‘I’m sorry, Sir Toby,’ Jim said, looking at the pale face of Sir Arthur opposite. ‘What are these new methods you speak of?’
‘It is difficult to explain, Captain, although you shall be briefed presently, and in full. For now, let us just say that we have taken a more… esoteric approach. Sir Arthur, as I am sure you have heard, is uniquely versed in certain practices that would seem alien to most of us, but that were used to great effect by the Othersiders.’
‘You mean… psychics? I was sent into an ambush on the say-so of some fortune-teller?’
‘Mind your manners, Captain,’ Sir Toby snapped. ‘We do you a courtesy here, lest you forget it.’
Cherleten gave Jim the slightest nod, indicating that he should hold his tongue and listen. Sir Arthur remained silent, though a mild frown creased his large forehead.
‘Sorry, sir, forgive me,’ Jim offered. Much as he felt Cherleten relished seeing anyone reprimanded, the peer often helped guide Jim through prickly exchanges with the upper echelons, in his way.
‘The Otherside technology that you have gathered over the years has enabled us to make great strides in this area, Captain Denny. Your actions have led directly to Sir Arthur’s recent breakthroughs. Do not disparage his efforts – we have both seen enough with our own eyes to know that what men in our world call magic is rudimentary science to the Othersiders –’
‘The difference, I should hope, is that our scientists practise their craft in the name of justice… and morality.’ All eyes turned now to Miss Furnival, who had not only spoken for the first time, but had interrupted Sir Toby in the process.
‘Quite so, dear lady,’ Sir Toby said. If he was annoyed at her interjection, he did not show it. ‘Miss Furnival references, no doubt, the strange science of the Othersiders that powered Marcus Hardwick’s infamous gate.’
‘I saw that with my own eyes, too,’ said Jim, wincing at the memory. He kept the things he had seen on the Otherside from his thoughts as much as possible, though they plagued his dreams nightly. ‘I saw people suspended from the arches of London Bridge; flesh and machinery functioning as one, like a vision of hell.’
‘It was hell, for them,’ Miss Furnival said. ‘The Othersiders called them the Nightwatch. Psychics, enslaved by the government to serve as little more than cogs in a machine. Their deaths were a mercy.’
Jim tensed at those words. The ‘Nightwatch’ was whispered of in certain circles. Secret circles. Jim knew better than to ever ask, although he was privy to certain facts that other agents were blissfully unaware of. Miss Furnival, he was certain, should know nothing of the Nightwatch. He began to wonder now if she shared her uncle’s fabled ‘gifts’.
‘Perhaps the Othersiders felt their cause was just enough to warrant their sacrifice,’ Cherleten said. ‘Or desperate enough.’
‘By all accounts,’ Marie said, her tone cooling as she addressed the red-headed lord before her, ‘the Nightwatch merely sped the Othersiders on their path to ruin.’
‘Our world is not their world. We do not have demons running amok here.’
‘I imagine they once thought the same. Without psychics, the veil would not have torn. Without the tearing of the veil, there would be no Riftborn. Without the Riftborn, there would have been no Lazarus Gate.’ The colour rose to Miss Furnival’s cheeks, and she became animated, before checking herself.
Cherleten offered his most sardonic smile. ‘The good lady is remarkably well versed in advanced science.’
‘I have read the work of William James in this area,’ she answered, quick as a flash.
‘For a woman – and one of such tender years – to have grasped James’ recondite theories so quickly… why, perhaps you should come and work for me. You’ve been keeping her quiet too long, Furnival, eh? Time to let her off the leash, perhaps.’
Sir Arthur gave Lord Cherleten the sharpest glare, and for once held his head high and defiant. Yet, he said nothing.
‘We digress,’ said Sir Toby, raising his voice a little. ‘Thank you for your insight, Miss Furnival, we are most grateful. The exact workings of Sir Arthur’s methods shall remain confidential for the time being. Captain Denny, know that we are working to resolve the problems you experienced, and that steps are being taken to ensure such mistakes do not happen again. I shall have to ask you to trust your orders, and to do your duty.’
