by JM Bannon
Owens gestured towards the stairs. "The merchant banking and partners’ offices are on the second floor."
“If you permit, I would like to interview the staff to get a sense for Sir Chilton’s movements and any interactions last week,” replied Dolly.
“I will attend to you today and can offer a place for you to run interviews. My assistant will get you that list," Owens continued.
“Thank you. It would also help if you could provide me a list of employees that worked regularly with Sir Chilton?”
“Certainly, please follow me, and we will get you settled,” replied Owens.
The detective followed Owens up the stairwell. The stairway was unlike any office building he had been in, more like an opera house or palace. “I noticed that you have security at the door.”
Owens stopped mid-stride and gestured to the detective. “While we are a merchant bank, we pride on being full-service for our clients. Besides our merchant, industrial and maritime desks, our foreign account settlement desk has its own wire-type room upstairs. They confirm exchange rates on overseas transactions, and many of our wealthy clients use our trust management to keep their incomes. We desire to have a variety of currency to settle accounts for our clients and to allow for cash withdrawals. Therefore, vaults and guards are a necessity.”
“Were guards on duty this weekend?” asked Dolly.
“At all times,” replied Owens.
“I should like to speak with the guards that worked on Saturday and Sunday,” Dolly said, thinking to himself they would have seen Sir Francis if he was in the office over the weekend.
Owens looked to his clerk. “Can you get the schedule to show the detective?”
“Yes, Mr. Owens.”
Glass doors separated the stair landing in the lobby from the partner’s wing. Inside the glass doors, the decorations changed from the cold open marble halls to the warm and plush tones of mahogany paneling and thick maroon carpet.
Owens led the party down the hall to the partners’ suites. The hallway was lined with oil portraits of the partners, starting from the original founders up through contemporary partners. Sir Francis's likeness was draped with a black shroud. Between some of the portraits were offices of key executives.
The hallway ended in a set of double walnut wood doors that Sims opened to let the group into the partner suites.
Club chairs occupied the public space for waiting customers. Getting upstairs to meet a partner was the first challenge. The next line of defense was the three desks of the personal secretaries. Two had gentlemen seated at them that stood at attention when Owens and the group entered the room.
Owens gestured to the shorter of the two men standing at attention. “This is Mr. Healey, Sir Chilton’s assistant. Mr. Healey, may I introduce Detective Sergeant Williamson of the Metropolitan Police. He would like to talk with you and look over Sir Francis’ office.”
“Yes, Mr. Owens,” The man only looked up when he spoke. He was visibly upset, and his eyes were red and watery. He glanced at Dolly. “I am here to serve, Sir.”
Owen’s continued. “Detective, this is Mr. Chalkley, He is the clerk for the other partners that have offices down the hall. Gentlemen, please make the detective comfortable and aid him. Allow him to use the boardroom for his examination of the staff."
Owens then excused himself. “Detective, I have affairs to attend to downstairs.”
“I appreciate the accommodations Mr. Owens,” replied Dolly. He turned to Healey. “Can I start with a walkthrough of Sir Chilton’s office?"
Dolly was reviewing the office of Sir Francis with Healey when there was a knock at the door.
Mr. Sims entered the boardroom with a worried look on his face.
“Detective, we need you in the vaults.”
Sims ushered Williamson past a small cluster of clerks and bookkeepers huddled and talking in hushed tones. They were looking towards the rear of the lobby. They passed through the dark wood railing that divided the general lobby from the space where clients met clerks to handle routine transactions like withdrawals. The two men double-timed it down a large center aisle that led past the six desks in two rows and ending in the back of the main hall. The grand hall was filled with the echoes of the two men’s clipped steps on the marble floor.
An archway in the marble wall revealed stairs leading down to the vaults. The top and bottom of the stairs had wrought iron gates that were opened. Dolly followed Sims down the stairs and through the gates. The vault area was cooler due to its location in the basement of the bank. The stairs ended in a landing that had a solid marble wall with a brass sign that read “Chilton House Vaults” and additional brass gates to the left and to the right were both open.
