by Chris Paton
“Miss ‘Anover?” the man halted mid stride, his left leg dangling as he plucked up the courage to continue. “I don’t mean no ‘arm, Miss ‘Anover.”
“What do you want?” Luise looked up and down the empty road.
“Just a word. Only take a minute.”
“A word then,” Luise squared her shoulders and looked up at the man towering over her. “What about?”
“It’s a bit uncommon, miss, if you don’t mind,” the man turned the cap in his hands.
“What is your name?”
“Wilkins, miss. Like the soap.”
“Are you trying to sell me something, Mr. Wilkins?” Luise smiled as the man struggled with his nerves.
“No, miss. Nothing like that. I ‘ave a message, is all.”
“For me?”
“From ‘Ari Sing.”
“Who is that?”
“’E says ‘e knows your brother and that ‘e wants to ‘elp.”
“What?” Luise shrank back to the garden wall. Taking hold of one of the metal railings she steadied herself.
“Well, it’s a little funny, see.”
“I am afraid I don’t,” Luise spied a carriage entering the road from the direction of Kensington Gardens. She relaxed. “Tell me.”
“Well, ‘e said it was difficult, an that ‘e was a bit tied up,” Wilkins chuckled. “Locked up, more like. Anyway, ‘e said to give you this.” Tucking his cap under his armpit, Wilkins pulled a chain from around his neck. A small silver locket dangled at the end of it, the chain coiling on top of it as he let it slip into Luise’s outstretched palm.
“My mother’s locket,” Luise gasped.
“’Ari got it from your brother. ‘E said I should give it to you so you would know ‘e was legit.”
“’Ari Sing?” Luise opened the locket to look at the picture of her mother. She traced her finger around the edges of her face. Luise looked up at Wilkins. “Do you mean Hari Singh?”
“I reckon as I do, not being so good with my letters,” Wilkins grasped his cap. “You’ll ‘ave to forgive me, miss.”
“No,” Luise reached out and squeezed Wilkins’ arm. “I must thank you,” she lifted the locket, “for this.”
“’E said you would be pleased.”
“And I am,” Luise smiled. “Now where can I find Mr. Singh?”
“Oh, that won’t be ‘ard, miss. ‘Ari and I shared a room at ‘Er Majesty’s convenience,” Wilkins’ cheeks dimpled. “’Ari was real good to me, an’ I said as I would ‘elp ‘im.”
“And you have,” Luise looked at the locket once more before slipping it around her neck. “I am afraid I have never frequented Her Majesty’s Convenience. Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find it?”
Wilkins laughed. “I am glad to ‘ear you ‘ave never been there, an I don’t ‘ope as you ever ‘ave to.” He shrugged. “Ever ‘ave to stay there, I mean.”
“But where is it?”
“Not so much where as what,” Wilkins tugged his cap onto his head. “’Er Majesty’s Prison is where you’ll find ‘Ari Sing, miss. Col’bath Fields, just east of ‘ere.”
“In prison?”
“Oh, yes, miss. It seems ‘Ari ‘ad a bit of trouble on the boat coming over. Says ‘e got in a bit of ‘ot water.” Wilkins winked. “’E’s a good man is ‘Ari. I ‘ope you can ‘elp ‘im, miss.” Wilkins dipped his head and began to whistle. Luise watched as he walked into the centre of the road and climbed up onto the running boards of the carriage as it wheeled past. Luise waved as he rode down the street.
Clutching her locket, Luise quickened her pace, unaware of a captain in the Royal Navy slipping out of the Royal Geographical Society and following her, at a discreet distance, down the road.
Chapter 3
HM Prison, Coldbath Fields
London, England
May, 1851
Hari slipped his hand through the narrow bars and crumbled the last of his hard tack biscuit on the windowsill overlooking the courtyard. Standing on tiptoe and peering between the bars, he searched for signs of Shahin; the sky was dull, overcast and devoid of life. Hari sighed and rested upon his heels.
“Patience,” Hari’s cellmate sat cross-legged on the stone floor. “She will come.”
