by A. A. Glynn
Several sentiments burned in him now. He desired revenge for his humiliation the night before; he had a sharpened curiosity about the three now gathered at Sir Oswald Vaillant’s home, what they were up to and where they fitted into the affairs of Theodore Van Trask. Also, though he would be loath to admit it, he had an almost boyish wish to play the knight in shining armour for the charming and spirited Miss Roberta Van Trask.
The exertions of his walk, plus his crouching in the ditch, brought some twinges of pain from the knife wound in his side but, gripped by his detective’s determination, he decided on a bold excursion into the domain of the squire of Cardsworth, hoping he did not encounter the foul-tempered gamekeeper the landlord of the hostelry had mentioned.
The gloom of a rapidly closing day had intensified as he operated the bolt of the gate, swung it open and stepped on to the path. He surveyed the wide sweep of the garden before him. It slanted upward towards the house on the hill, separated from him by an expanse of carefully tended lawn, with various ornamental shrubs and statuary placed at intervals. Dacers gave a grunt of satisfaction as he studied the prospect like a military man assessing terrain he was about to cross.
The gathering gloom would offer some cover and, if he kept low and dodged behind the shrubs and statues, he might not be spotted from the house.
He bent low and moved fast, heading at a run for a neatly-trimmed bush standing a few yards away. He scuttled behind it and recovered his breath, wincing a little at the pain in his side. He made another dash for the cover of a Roman-style statue of a man in a toga, then a longer run to finish behind another bush. Now he was close to the top of the rise on which the manor house stood, and he could see that all its windows were heavily curtained.
Another couple of swift dashes brought him within yards of the manor, and he hoped that no servants were out of doors in its vicinity and, particularly, that there were no dogs to raise an alarm. He was close to a broad ground floor window, and could hear a buzz of conversation coming from behind it. The window was curtained like the others, but a chink of subdued yellow light escaped from a point near the bottom of the pane where two of the drapes had not been fully drawn together.
He crept forward, went on his knees on a flowerbed underneath the window, and looked through the small gap in the curtains.
He saw only a portion of what was going on in the room but it was a revealing picture. There were four men: a potbellied individual with a full beard and a hawk nose, doubtless Sir Oswald Vaillant. Next to him were two men of whom he could see only a portion, but they must have been the pair he clashed with at the Blue Duck, while the little hunchback was clearly visible.
He was standing behind a table, which bore a device he was operating, very likely the contents of the black box he brought with him. It was a recently introduced novelty called a “magic lantern” and the reason for the subdued lighting in the room was because the man—whom he believed to be Fortune—was projecting a picture on to a white sheet.
The projected image, of which Dacers could see only a part, was of some kind of engineering drawing, seeming to be the plan of an extremely narrow boat, with notes and symbols lettered along the margins.
The squire of Cardsworth and the smaller man were talking earnestly, but Dacers could not catch their words. Then, he chanced to see several horizontal slots drilled into a brick just below the heavy windowsill. It was a ventilation brick, which allowed some air into the room.
Bending yet lower, Dacers put his ear to the brick and he heard the voice of Sir Oswald quite distinctly. He was gruff and had the loud, hectoring delivery of the English upper classes when dealing with those they considered their inferiors:
“…but, dammit, Fortune, the Hunley was a total failure,” he was saying. “She sank three times as I remember, each time with the loss of her crew, including her inventor, Hunley himself, in the second disaster. I can’t see anyone risking money on such a project. It would be folly.”
“Yes, she sank, Sir Oswald, because she was not fully developed. She was hastily created under the pressures of the war. And, with respect, I beg to differ. She was not a total failure,” Fortune responded in a subservient tone. “Before she finally went down, she proved her worth by sinking a United States’ vessel many times her size, the Housetanic, which was blockading the South Carolina coast. But that was the old, experimental Hunley. These plans of ours are for a much improved—indeed, a totally perfected—version of such a craft. Her ballast tanks, air chambers, and crew’s quarters are designed to the most modern and scientific standards and she will be perfectly safe. She cannot fail. All we need is the money to develop her and other untried but ingenious inventions for the good of a revitalised South, which will be victorious. A whole nation is waiting only to be fully armed to plunge into a war of revenge. Whatever you put in will be a sound investment.”
“Really?” came Vaillant’s hooting tones. “Bound to bring a good return if a fellow backs it, what? An absolutely sound proposition is it?” The knight’s voice fairly dripped greed.
“Completely sound, Sir Oswald,” said Fortune. “Every bit as sound as the determination of the Resurgent South, as we have named ourselves or, if you like, The Dixie Ghosts—the revitalised spirits of the Confederacy, returned to wreak vengeance on the Yankee conquerors, seek justice, and re-establish the old Southern order of life. You may be sure all donors to our cause will be richly rewarded after our victory.”
Septimus Dacers gave a low whistle of surprise and his mind began to race. Who hadn’t heard of the Hunley during the American Civil War? She was something new in naval warfare, an undersea boat. What was the term for her? A submarine! She represented highly imaginative naval engineering—but she was tragically ill-fated.
