The Black Crow Conspiracy

by Christopher Edge

  Before Drake could press Monty further, there came a rap on the door of the interrogation room. The face of a police constable peered around the frame.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’ve got a visitor for Mr Flinch at the front desk. It’s a young lady who says that she’s his niece: one Miss Penelope Tredwell.”

  At this announcement, a flicker of irritation flashed across the detective’s face, but then Inspector Drake rearranged his features into a thin smile.

  “You had better take him back to his cell then, Constable Richards. I am sure Mr Flinch and his niece will have plenty to discuss.” He turned towards Monty again, his dark eyes narrowing as he spoke.“Perhaps she can convince you to reveal the truth behind your treasonous scheme. It might be the last chance you have.”

  “You have to get me out of this accursed place, Penelope,” Monty wailed. “I cannot survive for another second here. I have been fingerprinted, threatened, poked and prodded to the brink of my tolerance. The scant meals that I have been served are not even fit for a dog, and I haven’t had a drink for days. They won’t even allow me a razor to shave with.”

  Beneath the barred window of his cell, Monty sat on the edge of a rough wooden bench. A grubby blanket was draped across his lap and he stared up at Penny with a woebegone look.

  “You have to tell Inspector Drake the truth,” he pleaded, reaching out towards her with a trembling hand. “It is the only chance we have of convincing him that I didn’t steal the Crown Jewels. The man is deluded – he’s even claiming that Montgomery Flinch could be a foreign spy.”

  The rattle of a truncheon against the bars of the cell caused Monty to jump in fright. Stationed by the cell door, the watching police constable fixed him with a warning glare, brandishing his nightstick with a swagger.

  “Remember what I told you, Flinch,” he rasped. “No funny business, else you’ll be feeling the edge of my temper again.”

  Monty shrank back on the bench, drawing the blanket up around him defensively.

  With an impatient sniff, the police constable nodded his satisfaction.

  “One more minute – that’s all the both of you are getting with him.”

  Penelope glanced across at her guardian. Standing facing Monty, the elderly lawyer’s features looked almost as worn as the actor’s, a testimony to the long night he had spent sitting by his side as they fielded Inspector Drake’s endless questions.

  “Perhaps Monty is right,” Wigram said softly. “I seem unable to persuade the police of Montgomery Flinch’s innocence in regard to these ridiculous charges. And the questions that Inspector Drake has started to ask about Flinch’s real identity are rather too close to the bone. It might be the time to reveal the true origin of his tale of The Thief Who Wasn’t There.”

  Penelope shook her head. The sunlight slanting through the window of the cell revealed the shadows beneath her own eyes, but there was a gleam of illumination in her gaze.

  “I have seen him,” she replied simply. “The Thief Who Wasn’t There isn’t fiction – the Black Crow is real. And as soon as I tell Inspector Drake what I witnessed last night, he will have no choice but to let you go, Monty. You just need to stay strong for a little while longer.”

  As Monty flushed, fresh hope shining in his eyes, the constable swung open the cell door with a clang.

  “Time’s up,” he barked.

  Pulling her gloves on, Penny gave Monty a reassuring nod.

  “I will see you again soon.”

  As Wigram escorted her out of the cell, the police constable locked the door again, triple-bolting it as Monty stared back at them through the bars. Turning to lead them out of the cells, the policeman glanced down at Penelope in surprise as she stood barring his path.

  “I would like to see Inspector Drake,” Penny informed him. “I have information about the theft of the Crown Jewels – information that exonerates my uncle.”

  The walls of the inspector’s office were tapestried with police notices: photographs of suspects, wanted posters and crime-scene sketches. A height-gauge leaned against the furthest wall, whilst arranged on the shelves above this were records, registers and photographic albums – the modern detective’s tools of identification.

  With Wigram by her side, Penelope stood in front of Inspector Drake’s desk, the detective staring at them both with a look of weary disdain. He drummed his fingers on the lid of a snuff box sitting on his desk, the pile of papers next to it threatening to topple with every vibration. With a sigh, Drake glanced down at the notebook where he had recorded Penelope’s statement, the lines of text trailing away as his growing sense of disbelief won the day.

