The Explosionist

by Jenny Davidson

  “She’s telling us something about a man and a woman,” said Keith.

  “Do you suppose they’re real people?” Mikael asked.

  Sophie had almost forgotten the others were there, let alone that they wouldn’t recognize the faces. “They’re real people, all right,” she said grimly.

  “How do you know?” It was Mikael, of course, sounding distinctly skeptical.

  “Because I know who they both are,” said Sophie. “I’ve met them. They came to my great-aunt’s house for supper, and I’m not in the least surprised to see their faces again here.”

  “But who are they, Sophie?” said Keith. “You must tell us!”

  “The man’s name is Nicholas Mood, and he works for the woman, who’s called Joanna Murchison.”

  “Joanna Murchison,” said Mikael. “Sounds familiar—seems to me I’ve seen that name in the newspapers recently. Oh, no, Sophie—you’re not serious….”

  “I’m dead serious,” she said. “She’s the minister for public safety, the person responsible for bringing terrorists to justice and keeping Scotland safe.”

  “But—”

  This time it was Sophie who silenced Mikael by turning and catching his eye and making a tiny gesture with her head toward Keith.

  “Don’t worry, you two, the politics of it really aren’t my business,” Keith said comfortably into the awkward silence that ensued. “You can explain the whole thing to him later, Sophie. I can see you’ve got a pretty clear idea of the way things must have happened, you and that spirit were on the exact same wavelength.”

  Sophie shuddered.

  “What I’m really impressed with,” Keith added, “is the way the medium’s left you with a nice puzzle.”

  “A puzzle?” Sophie asked, feeling by now as if her brain was barely functioning. “What puzzle?”

  “It’s obvious what he means, isn’t it?” said Mikael, picking up both prints and looking back and forth between the two. “Which one of them really did it? Did Mrs. Tansy simply not know, and implicate them both as suspects? Was Nicholas Mood working primarily as the minister’s agent, and is she the one to hold culpable? Or is it the other way around, with Mood having gone beyond his mandate as the minister’s tool?”

  Sophie gave Mikael a warning look. She had said too much already, no need for him to compound the problem. They thanked Keith and promised to tell him what happened, though it made Sophie feel distinctly cheap to leave him so much out of things.

  THIRTY

  MIKAEL INSISTED ON walking Sophie home.

  “Boys and girls are perfectly equal,” Sophie said when he wouldn’t let her go by herself. “Yes, of course they are, but Sophie, there’s something we must talk about.”

  To Sophie, it all seemed quite clear. Convinced that Scotland had a moral obligation to go to war with the European Federation, Joanna Murchison must have channeled funds (under the pretense that the money came from the Europeans) to the impressionable and easily directed young Brothers of the Northern Liberties. If the minister could only implicate Europe in the deaths of Scottish citizens, Scotland would be able to go to war—and the rest of the Hanseatic League would have to join them.

  The medium must have learned something about the minister’s role in the bombings and tried to extort money from her. But the minister was not the sort of woman to be blackmailed. She hired the Veteran, probably using her loyal assistant Nicko as a go-between, and the woman’s death was assured.

  When the Veteran spoke about money—“Where’s ma money?” he’d cried out as he attacked the minister—he was talking about the money he’d been promised for the hit, promised but never paid. It would have been safer and easier for the minister or Nicko to send another assassin to the Veteran’s jail cell than to leave the man alive.

  Meanwhile the pair of them prepared to expose the terrorists’ “European backing” and mobilize the country for war.

  “Haven’t we already talked it all to death?” Sophie said, barely stifling a huge yawn. It was as though a chemical fog had descended on her brain to prevent thinking.

  “Sophie, this is really important. Look, isn’t there somewhere near your house where we can find a safe place to talk? I can see you’re quite done in, but we must have a word.”

  In the end they took shelter behind a shed in Queen Street Gardens.

  “Give me those pictures,” said Mikael.

  Sophie handed him the manila envelope, her hand brushing against his in a way that made her skin tingle.

  He fanned them out and then picked the picture of Mr. Petersen from the rest. Oh, god, Sophie had almost forgotten about that. She would have to ask the teacher about Nobel, that was for certain, but first she must get some sleep…sleep…her head nodded forward, eyelids drooping.

  “Sophie?” said Mikael, speaking very loudly into her ear.

  “What?” she asked. Oh, if only she could lie down and close her eyes, just for a minute! She would give a hundred pounds to be allowed to go to sleep right here and now.

  Wait. The picture. Mikael.

  Still swaying a little with tiredness, she looked from the photograph of Mr. Petersen back to her friend’s face with mounting incredulity. How on earth had she never seen it before? Why did it take her being practically dead with exhaustion to put two and two together?

  “Mikael,” she said slowly, her tongue sticky and thick in her mouth, “your surname isn’t Lundberg, is it?”

  “No, that’s my aunt’s name,” he said, sounding surprised. “Sophie, don’t you know my full name? We’ve been friends for years!”

  It was strange to realize she didn’t know Mikael’s last name. How different the real world was from the world of school! There, one could hardly think of anybody without their entire name coming to mind. Harriet Jeffries would stay “Harriet Jeffries” long after she married and took her husband’s name—not that anybody sensible would want to marry Harriet Jeffries; she would be one of those awful wives who laid down vinyl over the carpet to stop it from getting soiled.

