Owen was using a ladle to transfer some of the silver into the bullet mould. “Not quite I think, until … until you kill me. Should I be put to torture I am sure to mention the Spanish.”
Another bullet came crashing into the room, ricocheted off the brick chimney and smashed an earthenware jug. “At the moment, it seems unlikely that we will live long enough to be captured. But, in any case, there would be no advantage in killing you, though you might thank me for doing so rather than let them drag it out. There are those who know as much as you who have allowed themselves to be taken. They will no doubt speak of the Spanish when they are tied to the rack, but James will not go to war over testimony given under torture, not without physical evidence to bolster it.” He gave out a bitter laugh. “Indeed, should you recite all of this while on the rack, then it may do more good than harm. At least someone will be testifying in King Phillip’s favour.”
The men outside were getting closer, using the buildings to cover their approach around the sides of the yard. Quick let go another couple of shots, one of which brought down a man, but he knew there was to be no holding them back.
Owen had returned to stirring the silver. Indeed he seemed transfixed by it, staring with fixed eyes into the sluggish vortex, entirely oblivious to the ever increasing number of bullets flying around his head.
With his pistols loaded with silver, Quick pulled the door part-way open and looked back at his companion. “I am going to take the air, Mr Owen. Would you care to join me?”
“No thank you sir. I too have work to finish before this day is done.”
There was no time to ask what he meant. “Very well then, I wish you godspeed, Mr Owen.”
“And god bless you, sir.”
Quick pulled the door fully open with his foot and stepped out into the yard. He fired one of the pistols, took a step forwards and fired the other, before falling back dead with two balls in his chest.
As Quick’s body hit the ground, Owen was using the tip of an old scythe blade to scrape away at the hard packed dirt on the floor, scoring first one line and then another. The liquid silver spat and smoked as he poured it into the grooves. With the crucible empty, he smoothed the cooling metal with the flat of the blade. A quenching pale of water raised clouds of hissing steam, scorching the architect’s naked hands. Although still warm, he was able to lift out the casting, brushing away dirt from the underside before holding it out in front of him. The edges were rough and ready, reflecting the makeshift nature of the mould, but then he was no silversmith. Approaching the door but remaining behind cover, he looked out to see Quick’s body sprawled across the cobbles.
“I am unarmed’ he called out to the musketeers, now leaving the protection of the buildings.
“Then yield!” came the shouted reply. “Stand where you can be seen.”
Stepping outside, Owen stood over the body and for a moment watched the crimson channels of blood creeping between the cobbles. Then, reciting a prayer, he straightened Quick’s legs and arms, kissed the middle of the large silver cross and laid it across the dead man’s chest. He took a last look at his companion’s face, which now wore the peaceful mask of a death nobly earned. Guilty of the sin of envy for the first time in his life, he crossed himself and turned to confront his advancing captors.
Historical note
Nicholas Owen and the powder-plot priests captured with him, were taken to the Tower of London where, like the rest of the conspirators, they were tortured. Owen’s suffering was enhanced by his disability, and he was kept alive only through the application of a military breast plate, which prevented his intestines from spilling out of his body. With no confessions extracted, all of them were dragged to their place of execution, and there hanged until almost dead, before being disembowelled and cut into quarters. In 1970, Owen was canonized by the Catholic Church, and today is regarded by magicians and escapologists as their patron saint. On his death, in the grounds of Hindslip Hall, Peter Quick, agent to his Catholic Majesty Philip III of Spain, disappeared from the pages of history, as did what came to be known as the Quicksilver Crucifix. Thanks to Quick’s efforts, England and Spain were to remain at peace with one another for over a hundred years.
The Fourth Quadrant
Dorothy Lumley
When not occupied as a literary agent with her Dorian Literary Agency, Dorothy Lumley writes romance novels and stories, usually under the name of Jean Davidson. Her latest historical romance is House of Secrets (2010), and she also contributed the crime novel Lost and Found (2009) to the Black Star list, as Vivian Roberts. The following story marks her first appearance under her own name.
