The Secret Abyss

by Darrell Pitt

  ‘Possibly this is why he’s working with Ashgrove?’

  ‘Maybe. If so, it’s a terrible shame.’

  ‘What about Frankie Shore’s last words?’ Scarlet asked. ‘The eagle and so forth. Would any of them relate to Mr Slate or his inventions?’

  ‘Not that I know of. The eagle probably refers to the United States. It appears on our nation’s coat of arms. I have no idea about the other references.’ Gabrielle shook her head. ‘But there is no doubt in my mind as to Ashgrove’s ultimate plan.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘War.’ Gabrielle stood and started to pace. ‘The Southern Liberation Army has wanted its own nation for years. They want a line separating the northern and southern states, and they think there is only one way to achieve this.’

  ‘Another civil war?’ Scarlet said. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Who could want a war?’ Jack asked. ‘It wouldn’t help anyone.’

  ‘Unfortunately, that is not true,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Some people, such as arms manufacturers, can make a great deal of money from conflict.’

  Gabrielle continued. ‘The US has been in financial difficulty for years. Money loaned to Europe during the Great War was never paid back. Our stock market bottomed out recently. Our economy’s in trouble. Many people are out of work. Some are even starving.

  ‘President Craig is a popular leader, doing his best under difficult circumstances, but many believe another civil war is inevitable. All it requires is a match to ignite it.’

  Mr Doyle stood. ‘I think a late lunch is in order, and then some rest.’

  ‘Now?’ Jack asked. It seemed the wrong time for food. They had assassins hunting them down and Ashgrove hatching a terrible plan. Shouldn’t they be out chasing somebody?

  ‘Bodies are like engines,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘They must be rested to function at full capacity. Gabrielle, is there any way we can reach you?’

  She scribbled an address. ‘This is a shopkeeper on Sixty-Fourth Street. He is one of our people.’

  ‘We will be in touch.’

  Gabrielle thanked them and left. Mr Doyle ordered room service and soon they were all eating a meal of steak and vegetables. Jack was quiet, his mind reeling. He had once read a book about the American Secret Service. Their agents were always involved in hair-raising adventures vital to the security of the United States. Breaking spy gangs. Shooting evildoers. Protecting the president.

  ‘I didn’t realise a woman could be a Secret Service agent,’ Jack said. ‘It had never even occurred to me.’

  ‘This is why Brinkie Buckeridge is so important,’ Scarlet said. ‘Brinkie is a role model for girls. She shows them that they can go anywhere, think for themselves, be anything.’

  ‘My own thinking has been slow to change,’ Mr Doyle admitted. ‘Most of my ideas were born in an empire that is more like history than the modern world. I wonder sometimes if I should be stuck in a museum.’

  ‘No-one’s putting you into a museum,’ Scarlet said.

  Mr Doyle had the plates cleared away and Jack went to his room. Once again, both he and Scarlet had their own chambers. Jack installed Bertha next to his bed and for the first time felt some sympathy for the creature. He doubted that tarantulas liked bathing, and she had been drowned twice in the past week!

  Scarlet knocked on his door.

  ‘So nice of you to promote women’s rights,’ she said. ‘Every time I raise the issue, you look at me as if I’ve grown a second head.’

  ‘What? I don’t.’

  ‘Yet you become a raging suffragette when Gabrielle’s about!’

  ‘I’m not a suffragette! I mean, I am, but—’

  ‘And my novel had better be in perfect condition,’ she said, ‘or you’re buying me a new copy!’

  And with that, Scarlet turned and stormed out.

  Jack glanced at Bertha and sighed. ‘What was that all about?’

  By now it was late in the day. Jack found The Adventure of the Grinning Glockenspiel. Thankfully, it wasn’t too damp after his dunking in the harbour. He read for the next few hours until Mr Doyle announced that dinner had arrived.

  Retiring to his bedroom, Jack read a few more chapters before saying goodnight to the others and turning out his light. Staring at the ceiling, he listened to the sounds of New York. The city was still awake. Maybe it never slept. He heard the distant jangle of voices, the rattle of steamcars, the sound of horses clopping along the road. A billboard was gaslit on the top of the building opposite. It advertised ‘Williams Talcum Powder’.

