He crept over to the pile of rags and snatched the boots. Fingers fumbling, he pulled off those ridiculous shoes and placed them where the boots had been. Then, with a sudden flash of inspiration, he pulled out the bejeweled box containing the Queen’s gem-encrusted comb.
The magnitude of what he was about to do sucked his breath away. He had risked so much to steal the comb. The jewels studding the gold case were probably worth more than anything he’d held in his life. But this was chess, and sometimes, you had to make sacrifices in chess, right? He’d heard something like that somewhere.
Hands trembling, heart aching with the injustice of it all, Thaddeus tucked the bejeweled case just out of sight under the clothes, right next to the shoes. The architect of his recent misery had wanted him to plant evidence? Very well, he would plant evidence.
Barefoot, he padded back to the window. He had just crawled through and closed it behind him when the door into the room opened again.
Throw a spanner in the works. That’s what Claire and Donnie would do.
He pulled on the boots. Angry voices came through the wall behind him. They drew closer to the window, becoming clearer as they did, until Thaddeus could make out the words. “What’s this, then? These look like the shoes the lady was on about.” He heard a protest, indistinct and rapidly cut off. “Right. Let’s bring him to the Cardinal. And somebody pass along a tip to the plods about what we’ve found here. Anonymously.”
For the first time in days, Thaddeus smiled.
He hopped the wall and sauntered casually to the street. Three large men in the livery of the Cardinal’s personal guard were dragging Thaddeus’s doppelganger out the front door. Whistling, Thaddeus walked away, wriggling his toes luxuriantly in the stolen boots.
18
In his office in the London Municipal Police headquarters at Whitehall Place, Commander Skarbunket of the London city police was strongly considering becoming Civilian Skarbunket of Bugger All This.
He held his head in his hands. “With all due respect, sir, this is all going to go sideways.”
Sir Benjamin Fieldman, Chief Inspector of the London Metropolitan Police, was harboring similar thoughts about the joys of civilian life. But he had his orders, delivered personally by the Lord Chancellor himself. What could you do?
“Your concern is duly noted,” he said. “Nevertheless, this is the way it will be. Your investigation is suspended pending the resolution of this crisis.”
“My investigation, sir, is at a critical juncture. I have just returned from Highpole, where the Queen’s Guard was assisting me in following up on a murder. One that, I need not remind you, sir, appears to involve the Lady Alÿs, which as I’m sure you’re aware, adds a whole layer of political sensitivity to the matter.”
“All the same, as of this morning, your investigation is suspended. Sensitive or not.” The chief inspector passed his hand over his forehead. “You and your men will be in Highpole at six o’clock this evening, where you will enforce the curfew in accordance with the dictates of the Council of Lords. Am I clear on this point?”
“Very clear, sir,” Skarbunket replied. He massaged his temples and thought longingly of a quiet life somewhere far from the mess and stink of London. A farm, perhaps. A farm would be nice. He could raise sheep, maybe some chickens…
“Evening prayers are at six twenty tonight,” he said. “Should we try to prevent the Muslims in Highpole from attending their prayer service, sir, they will no doubt interpret this as a deliberate provocation. And I must say, sir, again with all due respect, I must say that I would be inclined to agree with them on this point.”
“So tell them to have their prayers before six,” Chief Inspector Fieldman said. “Problem solved.”
Skarbunket closed his eyes. Chickens, that was the ticket. Perhaps even some cows. Cows were good, right? He’d heard that cows were good. The worst thing he would have to worry about was wolves, barn fires, and attacks from roving bandits or invading Spanish skirmishers or roving Spanish bandits. Piece of cake.
“It doesn’t work that way, sir. Their religion is quite clear. They have daily prayers at certain times, and those times are not subject to negotiation. You would know this, sir, if you read the memos you signed. Like the one you signed three months ago, sir, permitting Muslim members of the Force to go on break for prayers.”
Fieldman’s eyebrows went up. “We have followers of Mohammed on the Force?”
“Yes, sir. Mister Habis, for one. You recently gave him a commendation for excellent service. You know the fellow. Tall, big smile, likes Mrs. Grindle’s meat pies…”
“Ah, yes, yes, right. I thought there was something queer about him.”
“And Sergeant Nadeem, the one with the crooked nose. I believe you once described him as a ‘credit to the Force,’ sir.”
“Him too? I had no idea we had so many of them!”
Skarbunket sighed. “The point is, sir, they will not just move their prayer service. Nor can I simply order my men to stop them. That would create an irreconcilable dilemma for some of our men, sir, men who are loyal members of our little family. Nobody benefits from such a situation. Sir.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Chief Inspector Fieldman shook his head. “Somebody would probably benefit quite a lot, I suspect. Still, that’s neither fish nor fowl.”
“Sir?”
“It means it’s not your concern, Commander.”
“I’m not sure that’s what that means, sir.”
“Your concern, Commander Skarbunket, is enforcing the will of the Crown and the Council of Lords.”