“Detective, this way,” Sims guided Dolly to the right, “This is the partners’ vault.”
Mr. Owens was sitting on a chair, sweating profusely, having some kind of attack. His tie was loose and his collar undone.
Dolly looked at Owens. Unable to catch his breath, he just pointed at the vault.
The huge steel vault door was open. The interior walls of the vault consisted of a myriad of different sized doors for lock boxes. In the center of the room was a simple wooden counting table, and on the floor, were two dead guards.
Dolly stepped into the vault to get a closer look. Two guards both shot in the chest. Between the bodies was a Lancaster pistol. Dolly picked up the four-barreled pistol and opened the breach. The receiver lifted the four brass cartridges out of the barrels, and he saw that two of the Adams .45 caliber cartridges were discharged. The boys never stood a chance. Dolly looked out the vault. “Sims, call the London Police.”
No footprints in the blood. No one had been in the vault since the shooting.
He stepped just once in the large pool of blood to look across the rest of the vault. He surveyed all the lockboxes. Three were open. Two lower ones that could hold a sizable container were empty. A smaller one, about waist-high, contained ledgers and papers. The contents had an even spray of dried blood and flesh fragments from the exit wound of the victims.
Dolly made his way back out of the vault to Owens and crouched down to ask him a question.
Owens spoke. “The guards—I came—I came down to the vaults to retrieve my papers…
and found them.”
“Get a doctor,” bellowed Sims.
Dolly looked at Owens, smiled and put his hands on his upper arms, “Mr. Owens, take deep breaths. You will get through this.” Dolly turned to Sims. “He is in shock and a state of hysteria but unharmed.”
The guard interjected, “I was escorting Mr. Owens as that is the procedure when anyone comes down into the vaults. I was standing at the gate when he performed the combination. He asked me to help him open the door as it mighty be heavy for the old man. That’s when we saw them, Jack and Freddie, just lying there.”
One clerk chimed in, “They were the weekend guards.”
Sims added, “This vault is the private vault for the partners. Only full partners have the combination.”
“Let’s have order,” Dolly boomed out. He thought the best he could offer until London arrived was to get the chaos under control. He turned to the guard. “You are on duty, sir, and need to get the vaults cleared of all these people. This is a crime scene.”
The young man took the cue. “Alright, alright, all of you upstairs,” he said, waving his arms as if he was herding children off a playground.
All Dolly could do now was wait for the London police to come. Chilton House was their jurisdiction. He reached down and untied his boot on the foot he had placed in the blood. No need to track blood all over the crime scene.
Today would be a long day.
Tuesday, the 8th of June
10:00 AM, Waltzing Pelican
Dolly was set to meet Keane at the Waltzing Pelican at ten am. He grabbed a carriage to a nearby neighborhood, then strolled to the tavern from there. He learned it easier to blend into the public walking than driving.
The air in this part of the city was acrid and gritty. The four smokestacks of the gaswerks billowed exhaust from the boilers and gas crackers across the river from Woolrich. Below the haze of smog was the largest London industrial estate made up of the industries supporting Lloyd & Sons Mechwerks, the Baden Gaswerks, and the London Airship Works and Aerodrome.
Lloyd and Sons owned the aerodrome and were awarded the contract to construct the HMS Victoria, the empire’s first air-dreadnought. The hull had been laid three years ago and now the world's largest ironclad airship was to be christened in less than a year by Her Majesty.
Dolly’s British pride swelled when he peered up to see the activity on the colossal ship resting in the construction scaffolding. The ship dominated the skyline in this part of the city and that was a feat considering the scale of the mechwerks and gaswerks. His plan was to meet Keane, get his report, then walk the perimeter of the Baden Gaswerks before his meeting with Commander Michael Penfold, the engineering liaison to the Her Majesty’s air service and the commander of the project.
The young police officer was in admiration of what this modern world of industry was producing. In his lifetime, he had witnessed his countrymen tame the power of steam, send messages over wires and tap into the eldritch elements. He took one more glance up, watching the workmen rivet and solder a hundred feet above his head before stepping into the dimly lit Waltzing Pelican.