  “I do not quite know what to say, Miss Tredwell,” he began. “You expect me to believe that instead of Montgomery Flinch being behind this treasonous crime, it was instead instigated by a troop of black-coated thieves whose skin glows green? A legion of ghostly figures who stalk the streets of the city at night and who you claim to have seen walk through the walls of Buckingham Palace last night?”

  Penelope felt a blush reddening her cheeks as Inspector Drake recounted to her exactly what she had said. Suddenly she realised how ridiculous the whole thing sounded.

  “And what’s more,” Drake continued, “you report that these unlikely thieves do not dwell in the expected places where unquiet spirits are known to cluster: cemeteries, graveyards and suchlike, but are instead resident at the distinguished Society for the Advancement of Science. A society that is located on one of the most exclusive streets in the city – Carlton House Terrace – allowing these light-fingered spectres to count earls and ambassadors, dukes and countesses amongst their neighbours.”

  Penny tried to interrupt, but the inspector held up a warning hand as he looked up from his notebook.

  “Your loyalty to your uncle is admirable, Miss Tredwell, and I can see that you have inherited his talent for inventing such astounding stories, although I have heard that Montgomery Flinch’s tales are said to have a modicum more believability than this preposterous tale you have spun me.”

  “It’s not a story,” Penny replied, her complexion almost scarlet now.

  Inspector Drake waved her words away with a dismissive flick of his wrist. He turned his gaze instead to Mr Wigram, the lawyer resting his hands protectively on his young charge’s shoulders.

  “And are you behind this charade too?” the detective spat, finding a suitable target at last for his anger. “The desperation of your client is plain to see if he thinks such ludicrous inventions can clear his name.” He turned his glare back towards Penelope. “And if you weren’t a mere child, I’d have a mind to charge you with conspiracy to boot.”

  “But the palace,” Penelope protested. “If you would just investigate what I saw last night—”

  “I am investigating the theft of the Crown Jewels,” Drake replied with a barely concealed contempt in his words. “Do you not think I would have heard if the grounds of Buckingham Palace had been breached by intruders?” His face twisted in fury as he jabbed his finger towards the door. “Now, get out before I have you both arrested as well!”

  Penelope felt the weight of her guardian’s hand on her shoulder as he steered her to the door. As it closed behind them, they heard a sudden fluttering sound as Drake flung his notebook against the wall with a curse. Greeting them with a mocking grin, the waiting police constable escorted them down the long corridor that led past the cells, the anguished shouts of the prisoners there reminding Penny of Monty’s plight.

  Her cheeks burned as Inspector Drake’s words rang in her ears. If you weren’t a mere child, I’d have a mind to charge you… How could she possibly convince his closed mind that she was telling the truth? No matter what she said now, there was no way the detective would believe her.

  As the police constable ushered them unceremoniously through the front doors of New Scotland Yard, Wigram and Penelope emerged blinking into the sunshine. The Thames lay directly in front of them and, from the Palace of
Westminster on their right, Penelope could hear the chimes of Big Ben telling her how much of the morning she had already wasted. As they walked along the Embankment, Wigram turned towards her, his expression grave.

  “There are dark forces at work here, Penny. The police dismiss all my legal arguments and won’t even countenance the prospect of releasing Mr Maples on bail. If I am to procure his release, I must consult now with a fellow from Gray’s Inn: one of the finest criminal barristers in the land. I am sure he will see a way to get these ridiculous charges dismissed.”

  He flagged down a passing hansom cab, instructing the driver to take him to no. 8 South Square. As he climbed up into the carriage, Wigram turned back to Penelope, still standing on the pavement.

  “You must return home, Penny,” he told her. “I do not wish you to place yourself in any further danger after your misadventures of last night.”

  With a reluctant nod, Penny agreed to her guardian’s request and, thus satisfied, Wigram settled back into his seat, instructing the driver to depart with a rap on the roof of the cab. With a tug of the reins, the cab driver set off down the Embankment, and Penelope slowly uncrossed her fingers as she watched the vehicle join the stream of traffic heading along the bank of the Thames.