And there was Fortune’s talk of him and his henchmen and a body of unknown strength as the Resurgent South or The Dixie Ghosts! Could there really be enough fit manpower in the South straining at the leash to rally to a call to fight anew with improved weaponry, paid for by their wealthy capitalist friends in the United Kingdom? Could they really vanquish the powerful Northern states and re-establish the old Southern order with a return to the discredited institution that underpinned it—slavery? It seemed unlikely, but it was a stunning prospect, and nothing less was being promoted by the three Americans. Dacers gave another low whistle and clapped his ear to the ventilation brick again.
CHAPTER FOUR
JOURNEY IN THE FOG
Dacers, still crouching in the flowerbed under the window, heard a buzz of mingled conversations and bodily movements as if the magic lantern show was concluded and the meeting was breaking up. He rose slightly and looked through the limited aperture again, seeing the occupants of the room moving around, and he had a clear view of Fortune packing the magic lantern into the black box.
The conversation he had just heard set questions whirling through his head. How could Sir Oswald Vaillant’s visitors even think of reigniting the war in America when the South had been beaten into utter exhaustion? And where did Theodore Van Trask fit into this puzzle? Was this outlandish scheme the “something” his daughter felt her father was entangled in? But Van Trask was a stolidly loyal citizen of the United States who had served his country with distinction for years. And there was the further riddle of why he was attacked out of the blue by one of the plotters, the pistol-wielding ruffian calling himself Fairfax.
He was jerked out of his speculation by the sound of voices from one side of the house, and he realised that the main entrance to the manor was at that side and the visitors were leaving by it. Then came the rumble of wheels and the clop of a horse. He had not realised that the station trap that brought Fortune had waited, probably in a stable yard at the rear of the house.
Dacers flattened himself against the winter damp soil of the flower bed and held his breath. He was thankful that it was now almost dark. Also, a slight fog was descending and he was some distance from the driveway. The trap containing the tall-hatted silhouettes
of the three passed near enough to him for him to hear the voice of the hunchback, Fortune, harsh, testy, and loud. He was plainly angry enough not to care that the driver of the hired vehicle could hear what he was saying.
“At least you managed to keep your mouth shut in there, Cal Tebbutt. I don’t know what the Yankees hit you with in the battle of Shiloh, but it sure loosened your tongue and made your behaviour all-fired erratic. In future, say nothing and don’t fly off the handle. That damn fool performance with old Van Trask could have delivered a mule kick to our plans if Adams and his crew got word of it. In future, keep dumb, like Meakum here.”
Dacers remembered from the attack at the Blue Duck that “Cal” was the one who called himself Fairfax, but his real name was Tebbutt and he had displayed a tendency towards impetuous, near hysterical outbursts. Once again, he felt the cold mouth of the Derringer against his temple and heard the quivering, edgy voice threatening to blow his brains out. He sounded as if he would do just that only for the cautioning of his accomplice, apparently named Meakum.
His eavesdropping under the window had revealed the important fact that Fortune was certainly the leading figure of the group, and he had been located elsewhere, but was now appeared to be returning to London with Fairfax and Meakum.
The vehicle disappeared into what was now thickening fog and Dacers remained lying on the ground until he heard the closing clang of the great gate to the estate. Then he rose and hastened out of the garden before anyone from the house chanced to make an appearance.
Out in the lane, there was every indication that the fog was becoming denser and it was likely that the whole countryside would soon be under a dense blanket. He had yet to return to Tringford to take the train back to London but, since it was merely a straight walk along the lane, he could not become lost so long as he kept to the lane. If he blundered into the hedges and ditches on either side of the track he would know he was wandering off course.
He reasoned that the three Americans would catch a train before him, and it would suit him to take a later one. He had no desire to encounter them at the railway station. His running and crouching had awakened some of the pain in his injured side and he hoped the fairly long walk would not prove troublesome.
Walking steadily, he progressed along the unpaved and rutted lane blanketed by the swirling greyness of the fog, which would probably last all night. Typical of a man in a fog, he tended to occasionally wander to one side or the other without meaning to, but he always found the centre of the lane again.
He reached the principal street of Tringford, finding that the town had no gaslights, only dim oil lamps placed at intervals. At the station, however, there was more light, some of it moving about as several railway employees were swinging lanterns on the “up” platform for London. Like grey spectres, there were a number of men on the platform shifting about restlessly, and the huge bulk of a locomotive with a string of carriages stood against the platform. The firebox of the engine gave out a vivid crimson and yellow illumination to add to the eeriness of the scene.
Only a few of the waiting passengers were from Tringford. Many of the others had boarded the train at distant stations further north but, in spite of the fog, they had stepped out on to the platform to smoke during the delay. For the male of the species, the bane of railway travel was the constant complaining of the ladies when men dared to light their cigars or pipes in the cramped confines of the carriages.
A man in a gold-braided frock coat and tall hat, obviously the stationmaster, was standing at the gate as Dacers entered the station.
“D’you want this train, sir?” he asked. “Kindly make haste. She’s ready to move. She came in more than an hour late due to dense fog further north and she’s been further delayed here. Jump aboard, sir, we want to get her on her way.”
