Steam & Stratagem

by Christopher Hoare

  “More Lapsang Soochong, My Lord?”

  “Thank you, my dear, if there is enough.”

  “No more for me, Miss Stephenson,” Worthington said quickly. “You and His Lordship may have mine.”

  Lord Bond shrugged. “I believe the train stops long enough at Tonbridge that you’ll have time to find an urn of working-men’s tea on the platform. I must own that there are times when I have welcomed such a brew.”

  “I agree, My Lord,” Roberta said with a smile. “There were nights in my father’s machine shop when some repair simply could not wait until morning, and a brief rest and a mug of hot, sweet tea served to set us all up for another prolonged effort.”

  Worthington broke into a cheery smile. “Aye—there’s nowt to beat a nice ’ot cup o’ tea.”

  Lord Bond shook an indulgent head. “But do you intimate that you toiled with the workmen, Miss Stephenson?”

  “I must admit it, even if you should think the less of me for my apprenticeship. My father always wanted a son that the Good Lord did not send him, and so he determined that I should roll up my sleeves and serve in a son’s place.”

  “Ah, I could see that you was well taught in mechanical arts, Ma’am. It do show to one who ’as took the same road.”

  Lord Bond stared. “Good Lord. I would never have supposed a young lady to be expected to engage herself in such a thing.”

  The train emerged into a brief daylight before plunging into the second tunnel. The grey smoke from the locomotive descended so low as to completely obliterate the view through the windows.

  “It was no hardship, My Lord. I enjoyed it—as I must presume do ladies of quality who take the art of horsemanship seriously and ride to hounds. They must be no strangers to rain and mud—and to the proper care of horses.”

  “Well, I do have a sister such as you describe. I swear sometimes that she likes to busy herself in the stables while the family is inside the house at whist or being entertained with a musical soiree.”

  The loud panting of the locomotive eased soon after they left the last tunnel, an indication that they were soon to stop at Folkestone. The smoke lessened enough for Roberta to catch a glimpse of the Channel where two gun brigs beat to windward across East Wear Bay. Was the whole of the war taking place on the other side of the strand?

  About twenty more passengers joined the train as it stopped for hardly more than two minutes at the Folkstone station. Roberta offered the excuse of easing her stiffness for standing to look out their station side door’s window. One white-haired gentleman with a small leather portmanteau and a rolled up newspaper climbed into the compartment ahead of them while a young couple with a nanny and four small children took possession of the one behind.

  She didn’t feel one whit reassured to see one of the foreign cavalry officers watching the arrivals and their new locations while leaning out his own open window.

  The guard stepped down from his position at the end of the train with his green flag in one hand and a pocket watch in the other, in preparation to waving the train on. A porter walked down the length of the train toward him crying, “Six oh four h’express from Dover an’ Folkestone leavin’ platform one for Asf . . . ord, Ton . . . ridge, Ri . . . gate, and London Br . . . k . . . lays Arms terminus. H’all aboard. Mine’ the doors.” The guard blew his whistle, waved the green flag, and stepped back into his cubbyhole as the train lurched into motion. The foreigner leaning out of the window in the carriage behind seemed to smile broadly at her as he withdrew inside.

  Such impertinence—Roberta pulled herself back and hoisted the window closed with a degree of irritation and more force than was necessary.

  Lord Bond raised his head from a small notebook as she withdrew from the door. “Anything interesting, my dear?”

  “That foreigner smiled at me. I told you they were neither English Officers nor gentlemen.”

  “Ah well. Did you perhaps consider that they could be Portugals or Spanish allies? I have met a few such since the war re-commenced.” He inclined his head in infuriating reassurance. “We will reach Ashford in thirty-five minutes. I will go to make their acquaintance while the train rests at the platform if it would calm your fears.”

  “They are not fears, My Lord. Only expressions of caution.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The next thirty-five minutes passed in near silence—save for the clack of the train wheels on the track and an occasional hoot from the locomotive whistle. Roberta reached into her portmanteau to find a notebook with her own notes for the Admiralty visit and buried her nose in it until the train rumbled across the bridge over the Great Stour as the locomotive slowed for the station.

  No mention was made of His Lordship’s visit to the foreigners as they waited for the guard to blow his whistle. Lord Bond pretended not to have remembered while Roberta held a strong resolve not to favour his negligence with a request. She did keep her eyes on the door and listened for approaching footsteps but refrained from showing any interest in passengers and railwaymen who walked past.

  During the run to Tonbridge, Lieutenant Worthington must have been fighting off boredom, for he worked to keep conversation going almost the whole way. “A great loss of your yacht, My Lord. Had y’owned it long?”

  Lord Bond looked up from his notebook. “Yes. Pity, that. I was growing quite fond of the old girl.”

  “I suppose the Admiralty maught recompense you?”

  “Oh, I doubt it. Their Lordships have a great many expenses far more pressing than mine.”

  “You’ll be lookin’ to replace it, then. I’m sure Miss Stephenson could recommend a good steam launch that would suit fine.”