  Straightening her jacket, she turned right, heading down Derby Gate towards St James’s Park. Carlton House Terrace and the Society for the Advancement of Science was less than a quarter of an hour’s walk away. Penny’s eyes seemed to flash fire as the sunlight caught them, and a look of determination framed her softly chiselled chin. If the police wouldn’t investigate what she had seen, then it would be down to her to solve this mystery.

  XI

  The stucco-white façade of Carlton House Terrace shone with an opulent splendour in the late morning sunshine, the grand houses looking even more imposing than they had yesterday evening. Dressed in a serge-blue suit, her jacket and skirt cut in the latest continental style, Penelope climbed the steps to No. 8 Carlton House Terrace, the shade of the porch sheltering her from the full glare of the sun.

  With her hair swept high atop her head, Penny looked much older than her fifteen years. The admiring glances she had drawn from passing gentlemen on her journey here had been a telling rebuke to Inspector Drake’s dismissal of her as a mere child. She glanced down at the nameplate fixed beside the door: The Society for the Advancement of Science. It was time to find out what discoveries she could make here.

  She pressed the bell push, an answering ring sounding from within. Penelope waited, her patience stretching as the seconds passed. She pressed the doorbell again, then, when no answer was forthcoming, she reached down to try the handle. With a gentle push, the door opened and, glancing back over her shoulder, Penny stepped inside.

  She stifled a gasp as she took in her surroundings. The grandeur of the entrance hall was beyond even the expectations that had been raised by the building’s exterior. A three-flight black marble staircase swept up in front of Penelope, flanked by two grand torchères, whilst ornate chandeliers hung from the cream-and-gold corniced ceiling. The portraits of distinguished scientists filled the walls: Isaac Newton, Johannes Kepler, William Hershel and Charles Darwin, their erudite gazes eyeing her with interest. Penny stepped forward in awe, her heels clicking across the black-and-white tiled floor.

  The sound of a cough stopped her in her tracks. Penelope turned to see the figure of an elderly man with a prodigious beard, his shock of white hair tipping forward as he peered at her over his spectacles, the lenses thicker than bottle tops.

  “Ah bonjour, madame,” he exclaimed, seizing hold of Penelope’s hand in a dusty handshake. “The conference has already started, but Professor Röntgen will be delighted to discover that you have arrived here at last.”

  Speechless with surprise, Penelope felt the elderly scientist take hold of her arm.

  “It’s this way, madame,” he said, gesturing past the staircase towards a long corridor. “Let me escort you to the lecture room before I return to my own studies.”

  Without a chance to protest, Penelope was hurried along the corridor, passing on her left a bronzed bust of Copernicus. A sense of unease crept into her mind. It was almost as if she was expected. A tiny frisson of fear slithered down her spine as she remembered the sight of the black-clad figures taking flight from the basement of the Society last night. Surely she hadn’t been spotted?

  Unaware of her concern, Penelope’s escort led her along the white-panelled corridor. Through the open doors they passed, Penny caught glimpses of laboratories filled with scientific equipment: monocular microscopes, vacuum pumps, spectroscopes and electrostatic generators. Noting her interest, the white-bearded scientist paused at one of the open doors.

  “You must forgive me, madame. I forgot to introduce myself. I am Dr John Hughlings Jackson and this is my domain.” He gestured inside the laboratory to where a half-dissected cadaver was laid out on a table, the stench of formaldehyde creeping out into the corridor. With an inquisitive eye, Penny saw that the skin on the corpse’s head was peeled back, the top of the skull sawn away to reveal the brain beneath. “The realm of flesh and blood is where my interest lies, not that invisible world that you and Professor Röntgen meddle in. What a magnificent creature man is,” Dr Jackson exclaimed, his little eyes blinking behind his spectacles. “And there is still so much for us to discover. Do you know that we have begun to create a map of the human brain?”

  Penelope shook her head, trying to disguise her confusion. What could be the connection here with the mystery of the radiant boys? She listened intently as Dr Jackson explained his theory of how electrical discharges from the brain controlled a person’s movements.

