They continued to a small Georgian house, and Folkard guided Nathanial to his room on the second floor. Nathanial remained at the threshold of the room for a moment, hardly able to believe the squalor of the place. It was inconceivable that anyone could live like this. He was not sure if he ought to remove his respirator mask, since there were no carbolic sheets covering the draft coming in through the cracks in the windows. Folkard, however, removed his, so Nathanial did likewise. The smell, although unpleasant, was not unbearable.
“There are worse places in London, Professor,” Folkard said, reading the look on Nathanial’s face correctly.
“Perhaps we should repair to my rooms in Russell Square?”
Folkard laughed. “You mean to say you live near here? Good Lord, and to think I have been searching high and low for you these past two weeks and you were only at the other end of Montague Place. Now that, Professor, is a wonderful touch of irony.”
Nathanial furrowed his brow. “I am glad you can find humour in these circumstances, but forgive me if I do not. Since returning to Earth someone has been out to discredit me, and now, it appears, they wish to kill me. Or possibly more than one person. I am undecided on that point.”
“Yes, I am quite aware of that. Which is part of the reason I was…enlisted for this mission. To protect you, and get to the bottom of everything.”
“And what have you discovered?”
“Many a disturbing fact, but at this point I wish to maintain my own counsel.”
At this Nathanial entered the room, closing the door firmly behind him. “Captain Folkard, this simply will not do. I demand an explanation! It is not only my life I fear, but that of Annabelle. I am certain that she, too, is in danger of her life.”
“Miss Somerset is quite safe, I can assure you.”
“You have seen her?”
“I have not, but she is under the watchful care of Commander Bedford.”
Nathanial sank into the nearest chair, relief washing through his body. He reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat and removed the pocket watch. “Please, Captain, tell me all that you know.”
For a moment longer Folkard just looked at Nathanial, but eventually he nodded. “Very well, Professor,” he said, sitting himself at a small table in the corner of the room. “But first tell me what you have learned on your own.”
“I have discovered she was detained for some time at Dorset House, although I remain unclear as to the particulars of that event. Beyond that, my sources have failed to furnish me with any further information.”
Folkard raised an eyebrow. “I am surprised to hear this, Professor. Pleasantly surprised. You seem equally as resourceful in London as you were on Luna.”
Nathanial accepted the compliment, although he would not explain the guilt he felt for not doing more to assist Annabelle. For he certainly could have done more, had he been less concerned about securing his own future. “If you could tell me the complete story, as it is known to you.”
“I shall,” Folkard said. “Miss Somerset’s troubles did not begin with her detainment at Dorset House, I fear. After her return to Chatham, while you were removed to Chatham Convict Prison, she and Doctor Grant were sent to the Tower of London…”
Nathanial listened, with growing dismay, as Folkard told the story of Annabelle’s trials over the past month. His heart sank. As if poor Annabelle had not suffered enough since Le Boeuf had shot her on Peregrine Station.
“But that is not all, I am afraid,” Folkard said after he had finished with Annabelle’s story. “There is the matter of tomorrow’s edition of The Morning Post.”
“I am afraid I seldom read the Post,” Nathanial replied. “I believe it is aimed at a loftier readership than I represent.”
“Yes, but all the more reason to pay it mind on occasion. A letter, reportedly from ‘A Concerned Citizen’, will appear in it tomorrow. You had better read it, and it is as well you are seated.”
Folkard handed him a long thin strip of paper, what Nathanial recognised as a newspaper galley, and for a moment he wondered how the captain had obtained it. That and all other questions were instantly driven away by the content of the letter.
Esteemed Editor:
As one who holds the Security of the Realm above all other considerations, it is my most distressing duty to report an Alarming Occurrence which I know of pursuant to my position of government trust. Last year a research laboratory of Extraordinary Importance, one jointly funded by our government and that of Austria-Hungary, was destroyed with Grievous Loss of Life. The perpetrators of this Monstrous Deed were arrested by the authorities but now have been set free, and for no discernable reason save expediency or a desire to brush the embarrassing affair under the carpet. In truth, could their villainy have achieved these ends unless abetted by the Incompetence and Complacency of the government?