The Pelican was a shift bar. It was convenient to the industrial estate and ranged from the extremes of empty to full based on the changing shifts at the adjacent mills and factories.
Keane was standing at the bar. He was a tall man and looked bigger in his glen plaid suit. For the past few days he had been milling about the crowd that were congregating at the front gates of the works.
Dolly sidled next to him but acted as if he did not recognize him, facing forward at the racks of bottles and the tap handles. Keane smelled sweaty and of tobacco smoke.
“Well, what do you make of it?” asked Dolly.
“What I make of it is this. I’ve been up all night watching the plant while you were sleeping in the cozy cottage of yours.”
The barkeep came up to Dolly, “What you having, mate?”
“A pint and a pickled egg,” Dolly threw a coin on the counter, “and a beer for this grumpy fella here.”
As the bartender turned aside to pull a draft. Keane spoke, “There’s about seventy-five to a hundred bodies around the gates. I noticed two Marxists there stirring people up,” Keane continued in a mocking whining tone. “It’s the same old bollocks that the guilds are running the working man out of a living. None of the fellas are the type to take pay for this. They're true devotees of the struggle for the common man shit.”
“Any of your Fenian brothers?” asked Williamson.
“Not that I could see, but there was no shortage of Irish in the mob.” Keane changed the subject, “I heard you paraded that faithless witch through Belgravia.”
Dolly took a gulp of his pint, “Ah. I did.” Then sucked the beer foam from his mustache.
“You believe that hokum," asked Cullam Keane.
“When I was ten, it was fantasy that a man could fly. Now there are flying ships full of men, so I reserve my judgment on the fantastic and unimaginable. As far as Rose Caldwell is concerned, she was not excommunicated for evil works. She left the church because of what she was prepared to do to stop evil.” Dolly finished his egg and washed it down with the last of his pint and sauntered out of the tavern.
It would be a matter of time once he was at the works that he would be identified. Any of the Marxists knew of him from him questioning them after an arrest; others would recognize him from his appearance in the tabloids.
Dolly walked the perimeter of the plant to see if there was any additional access to the plant and to confirm Keane’s count of protesters.
The site was enveloped by a formidable stone wall. He could only see in to the works at street grade when the iron gates broke the wall at the midpoint of each side. The protesters were in several clusters: a main group with signs picketing the main gate, then more along the road that wrapped around the perimeter of the wall. There were crowds milling about at all the other gates.
As he made his way around, he came to the same conclusion as Keane; about eighty protesters, with roughly twenty at each gate. The street that circled the plant wall had three perpendicular roads that connected directly to the south, east and west gates. As he approached the east gate, he heard his name yelled.
“Williamson, you come to support the common man?”
He had been recognized, but could not make out who it was yet, so he kept walking.
“Brothers, here comes Detective Sergeant Frederick Williamson.” It was Nelson Bruce, a union activist that had worked to get better conditions in the dye mills. A true believer.
Dolly walked up to the communist. “Mr. Bruce, we will not have any trouble here, will we?”
“Sergeant, we need to make sure the grievances of the workers are heard by the foreign task masters.” Nelson was making sure that the others heard his propaganda.
“These Hun alchemists need to have proper oversight. Look, if British boiler men were running the works, you wouldn’t see smokestacks spouting that shit into the sky. How do we know this plant isn’t put here to poison us all?” The last comment of Nelson elicited some grumbling from the men.
Dolly, keeping pace with Nelson, took out his pipe and packed it with tobacco, then lit it. “Now Nelson,” Dolly spoke between puffing his pipe to a bright glow. “I will leave you in charge here,” another puff, “so if things go awry, I’ll make sure you're the first one hauled in and the last to go home.”
“I cannot be held responsible for the actions of our countrymen when faced with injustice,” replied Nelson.