For this anthology, Dorothy was fascinated with the life of Ada Lovelace, who was a mathematical genius, and daughter of Lord Byron. Ada became involved with Charles Babbage, the creator of the Difference Engine – regarded as the world’s first computer – and assisted him in the creation of his new Analytical Engine. Although this was not completed, Ada’s notes include what experts have called the first computer program. The following story takes place early in Ada’s involvement with Babbage, in 1834, before she married William King, later the Earl of Lovelace.
Robert hefted the truncheon in his hand, feeling the warmth of the wood under his fingers. It was heavy, but then it needed to be to do this evening’s work. Inwardly he sighed. It was not work that he enjoyed, and it was not why he had joined the newly formed Metropolitan Police. But, judging from the expressions of some of the men around him, they were looking forward to this night’s work.
He cast his eyes over the police unit surrounding him. Some refused to meet his gaze. They were the nervous ones, often the youngest. Others, like him, had a set look that said: Come on, let’s get started, get it over with, then we can go home to our wives and sweethearts. But some met his gaze with a wink and a smirk. They and their sticks and cudgels would get pleasure from this night’s outing.
“All right Bob?” his friend Will, standing next to him, murmured.
“It still doesn’t seem right, breaking up a peaceable meeting, just because they’re talking about unions.”
“You’re in the Police now. Can’t take sides. Anyway, Sergeant says this ’un’s illegal.”
“Right boys, time to move forward.” Sergeant Cummings at last gave the order. Robert felt his pulse quicken. Gaslight flickered and hissed overhead – the lamplighters had already been abroad along Holborn and the Gray’s Inn Road on this damp October evening. The usual hubbub of carriages and carts and hansom cabs all fighting it out in the London street carried on. But he and the rest of his unit were about to enter a dark and unlit alley, right on the edge of a notorious Rookery. The notorious Rookery, in fact, where most of the poor Irish lived. Fortunately, the White Hart public house they were heading for, where the meeting was being held in a back room, or so they’d been informed, was nearby.
“You six go into the yard in the back, lay into anyone who sneaks out that way.” Sergeant Cummings picked the most eager-looking men. “Rest of you, follow me. Two short blasts on the whistle and we’re in. Right, boys?”
A flicker of white caught Robert’s eye as he moved into the alley behind Will. “Feargus O’Connor of the Northern Star and Robert Owen to speak concerning the Conditions and Plight of the Working Man …The Iniquity of the New Poor Law …” – he had to move on before he could read more of the poster. That would be a legitimate meeting, one they would not be called on to break up as had been happening so many times this past year all over the country. He hoped he might be sent on that detail, he’d like to hear the two great orators speak and, as he was expected to wear his police uniform at all times, he could hardly attend in his own right.
The two short blasts on the whistle reverberated down the dark alley. Already passers-by were jostling them and jeering and trying to knock their tall hats off. Any further into the Rookery and they would be in too much danger from the lawless folk who lived there, but here he could look back and see the safety of the we
ll-lit London street – now, though, he was running forward, and found himself yelling, along with the others, as they charged into the meeting room at the back of the White Hart.
In the lamplight Robert had a glimpse of startled faces turned towards him, mouths open in shock and anger. Then the gathered men launched themselves forward. Robert staggered, but managed to keep his balance. It was every man for himself. He pushed and shoved, shouting all the while, “Outside, outside with you!”, while dodging fists and blocking painful kicks.
Above the noise he could hear Sergeant Cummings blowing his whistle and commanding, “This illegal gathering is over. Go home or we’ll have you in front of the magistrates in the morning.”
“We’re ’aving an educational meeting,” came one gibe.
“Yeah, you’re the ones breaking the law – the laws of justice and brotherhood!” came another.