  Roberta looked up with a valiant attempt to maintain a neutral expression. Lord Bond could not restrain a laugh.

  “I see you have an excellent salesman for your shipyard there, Miss Stephenson—once peace is declared. Do the Lords of Admiralty approve of your practicing your peacetime interests while on duty, Worthington?”

  The Lieutenant coloured deeply. “I meant nothing inappropriate, My Lord . . . Miss Stephenson. I meant nowt but an innocent remark, I assure you.”

  Roberta came to the rescue again. “I believe His Lordship is being facetious, Lieutenant. I believe we all know that the building of private pleasure vessels is forbidden during the war.”

  “Indeed it is. Which was why I had to purchase the poor old Foresight on her way to the breaker’s yard. She was at the end of her life when we left Ramsgate on our way to the Low Countries. But come—let us speak of happier things. When peace comes, what steam monster would you attempt to beguile me with, Miss Stephenson?”

  “For coastal use or able to sail to the Costa Brava?”

  “Ah, now you do tempt me. Is it possible for a steam vessel to range so far?”

  “Steam and sail for certainty, but one day I believe a steamship could power itself across the ocean to America.”

  Lord Bond pretended to cough, no doubt hiding an expression of great amusement.

  “That be a powerful long way, Ma’am. ’Twould take a mighty pile o’ coal—enough to sink most ships.”

  Roberta felt a flash of annoyance—every time she felt her opinion of Lord Bond rising he managed to demolish her judgement with another chauvinistic assault on her intelligence or her breeding. “I did not mean any ship or steam engines in existence today, Sirs, but projecting forward the improvements in efficiency we steam engineers have attained in the past ten years, I think the prospect to be anything but a subject for amused dismissal.”

  Lord Bond seemed to find difficulty in breathing. “We steam engineers . . . we . . . ? You must . . . certainly design me a steam yacht, my dear. I wait with . . . great anticipation to see your best work.”

  Chapter Eight

  An Extra Delay

  Tonbridge was visited and departed with little of interest, save Lieutenant Worthington managing to find a pot of tea to his liking and rush with it to their compartment as the train began t
o move.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” he gasped from the doorway as Lord Bond closed the door he had held open.

  “Capital show! You ran a fine race and didn’t spill a drop,” His Lordship allowed as he returned to his seat.

  Roberta had to smile at the two of them—like small boys rejoicing over a raid on an orchard to scrump some apples.

  The train left Tonbridge town but its acceleration seemed much less than had been usual at other departures. The smoke from its chimney had reduced remarkably—enough that Lord Bond went to the door again and let down the window to look out.

  “There appears to be a flagman at the side of the track,” he announced over his shoulder.

  “The accident to the goods train, I presume,” Roberta offered.

  “I am sure you are perfectly correct,” Lord Bond agreed. “We are very close to Chiddingstone Causeway, I’d wager. Perhaps the soft ground there had some culpability in the derailment.”

  Lieutenant Worthington joined His Lordship at the window as they slowed some more and reached a place where the sounds of busy clanging and hammering came to them. Roberta had a glimpse of something being raised by a steam crane mounted on a goods wagon, but the two men almost obscured her view. The train went only a hundred yards farther before stopping completely.

  “I thinks they mus’ be buildin’ up the track, afore us ventures farther, My Lord.”

  “I believe you’re correct.”

  As soon as the train squealed to a stop, Roberta’s nerves began to tense. Was this the location the Frenchmen—or whoever they might be—in the second class carriage had waited for? She looked at her male companions, engrossed in the repair of damage to the track and the rescuing of the tumbled wagons. Neither of them watched the other access to their compartment.

  She turned on her seat to face it. At that moment the door started to open.

  She barely had time to grasp the pistol in her muff before someone outside flung the door wide. A man with a kerchief over his lower face clambered up from the track level, a pistol grasped in one hand.

  He stopped, half in and half out, as he saw her. He raised the pistol.

  Behind her she heard her two men scramble away from their door. She could not wait for them; the man was about to fire.

  She took aim on her largest target, the middle of his chest, and squeezed the trigger.

  The powder smoke of her shot hid her target for a moment. What if she’d missed? The man’s pistol discharged.

  Smoke cleared in time for her to see the weapon fall from his hand as he fell backwards out of the doorway.

  “Good shot, my dear.” Lord Bond rushed past her, his own pistol in his hand. Lieutenant Worthington was beside her the next moment, bending over solicitously. “Were you hit, Ma’am?”

  Was she? She’d felt nothing.

  Lord Bond leaned out the open door to fire a shot. Over his shoulder he called back to Worthington. “Look up, man. The ball went wide.”

  Roberta and the Lieutenant glanced upwards to see a small patch of daylight in the roof.

  “Get out your door, Worthington, and round up some railwaymen. I winged the other blighter but he’s limping away westwards. Lead a party to catch him, there’s a good fellow.”

  Roberta was almost afraid to ask. “What about the first man?”