“Truly, Yuu?” Hari shook his head. “That is all you have to say?”
Yuu took a deep breath and straightened his back, the long white wisp of his beard fluttered as he exhaled. The old man closed his eyes, rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his wrinkled thumbs and fingers together. The walls of the cell echoed with the sound of crackling parchment.
Hari squeezed around Yuu to his cot and sat on the edge, his knees but a few inches from his cellmate’s back. Smoothing his hands over the wiry blanket, he picked at the holes in the frayed ends.
“Quiet,” Yuu stilled his fingers and thumbs. “Someone comes.”
Hari stood and crossed to the black wood door as the serving hatch slid open. He bent to peer through it, out of range of the prison guard’s baton, but close enough to see the middle section of a ladies jacket tucked into the waist above her hips.
“Stand back,” the guard clanged his baton from one side of the hatch to the other.
Hari returned to his cot. He tilted his head at the sound of a ring of keys jangling in the lock. The door opened with a creak of intrigue.
“Mr. Singh?” Luise stepped around the guard and into the tiny cell. “My name is Luise...”
“Miss Hanover?” Hari bumped his knees into Yuu’s back as he stood and bowed.
Luise held out her hand. “I am Luise Hanover. Jamie’s sister.”
“Truly,” Hari’s fingers brushed the top of Yuu’s Samurai hair bun as he reached over the top of his cellmate’s head and took Luise’s hand. He smiled. “Miss Luise, I am sorry I cannot offer you anything,” Hari glanced around the cell. “Yuu, stand up and say hello to Miss Luise.”
“I cannot,” Yuu sighed.
“You cannot?” Hari kicked the old man’s thigh. “Why not? There is a lady present.”
“Yes,” Yuu flicked his eyes open and stared at Hari, “and not enough space.”
“All right, you two,” the guard slapped the baton into the palm of his hand. “That’s enough.”
Luise turned to the guard. “I must talk with this man. Is there nowhere I can talk with him?”
“Well,” the guard held out his palm and looked about the room. Luise fished a shilling from her pocket, looking at it briefly she pressed it into the man’s palm. “Thank you, miss. How about you step out into the corridor? Hari’s a quiet chap but I’ll have to wait with you,” he leaned closer to Luise. “Wouldn’t want him taking advantage of a lovely girl such as yourself, now.”
“No,” Luise frowned and pushed past the guard. “We wouldn’t.”
Hari smoothed his thin beard with his right hand. Stepping over Yuu, Hari stumbled as the old man caught hold of his ankle.
“What?” Hari tugged his ankle free.
“Remember?” Yuu looked at the open door. “One must take advantage of every opportunity, and,” he paused, “avoid distractions.”
“Yes, yes,” Hari rolled his eyes. “No distractions. I remember.”
“Good,” Yuu let go of Hari’s ankle and resumed smoothing his fingers and thumbs in slow, ever decreasing circles to the rhythm of his breathing.
Hari stepped into the stone-walled corridor, nodded at the guard and looked at Luise.
“You are staring, Mr. Singh,” Luise blushed.
“Yes,” Hari dipped his head. “Truly, Jamie never mentioned how pretty you were.”
“What did he say about me?”
“He said that you were a scientist and that...”
“What?” Luise reached out to touch Hari’s arm but stopped halfway. “What did he say?” she clasped her hands together.
“Nothing,” Hari smiled. “He spoke a little of your mother.”
“Yes,” Luise reached a hand up to her neck.
“Thank you for the locket.”
“Jamie said you should have it.”
“I am pleased.”
“Good,” Hari nodded and dipped his head.
“Mr. Singh?” Luise bowed a little to catch Hari’s eye.
“He asked me to look after you, Miss Luise, and I have failed.”
“How have you failed? We have only just met.”
“Truly,” Hari lifted his hands to his turban and clasped them on each side of his head. “How can I help you and protect you when I am stuck in here?”
“Mr. Singh? Hari?”
“Yes?”
“You must have travelled a long way to find me.”
“Yes,” Hari nodded.
Luise turned to address the guard. “What is Mr. Singh’s crime?”