The sergeant’s reply was lost in the general mêlée. Robert felt a blow on the back of his head, his reinforced hat saving him from the worst of it. He settled the hat more firmly on his head and looked round for the culprit. At the far end of the room he saw a tall bearded man standing on a makeshift podium made of boxes and planks. He wore a black suit and top hat, his stock was fresh and white at his neck, while two men in working attire stood at his side. He was continuing to declaim, one hand raised above his head, to the struggling mass below. “Stand up, stand up against our oppressors … are we not free men … the right to order our own destiny … we should have the right to vote, not just those with money and power … This is an outrage against justice and natural law …”
Sergeant Cummings had managed to force his way through to the front and was reaching for the ankles of the speaker. The two men beside the speaker sprang into action, hustling him from the makeshift stage and through a door at the back of the room. Cummings did not follow them. His orders were to break up the meeting, with force, and he’d go no further.
Robert began to lay about him again, more in self-defence than attack. He felt rather than heard his truncheon crack here on a shoulder, there on a man’s back. He didn’t put all his strength in it, just enough to send a message. He, Robert, was still in control, unlike some of the others on both sides around him, their faces red and contorted, spittle flying.
But, with the speaker gone, those who had been listening to him were losing their steam and there was a mass exodus for the door. Robert tried to stand back, but, unprepared, received an elbow in his stomach which took his breath away. He doubled over, coughing and retching. It was in that moment that he felt a hand shoved hard inside his tunic then as quickly withdrawn, but when he looked up all he could see were men’s backs and the heels of their boots.
“Will, Will,” Robert called out, catching sight of his friend. He instinctively pushed his own hand into his tunic. “I think I’ve been stabbed!”
Through both of their minds ran the memory of Calthorpe, the policeman killed only a year ago during a similar confrontation. Will hurried to his side; he had lost his hat in the affray, his hair was dishevelled and there was a smear of blood on his cheek. “All right, Rob, my friend, where’s he cut you?” he asked as he supported him.
“In my chest I think. He stuck his hand right in.” With trembling fingers he undid the remaining brass buttons that had not been wrenched off in the fight. “Funny thing is, it doesn’t hurt at all.”
As the last button came undone, a piece of crumpled and folded paper fell to the floor.
“What’s that?” Will asked, bending to pick it up and handing it to Robert.
Robert shook his head. “I don’t know.” He ran his hand over his shirt, then couldn’t help laughing. “I’m not hurt at all. Must’ve been pushing that bit of paper in. I’ve got the wind up me right and proper.”
“You and me both, mate.” Will squeezed his shoulder. “Reckon we deserve some ale after this. Maybe a visit to a chop house. Coming?”
“Good idea.” Robert automatically began unfolding the piece of paper. Why would someone have gone to the trouble of pushing this on him? The same person who elbowed him in the stomach so he couldn’t see their face?
“What the heck’s that?” Will asked, looking over his shoulder. “Looks like a lot of nonsense to me.”
They gazed at a jumble of letters, numbers and pictures. “This here’s Egyptian writing.” Robert pointed to hieroglyphs. “I’ve seen them in the British Museum. I can’t make any sense of it.”
“Did he have mad staring eyes, the man who shoved it on you?”
“Go on.” Robert poked his friend in the ribs. “No more than you do! All the same, I think I’ll pass this on to the Sergeant. It might mean something, though I don’t know what.”
“Another one of your hunches. All right, and then we’re off duty and can go for our supper.”
Robert nodded. Once he’d handed the paper over, it was no longer his responsibility and Sergeant Cummings could decide what to do with it.
*
Ada stared at her breakfast plate. Half a slice of toast was left. If she cut it in tiny squares and chewed each one as long and as slowly as she could, she would be able to complete the task she’d set herself at the same time as finishing her toast. Why was the 47 times-table such a tricky one? She continued reciting it in her mind. Although she tried to stop them, her lips kept trying to form the numbers, but chewing the toast helped hide that.
