series 02 01 Conspiracy of Silence

by Andy Frankham-Allen

  “All right, but there’s no time now! It’s a bad mob looking for your lady friend, George. Meet me tonight, eight o’clock, on Frostic Place.”

  “Where on Frostic Place?”

  “Anywhere. It’s only a short block long, between Finch Street and Old Montague, half-mile west of here, maybe less. And if you’ve got a barker, bring it. Now do a scoot!”

  2.

  THEY ALL THOUGHT he was one of them, he certainly looked like one of them, and as he made his way to the room he had managed to rent for just he and Stone, Folkard responded to the calls and offers of solicitation with great humour and noise. On the surface, he suspected, no one living in the St Giles rookery would know he was a captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.

  After escaping the scene of the fire he had considered shacking up in a penny sit-up, or maybe even a four-penny coffin, for the night. But looking at Stone he realised they needed something a little more secure. At the same time, though, they had to go somewhere no one would think to look. And so, working on the principle that the best place to hide something was in plain sight, Folkard decided that they should remain as close to Bedford Square as possible and so he took Stone to the St Giles cellar, one of the worst kinds of slums in London.

  Normally the houses in St Giles would be piled high with people, with as many as six to one room, but with a few extra shillings Folkard had been able to secure a room for just the two of them. It was far from ideal, the putrid stench of human waste mixing with the usual choking smells coming from the pollution in the skies above, but it would do while Stone worked through his grief. They had to lie low for a while, ensure that the person who wanted Stone dead believed he had died in the fire at Bedford Square.

  Stone had taken his brother’s death badly. Folkard could sympathise. He had lived through his own share of loss over the years, not least of all was his beloved wife, and he understood the devastating pain such loss could bring.

  It was only in the last two hours that Folkard had felt able to leave the professor alone; the man had tired himself out, emotionally drained, and now he slept fitfully in their room. The professor had very little sleep over the past two days, and Folkard was certain he would not stir again for many hours. Enough time for Folkard to meet with his contacts and get word to Bedford.

  Soon he would have to reveal everything he had learned to Cavor, leave it all in the rear admiral’s hands. But first he needed the name of the man behind the attempts on Nathanial and Miss Somerset’s lives. The last he heard Bedford and Miss Somerset were to meet with Horace Smithwyck, who had some information for them. He hoped it was a name.

  In the meantime, the best way to keep Stone safe was to keep him hidden under the shroud of death. St Giles was, therefore, the best kind of place in the whole of London.

  He returned to their room to find Professor Stone wide awake. He was sitting on his, undoubtedly, flea infested mattress, the threadbare blanket wrapped about his shoulders in an attempt to keep out the cold that circulated through the rundown house. He looked the part, too. His usual well groomed self had given way to a dishevelled man, one who had not washed for at least a day; ginger stubble growing out from his whiskers to cover his neck and jaw. Stone looked up as Folkard entered; his usually bright eyes had lost much of their life, sunk by the death of Edwin.

  “Captain,” Stone said, a deep frown on his brow, “I have been thinking.”

  “As have I, Professor.”

  “Splendid. Then we are in accord. I propose we expose these devilish secrets forthwith.”

  “Now steady on there,” Folkard said. “Exposing the secret of gravitar is not our mission. We need to discover who is behind all this. Whoever it is has a great deal to lose, and we…”

  He stopped, shocked by the look of hatred sweeping over the professor’s face. Stone’s pleasant features just did not wear such a look well.

  “Edwin died because of these secrets, Captain, and that cannot go unrewarded. I do not care of the damage such exposure will cause. All of them need to pay! If the government had been honest with the Austrians we would never be in this situation. Edwin would still be alive!”

  “Professor, I understand you, I truly do, but consider this. Revealing Project ‘G’ will only make matters worse. The integrity of the British Empire must be protected above all else.”