‘Always, sir,’ Jim said. He rankled at the suggestion he might do otherwise. Jim had performed some questionable deeds under orders, and though he did not always like it, he never shirked his responsibility. ‘Might I ask what my orders are?’
‘All in good time, Captain. We are formulating a strategy, and when we are done you will return to the field. For now, you will await further instruction. These tong shall have to be dealt with, but we must plan our next move carefully, lest we walk headlong into another trap.’
Jim resented the use of the word ‘we’; the loss of the constables under his command weighed heavily on his shoulders. The risks were borne by him and his men, no one else. He said simply, ‘And the creatures, sir. What of them?’
‘We have cadavers to study,’ said Sir Toby. ‘And we have the expert opinion of Miss Furnival here. Indeed, I would ask that Miss Furnival remain behind – we have much to discuss. Captain Denny, you are dismissed.’
Jim frowned, and glanced at the young woman. Her large blue eyes gave nothing away. He still could not understand what she was to contribute, or why he could not be privy to the discussion. Yet these were the least of his questions. ‘Sir, I –’
‘I said dismissed, Captain.’
Sir Toby was resolute. Lord Cherleten offered not so much as his customary smirk. All Jim could do was nod a bow, and leave his superiors – and the mysterious Miss Furnival – to their council.
THREE
Jim thrust his hands into his pockets as the first large raindrops splodged on the brim of his homburg, and a cold wind whistled along Jermyn Street. He caught himself thinking not of monsters, or of the tong, but of a warm fireplace and a mug of bitter in his favourite Regent Street tavern. He felt guilty for even entertaining the thought. He remembered Beresford lying dead in the hold of the Glarus – there’d be no warm fire for that poor policeman this night.
Jim tried to shake it off, reminding himself that time spent off-duty was infrequent – there would be opportunity to seek vengeance for the fallen in the very near future; his orders would probably come when he least wanted them.
Better to make a night of it now, because the next few weeks promised to be full of danger and toil. Supper at the Burlington, where he would undoubtedly bump into some of the West End set, would soon put a longing for danger out of his mind. Then it would be cards, followed by something deuced disreputable at a high-class parlour, if he was drunk enough and flush enough after the night’s gambling. Jim managed a smile at the thought, even as the rain grew heavier and the wind more biting.
The streets were quieter than usual, given the inclement conditions. They’d still be thronging in Piccadilly and Regent Street, but most sensible folk would be taking cabs to their destinations. Strange, then, that someone was following Jim. Stranger still that his shadow had followed him from St James’s Square, staying with him despite his slightly unconventional route – a path he now took regularly, more out of habit than expedience. He had not taken a look behind him, but had concentrated instead on the pattern of the footsteps; a light tread, almost in perfect time with his own, neither drawing nearer, nor falling behind.
Jim waited until the Quadrant was in view, where a few people dashed about through the rain, and street-hawkers huddled miserably beneath lonely trees, too sodden even to call out their wares. Jim glanced over his shoulder, and glimpsed a dark figure vanishing into a doorway. He could not make out any detail through the drizzle, but it confirmed his suspicions. He knew he could turn around, but if his pursuer was an enemy he would likely flee or, worse, seize the initiative and lure Jim into a trap. No, he needed to break hi
s habits and head somewhere unpredictable, set a trap of his own.
Jim moved on with purpose, determined not to betray his intent. His eyes darted left and right for some detour he could take, at last alighting on an alley, which led away from his original destination, in the direction of Berkeley Square. He walked as casually as he could, listening carefully for the footfalls behind him. Jim cursed under his breath, for there were too many niches and side-passages for a follower to conceal themselves. He knew that if he turned back to look, his shadow would slip down one such avenue, and would surely know that Jim was wise to his game.