The main villain in the matter was a Mr S, late of the Chatham Dockyard, now Discharged in Disgrace for his part in the affair, although that is scarcely punishment enough. He promotes himself as a “Professor”, although he has no honest claim to the title, never having been so employed. He was accompanied and abetted in his crimes by a notorious American woman, Miss S, of such loose moral compass as to accompany “The Professor” with need neither for chaperone nor the Vows of Matrimony.
And what has been the result of their release? No sooner had this Diabolical Pair found their freedom than the Austrian Ambassador—a man intimately involved in trying to bring the perpetrators of the Terrible Crime to justice—was struck down by an explosion, the same sort of explosion which destroyed the research laboratory. Can there be any doubt in the mind of a single thinking person who is to blame? What will it take before the authorities will act?
Your very humble servant,
A Concerned and Loyal Citizen
Nathanial let the papers fall to his lap and looked away.
“A very cleverly-phrased smear,” Folkard said. “There is not a single fact in it which is incorrect, beyond the claim concerning yours and Miss Somerset’s culpability. It is the manner in which they are presented which makes it sound so damning. Do you know who might have reason to attack you is such a way? Stone?”
Nathanial paid no attention to Folkard’s words. His mind was on a dining room table in Putney, his father and mother seated for breakfast like any other day. Which of his siblings, he wondered, would bring them a copy of the Morning Post to read? With how much care would the messenger mask his or her gloating triumph with a mask of mournful sympathy?
What would they think?
2.
NATHANIAL AWOKE IN a sweat. Dreams of Annabelle, her mechanical leg being torn off her, being forced to work the treadmill with one leg… He shook his head, trying to dislodge the images. He looked around, for a moment wondering where he was, and his eyes alighted on Folkard, himself fast asleep on the floor, a blanket and the burning coal in the fireplace the only warmth this room had to offer.
They had spent several hours talking, Nathanial listening to all that had transpired for Annabelle since leaving the Tower. The last Folkard had heard from Bedford, was to report that Annabelle had, herself, been attacked while Bedford had been busy at the Admiralty. This news incensed Nathanial, and he demanded to be told where Annabelle had taken up residence, but on this point Folkard refused to be persuaded. Until they had incontrovertible proof, keeping Nathanial and Annabelle apart was essential to the success of their clandestine investigation. The less attention drawn, the better. Nathanial was not convinced, not even when Folkard had explained how Annabelle had acquitted herself against her attackers.
Carefully, as to not make a noise, Nathanial extricated himself from the blanket covering him, and rose from the sofa he had fallen asleep on. The story Folkard had told him had disturbed him greatly. As he suspected, both he and Annabelle were targets, and most certainly the same person was behind the death of Lécuyer and the attack on Annabelle.
No doubt Annabelle would be the firs
t to protest, but to his mind he had failed her once again. She had been dragged into the darkness that surrounded his life. Too many had suffered because of him.
He stood. He had to return to his rooms at Russell Square. Edwin was there alone, and the chances of him becoming another victim of association with Nathanial were not in his favour.
Nathanial had failed Annabelle, but he would not fail his own brother.
He glanced back at the sleeping Folkard as he creaked open the door. “Sorry, captain,” he whispered, “but Edwin’s life is more important than mine.”
3.
A STRAIGHT WALK up Montague Place and he was at Russell Square. He was not sure of the time, but the sounds of activity in the distance, even the blare of ship horns down the docks along the Thames, drifted through the air, so from that he could wager it was at the very latest near the five o’clock. It had been early evening when Edwin had been sent home by Inspector Starling, so almost twelve hours had passed since then. Nathanial dreaded to think what trouble may have found him in that time.