  He heard Bertha moving about in her cage. ‘Your door better be locked,’ he mumbled, ‘because I’m squashing you if you get free.’

  The next thing he knew sunshine was streaming in through the window and someone was knocking at his door.

  ‘Come in,’ Jack groaned.

  Mr Doyle appeared. ‘Time to rise! I have a plan.’

  ‘For eggs and toast?’

  ‘For tackling Mr Charles Ashgrove!’

  Jack dragged himself from the bed, dressed and joined Mr Doyle and Scarlet for breakfast. Scarlet gave him a friendly smile, but he wondered about last night’s anger. She’d had a bee in her bonnet ever since meeting Gabrielle.

  On the street below, a fog had risen and the pavement swam with mist. ‘It’s as polluted as London,’ Jack observed.

  ‘Steamcar emissions are as much a problem for the Americans as they are for us,’ said Mr Doyle. There was a knock at the door. ‘Ah, this is what I’ve been waiting for.’

  A bellboy handed Mr Doyle a letter, and he read it as he ate his toast. ‘I sent a message to Gabrielle this morning requesting Charles Ashgrove’s address.’

  ‘Why?’ Scarlet asked. ‘Are we going to stake out his premises?’

  ‘No, my dear,’ he said. ‘We’re going to pay him a visit.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Are we there yet?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Not too long now,’ Mr Doyle responded.

  The road to Charles Ashgrove’s home in Maryland was in a terrible state. While the journey from New York had begun well enough on paved roads, the further from the city the worse the roads became.

  Now I know how an egg feels, Jack thought. After it’s been scrambled.

  The steamcab bounced along. More than once Jack’s head collided with the window. Scarlet lurched into the floor. Even Mr Doyle encountered some difficulty; an attempt to eat a piece of cheese resulted in it lodging in his left nostril.

  ‘I’m not sure I agree with your plan,’ Scarlet said, her red hair streaming across her face. ‘It sounds rather dangerous.’

  ‘If dangerous means getting killed,’ Jack said, ‘then I agree.’

  Mr Doyle had been staring out the window at the rollicking countryside. ‘Then we will be dead—or worse than dead.’ He smiled at the shocked expressions on their faces. ‘Never fear. I do not believe it will be the case.’

  Scarlet and Jack exchanged worried glances as they passed thick forests of pines and red cedars. It was lush countryside; Jack would have appreciated it under other circumstances. Now, however, he was too focused on their impending doom. Mr Doyle reached into his pocket and produced a mousetrap.

  ‘I was wondering where that went.’ He put it back, took out a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. ‘May I ask you a question?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Scarlet replied.

  ‘Would you agree that Charles Ashgrove has been like a puppeteer? Pulling the strings while others do his dirty work?’

  Jack nodded. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Then I consider it unlikely that he will change now. He may try to have us killed later, but I suspect the safest place for us will be at his property.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ Mr Doyle said, ‘I have arranged for a Secret Service agent to follow us.’

  They all peered through the back window of the steamcab. A vehicle trundled along behind them, and the man at the wheel, clean-shave
n with a small moustache, gave them a wave.

  ‘So we are not alone,’ Mr Doyle concluded.

  Another hour of bouncing brought them to a high wall surrounding a large property on the outskirts of Maryland. They passed through the gates and up an avenue of Carolina poplars. At the end lay a marble fountain decorated with angels and doves. A pergola covered in rose bushes sat on a hill. Charles Ashgrove is rich, Jack thought, and likes to show it.

  The house was a two-storey white timber building with Greek-style columns that reached from the porch to the pitched gable roof. At the front were six vertical windows with green shutters. Two chimneys jutted from the roof.

  It was a beautiful family home. Jack expected a pair of curly-haired cherubs to come racing across the field with a dog bounding along beside them. Their mother would be in a bonnet carrying a wicker basket. It was hard to believe a ruthless monster like Ashgrove could own such a pretty estate.