Along the platform the lantern carrying porters were herding the ghostly and mostly disgruntled passengers towards the carriages. As they did so, a ray of lantern light struck the face of one of the men not far from Dacers and just as it did so, he turned his head and looked directly at Dacers. With a chill running through his body, Dacers found that he was looking at the fair moustached face of Fairfax, otherwise Tebbutt. The American’s eyes widened. There was absolutely no doubt that he recognised Dacers and violent hostility showed in the lamplit visage.
The porter swung his lantern, putting Fairfax back under the blanketing fog, and he shouted: “Take your seats, please, gentlemen. The train’s moving in a minute.” He and his colleagues shooed the passengers into the coaches, and Dacers dived into the nearest one.
So the trio of Americans had not gone ahead of him thanks to the delaying fog and, again, he was travelling with them on the same train. They would certainly be intrigued by his presence in the region where they had kept their appointment with Sir Oswald Vaillant. Could he expect trouble if he encountered them at Euston?
The great locomotive started its puffing and grunting and added to the density of the fog by belching gouts of black smoke out of its huge funnel. The carriages jerked and, cautiously, the train moved forward into the enveloping murkiness.
It made slow progress, stopping several times between stations because more lantern-wielding men on the tracks gave warnings of danger at points and junctions, and it was nearly midnight when it finally steamed into Euston Station. Septimus Dacers, sharing a seat with two scarlet-coated soldiers, a woman with a pair of unruly small boys and a corpulent clergyman who managed to sleep all the way, despite the noise of the two youngsters, found the journey an annoying ordeal. Throughout it, his mind was on the three exiles from Dixie and whether they would force a clash with him at Euston.
When they arrived, the trainload of passengers spilled out and began to move along the platform in a weary herd. In the jostle of tall hats and bonnets, Dacers could not identify the three Americans, but knew they must be somewhere in the throng. He was certain that there would be some reaction from them after spotting him at Tringford—and it was likely to be unpleasant. He had the uneasy thought that they might have positioned themselves behind him and were following him—or had they gone ahead, intending to waylay him?
A form of lethargy took hold of him. He was stiff and weary and the knife wound Dandy Jem had given him still caused twinges of pain. After the strenuous day, his thoughts turned to the comfortable bed waiting at his lodgings.
In the station’s great hall, the flow from the Tringford train merged with a sea of passengers from those arrived from various parts of the country, all delayed by the fog, Forcing himself into alertness, he looked around the multitude but still saw nothing of the American trio.
Outside, there was a regular “pea souper” of a London fog, more usual in November than February, and fractious passengers began to squabble over hiring hansom cabs from the line waiting along Drummond Street in front of the station. Dacers was grateful that his home base was within walking distance and he set off, plodding on heavy feet.
The route was familiar, but he had to pick his way through the smother relying on various familiar landmarks as they loomed into view. Nearing home, what he heard at Cardsworth forced itself upon his consciousness. Could a mere three men really restart the American Civil war, or were they part of a larger conspiracy? How could the economy of the South be restored when the foundation of the old agricultural order was slavery, now totally discredited by all the civilised world? Had the conspirators really redesigned the Hunley, the experimental underwater boat with a tragic history, and made it in to a viable vessel of war?
Through a combination of deep thought, fatigue, and caution in the unfavourable weather conditions, Dacers failed to notice that, every step of the way, he was followed by a man of small stature who kept a few paces behind, veiled by swirls of sulphurous fog. He walked with the silence of a cat. He was a lantern-jawed man with glittering eyes and a humped back.
He reached the square where his lodgings were located, entered it thankfully, and reached the darkened house where M
rs. Slingsby and Emma, the maid of all work, would have long been asleep. He mounted the steps with his key in his hand and silently opened the street door. Fortune, the man who had trailed him, stood back, out of view in the fog, and when the door closed on Dacers, he stepped forward, stopped at the bottom of the steps to ascertain the number of the house, then left the square. His bushy brows were drawn over his eyes and his mouth was set in a grimly determined line.
In the entrance hall of the house, Septimus Dacers turned up the illumination of the gaslight, which was kept at a low level throughout the night. He saw that a silver plate lay on a small table and on it was a letter addressed in a neat and attractive hand to: “S. Dacers Esq.”
He opened the pleasantly perfumed envelope. In the same neat hand was the message:
Dear Mr. Dacers.
If it is convenient, could you kindly meet me in the Tea Room of Carrington’s Hotel, St. James’s Place, at 11 am tomorrow?
Roberta Van Trask.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE VANISHING HUMP
“You found your letter, Mr. Dacers? It was delivered by a messenger boy yesterday,” said Mrs. Slingsby as Dacers was breakfasting next morning.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs Slingsby.”
His landlady nodded and gave him a knowing smile as if they shared a secret. She had obviously noted the perfumed stationery, and while she did not want to lose her lodger, for all his unorthodox comings and goings and his often hazardous lifestyle; she hoped that when she did, it would be to a “nice wife.” She greatly hoped that the charming American girl who had called a short time before had a significance in Dacers’ life.
Dacers finished his breakfast and readied himself to keep his appointment with Miss Van Trask, and stepped out into a London cityscape now largely cleared of fog.