Nathanial kept to the middle of the pavement of Montague Street, carefully using the light from the streetlamps to illuminate his way, mindful of every shadow. He should have checked Folkard’s person for a weapon before he had left, if only so he could protect himself. An image of Lécuyer’s body sprung, unwanted, to the forefront of his mind. The look of shock, the lack of obvious injury. Whoever had killed him was a professional, eminently used to killing without leaving evidence. What use would Nathanial be against such a man?
It did not matter. All that counted was that he find Edwin and get him to safety immediately.
He turned left onto Russell Square but did not approach his house, instead he carried on past it and stopped on the corner of Southampton Row for several moments. He cast his eyes about for any suspicious signs. Seeing nothing, Nathanial made haste to his house and was about to ascend the steps to the front door, when it opened before him and Edwin emerged.
Edwin stopped, looked at Nathanial in surprise, then smiled broadly. Before Edwin could utter a word, Nathanial launched himself up the steps and grabbed his brother by the elbow, dragging him inside. He slammed the door behind him.
“Nathanial, what is the meaning of this?”
“Edwin, please be quiet and listen.” Nathanial shuddered at the wide-eyed look he received. There was no fear in Edwin’s eyes, only excitement. “You must leave London immediately, return to Putney. It is no longer safe for you here.”
“Well, of course it is not! I am not a dullard, Nathanial. Whoever killed Lécuyer will almost certainly return. Which is why I have been keeping watch,” he said, and pulled a revolver from inside his coat, “with this!”
“What the devil! Where did you procure such a weapon?” Nathanial snatched the gun off his brother.
“It is mine. I brought it to London with me.”
“Why would you own a revolver?” Nathanial shook his head. “It does not matter. All that matters is you leave immediately.”
Edwin brought himself up to his full height, which still came short of Nathanial’s. “I will not leave you to face the danger alone.”
“I am not alone.” Nathanial darted past Edwin, and took to the stairs. “Come with me, and while you assemble your belongings I shall explain everything.”
4.
“THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE!” Edwin stood by the window, looking down at the square below. He had listened intently as Nathanial explained all he had learned from Folkard, but still he refused to pack his belongings. So, to that end, Nathanial found himself gathering his brother’s clothes and books together while Edwin maintained watch at the window, his revolver once more firmly in his hand.
“Regardless, that is the situation I find myself in,” Nathanial said, struggling to buckle Edwin’s bags together.
“But I still do not understand why someone would wish you disgraced or even dead. Just what did happen out there, Nathanial?”
“It is unimportant. You know all that is required.” Nathanial looked up from the baggage. “And I must implore you, do not tell any of this to Mother and Father. They must be distressed enough at the appearance of this slander in the Morning Post. The less people know of the physical threat, the safer they are.”
“Of course I will say nothing; after all I have no intention of returning to Putney and leaving you to… Hallo!”
“What is it?” Nathanial rushed over to the window, and peered out to try and catch what had caused Edwin to stop in his protestations. One or two people were leaving their homes, off for an early start at whatever jobs they did, but otherwise Nathanial saw nothing unusual out there. “What did you see?”
“Out there, between those two trees.” Edwin pointed just beyond the entrance of the garden square, but still Nathanial did not see.
“The glare from the streetlamps is…”
“There!” Edwin snapped, and pushed past Nathanial. “I’ll show them not to mess with a Stone!”
For a moment Nathanial continued to look out of the window, trying to see beyond the corona of the streetlamp. Finally he saw them. At least three men, dressed in dirty clothes, work caps on their heads. He had not had the displeasure of meeting such people before, but he knew their type. Street toughs; men who scoured the backstreets of London looking for wealthy people who had no business out on a cold night, ready to alleviate them of their overabundance of possessions.
Three!
“Edwin,” he hissed, “dammit, no!”