  Jack began to doubt Mr Doyle’s wisdom in coming here. The detective might be carrying his gun—Clarabelle—but he and Scarlet were not armed. Mr Doyle had taught them some martial arts, but Jack wasn’t sure how a punch to the solar plexus would compete against a gang of armed criminals.

  He should have brought Bertha!

  A tarantula to the face would stop anyone!

  The vehicle came to a halt with steam and smoke still bellowing from the engine. The driver agreed to wait as Mr Doyle, Jack and Scarlet exited, climbing the front steps of the home. The cab following them remained back on the road. Mr Doyle knocked at the front door.

  Jack leant close to Scarlet and whispered, ‘What would Brumbie Bucklelin do?’

  ‘It’s Brinkie Buckeridge,’ she sighed. ‘And she would shoot the lock off the door and hit Ashgrove with a right cross.’

  It sounded like a good plan to Jack. The door eased open, revealing a rather stern-looking butler with an angular face.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’re here to see Charles Ashgrove.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Tell him it’s Ignatius Doyle and companions. He’ll want to see us.’

  The door closed. Mr Doyle turned and gazed over the rolling countryside. ‘It’s lovely out here. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Very,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘Lovely,’ Jack agreed.

  A lovely place to die!

  The butler appeared wearing the same stern expression. ‘The master will see you in the garden.’

  They were led along a corridor. The floors were whitewashed timber. A massive staircase twisted in a great spiral, while an antique grandfather clock stood in the hallway. Through a doorway Jack saw a huge polished table with seating for a dozen people. There were antiques and palatial furnishings everywhere.

  The rear door opened out onto a small hedge garden with white metal furniture. Beyond it lay open fields. A large man with his back to them sat on one of the chairs, smoking a cigar. He half-turned at the sound of their approach.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mr Ignatius Doyle and his young protégés.’

  Charles Ashgrove was not a large man—he was huge. Every part of him was enormous. He was over six-feet tall and muscle-bound. Even his hands were oversized, like a bunch of thick sausages. Around fifty years old, he wore a white suit in the style of an old Southern gentleman. A greying moustache sat upon his lip like a caterpillar. A scar ran down the left side of his face. He looked like an avalanche waiting to happen; one wrong move and he would crush you without pity.

  ‘And you are Mr Charles Ashgrove,’ Mr Doyle said.

  The men did not shake hands. Ashgrove pointed to chairs. Jack was aware of how tiny he and Scarlet were compared to him. Even Mr Doyle appeared small.

  ‘I thought the time had come for us to meet,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘You have certainly sent us enough messages.’

  Ashgrove took his time lighting a cigar. He puffed on it hard. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ The detective leaned back. ‘You’re a terrorist, Ashgrove, responsible for the deaths of innocent men, women and children.’

  ‘Why do you care, Doyle?’ Ashgrove blew out smoke. ‘This is not your country. You can return now to London, resume your life and you will never hear from me again.’

  ‘Not hearing from you is a comforting thought,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘But it is not my way to allow criminals to go free.’

  ‘This is none of your business.’

  ‘The killing of innocents is everyone’s business.’ Mr Doyle paused. ‘I especially don’t appreciate your attempt on the life of my assistant.’

  Charles Ashgrove smiled at Jack and Scarlet like a T. rex sizing up its prey. ‘You have brought these two into this matter. If anything happens to them, the fault will be your own.’

  ‘Spoken like a true coward.’

  Ashgrove sighed. ‘You don’t know this country, Doyle. You don’t know its people. What they want. What they need.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘The South wants its own nation. Its own government. Its own president.’

  ‘I suppose you have a leader in mind?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do.’ The man butted out his cigar. ‘There’s a change coming, Doyle. The tide is turning and many will drown beneath its waves.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like a peaceful change.’

  ‘There will be retribution.’

  ‘How can you hate your own countrymen so much?’

  The man snorted. ‘You don’t understand me at all. I love my countrymen. It is President Craig and his cronies who have enslaved me and my people. The people of the South will rise up as the true masters of this nation and declare our independence.’