Instead, Jim looked out for an open-ended alley, one that he could feasibly head down without raising his follower’s suspicions. Spying one such passage, he turned along it, and immediately stopped, flattening himself against a damp wall. The footsteps drew nearer, hurrying just a little. When his pursuer turned the corner, Jim pounced, grabbing an arm, pulling the black-clad figure around and slamming her into a wall.
Her?
Jim stared into the face of Marie Furnival, instantly mortified that he had his forearm jammed firmly across her throat, her left wrist gripped in his other hand. He was too stupefied to withdraw immediately.
A crunching, burrowing pain spread across his stomach as Miss Furnival struck out. He released the woman’s wrist, whereupon the arm that had barred her throat was twisted by small yet strong hands. Dagger-sharp pain shot along his wrist. Jim tried to speak, but could only gasp in pain. He saw Marie Furnival’s determined scowl, before she, and the world, turned upside down.
Jim looked up at Miss Furnival from the flat of his back, rain pouring onto his face. His hat rolled to her feet. Miss Furnival picked it up, shook the mud from it, and held it out to him.
‘Captain Denny, you appear to have dropped your hat,’ she said. Her lips twitched upwards as she failed to suppress a rather self-satisfied smile.
Jim heaved himself from the cobbles, holding his breath so as not to wince and show any sign of weakness. It was rather too late for that, perhaps, but he felt suitably silly all the same. ‘How careless of me. Thank you, Miss Furnival,’ he said. He took the hat and patted it back onto his head. ‘Might I ask what… brings you this way?’
‘I was merely hoping to find somewhere to eat, and got caught out in the rain. When I saw you up ahead, I hoped I might persuade you to accompany me. As a chaperone, I mean.’
Jim narrowed his eyes. He could not glean any clue as to the woman’s motives. That she had surprised him with her physical prowess was of no matter to him; a little dented pride was nothing in the grander scheme of things. Far more important to find out her game, and decide whether she was trustworthy.
Jim held out an arm. ‘Miss Furnival, I, too, was hoping to find a dining room in which to shelter from this horrid weather. You are of course most welcome to join me, particularly in light of our… ahem… misunderstanding.’ Jim offered his most practised smile.
Marie Furnival took his arm, nodded, and without a word walked with Jim back towards Regent Street. He would have to forego the tavern, given his present company, and find something more upmarket.
* * *
The dining room at Verey’s had a somewhat more romantic ambience than Jim had hoped for, but he made do. A pianist in the corner played something blandly melodic and unidentifiable. The candles arranged in the centre of the table lent Miss Furnival an aura of comeliness that Jim was not sure she deserved. Her hair was brown, streaked with copper, somewhat tousled from the rain. Her eyes were large and cornflower-blue. Jim tried not to dwell on how slight she was, for she had thrown him about easily enough on the street.
Jim ordered for them both – Miss Furnival appearing apathetic towards anything on the menu – and once the waiter had poured their wine Jim turned immediately to business.
‘Why are you here, Miss Furnival?’
‘You mean, here now, with you? Or in England? Or is your question more philosophical?’
Her soft American burr gave the impression of playfulness, but Jim could not help but wonder if her retort was intended to be more barbed. ‘Let’s begin with the easier question,’ he said. ‘Why are you here with me?’
‘That is not the easier question at all,’ Miss Furnival sighed.
‘We could pretend that you did not follow me intentionally. We could even pretend that you did not throw me to the ground as though I were a seven-stone weakling. But I doubt such a pretence would serve either of us well, beyond the simple pleasures of food, wine and music in the company of one another.’
‘We are to be assigned together,’ she said, simply.
Jim shuffled in his chair. ‘When? I mean… how do you know?’
‘I see you are as aware as I that even speaking of our next assignment is a matter for disciplinary action. I trust that you care about that as much as I do? That is, not at all.’
‘I wouldn’t say that… but sometimes consequences must be damned if an agent is to remain effective in the field. If you’ll pardon my language.’