  “Integrity?” Stone rose forcefully from his mattress. “Do not talk to me of integrity. We routed the Russians from Luna because they broke the Luna Treaty, and what did the government do? They set up their own research base there. Further breaching the treaty, just so they could discover all the secrets of Luna. And to protect their interests in Luna, in the City of Light and Science, they threaten Annabelle with treason—with death—just to secure the patents of the only device that will allow them sole access to Luna. Where is the integrity of the British Empire you speak of?”

  “Professor, you are talking nonsense.”

  “Nonsense? Are you denying these events took place?”

  “Of course not. But you are confused, distraught over the death of your brother. You are a subject of the British Empire, a servant of Her Majesty. You have sworn to protect the Empire.”

  Stone shook his head. “I relinquished such servitude when I was cast in irons and escorted to Chatham Convict Prison. I am just a scientist, a civilian.” He pointed at Folkard. “You serve the Empire if you like, but I will not turn a blind eye anymore. While these politicians play their games innocent people die. Poor Annabelle lost her leg because of these damnable games!”

  “Professor, I think you need to pull yourself together. Bedford and Miss Somerset will discover the orchestrator of these events, in the meantime we must remain here. Out of sight, out of mind. Let them believe us to be dead.”

  “No, Captain, I live!” With a deep breath Stone drew himself up to his full height, and looked down at Folkard. The attempt at bravado was lost somewhat by the blanket over Stone’s shoulders. “You are either with me or you are not. There is no middle ground anymore. I have my own contacts, and I will expose these underhanded blackguards who are running our nation into the ground.”

  Folkard could hardly believe it. Grief was a powerful emotion; it made the most sane men do the craziest things, but this…

  He had been sent out to protect Professor Stone, to discover who wanted him dead or discredited, and why. What was his duty now? There were men who would say he should silence Stone himself, that the Empire had to be protected above all else.

  Above all else. Above decency and justice and personal loyalty, it would seem, if that was what it took to preserve the reputations of corrupt and self-serving admirals and politicians hiding behind The Empire. What, Folkard wondered, was the point in protecting an institution which could hold those virtues in such small value?

  The Empire. Was it anything more than just a word? But what else did he have?

  3.

  HORACE’S SHOP, for all its musty smells and signs of neglect, had been within easy walking distance of St Mary’s Station off the elevated train. Frostic Place rested much deeper in the bowels of Whitechapel and Annabelle’s leg grew sore on the walk there. George walked ahead and Fairfax behind in the hopes of reducing the visibility of her peg. The night was overcast but cool and crisp so there was no fog within which assassins, real or imaginary, could lurk in ambush, and the air was clear enough to go without respirators, which was a blessing. The streets were poorly lit, but that worked to their advantage as much to an adversary’s, Annabelle supposed. Still, she gripped the head of the cane tightly to keep her hand from trembling.

  George had argued and argued against her accompanying them, especially as they now knew all Whitechapel was alert for a peg-legged young woman. Despite her private fears, however, she had been adamant. She still was not certain hers was the wisest course of action, but she knew it was the right one.

  Perhaps the letter in the Morning Post, which Fairfax had brought in at lunchtime, overly influenced her d
ecision. It should not have cut her so, but it had, to be spoken of with such contempt. She was thankful so much had happened to reveal her character to her new friends before this letter appeared. Had it become public before she applied for lodgings on Chapel Street, would she have been accepted with the same open minds? She doubted it. But now every new acquaintance she made she would do with this shadow hanging over all. Unless, of course, she dispelled the shadow, and did so by her own hand, to the extent possible. That was why she came—had to come.

  “Oh! George, your cousin wanted you to bring a barker, whatever that is. Did you remember to do so?”

  George lifted his right hand far enough out of the pocket of his overcoat to show the pistol grip of his Navy revolver.

  “Ah. Yes, I see. It does bark, doesn’t it? Well…good then.” She forced herself to stop talking because she knew she would babble on and on if she did not. It was a natural enough reaction to nervous tension but she thought she was beyond that, had trained it out of her. Sometimes old acquaintances pop in to visit without warning, and old habits do as well.

