and wore long top-coats and broad-brimmed hats. They were the pair from America whom Harry Squibb encountered at Cremorne Gardens the night before.
Sadler and Dobbs were looking for positive results from their efforts on this side of the Atlantic. So far, everything had gone wrong and they hardly knew how they could ever face the General, back at home. The Birkenhead box had been stolen; Ned Grandon had unaccountably absconded, taking some of their allowance of money with him and the important meeting at Cremorne to rally the General’s supporters to his cause had become a complete fiasco, thanks to some madcap girl disguised as a male. At last, they were within handling distance of the mysterious Mr. O who had knowledge of the box and they intended to handle him without kid gloves.
The aggressive glares of the pair almost froze the blood in Harry Squibb’s veins. Lewis Sadler grinned humourlessly.
‘Well, now here’s a stroke of luck. We were just about to seek you out, my friend. Can you tell us if Mr. O has arrived for his lunch?’ he asked.
Harry Squibb had vowed he’d never give information to these two ever again but their unfriendly scowls caused that resolution to melt away as an icy shiver slithered down his spine.
‘Yes, he went into the dining room not two minutes ago,’ said Squibb in a wavering voice.
‘Good. Then be kind enough to point him out to us from the door of the dining room,’ said Sadler. The men from Georgia were escorted to the dining room door by Squibb.
‘That’s him—the man sitting alone at that table,’ Stated Squibb.
‘Much obliged—now scoot!’ said Sadler harshly but Squibb, evidently curious as to what the two Georgians intended to do to O, persisted in hanging around the dining room door.
‘What’re you waiting for? Some more of what you call a ‘consideration’?’ Jefferson Dobbs demanded, ‘There’s nothing coming to you—so scoot!’
Harry Squibb scooted back to the kitchen while Sadler and Dobbs walked directly to O’s table. They stood, one on either side of his chair.
O looked from one man to the other, totally bewildered. He suddenly felt four large hands grab him, one pair under each armpit and could only utter an incoherent gurgle as he was hoisted bodily off the chair.
The patrons of the Silver Moon looked on aghast as the Georgians hauled O from behind the table then frogmarched him towards the door.
One screwed his eyeglass into his eye and surveyed the retreating backs of the three.
‘I say, I was always suspicious of that chap’, he commented to a crony. ‘Who do you suppose the pair in the long coats are?’
‘Bailiffs, plain as day!’ grunted the crony. ‘The fellow obviously owes money. I knew all along the blighter was a bad lot. Not our kind of chap at all!’
O was unwilling to go without a struggle as Sadler and Dobbs bore him out of the chop house door. He wriggled and struggled in vain efforts to free himself but the two Georgians held him securely and dragged him along between them when he declined to co-operate and walk.
Outside, he was dumped like a sack of wet sand behind a shrub in the garden fronting the Silver Moon. With winter still in the air, the shrub was bereft of foliage but it still masked what might go on behind it from passers-by in the street.
O made a struggling, panting effort to rise but Sadler and Dobbs pounced on him and held him down with their combined weight, forcing him against the hard wintery earth.
‘Who are you and what d’you want?’ O managed to gasp.
‘A couple of gentlemen from far away and we want the long box you had a hand in stealing from Birkenhead’, Sadler Stated flatly.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ O responded stubbornly though he felt an uncomfortable chill surging through his being.
Sadler was holding his legs down and Dobbs was sitting on his chest. Dobbs pushed his hand into a pocket of his topcoat and brought out a Colt revolver. He held it before O’s white face and cocked it. Dobbs then took hold of O’s nose and squeezed it hard. This caused O to open his mouth wide. Dobbs pushed the barrel of his pistol into his mouth and held it hard against the roof of his mouth.
‘Better tal
k fast,’ advised Dobbs. ‘Talk fast because this gun and I mean business, bub. Where is that box?’
Dobbs glowered dangerously into O’s ashen face. ‘C’mon, let’s have the answer before I lose my patience and put a bullet up into your brain,’ he demanded.
He took the pistol out of O’s mouth. O made a series of choking, gagging noises and tried to find his voice. He was thoroughly unnerved by the feel of the hard barrel of the Colt against the roof of his mouth.
Dry-mouthed, he managed to say: ‘In a place near Southampton Row, in the middle of London.’
‘We want more than that,’ Sadler cut in threateningly. ‘We want the proper address. C’mon, let’s have it.’
‘Marlborough Dwellings,’ gabbled O. ‘In Thistle Street. Number Two Marlborough Dwellings. I left it with a young fellow named Adolphus Crayford.’
‘How do we know that’s not just a pack of lies?’ persisted Lewis Sadler.
‘It’s the truth,’ said O. ‘Honest, it’s the absolute truth!’
O had been in tight spots before in his life but never in one so tight as this and he had never encountered men so ruthlessly determined as this pair. He guessed they had been moulded by the recent American war and the extraordinary savagery of that conflict had imprinted its brutal mark upon them. When they threatened violence they did so in a way which seemed to guarantee they were not uttering idle threats.
O fought for breath and knew he had to get out of this situation before he stopped a bullet.
Sadler had relaxed his hold on O’s legs slightly. O wriggled his feet and found them fairly free. He planted them on the ground. Fear and desperation gave him the strength to jerk his legs upward, shaking off Sadler’s hands.
His arms were free and he managed to plant his hands against the ground and made a near supernormal effort to push his whole body off the ground and dislodge Jefferson Dobbs from his chest, not caring that Dobbs’ pistol might go of accidentally. Dobbs fell over to one side and sprawled in the sparse grass, losing his grip on his pistol. Sadler made an attempt to regain a grip in the lower part of O’s legs again but O kicked his hands away.
