by Sahara Kelly
“It is the truth. I appreciate loyalty above all things. Abu knows this and so do you. I have been most blessed in my choices.” He smiled. “And I shall make sure to find the perfect gift for you, my dear.”
She rose to her feet and curtseyed, a little gesture she had discovered he enjoyed. “As I said, no gift is necessary. But your thought of such a thing is most complimentary.”
He smiled at her, a lazy, satisfied smile. The sort of smile one would give a well-behaved pet.
Ashamed at herself for such an uncharitable thought, Vivienne moved away from the table. “If you will permit me, I have a few letters to write to friends in London. Since we are here, I would like to avail myself of the Harbury’s excellent library and writing materials.”
“Of course. Do find out what events are to be scheduled? We will be arriving there ourselves within the week. I believe we have rooms reserved at the Clarendon. Invitations may be directed to me there.”
“Thank you. I will make sure that information is circulated.”
With a smile she slipped from the room, hearing the door close behind her with a sense of relief. It was as if she’d been holding her breath, waiting for something to give her away.
If Kerala had, for one second, suspected that her night with Del had included any kind of passionate pleasure, it would have gone much worse for her. There would have been no talk of rewards or elegance.
She’d have been lucky to get out of that room without a whipping. Although he was usually most cautious when in the country homes of aristocrats. The man was a brute and a sadistic demon at times, but he was no fool. And Vivienne had never allowed herself to forget that fact in the time she’d been his mistress. She wasn’t about to start now, not when there was a chance she could be free of him. Free to be with the man she loved.
How they were to accomplish the thing, she didn’t know. Some ideas had flitted through her mind before she fell asleep last night, but she was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. They’d been very flimsy thoughts.
During her toilette this morning, and the bath she’d requested, even more ideas presented themselves. Money, of course, wouldn’t work, since Kerala was possessed of a fortune that could justifiably be called massive. He could probably buy half of London and not notice a dent in his resources.
Negotiation was a possibility, but what on earth did she and Del have to negotiate with? She knew none of Kerala’s secrets. He was open about his murderous ways, not caring who knew. If he was hiding anything, she couldn’t begin to imagine what it was, and frankly didn’t want to know.
No, there seemed to be only one solution. One she kept coming back to, time after time. And it was a very poor comment on her morals, her ethics and her beliefs, not to mention an indication of how far she had fallen from the quiet life she’d hoped to enjoy as she grew up in the English countryside.
They would just have to kill Kerala. That would effectively take care of everything.
*~~*~~*
Del’s morning had begun later than usual, but that hadn’t meant that it was any lighter in duties. He had promised the scientists a thorough review of their designs, and it was with a certain amount of regret that he closeted himself in a small library off his suite of rooms to fulfill that promise.
He’d much rather have spent the morning strolling through the Harbury grounds with Vivienne.
Yes he’d like to have lain with her, both of them naked, in the warm sunshine. But he realized they were now of an age to understand that passion came in many forms and that a touch, a smile and a look could be every bit as heated as an hour spent sweaty and screaming in bed.
Although both had their advantages.
Regretfully he tugged his thoughts back to the blueprints spread out before him, and focused his attention there instead of on visions of a lustfully sprawled Vivienne beneath him.
The developments proposed, he realized, were unique. He leaned to his task with growing interest as he cataloged the complete repositioning of ordnance, the revamped system of targeting, and above all the vastly reduced bulk of the actual weapons.
These weren’t the heavily encased explosives that required ropes and pulleys to be rigged for battle. These were sleek, tightly formed droplets of death. How could they possibly match the destructive power of the originals? It didn’t seem possible.
One of the additional specification sheets held careful notations of explosive demonstrations and statistics on the forces observed. Del paused, read, then pushed the other papers aside as he leaned in to absorb the information contained in the rows of numbers.
He’d piloted enough airships into battle to have a pretty solid idea of what kinds of results each piece of ordnance would produce when deployed. Their largest cannons would fire bullet balls capable of knocking another airship sideways and, if targeted correctly, taking it down and out of the action.
Their biggest bangs came from the bombs, the heavy lozenges of explosives that took several men and machines to load and accounted for much of the weight distribution problems.
Plus, when released, the mass of the dirigible shifted a little, making course compensations necessary. Not always a simple task in the heat of battle. But the destruction created when they hit the ground—well, it kept Del awake for many nights after a particularly rough fight.
He desperately wished he could target his weapons accurately toward the enemy. Instead, he was very afraid he had blindly rained death on an area that might have contained those innocent of malice. Every airship captain knew that sensation, and yet in war few could avoid it.
It was one of the many reasons he hated war and those who instigated conflict. Those who fought it regarded themselves as doing something necessary to preserve their lives and their country.
Those who pulled the international strings were the ones who deserved sleepless nights and visions of those they’d used as currency in their global machinations.
Del rubbed his forehead, almost as if he could erase his bitter thoughts. Then he returned to the diagrams and the surprising discovery that the new ordnance equaled the old in power, but was at least two thirds smaller.