Across the table, her mother rustled The Times newspaper and gave a noise of disgust. Ada tried to shut out the sound, and speeded up her mental exercise. With her mother’s three friends all taking their breakfasts in bed, claiming they’d come down with autumnal colds, she’d seized advantage of her freedom from having to respond to their remarks about the weather, or the minutiae of the life lived by their Mortlake neighbours, to allow her mind to continue to play with numbers. She enjoyed not having their eyes constantly watching her, checking her behaviour and how much she ate. Her mother’s watchdogs – whom to herself she called the Three Furies.
Her mother gave another snort of rage, folded the newspaper and tossed it down. It was no good, she’d only reached 47 times 23, and her mother was about to launch into a tirade.
“Yet another one of these meetings by those uncouth ruffians usurping the name of Robert Owen for their own ends. When are the government going to put a stop to it? That’s what I want to know. The Police Force had to go in and break it up when they should have been out on the streets catching thieves and murderers. And it’s my taxes that pay for that. It will give the Co-operative movement a bad name, and set back all the good work of Owen, and Feargus O’Connor with his Northern Star newspaper.” She thumped the pink tablecloth for emphasis, making the silver spoons rattle in their delicate Crown Derby porcelain saucers. Ada sensed the footman wincing as he feared for the whole breakfast service.
“Their meeting place, some tavern or other, was set fire to; only the quick thinking of the Metropolitan Police managed to put it out. Irish malcontents or extreme radicals, that’s what they were. You’d think that the example set by what happened to those farm-workers in Dorset would have been enough to deter them, whether you think their fate was the right thing or not, but, oh no—”
“Tolpuddle. They were from Tolpuddle, Dorset. Twenty men sentenced to transportation to Australia for seven years’ apiece. In March this year,” Ada said.
“Yes, yes, I know all that. Don’t interrupt me.” Her mother settled her lace cap more firmly on her dark hair, then fixed her fierce eyes on Ada. “The point I’m making, Ada dear, is that some unscrupulous men, pretending to be allied to O’Connor and Owen and Cobbett, with their talk of combining into unions, are instead using the common man for their own ends, not for his good. Their purpose is to destabilize the government and bring down the monarchy. They want to incite the mobs into a rabble running through the streets of London, burning and pillaging. Why, they’re nothing but … but Republicans!”
The word hung dangerously in the air. This w
as the spectre her mother hated and feared the most. Would England become infected by the Revolutions of 1830?
“I believe they only talk of rights and wages and conditions, Mama, not of – of that,” Ada said. “Especially as the Reform Act has not extended suffrage very much.”
“And what right do they have to question the natural order of things? The men who run the factories and mines bring prosperity, jobs and advance for everyone. They should be praised, not attacked.”
Ada pushed her plate away, abandoning the last two small squares of toast. She would not complete her task now. “They create wealth through their knowledge and daring, and invention. They carry the risk with their own money. Without them there would be no jobs, and starving families. A logical equation, it seems.” This was what her tutors taught her, even though the words sometimes had a hollow ring. Her mother espoused the Co-operative Movement, yet still feared what she called the “ungoverned elements”.
“And another thing.” As usual her mother didn’t listen to her, and her tirade was not yet over. “Here we are, spending money building workhouses for the poor to give them shelter and food – again out of my taxes – and yet they’ve done nothing but complain about them for the past two years.”
Ada looked around their comfortable breakfast room. The walls were a delicate shade of eau de nil and white, with mouldings of fruit and flowers. A coal fire burned in the grate, and they sat at a walnut table. Everything in this room spoke of good taste and good quality – and money. Money her mother had inherited. Servants stood, unmoving, by the wall, ready to fulfil any order their mistress might have.
Ada had seen, by contrast, illustrations of workhouses, with their bare stone walls and high windows, and had read how men and women were separated and that families were not allowed to live together. But she must not think about those things. For that way madness lay, and her mother did everything she could, for her daughter’s own good, to keep her from the possibility of that downward spiral …
The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Page 30