Miss Furnival laughed. Jim couldn’t tell if she was laughing at him. He couldn’t really tell much about her at all.
‘Given my familial connections, Captain Denny, I sometimes come by information that perhaps I shouldn’t. Sometimes I even seek out such information, if I think there to be an advantage in it. Does that make me wicked?’ She took a sip of wine.
‘That rather depends on what you discover, and about whom.’ Jim wondered just how many secrets Sir Arthur Furnival was privy to, and just how many of them his niece had ‘come by’.
‘Not a great deal… this time. But you and I will receive our orders tomorrow. What concerns me is just how secretive Uncle Arthur is being. The inner circle will not reveal the source of their intelligence to anyone.’
‘That will be the Nightwatch, surely?’ Jim said.
Miss Furnival scowled at once. ‘There is no Nightwatch. It is a failed experiment, nothing more.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be telling me things. It appears that your intelligence is out of date, my dear.’
‘What do you know about the Nightwatch?’ Marie’s tone was short. ‘Tell me.’
Her insistence was a little too loud, drawing a brief look of disapproval from a greying, bejewelled matriarch at the next table.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Jim muttered. ‘I know enough to face the noose if I say much more.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Miss Furnival lowered her voice a touch.
Jim sat back as a waiter arrived with their first course. He waited until the man had gone, and took a mouthful of smoked salmon before leaning towards his companion again.
‘I received the distinct impression that you already knew about the Nightwatch,’ Jim said. ‘If that’s not the case, it really isn’t my place to tell you.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, you men and your secrets,’ Miss Furnival sighed. ‘The Nightwatch is a theoretical department, based on the assumption that captured Otherside psychics might be employed in a fortune-telling capacity for the Crown. There are several reasons why it has not succeeded. Firstly, no one on this side has been able to fathom the technology used by the Othersiders to harness the cerebral potential of the psychic candidates. Secondly, no one on this side would risk using etherium to increase said potential, for that is the only conceivable way of making the system work. And finally, the effects on those psychics would be so dire as to make the entire process morally reprehensible.’ Marie Furnival took a large gulp of wine, and looked defiantly at Jim.
Jim puffed out his cheeks, trying to take in what she had said. She appeared to have a grasp of the esoteric that was beyond his own. He wondered briefly if he should have spent more time paying attention to the armoury’s scientists and less time chasing gunmen through dark alleyways.
‘That’s about the long and short of it,’ he said at last. ‘Though you made one glaring error.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Nightwatch is not a the
oretical department. It’s a fact.’
Miss Furnival’s eyes widened. She dabbed delicately at her mouth with a napkin.
‘I am afraid, Captain Denny, that you have been listening to tittle-tattle around the card tables. The Nightwatch was once a special department of the Crown – the other Crown – long since aborted. The Order toyed with the idea of initiating a similar programme here, but my uncle saw to it that such a folly was abandoned before it could begin.’
Miss Furnival’s tone changed to one of defensiveness, and something more. Pride; admiration perhaps. Something told Jim that Miss Furnival would not like what he had to say about her uncle. And besides, he wasn’t sure entirely why he should trust her with what he knew. ‘I… ah,’ he started, then paused a moment. ‘It’s just that, given the contradictory nature of the intelligence I received on my last assignment, I was led to believe that psychics were involved. Lord Cherleten said as much.’ Jim knew he sounded guarded, despite his best efforts to the contrary.
‘That’s as may be. My uncle, as I am sure you’re aware, has some small gifts in the area of mediumship, which he sometimes uses for the benefit of the Order. It is the very reason why he would never agree to the subjugation of his… “own kind”, I suppose… no matter how noble the cause may appear. I hear, too, that Lord Cherleten places great stock in backstreet mediums and gypsy fortune-tellers. Psychics, Captain Denny, are becoming an increasing part of the Order’s intelligence. But it is not an exact science.’
The Apollonian Case Files Page 4