How the hell could this be?
Del pored over paper after paper, trying to find a listing of component composition. The ingredients sheet, specifying compounds, materials and other structural bits and bobs, all of which could be assembled into an airship.
Finally, after five frustrating minutes of shuffling manuscripts, he found it.
Just one word under “explosive composition – all weaponry”.
Thonirium.
Chapter 12
Inspector James Burke breathed in that particular scent that could only mean one thing…autumn. It was an earthy blend, distinguished by something, some tiny snap in the fragrant bouquet, that spoke of diminishing daylight, cool evenings and a greater need for a healthy fire in the fireplace at night.
He’d had a busy day, all things considered, and it was only mid-afternoon.
There were names he didn’t immediately recognize at Harbury Hall, and information was, to him, the meat and potatoes of his business. After his brief encounter with Portia, he’d returned to his lodgings and sent a message to London via his private telegraph machine.
It was a new device—he had one of the first models—and to his surprise it actually worked. After he’d stoked up the miniature furnace and got the dials into the green, shining baby gears whirled, little pins and levers tapped their way through a complicated mechanical minuet, and a few puffs of steam later, there was a rattling sound. As he’d been shown in London, he typed his questions clearly onto a special scroll of paper that accepted the letters and then rotated into the interior mysteries of the machine. He affixed a duplicate scroll of blank paper into the appropriate slots and rollers on the other side of the shining box.
When the gears clattered loudly and keys thudded words onto the blank sheet, he jumped a foot in the air, then cursed himself for being an idiot. The
responses he received, however, soon took his mind off the marvel of instant telegraphy.
He’d requested all the information available on two names, Thakur Sahib Kerala and Professor Merrill Ringwood. What he got made the back of his neck itch.
Thakur was a filthy rich nabob, whose money had come from his homeland. He “ruled” there, an iron fist ready to beat and kill if it would advance his own importance. He’d manipulated much of the financial situation in his province as the war began, and several of those who opposed him no longer did so, since they had disappeared.
He was rumored to be violent, amoral and single minded. Also strong and skilled with any number of weapons. His attempts to ingratiate himself with the British forces were tenuous and viewed with suspicion. His file was flagged with a red check against “Do Not Trust”. Not a good rating from those who knew about such things. James’s neck was beyond itching. His entire body was tense as he finished the sketchy file.
A bad man. A very bad man indeed.
The Ringwood dossier wasn’t much better.
Here was a fully qualified genius, a man who had taken firsts in a variety of scientific areas at University, taught for several years, and then moved into the areas of research. For the last five he had specialized in lanthanides, focusing his work on the newest ones, publishing revelatory papers on his discoveries and making a name for himself at the same time.
His most prominent endeavor was as sole researcher on the Thonirium Project, sponsored by the Bureau of Military Ordnance, a highly secret division of the government, now occupying a small set of offices in Bow Street. It was felt to be a synergistic twist of circumstances that the original police force headquarters was now home to the birthplace of a new kind of global peacemaking, lethal though it was.
However, it turned out that Ringwood’s position there had been terminated not long ago. The reason cited was an inability to follow directives and a tendency toward violent outbursts, especially where people from other countries or races were concerned. He was described as racially intolerant to the point of aggression and physical threats. There was even an implication that he had been involved in a dreadful incident resulting in the death of a gentleman visiting from the Caribbean.
It had been hushed up at the time, Burke recalled, but not long afterward Professor Ringwood had been “retired” from the M.O. Bureau. And had reappeared within a month or two at Harbury.
There was also a note about the purchase and delivery of thonirium to the very same location mere weeks after Ringwood arrived. Such purchases were monitored, of course, although not regulated. Not yet, anyway. It was doubtful anyone had bothered to make any connection between the disgraced Professor and Harbury Hall.
Burke took the paper from its holders, capped the little engine to smother the steam, and moved to his desk where he spent an hour going over every detail he’d been sent, along with everything Portia had told him and everything he’d learned himself.
The resultant picture wasn’t pretty.
Any time an international warlord and a mentally warped explosives genius ended up in the same place—well, it had to mean trouble of the very worst kind. The kind that could detonate into a situation beyond anyone’s control. And there had been no pun intended in Burke’s inner discourse. It was, in his opinion, the absolute truth.
But there was little he could do on supposition and an extreme case of itchy neck. He had no evidence of anything afoot other than what was publicly acknowledged.
Ringwood was working on experiments at Harbury Hall under the auspices of Lord and Lady Harbury, along with several other scientists.
Thakur Sahib was visiting Harbury Hall and participating in a variety of meetings; probably insisting he was only interested in peace and prosperity and the possibility of bringing the latest in mechanical developments to his country.
The lying sod.
Burke felt an innate distaste for both of them, based upon what he’d read. But again, that was no foundation for any kind of action. He was at an impasse, unfortunately, with nothing but a handful of gut feelings.
He needed a second opinion. And he had a pretty good idea of exactly whose opinion he wanted.
*~~*~~*
“Portia.”