  “Ach, listen to me,” he said finally, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. “Here I am, boring you with my endeavours, when you have your own work to attend to.” The elderly scientist took hold of Penelope’s arm again, hurrying her through a set of double doors to a broad gallery. Ahead of them, a second set of double doors were closed and the muffled sound of a man’s voice could just be heard through them. “The conference is being held in the Cavendish Suite,” Dr Jackson said, stepping forward to silently open the left-hand door. Peering inside, he lowered his voice as he gestured for Penelope to enter. “Professor Röntgen is still making his opening remarks, madame. When he heard that your train from Dover had been delayed, he was concerned that you would miss his opening address but do not fear, a place has been set for you at the table.”

  Through the open door, Penelope could see a long dark walnut table, a dozen chairs set on either side. The faces of their occupants were all turned towards the figure holding forth at the head of the table. There stood a tall, loose-limbed man dressed in a dark-blue sack suit, his hands gesticulating like an animated gust of wind. He must have been approaching his sixtieth year, but his black hair stood straight up from his forehead as if electrified by his own enthusiasm, whilst his beard was even more prodigious than Dr Jackson’s, although its hue was of a somewhat darker shade. This was Professor Röntgen. As the Wedgwood-blue carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, Penny slipped into the empty seat at the table, Dr Jackson softly closing the door behind her.

  “So I would like to thank you, gentlemen, for attending this inaugural conference of the Society for the Advancement of Science.” Professor Röntgen’s deep voice was marked with a Germanic accent. “Around this table here today we have some of the finest minds in physics – from Great Britain, France, New Zealand and my own native Germany to name but a few.”

  Unnoticed by the others, Penelope’s heart began to race. She wasn’t meant to be here, that much was clear. On the table in front of her a place card had been set and, reaching forward, she turned this towards her so that she could read the name.

  Mme Marie Curie

  The name snagged in Penelope’s mind, somehow familiar to her from the scientific journals that she read when searching for inspiration for Montgomery Flinch’s latest tale. She recalled an articl
e she had read about the researches of this remarkable scientist, Polish-born but now living in France with her husband, Pierre, and how they had discovered a strange new phenomenon called radioactivity. At the time, Penelope had been heartened to see a woman making her mark in the scientific community, taking inspiration for her own ambition, but now she realised that she could be its beneficiary as well. This was who Dr Jackson had mistaken her for – Madame Marie Curie.

  Penny glanced up at the gentlemen arranged around the table, all moustaches, beards and spectacles. Could she dare to hope that they would all make the same mistake?

  “I have a proposal for you all,” Professor Röntgen continued, his penetrating gaze darting round the table. “That we should set aside all thoughts of national interest, and instead work together for the advancement of science.”

  He reached down towards the apparatus set out at the head of the table: the glass bulb of a vacuum tube mounted on a stand, and two copper wires connecting this to a large induction coil. With a flick of a switch, the device crackled into life, blue sparks shimmering across the tightly wound copper coils as the vacuum tube began to glow with a yellow-green light. Penelope watched spellbound, the eerie glow instantly reminding her of the luminescent features of the radiant boys who she had seen leaving this very place last night. Professor Röntgen passed his hand between the vacuum tube and the buzzing electrical coil, the yellowish-green light playing across the surface of his skin.

  “Six years ago, when I discovered the existence of X-rays,” he said, “I did not realise the remarkable advances that this extraordinary phenomena would bring. These invisible rays with the power to peel back the layers of reality; stripping flesh from bone to reveal shadow pictures of what lies beneath our very skin. How they could penetrate most forms of solid matter, seemingly without harm, the thickness of the material no bar to their great power.” His gleaming eyes reflected the iridescent glow of the vacuum tube, slowly fading to grey as he switched the electrical current off. “Since then the further discoveries we have all made have thrown a new light on this invisible world: electromagnetic radiation, the identification of the electron, and discovering the particles of which atoms are made. The last century was an age of steam, but working together at the dawn of this new century, we can lead the way into a new atomic age.”