“My concern, sir, is also with protecting the peace. Protecting the peace is one of the sacred duties of the Force, sir. In fact, I seem to recall it being part of the oath, sir.”
The chief inspector narrowed his eyes. A vein throbbed in his temple. “You will do as you are told, Skarbunket. This is not up for debate. And wear your dress uniform. The people need to see that the police are on the job. Is that clear?”
“As clear as a bell, sir,” Skarbunket said. Politicians, he thought to himself, made roving bandits look easy. At least the bandits made their intentions plain. You didn’t have to talk to them.
“Oh, and one more thing, Commander.”
“Sir?”
“It could be nothing…”
“That’s what you said about the thing with the goats, sir.”
“Yes, well, I said it could have been nothing, not that it was nothing, Commander.”
“Indeed, sir. As I recall, it turned out to be quite a lot of something, sir. There were casualties, sir. And we made quite a number of arrests, sir. And it took days to get the smell—”
“Yes, yes, well, anyway. We have received an anonymous tip.”
“Anonymous, sir?” Skarbunket held onto his expressionless expression. “Like the last time, sir?”
“No, not like the last time! That was…complicated. This new tip is about a rental flat just off Highpole Street. And, er, apparently, black powder in some quantity may be involved. In the rental flat. Which you should check out.”
“I see, sir. Explosives, you say, sir? In Highpole? On the same day as a new curfew is announced?”
“Precisely, Commander.”
“Sounds like coincidence, sir. Not complicated at all.”
“Maybe.”
“It could be nothing, sir.”
“It could be.”
“I see, sir.” Somewhere in Skarbunket’s mind, visions of a peaceful farm faded.
“Put someone on it.”
“I will assign it to Officer Bristol at once. And may I request, sir, just in case it turns out to be more ‘something’ than ‘nothing,’ may I request allocation of funds to hire some animates to clean the place out? You know, in the unlikely event that there are explosives involved, sir, a possibility
I mention in passing only because you bring up receiving a tip that explosives are involved. Sir.”
“Animates?”
“I find it is best, sir, that if someone is to be blown limb from limb, it be someone who does not mind having it happen. And in fact does not have a mind at all. There are no widows to notify, sir.”
Chief Inspector Fieldman opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. “Fine.”
“I will get on it at once, sir.”
“Very good. I will leave you to it then, Commander.”
Skarbunket watched him go. He shook his head, rose, and walked to the door of his office, visions of pastoral life dancing in his head.
As a commander of the London Municipal Police, Skarbunket had a large office on the top floor of the new police headquarters, built near the river Thames during King John’s epic urban reconstruction project. The London Municipal Police was run from a five-story building between Whitehall Place and Scotland Yard, outfitted with electric arc lights, a central boiler, the kind of indoor toilets that have levers on them, and all the other latest amenities technology had to offer.
It was a severe place, built of brick and stone, with imposing columns and an elaborate facade featuring statues of brave men in immaculate uniforms arresting a wide assortment of miscreants, thugs, villains, thieves, murderers, skulkers-about, Italians, and other ne’er-do-wells. The main entrance was a tall set of mahogany doors set into a peaked stone archway over which the figure of Lady Justice loomed, one hand holding a sword, the other a set of scales. Skarbunket had often wondered, as he passed through those doors, where the lady was off to, and why she was in such a hurry to get there that she had forgotten all her clothes. The whole thing was capped with a tall and somewhat incongruous mansard roof, because someone had told King John that French architecture was where it was at.
During the day, the large window in Skarbunket’s office offered him a beautiful view of the river, or it would if the position of his desk didn’t mean he had his back to it most of the time. But that didn’t matter. It wasn’t enjoying the view, it was that he could enjoy it if he wanted to. Knowing it was there, that was the thing. Or so he assumed, anyway. The perks of high office often seemed to be things that people got simply because they wanted to have them, not because they wanted to enjoy them.
At night, the blaze of electric arc lights kept the inside of the building in such a state of brilliance that the windows were all mirrors, reflecting the machinery of law enforcement without actually allowing the many people who made up that machinery to see the city they were nominally protecting.
The whole thing was far too institutional and, well, political for Skarbunket’s liking. The old police headquarters had been in Old New London, back when it was still just New London. Back then, the police were still a comfortable distance from the Palace, both literally and figuratively, which meant could go about their business with a minimum of meddling. Now, the Municipal Police felt more like an arm of the government. It was surprising how often the interests of the government didn’t exactly align with the peace and security of the city. The business of policing too easily turned away from apprehending threats to the public safety and toward apprehending people politically inconvenient to the upper classes.
He walked into the hall and leaned over the railing. The central core of the building was a huge open space that went all the way to the ground floor, ringed with hallways on each level that opened into interrogation rooms, evidence lockers, and offices. So many offices. King John had felt that people should see what their tax money was paying for.
“Mayferry!” he roared. “Bristol! Both of you! My office!”
The controlled chaos of the station slowed for a moment. From somewhere below him, he heard a “Yes, Sir!” Satisfied, he returned to his office.