She turned as she heard her name whispered from behind some bushes, surprised but recognizing the voice. Just in case anyone was watching, she kept picking the pea pods off the trellis and popping them into the flat garden basket she carried.
It was more properly the job of the gardener to harvest the produce, but Portia had begged Mr. ‘Enry for the task, telling him he knew how much she loved the chance to get a bit of fresh air now and again, seeing as how she was stuck underground most of the time.
Softie that he was, he sent her out with the basket and a list of what he needed. Fortunately, she knew a parsnip from a potato plant, so she was able to breathe, think and pick at the same time.
She wasn’t expecting to see James, though. “Are you all right?” She spoke quietly, moving amongst the plants.
“Yes, I’m well. I need a few moments.” He strolled casually out into the sunshine, looking like a gentleman out for a walk in the early autumn sunshine.
“Go ahead then. I’ll keep picking if you don’t mind. Just in case there are eyes somewhere I don’t know about.”
“Goodness. A bit paranoid are we, m’dear?”
“I think it’s wise, don’t you?”
He chuckled wryly. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Since you probably don’t want any peas, what can I do to help?”
“Well, since you’re offering…” He snagged a pale green pod from her basket, popped it wide with his thumb and emptied the contents into his mouth in one smooth move.
“You’ve had fresh peas before.” She glared at him accusingly.
“Mmm.” He chewed with relish. “Hasn’t everyone?”
“James.” Portia sighed. “What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew.” His face hardened. “Nothing good, for certain. I need to know the whereabouts of Professor Ringwood. Or, if by any remote chance you heard any mention of him, where I might find the Fleet Captain.”
She frowned as she finished one side of the pea trellis and stepped out of the bed to check her pickings. “I can’t tell you where the Captain is. But I did hear one of the servants say that Ringwood had asked about the topiary garden.”
“Really?”
She nodded and moved to a bed of carrots, kneeling down and carefully grasping the fern-like leaves at their base, then tugging up the grubby orange vegetable. “This was sometime this morning, I can’t say when. But he was back just after lunch. I saw him having a cup of tea. He looked a bit ruddy, like he’d been in the sun a lot.”
“Hmm.”
She leaned back, resting on her heels, a carrot dangling from her fingers. “Hmm what?”
“I’m just wondering what could be so fascinating about the topiary garden. I’ve seen it. Actually I’ve seen better. The cat is missing an ear and the elephant could be mistaken for a haystack.”
She giggled. “Agreed. But that’s what I heard.”
“It’s better than nothing, Portia. My thanks. You are a treasure.”
“Sure you don’t want to wash down those peas with a carrot?”
“Not today thank you.” He touched his finger to the brim of his hat, hiding his grin. “Good afternoon, Miss.”
She watched him amble through the kitchen garden and out onto the path leading around the Harbury property. The rules and boundaries of various pieces of land were pretty flexible in the country, and none would question a gentleman strolling through the forest even though it was, officially, part of the Harbury estate.
Even so, Portia worried. James was a known quantity to the upstairs staff. At least a few of them, anyway, not to mention Lady Harbury herself. She returned to her task, picked more carrots and then sighed. She hadn’t been able to see Devon for what seemed like ages. He’d touched her min
d now and again, most often at night when she was sleepy, relaxed and—she supposed—most open to his psychical link.
It was reassuring to “hear” him that way before she fell asleep, a comforting brush from a mind she trusted and was growing to admire. Possibly even more than admiration. But until she freed him from his current imprisonment beneath the Hall, she couldn’t even begin to think of him that way. So, as she’d told herself just that morning, and most mornings before that, one thing at a time.
*~~*~~*
The sun was beginning to slide lower in the sky as Inspector Burke finally reached the topiary garden. Or, to be more accurate, a small rise not too far from the topiary garden.
He was carefully surveying the lie of the land, noting that the shaped shrubbery was not really enclosed by anything, but formed a pretty good-sized square of land; smooth lawns surrounding the surreally green menagerie. There was a wide swath down the center and several smaller offshoots, allowing visitors the chance to stroll through the fanciful figures and imagine themselves in a world of enormous fish, rabbits and heaven knew what else.
It was a fad, but a harmless one, and probably gave some of the locals a good steady source of employment pruning the darn things. James acknowledged he wouldn’t have the patience for it, but held no animosity toward those who did.
Harbury Hall itself towered well to the east, beginning to glow in the rays of the lowering sun. Between the garden and the house were several outbuildings, more gardens, a small pond and a large expanse of lawn leading up to the terraces surrounding the ground floor.
It had to be over a quarter of a mile of property, he estimated. A good walk for guests looking to work off a substantial meal. And quite far enough from the house to eliminate the chance of being either seen or overheard.
He doubted that figures could be spotted in the garden from anything but the topmost windows of the Hall, and even then, at that distance? Unlikely that more than a figure could be distinguished, if that. Right now, at this moment, with the way the sun was shining on the Hall itself…he doubted anyone could see a damn thing out of those windows.