  Scarlet could remain silent no longer. ‘You are an evil man and you will go to jail for your crimes.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry for what you did to Frankie,’ Jack said.

  Ashgrove chuckled. ‘Children do not scare me.’

  ‘You say you have been enslaved,’ Mr Doyle spoke up. ‘Yet you are not under a whip. Not even a Whip of Fire…’

  Ashgrove’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Did you really think you could keep your secret from me?’ Mr Doyle continued.

  ‘The Whip of Fire is only one of the weapons in our arsenal.’

  ‘Developed with the assistance of Olinka Slate.’

  ‘Mr Slate has proven to be a useful acquisition.’

  ‘I would like to speak to him.’

  ‘That won’t be possible.’

  ‘Then we’ll be on our way.’ Mr Doyle stood. ‘It is terrible that you wish to bring such death and devastation to this great nation.’

  ‘Sometimes an injury must be cauterised before it can be healed.’ For the first time the big man’s face seemed to soften. ‘I want freedom for my people. Wouldn’t you fight to keep your country free? Wouldn’t you lay down your life for liberty?’

  ‘How many tyrants have hidden behind a flag of freedom?’ Mr Doyle said. ‘You killed an innocent child and I will not rest until you have been brought to justice.’

  Charles Ashgrove shook his head. ‘Then it is war.’

  ‘War it is.’

  ‘Understand this, Ignatius Doyle,’ Ashgrove said, leaning forward to regard him with dead eyes. ‘War is a game played without pity or remorse. Your end will not be swift. Nor will it be painless.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘What a lovely man,’ Ignatius Doyle said. ‘I must remember to send him a Christmas card.’

  The detective produced a lump of cheese from his pocket and offered it to Jack and Scarlet. They politely declined. He munched on it as the steamcab travelled back towards Manhattan.

  ‘I had hoped,’ he sighed, ‘to learn more from Ashgrove about the Whip of Fire.’

  ‘He called it a weapon,’ Scarlet recalled.

  ‘And something that Olinka Slate helped him to build,’ Jack pointed out.

  Mr Doyle frowned. ‘I am puzzled about the way Ashgrove referred to th
e inventor.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He said, “Mr Slate has proven to be a useful acquisition.” That’s not how someone usually refers to their employee.’

  ‘Maybe it’s just an expression.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  They had only been back at the hotel for a few minutes before there was a knock. Mr Doyle peered through the door’s peephole.

  ‘Miss Smith.’

  ‘Please call me Gabrielle.’

  She was now dressed in a sky-blue dress with white trim and flat shoes. ‘Tell me about your visit to Charles Ashgrove.’

  ‘He was as friendly as a cobra, and intent on tearing this wonderful nation apart.’

  ‘So he was everything you expected and more.’

  ‘Indeed. And Mr Slate is still in his employ, but as to the Whip of Fire: we can only speculate.’

  ‘Then we must pursue our own lines of enquiry.’

  ‘You have a lead?’

  ‘I sure do.’ She produced a piece of paper from her handbag. ‘One of our agents has reported a lot of activity around a warehouse owned by Ashgrove.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘The building has been abandoned for some time,’ she said. ‘And one of the visitors bears a striking resemblance to Olinka Slate.’

  ‘Then we should go there,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Jack, you may leave Bertha here on this occasion.’

  Gabrielle frowned. ‘Bertha?’

  ‘Jack’s girlfriend,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘She’s a tarantula,’ Jack said.

  ‘Don’t speak about your beloved in such a manner, Jack,’ Scarlet grinned. ‘It does not befit you.’

  Mr Doyle chuckled, explaining that Jack had no romantic entanglement with anyone, and Bertha was, indeed, an arachnid.

  ‘She’s actually great once you get to know her,’ Jack told Gabrielle. ‘That only takes about a million years.’

  They left the hotel. Gabrielle didn’t need to hail a steamcab—one appeared from around the corner. ‘I’ve arranged a Secret Service car for the day,’ she said, checking the driver’s badge.

  He was friendly-looking with a round face. He reminded Jack of a baker, as though he ate too many cream buns. Gabrielle gave him the address of a building on the West Side.