En route out of the room he grabbed the poker from the fireplace, then darted down the stairs and out of the house. For a moment he froze. This was insane! He had been forced to harm others several times since venturing into the aether, but he had never caused another person harm on Earth before. This was not the kind of life he wanted. He was a scientist, an inventor, a man of learning and not a man of action.
The moment of indecision lasted but a split second. Across the road, by the gate of the garden square Edwin stood, pistol raised, angrily shouting at the tough before him. The man, burly and big, regarded Edwin as a man would an insect. His unshaven face, slightly disfigured by things Nathanial hardly wish to countenance, mocked Edwin.
“Wot ya gonna do, shoot me? Look et ya, can’t even ’old the gun without shakin’! Ain’t seen nothing so pafetic in all me puff, I ain’t.”
The tough was right. For all his bravado, for all the thrill Edwin experienced at the notion of this exciting life Nathanial seemed to live, his brother was wildly out of his depth. He had barely ever left Surrey before, his life one of routine, service to their father and the Church, the only rebellion and excitement he had known were the pranks of childhood. Nathanial knew the real dangers that surrounded his life. He had seen death, and he knew there was no excitement to be had in such a thing.
“Edwin!” he called, running down the steps. “We need to get out of here!”
Edwin glanced back, and it was that moment of distraction that cost him. The second of the toughs jumped out from the bushes and coshed Edwin on the back of the head. The young Stone dropped like a sack of potatoes. Nathanial, his blood boiling at the sight of the two toughs approaching his unconscious brother, charged forward, the poker held high.
So intent was he that he failed to spot the third tough, a little way up the road, jumping the fence that surrounded the garden square. The large man landed with the grace of a gymnast, and within moments he was slamming into Nathanial’s side. The lanky scientist stumbled sideways, reaching out with his right hand to brace his fall. His weakened wrist, still not wholly healed, took the brunt of his weight and he yelled out in pain, the rest of his body hitting the ground harder than if he had not bothered to try and brace himself.
He lay there, looking around, winded and in pain, watching helpless as two toughs converged on him while the third retrieved the revolver from the ground by Edwin. The two toughs dragged Nathanial to his feet, forcing a squeal of pain to erupt from his mouth. The third tough aim
ed the gun at Edwin’s unconscious form.
“Wait!” Nathanial shouted. “Why are you doing this? Whatever you are being paid, I can pay you more.”
The third tough looked up from Edwin, smirking, the light from the streetlamp revealing his rotting teeth. “Doubt it, squire, ain’t nothing a toff like you can pay that we ain’t been paid already by the Government.” He cocked the revolver. “The likes of you give the Empire a bad name.”
Government? What did this mean? “I give the Empire a bad name? Do you even know who I am?”
“Don’t matter none. You keeps the wrong company, see?” He once again turned the gun’s attention to Edwin.
“No! Don’t do this!”
The two toughs holding Nathanial laughed, but their laughter turned to gasps and their bodies jerked and twitched, accompanied by the wet sound of bullets impacting flesh. Nathanial staggered back, no longer supported by the two men who collapsed to the ground, blood seeping from well placed bullet wounds in their chests. There had been no sound of gunfire, however. He looked up at the third tough, who was now aiming the revolver at him.
“Clever,” he sneered, “but it won’t save ya.”
Nathanial wanted to say he had nothing to do with the two deaths, as if justifying himself would prevent the third tough from killing him. Such words, though, never had a chance to come before another sound of a bullet smashing into flesh and bone echoed in the dark morning air. The man pitched to the ground, his revolver discharging harmlessly into the turf. A glance was enough to assure Nathanial he was dead from the bullet straight through the head.
A whistle came from the distance. A police officer alerting his fellows, alerted no doubt by the gunshot.
Nathanial looked around, trying to find the face of his saviour, but there was no one. Not wishing to break his lucky streak, he scrambled over to Edwin and shook his brother awake. Edwin looked around, holding his head, confusion in his eyes.
series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence Page 14