  Sophie tried to get a grip on her meandering thoughts. Mikael’s next words seemed inevitable.

  “My name’s Petersen, of course, Mikael Petersen. And this picture—Sophie, it’s my brother.”

  Sophie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. Oh, she might as well be the village idiot for all the intelligence she’d shown up to this point!

  She lifted her head back up and took the picture from him.

  “Your brother,” she said, “and my chemistry teacher. Mr. Petersen.”

  “You’re not serious,” said Mikael, looking horrified.

  “I’m completely serious,” she said. “He came in March—our old teacher left to be married, under slightly strange circumstances.”

  “Sophie, tell me, is he safe?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sophie said. “At least, I haven’t seen him since yesterday, but he was perfectly all right then.”

  Mikael let out a huge breath.

  “Mikael,” Sophie asked, “what can your brother possibly be doing in Edinburgh? Do you think he came here for the teaching job, or is it something more nefarious? Could the Nobel people have sent him here for some reason?”

  “He was always as likely to be here as anywhere else,” Mikael said. “The Nobel Consortium posts its operatives throughout the Hanseatic states, and he’d certainly be quite comfortable in Edinburgh—his English is much better than mine because our parents lived here for a few years when he was little. Nobody would be able to tell he wasn’t Scottish born and bred, not if he put his mind to it. But the main thing is that I must see him and talk to him as soon as possible! I’ll be able to ask him about the knife, and find out how he’s doing—oh, my aunt will be awfully relieved when I tell her. And of course we must ask him what we shall do about the minister and all that.”

  “Will you come to school, then, and see him there?” Sophie asked. She could see Mr. Petersen would be the best person to consult; there was certainly no point g
oing to Great-aunt Tabitha—and yet it didn’t sit altogether well with her to hand the problem off to someone else like that. Just because she and Mikael weren’t adults didn’t mean they weren’t fully capable of taking responsibility. “I don’t know where he lives, though I expect I could find out.”

  “No, school’s fine,” Mikael said. “Shall I come on Monday?”

  Sophie thought about it.

  “Tuesday’s better,” she said doubtfully. “You see, I work for him and I’ve got a regular appointment with him on Tuesday afternoons, so we’ll be sure to find him alone. Can—can you wait that long, do you think?”

  “I suppose I must,” said Mikael. “It’s only a few days. The thing is, I’m leaving for København next Saturday.”

  “What?” His remark took Sophie’s breath away. “Are you going for a visit? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Sophie, I live there,” he said, sounding so annoyed that Sophie shrank back from him, she couldn’t help herself. “I’m not going back for a visit, I’m going home. Don’t you remember? I never stay in Edinburgh for more than a few weeks.”

  “But I thought you’d stay longer this time!”

  The prospect of his departure made Sophie realize how much—how very unwisely—she’d come to depend on Mikael. She slumped down and hoped he couldn’t tell she was upset.

  “Well, I’ve got no say in the matter,” said Mikael. “My passage is booked on the Gustavus Adolphus, leaving from Leith a week from today.”

  Sophie was too tired to feel as shattered as she might have otherwise.

  They made an arrangement to meet at the side of the school in the middle of the day on Tuesday, Sophie beginning to fret now about the lateness of the hour.

  “One other thing,” Mikael added, laying a hand on Sophie’s arm. “Will you promise me something?”

  “What?” Sophie said, suddenly breathless for a reason she didn’t understand.

  “I’m worried about what’s going to happen after I go back to Denmark,” Mikael said.

  Sophie made a noncommittal sound.

  “Yes, I know you’re capable of superhuman displays of fortitude and willpower. But all this has proved pretty overwhelming. I can’t help thinking the danger’s going to get even worse if I leave you to face this alone. I suppose I might be able to delay my departure somehow,” he added, “but it would create difficulties at home.”

  “No, you can’t possibly do that,” Sophie said fervently. “Your aunt would never forgive me, for one thing.”

  “She’ll never forgive you if you get yourself killed, either,” Mikael said, sounding really angry now. “Edinburgh’s the most dangerous place for both of us right now. It would be much better for you to go to København as well. You really could come with me, you know. It would be a lot safer than staying here. My mother won’t mind putting you in the spare bedroom; she’s good that way.”

  “I’m not leaving the country,” Sophie said, at once annoyed and elated that he should have suggested it. “Aside from everything else, it’s illegal for children under eighteen to leave Scotland without a special visa, and it’s supposed to be almost impossible to get.”

  “I know, I know,” said Mikael. “I’m not going to force you to do anything against your will. But I want you to promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “I can’t!” Sophie said. “Why, even if I could get a visa, I’ve got my exams at the beginning of August—I’m sure there’s no way to take them abroad, and besides, I’d miss the last weeks of prep—no, Mikael, it’s kind of you to offer, but I really couldn’t think of it.”

  “It’s all very well to talk of exams,” Mikael said furiously, “but what if someone’s planning to cut your throat?”