London Constabulary Officer Bristol materialized at Skarbunket’s door with commendable rapidity. “Sir?”
“Officer Bristol! You look splendid this morning. How are the wife and kids?”
“I’m not married, sir,” Bristol said. “A fact of which you are well aware, sir.”
“Right. Maybe you should get on that. How do you feel, Officer Bristol, about checking out an anonymous tip involving black-powder explosives in a rental flat in Highpole? It could be nothing.”
“It could be nothing? Like with the goats, sir?”
“I expect exactly like with the goats.”
“Then I imagine I feel pretty badly about it, sir.”
“Good. Smart man. Head over to Highpole. If you find anything that looks like it might go bang, rent some animates and have them clean it out. I don’t want to risk the lives of…the lives of anyone alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he turned to leave, he ran into Officer Mayferry, who was slightly out of breath. “You could just use the speaking tubes, sir,” Mayferry said, somewhat reproachfully.
“Oh?” Skarbunket considered the suggestion. Finally, he shook his head. “Would it get you here as quickly? I thought not. Do you have any plans for the evening, Mayferry?”
“Now that you mention it, sir, yes. I am—”
“Cancel them. I want you to call in the two dozen or so people you trust the most. Tell them to muster in the yard in two hours. Oh, and have everyone bring their best uniform.” He lifted a finger. “Choose carefully, Mister Mayferry. I need men with cool heads. Preferably men who don’t harbor unwarranted animosity toward those not like themselves, if you take my drift.”
Mayferry blinked. “Is there something I should know about?”
“New orders from their lordships. It seems we are going out to Highpole tonight to enforce a six o’clock curfew.”
“What? Why?”
“For the safety and security of the Realm, of course, and shame on you for imagining anything else.”
Mayferry gave him a look. “Er, yes, well,” he said finally, after a silence that was about two seconds longer than awkward. “Just a small point of clarification, if I may, sir. Does this relate at all to the murder of the artisan we are investigating?”
“A prescient question, Mister Mayferry. And, surprisingly, the answer is not exactly no. Some of the illustrious members of the Council of Lords have taken it into their heads that the Lady Alÿs, our mysteriously absent witness to that matter, must have fallen afoul of the true conspirators, said conspirators probably holding her captive in some basement somewhere doing who knows what to her even as we speak.”
“A basement, sir?”
“Yes. In Highpole, naturally.”
“And this curfew is…?” Mayferry’s eyebrows completed the question.
“As I said, for the safety and security of the Realm.”
“Because while we’re enforcing it, we won’t be looking for the missing Lady Alÿs? Or following up on the murder?”
“You catch on quickly, Mayferry. Have you considered a career in politics?”
“Sir!” Mayferry said. “That kind of language is uncalled for.”
“My apologies, Mayferry,” Skarbunket said. “My cynicism sometimes gets the better of me.” He leaned back in his chair. “As you say, rather than searching for the Lady Alÿs, or investigating the murder, we are to enforce a curfew imposed by men who say they wish to find the Lady Alÿs and get to the bottom of the murder. And shame on you again, Mayferry, for harboring those doubts I can see in your eyes about the efficacy of this cunning strategy devised by their lordships. Now, given that you wish to continue your career as a member of the great city of London’s Municipal Force, rather than taking a role in the political sphere, I want you with me and those of the Force we can trust not to be lighting matches in tinder kegs, save for our comrade Mister Bristol, on Highpole Street tonight at six.”
“How come Bristol gets an out?”
“Why, would you like to trade places with him?” Skarbunket smil
ed. “I will arrange it if you like. Simply say the word.”
“Er…would you mind telling me what he’s doing?”
“Officer Bristol will be following up on an anonymous tip this evening. Could be nothing.”
“Oh. A ‘could be nothing.’ The last one of those…”
“Yes, Mayferry?”
“Um, no, sir, I think I will leave him to it. It could be nothing, as you say.”
“Very well, then. Make sure Mister Habis and Sergeant Nadeem are with you. Oh, and that new fellow, what’s his name? The Israelite.”
“Mister Levy?”
“That’s him. Bright lad. A bit wet behind the ears, perhaps, but we all need to get thrown into the frying pan at some point. I want him front and center.”
“Why him, sir?”
“Because, Mayferry, things might get ugly out there tonight. The citizens of Highpole have many enemies. I do not want them to number London’s finest among them. I want them to see that the constabulary includes some of their own. Everyone in dress uniform. That’s from on high. And no swords or firearms. Truncheons only. That’s from me.”
“Will you at least be bringing your pistol, sir?”
“Absolutely not, Mayferry.”
“Sir? I thought you said it might get ugly.”
Skarbunket regarded his subordinate for a long moment. “We are not riding into battle, Mayferry,” he said at last. “When the police fear the populace, we forget that we are here to protect and serve. When that happens, everyone becomes the enemy. I will not have that, Mayferry.”
“Aye, sir.”
✦
Two hours to the minute later, the men of the Metropolitan Police were assembled in the Yard.
Black Iron Page 18