“Crime?” the guard stared at Luise.
“What did he do?”
“He didn’t do anything, miss,” the guard began to laugh. “It’s who he didn’t do anything to that got him in here.”
“And how long must he stay here?”
“The Lady Harte was mute on that point, miss.”
“Lady Harte?” Luise turned back to Hari.
“A long story, Miss Luise.”
“However,” the guard coughed.
“Yes?”
“If miss was interested in,” he paused to whisper, “purchasing his freedom, then I am sure we could come to some agreement.”
Luise spread her palms wide. “You took my last shilling.”
“Your last...” the guard sneered. “But you’re Beau Robshaw’s woman.”
“You’re the second man to remind me of that today.”
“I saw you in the paper. Front page. Headlines and all,” the guard shook his head.
“Truly,” Hari smiled. “I saw that too.”
“It was a long time ago,” Luise stared at the mould on the walls. “I never inherited anything more than a bad reputation from that particular relationship.”
“So no money then?” the guard unclipped the keys from his belt.
“Not a penny.”
“Then I think visiting time is just about over.” Stepping forwards, the guard fumbled with the keys with one hand, stabbing the point of the baton in Hari’s direction with the other.
“One moment,” Hari held up his hand. “Miss Luise?”
“Yes?”
“Are you squeamish?”
Luise wrinkled her forehead. “I beg your pardon? Squeamish?”
“Yes?” Hari spread his feet and sank a little at the knees. “At the sight of blood? For example?”
“Blood?” Luise shook her head. “I am not following you, Mr. Singh.”
“And neither am I.” Pushing past Luise, the guard tapped Hari on his right arm with the baton.
“Very well,” Hari winked at Luise. Flicking his wrist and bending his arm at the elbow, Hari gripped the baton and twisted it out of the guard’s grip. Tucking the baton beneath his arm, Hari grasped the front of the guard’s jacket and wrenched the big man forward. Hari butted him on the bridge of his nose with his forehead. As the guard slipped to the floor, Hari removed the keys from the man’s hand and tucked the baton into the waistband of his pantaloons.
“Hari,” Luise whispered. “What have you done?”
҉
The flame licking the wick of the last church candle flickered into smoke throwing Egmont’s study into a sudden gloom. The Admiral stared at the old man sitting in the armchair opposite him. Smith did not stir.
“You haven’t said anything for a while,” Egmont leaned forward and placed a palm on the side of the teapot. “It’s cold. Do you want more tea?”
“Hmm?” Smith looked up.
“More tea?”
“No,” Smith rubbed his face with his hands. “I have to focus.”
“I would say you have been very focused all evening.” The armchair creaked as Egmont leaned back in it.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Egmont brushed the top of the cushioned arms of the chair. “It sounds like that devious mind of yours has finally reached a conclusion of some sort. Care to share?”
“Yes,” Smith reached out for the pot of tea and poured half a cup. Setting down the pot he picked up the teacup and took a sip. “It’s cold?” he wrinkled his brow.
“Yes,” Egmont shook his head.
“Well then,” Smith set the teacup down next to the teapot. “To action.”
“Action?” Egmont waited. “What kind of action?”
“The clandestine kind,” Smith stood up and began pacing the tiny study. “What resources do you have, Admiral?”
“Very little since I retired,” Egmont moved his head to follow smith around the room. “What do you have in mind?”
“Surveillance for a start. We will need a rotation of men and women, children if you have them.”
“Who is the target?”
“Why, Luise Hanover of course. Our enemies will be keeping a close eye on her, ours should be closer still.”
Egmont nodded. “I can give you half a dozen men and women, my nephew too if he is not busy with school.”
“Excellent,” Smith clapped his hands. “But it won’t be nearly enough.”
“Then you will have to scour the ranks of the services yourself if you need more manpower. My name has less weight than it once did,” Egmont waved his arm. “I was lucky to be awarded this paltry office and title, I tell you.”
“Trafalgar? Still?”
“Pray, don’t mention it,” Egmont plucked at the whiskers of his beard.