  The streets, while not crowded, were still busy enough even after dark. Poor women sized up the two men with Annabelle and several made offers as they passed. Annabelle wondered how they plied their trade when the air forced them to cover their faces—or if they even bothered to cover up. Many people she had seen here earlier did not wear masks, or wore only a dirty handkerchief covering nose and mouth, showing squinting red-rimmed eyes above. Even now soft coughing provided an almost continuous background noise. How much was from the air and how much from consumption she had no way of knowing.

  They walked north along St Mary Street and then turned west on Old Montague. Frostic Place should have been easy to find but proved otherwise, as a number of street signs had been removed or defaced including that for their destination. When they crossed broad Osborn Street and Old Montague turned into Wentworth, and the neighbourhood and denizens looked even more poverty-stricken and desperate than they had before, Annabelle and her two companions had the sense they had gone too far. They retraced their steps, eventually asking a dirty-faced youngster and paying a shilling for directions to Frostic Place, which at the time they stood directly before—much to the delight of the boy as he pocketed his coin.

  Frostic Place was narrow and dark, with many doorways close together along both sides of the street. The two and three-storey brick buildings, so close together they touched, had a tired, leaning aspect, as if they held each other up and might all fall if any one of them gave way. They loomed overhead and the only light came from the two ends of the street. Far fewer people made their way here than on Old Montague, and those that did hurried through the gloom. George found an alcove fronting a bricked-up doorway on the east side of the street and the three of them waited in the shadows.

  They waited no more than a quarter hour before a man came down the street more deliberately and George recognised him by his gait. He whistled softly and Horace approached them.

  “Ain’t got long. I’m thinking Billy Snide had a boy watchin’ me, but I gave him the slip a ways back. Ole Billy’s who you have to worry about. Word is the lady here killed his half-brother, Jimmy Tucker. Cut his throat did ya?”

  “He was going to kill me,” Annabelle answered.

  “Courts may nod to self-defence but Ole Billy don’t. It was business before. Now it’s personal-like.”

  “What business?” George demanded. Horace shrugged.

  “Billy calls himself Snide ’cause he claims he learned the counterfeit trade from an old-timer doing a stretch on the floatin’ academy. You ask me, it’s just him putting on airs. I never knew him to pass a queer screen, but it sounds better than Billy the Pimp. Only thing Billy’s ever been any good at is getting’ others to do his dirty work and takin’ a cut. ’E’s got half a dozen or so toughs workin’ with him—one less now, thanks to your lady friend—and summat’s changed this last month. No more looking for jobs but more gilt in their pockets.”

  “Somebody’s hired the gang,” George said and Horace nodded in reply.

  “Don’t know who, but a month past Billy was asking after davy’s-dust.”

  “What’s that?” Annabelle asked.

  “It’s gunpowder, Miss,” he said, “and you might wonder what a pimp wants with it. Then couple weeks ago Tom Duffer, one of Billy’s boys, comes in the same boozing-ken as me, buys a round for the house, and toasts to ‘one less stinking toff in the world’. That was the same day as someone blew up that Australian feller, and it ain’t like Tom to stand for drinks lest he’s got more gilt than he knows what’s what.”

  “He was Austrian,” Cartwright said. Horace glanced at him with irritation and went on.

  “Tom’s the same lad, three days past, comes in my place and tells me Billy wants everyone to watch for a peg-legged lady, and tells me why. What blowing up Australians,” Horace said, and scowled at Cartwright as if daring him to correct him again, “has to do with yer lady friend I can’t say, but it’s all I know. Now you better git.”

  Without another word, he turned up his collar and hurried south toward Old Montague Street.

  “We had better head north in case someone’s watching the street,” George said, and they made their way toward the irregular square of light where the lane opened out into Finch Street. They turned right onto Finch but had gone no more than a dozen paces when three narrow-eyed men came together from different directions and formed a wall blocking their progress. The handful of people nearby suddenly quickened their pace and within moments the six people staring at each other were all but alone. Cartwright pushed forward and stood beside George, with Annabelle to their rear.