“Nelson, let your fellas know that the Home Secretary has asked me to keep an eye out for seditious rabble rousers. Now you and I both know that all you want is to get each of your comrades work at a fair wage. But if you were to fall under the influence of foreign powers with plans to sabotage works vital to the crown and cause mayhem to disrupt those works, I would have to bring in my boys to crack all your fucking heads open to get those radical thoughts out of your brain. It would be the right thing to do to get the foreign poison out of your skulls.”
Nelson and Dolly just stared at each other. Dolly puffed on his pipe.
Nelson broke the silence. “Wire-type received, Sergeant.”
Dolly took out his watch to check the time. Everything was on schedule. He had just enough time to walk over to the aerodrome gate and check in for his appointment with the commander.
* * *
11:10 AM, Lloyd & Sons Aerodrome
Commander Penfold was at the gate waiting for the detective. “Let me welcome you to Lloyd’s Mechwerks and Aerodrome, the home of the most technologically advanced airship in the world,” said the sandy haired airman. Dolly estimated him to be eight to ten years older than him, yet young to be a commander. “Thank you, Commander. I wanted to discuss the security of the facility with you, and if possible, get a tour.”
“Well, Detective, let me ask you a question. Do you have a fear of heights?” asked the jovial British officer.
“I would have to say I have not had an issue to date, but I surmise you’re asking me before we go up there” said Dolly as he craned his neck to look up at the behemoth ship.
“Spot on, Detective. If you are amenable to great heights, I will show you Her Majesty’s greatest achievement to date, and it is quite a good vantage point to reconnoiter this plant and even peak into the neighbor’s yard,” Penfold said with a wink and a click of his tongue.
“Well, let’s give it a go,” replied the detective, with a mix of excitement to get the tour and mild apprehension as to what he would be like at those heights.
“That’s the spirit. Follow me.” The two men made their way into the plant and to a verticulator. “Detective Williamson, today you
will be exposed to many ‘first of its kinds.’ I hope you will not be jaded by the end of the tour. Here is the first of our wonders, the world’s longest continuous verticulator.”
The man inside the verticulator car opened the accordion door to give the two men access. “Cecil, please take us up to the engineering deck,” said Penfold.
“Step on in, gents,” said Cecil, a young boy who sat on a stool next to the controls for the verticulator.
The gate crashed closed. Cecil pushed a button, then threw a lever. Dolly could hear the dynamo whir under the car then the cables jerk up. The verticulator shaft for the first fifty feet had a wood casing that blocked the view. Once they cleared the casing, the car was completely exposed to the elements, except for the wire cage that made it structure. Dolly was in awe of the panorama of London the lift provided.
“Detective, the HMS Victoria will be the First Ship of the Line for the European fleet, with over two hundred guns and a crew of six hundred sixty airmen. Where the HMS Warrior had a length of five hundred and eighty feet, the structure of the Victoria would be eleven hundred feet bow to stern.
“To make this project possible, we are working closely in conjunction with the mechanists and have been commissioning mechanist engineers into the Air Service. I am an example. Before my coming into the Air Service I trained as an engineer in Birmingham, then chartered as a guild member after my apprenticeship. My specialty is pumping and compression, but here I am, more of a project manager than a tinkerer.”
Soon, the view was obstructed again as the verticulator entered the scaffolding sections, and they whizzed by floor after floor of workers that were crawling all over the ship. The elevator stopped hard, and Cecil opened the cage. “Hard to imagine you are one hundred and eighty feet in the air,” said Cecil.
Penfold continued his tour. “This is the heart of the ship, the compression room, and why we were able to leapfrog the Prussian zeppelin design. Rather than having gasbags housed within a cloth and metal frame, the HMS Victoria, like its smaller sister ship, the HMS Warrior, has pressurized spherical gas cells and the ship uses Mechanist Envenrude L. Pruflek’s vapor compression ballast system. This innovation allows the ship to store a supply of LQ gas in a compressed state to function as ballast. Then the gas is pumped and put to a vapor state in the cells to cause flotation. The process makes the airship far more agile. Coal-powered steam-driven propellers provide propulsion, but the gas can be rebalanced between cells and ballast tanks to change pitch yaw and altitude. Follow me this way.”