“I have it,” Smith stopped pacing. “The poorhouses,” he clapped his hands. “The great unwashed, all the resources one would ever need at a fraction of the price. Don’t worry, Admiral, Calcutta will foot the bill. We’ll use your men and women as the field agents and the poorhouse inmates as the runners and peepers.”
“Time, as dear Luise mentioned, is hardly with us, Smith. We will have to get to work.”
“Yes,” Smith returned to the armchair and sat down. He picked up the cup of tea.
“Smith,” Egmont pointed at the cup.
“Cold? Yes, I know,” Smith sipped at the tea. “If I know the Germans, if I have Bremen’s measure, then he is already here, and has a team in place.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It is what I should have done,” Smith finished the tea and cradled the cup in his hands. “Of course, we don’t even know if Miss Hanover’s machine even works.”
“Oh, I believe her,” Egmont leaned forward. “What’s more, I believe she has only just begun.”
“Then so must we,” Smith nodded, “begin, I mean. It’s either that or...”
“Trafalgar, all over again.”
“No,” Smith shook his head. “Something much worse.”
҉
Hands clasped to the sides of his head, Dieter circled the Wallendorf steamracer. Stooping at the left-hand front wheel, he tugged a shard of wood from the tire. Dieter sighed as the wheel hissed, the mechanic and the racer sinking to the dirt road outside the ruined pottery shop.
“It’s bad, isn’t it, Dieter?” Romney crouched next to her mechanic.
“Bad?” Dieter turned to stare at Romney. “Nein, this is not bad, this is catastrophic.”
“So, bad then,” Romney tried a smile.
“Romney,” Dieter pointed at the steamracer, the bent axles morphing the streamlined form into that of an oversized caterpillar as it sank lower into the dirt. “We cannot race with this machine. The race is lost. Your f-father will suspend all f-funds. I will have to f-find a new job.” Tucking his knees to his chest, Dieter rested his forehead on top of them.
“You will work something out, Dieter. You always do.”
“No this time, Romney. Not so f-far f-from home.”
Romney turned at the sound of scuffing in the dirt. She looked up at Robshaw. He waved. Squeezing Dieter’s shoulder, Romney stood up and walked over to the British driver.
&nb
sp; “Problems?” Robshaw buttoned his leather jacket.
“Perhaps,” Romney shrugged. “Are you cold?”
“The wind is blowing in off the Thames. Can’t you feel it?”
Romney tucked her hand into the crook of Robshaw’s arm. “Show me.”
“All right,” Robshaw glanced at her hand and led Romney past the broken Wallendorf racer. He nodded at Dieter as he passed. “I’m just walking Romney through the course.”
“Whatever,” Dieter ran his hand through his thick hair. “It does not matter.”
“He’s taking it hard,” Robshaw whispered.
“Yes,” Romney matched her stride to Robshaw’s long legs.
“So are you. You are a lot quieter than when I found you parked inside the shop.”
“The adrenalin is gone,” Romney pulled Robshaw close. “I need a pick-me-up.”
“Well,” Robshaw brightened and quickened his pace. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Hey,” Romney giggled. “Not so fast. I can’t keep up.”
“I’d like that in writing.”
“You won’t get it.”
Romney leaned on Robshaw’s shoulder as he led her to the banks of the Thames. The wind whipped at the dresses and skirts of the wives, lovers and mothers walking the Thames Path, children darted between them on piston bikes, the exhaust fumes from the slow motorised bicycles painted the air with the smell of burnt poultry.
“I used to have one of them,” Robshaw stopped and pointed at two boys racing down the path, their feet a blur of peddles and spinning sprockets. “Top speed is five miles per hour,” Robshaw grinned. “I could get five and half.”
“Take me to lunch,” Romney pointed to the other side of the river. “Over there, on that boat.”
“You want to eat aboard The Steamer’s Den? That’ll cost you a pretty penny.”
“It will cost you. Remember?” Romney pulled Robshaw across the path of a girl pushing her piston bike in the wake of the two boys.
“Of course,” Robshaw steered Romney onto Regent’s Bridge.