  “Perhaps we should have gone south,” Cartwright ventured.

  A hand seized Annabelle from behind and abruptly wrenched her sharply about.

  4.

  BEDFORD HEARD ANNABELLE cry out in alarm and as he turned towards her the three thugs facing them sprang forward. Bedford made to pull the revolver from his overcoat but the hammer caught on the seam of the pocket and then one of the toughs was on him. The fellow threw his arms around Bedford and carried him back by his momentum against the brick wall of the closest building. The impact all but drove the breath from his lungs. He struggled with the assailant, trying to free his arms. He looked back and saw Annabelle in the clutches of a fourth scoundrel and for a moment the action seemed to slow.

  The man had hold of Annabelle’s coat with his right hand and drew his left hand back as if to strike her. She raised her cane to the side and brought it forward sharply toward his head. For an instant Bedford had a flicker of hope but then groaned in dismay when the thug intercepted and grasped the shaft in his free left hand, perhaps a foot above the silver handle in Annabelle’s hand.

  For a moment the tableau seemed to freeze and a distant part of Bedford’s mind remembered that Annabelle’s cane did not have a silver head. Then motion returned, Annabelle pulled her hand down, the wooden shaft remaining in her attacker’s hand, and the long gleaming sword blade came free, flashed, and her assailant howled in pain.

  Bedford butted his own attacker in the nose with his forehead and then pushed him back and away. The man held his bloody nose for a second and then howled with rage, made to charge again, but saw the revolver in Bedford’s right hand and froze. He backed up, eyes suddenly wide with fright and hands climbing above his head. Bedford pointed the revolver toward the sky and fired twice, the detonations echoing down the street, and then he turned the revolver on Annabelle’s assailant.

  “Let go of her or I’ll spread your brains on the sidewalk!” he shouted. The man fell back against the building wall, holding a bleeding thigh with his left hand.

  “Run for it, Oinks!” Bedford’s assailant cried and sprinted down the street, closely followed by the other two who had been engaged against Cartwright. Annabelle swayed and Bedford ran to her, put a supporting arm around her, but held the revolver on her attacker the entire time. />
  “The shots will bring the peelers as quickly as a police whistle. Are you injured?” he asked. She shook her head wordlessly but shuddered in reaction to the fight, begun so suddenly and over as abruptly.

  Cartwright joined them, wiping blood from his own mouth with a right hand sporting bloody knuckles. He examined the wound on the man who now slid down to sit on the paving stones, his back to the wall. “You slashed his leg, Miss Somerset. Thrusts are generally more effective. One through his abdomen would have put him on his back almost at once, I would think, and saved the magistrates a deal of trouble.”

  Annabelle turned sharply on him. “Have you ever looked a man in his eyes, close enough to smell his breath and feel it on your skin, and then killed him, Mister Cartwright? Well I have, and I have seen the life pass from those eyes in my dreams every night since Boxing Day. I have no desire to add a second pair of eyes to my nightmares.”

  Cartwright knelt and picked up the discarded hollow wood body of the cane. “My most humble apologies, Miss Somerset. I spoke thoughtlessly and from ignorance and insensitivity. Please, allow me.” He took the sword from her hand, wiped the blood from the blade on the skirt of his own coat, slipped it back into the wooden sheath until it clicked, and then handed it back to her.

  “Colonel Wyndham’s cane?” Bedford asked and Annabelle nodded. From down the street Bedford heard feet running and the sound of a police whistle.

  Cartwright raised his hand and waved. “Here! We have one of the villain’s captive,” he shouted.

  “Not just any villain,” Annabelle said after taking a deep breath. “This is the man who tried to kidnap Uncle Cyrus and then cut Cartwright’s arm.”

  Cartwright started and looked at the thug more closely. “Well damn me, so he is!”

  Bedford released the pistol grip of his revolver and let it rotate on his finger through the trigger guard, spun it back and caught it by the barrel and held it out away from his body so the constable would see it and know it was not a threat. It wouldn’t do to have a misunderstanding now.