  When Sophie began to explain again why the exams were so important, Mikael cut her off.

  “Don’t say it,” he said, speaking in a crisp, irritated way. “I know you’d have to be dragged on board ship kicking and screaming. You’d rather risk death than miss sitting your stupid exams. I know all that. I’m not asking you to promise to come with me, I’m just asking you not to dismiss the idea out of hand. Depending on how things go, it might look a lot more appealing this time next week.”

  Finally Sophie said she’d think about it. Then she hurried the rest of the short way home, where she had to endure Peggy’s scolding as well as an endless stream of questions about the supper served in the private rooms at the Balmoral Hotel (Sophie had invented a cover story involving Priscilla’s birthday and a meal at the hotel), before begging exhaustion and hauling herself upstairs to bed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  ON MONDAY EVENING Sophie resolutely put everything else out of her head and concentrated on working her way through a huge set of sums, pausing now and then to rub out a mistake.

  Nan was struggling on the other side of the room with an essay on “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

  “Oh, it’s hopeless,” she said for about the fifth time, laying down her reservoir pen and rubbing her eyes. “If I went to a wedding and one of the other guests plucked my sleeve and tried to tell me such a ridiculous story, I’d smack the stupid man!”

  Priscilla and Jean were in the middle of a quiet but intense conversation at Jean’s desk.

  “It’s not like you to make so much fuss about homework,” Sophie said. “That essay won’t take much longer, will it? Anyway, I like the part where they reach the equator and the ship won’t go. The doldrums, that’s what they call it.”

  “Doldrums is right,” said Nan, tipping her chair onto its back legs and running both hands through her hair. “All this is a complete waste of time. Whether or not that bill goes through Parliament, I’m joining the Women’s Auxiliary Corps the moment I turn sixteen.”

  “When’s your birthday?” asked Sophie, who could never remember people’s birthdays.

  “August fourteenth,” Nan said. “The first day of those wretched examinations, in case you’d forgotten. I’ve given up on the idea of having any kind of a party; it’s not worth the trouble. I suppose I’ve got to take the exams, though. It will only mean a week’s delay, and it’s an awful waste doing all this work if I don’t sit them after all.”

  Nan always came solidly in the top third in maths and science, and she did better than that in history, the only subject she really liked.

  “It’s not really a waste, is it?” Sophie asked. “Isn’t it worth learning all this for its own sake, apart from the exams?”

  Nan stared at her.

  “Sophie, you’re mad,” she said. “I’d be far better off starting my training right away. We might well be at war within the next few weeks, and it’s frustrating to think I won’t see combat before January at the earliest.”

  “You sound as though you want to see combat!”

  “Well, of course,” Nan said. “What’s the point otherwise?”

  As Sophie tried to explain to Nan why she found this so extraordinary, the other two girls’ voices rose in a full-scale row.

  “What’s up, you two?” Nan asked, switching her attention away from Sophie.

  “Jean’s being even more impossible than usual,” said Priscilla.

  “I’m not!” Jean shouted.

  Sophie hoped the hall monitor wouldn’t hear them.

  “Sophie,” Jean said in a more moderate voice, “what do you think? Isn’t sixteen too young to get married?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sophie. “I suppose it depends on the person. It sounds awfully young to me.”

  “Scottish law has always allowed minors to marry without the permission of their parents and guardians,” Nan objected. She put her essay aside and rested her elbows on the desk. “That’s why English couples in the old days used to elope to Gretna Green, because it was the first place you came to over the border. If you were a young man who’d run away with an underage heiress, you could marry her there legally, and her family wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

  “But don’t you think that must have ha
ppened more often in novels than in real life?” Sophie asked Nan.

  “Oh, can it, you two!” Jean shouted, scowling at them. “We’re not talking about history or novels. We’re talking about the modern world, and in the modern world sixteen’s much too young!”

  “In the modern world,” said Priscilla, “lots of girls marry at sixteen.”

  The color had risen in her cheeks, and she looked both very pretty and seriously annoyed.

  Only now did Sophie register what was going on.

  “Priscilla, you’re not thinking of getting married, are you?” she said.

  “Why not?” said Priscilla, preening a little under Sophie’s horrified look. “If the government bill concerning school-leaving age goes through, being married is likely to become one of the only ways of getting an exemption—at least that’s what my father thinks. I’ve had two proposals already, and I’m certainly not going into the ghastly Women’s Auxiliaries. That uniform is terribly unflattering!”

  “You’re hopeless,” Nan said, shaking her head. “But really, Priscilla, surely Jean’s right and you’re much too young? If you wait a little longer, you’ll have a much better chance of getting a really good husband.”

  “I don’t see why that should be the case,” said Priscilla. “My mother met my father when she was fourteen and he was nineteen, and they married as soon as she’d left school.”

  “Just because it was right for them,” Sophie said, “doesn’t mean it would be good for you. Besides, doesn’t your father want you to take a degree?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t really mind one way or the other,” Priscilla said, “and in any case, the situation may change at any moment.”

  “Well, I can’t stand it,” Jean said, sounding quite grim. “What about our flat? I won’t be able to afford it without you, Priscilla. You mustn’t let me down like this.”