  Lord Bond graced her with a smile as he turned to let himself down. “You’d best stay in your seat, my dear. Should you feel in need of a restorative—you do look a trifle pale—you will find a flask of the best French brandy in a pocket of my overcoat. Take what you need—I’ll look to your opponent.”

  She felt that was good advice, she did feel queasy already, but this was a time she needed to be strong. She stood and walked to the carriage door to lean out. Her view of her victim was somewhat obscured by Lord Bond, but not enough to hide a great deal of blood on the sleepers and gravel roadbed. “Is he . . . ?”

  “As a doornail.” He glanced at her over his shoulder while his hands went through the man’s pockets. “If you are as good an engineer as you are a pistol shot, I’d grant you could design a really cracking new ship.”

  Roberta didn’t answer, being concerned with settling some unease in her stomach. The dead man was the foreigner who had smiled at her. A voice came from behind, through the open door Worthington had left behind himself.

  “Wot’s goin’ on in ’ere?”

  She turned to see the guard from the rear of the train. “Some foreigners attacked us,” she said, standing upright and walking toward the door. The faces looking in backed up hurriedly and she realised she was still grasping her pistol. “Awfully sorry about that,” she said as she put it away. “You are the train staff?”

  “Aye, Lady.”

  “Please go to the engine driver and ensure he does not prepare to leave until we have secured our assailants. Lord Bond has one on the other side of the train. The man is dead, but the other one is attempting to run away.”

  Lord Bond found nothing on the dead man’s person—in itself a strong indication these two were trained desperados and not some amateur footpads. He picked up the discharged pistol. A military issue that could be from an English or French armoury after twenty years of war.

  He looked up as Worthington and the railwaymen returned with the limping fugitive clasped between them by a dozen arms.

  “I am innocent victim.” The man pointed at Lord Bond. “This man has murdered my brother. We were in need of help. Our door fell open. My brother fell out. We look for assistance.”

  Lord Bond held up the pistol. “With this?” He looked toward Worthington. “Did he carry a weapon?”

  Lieutenant Worthington held up another pistol. “This one, My Lord. Prussian made, by its markings.”

  The train guard appeared, wearing a worried frown. “We mus’ continue our journey, My Lord. We shall put the whole railway all behind else.”

  “Very well. I need a few items for your attention. Firstly, I need this body and the prisoner loaded into your goods van. Second, I want you to find those English sailors who boarded the train at Dover and order them to report to me at the aforementioned van. Third, I want someone to sit with Miss Stephenson in our compartment until the Lieutenant and I return to her at Reigate. She could be upset after the shooting affray, so some steady matron or a clerical gentleman would be appropriate.”

  The guard duly reported “Yes, My Lord” after each order, and stared down at the corpse.

  “Well! Get on with it.”

  With the help of the railwaymen he and Worthington carried the corpse and prisoner to the guard’s door and hoisted them up. The sailors arrived soon after, a bosun’s mate and three seamen who had been detailed to collect a draft of pressed crew from the poorhouses in London. “For the brig-sloop Penguin, My Lord. Fittin’ out at Dover.”

  “Good. We have this prisoner to hand over to the Admiralty in London. I believe him to be a French spy. Take this pistol and load it. You report to Lieutenant Worthington, here.”

  “Aye aye, My Lord.”

  When the train prepared to resume its journey, all was in the order Lord Bond had directed. The spies were secured in the goods van with their naval escort, and after a quick search of their vacated compartment, Lord Bond rejoined them. The train guard waved his green flag and blew the order to leave, and the locomotive responded with blast of its steam whistle. The engine driver waved to the working men at the side of the track and they replied with waves and huzzahs: so began a triumphal progress anointed by the defeat of the French attackers.

  “Remove all the clothing from the body and search it thoroughly for hidden items,” Lord Bond instructed the bosun’s mate. “Worthington, you and I are going to do the same for the live one.”

  The man regarded them with alarm as they approached. He gave out a heavy groan and clapped a hand to his bloodstained thigh.

  “I only winged you. Don’t make such a fuss, man. We will dress your wound once we have searched you—if you have
cooperated.”

  When Worthington pulled off the man’s jacket, Lord Bond turned it inside out and began ripping the seams with a small folding knife he kept in a pocket. The prisoner groaned in dismay when the knife found a weaker seam where Lord Bond located a folded paper. He opened it up to look at ten blocks of meaningless letters arranged in a square pattern.

  “Instructions in a secret cypher,” he remarked in a jovial tone to the sweating captive. “Enough to hang you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Chaperones

  Roberta wanted to help the men apprehend the fugitive spy, but her nerves would not cooperate. The hand that had fired the fatal shot would not cease its trembling. Striving to keep her senses and entertain only thoughts compatible with logic, she insisted to herself that this must only be an effect of the pistol’s discharge and its recoil against her wrist. Even so, she decided it would be wiser not to expose herself in this distressed state and remained within the compartment.

  She did look out when she heard the men return with the prisoner, but withdrew inside and closed the door when they prepared to lift the body and carry it away. As a consequence, she expressed surprise when the train guard arrived at the other door to her compartment with two middle aged ladies and some track navvies with a makeshift set of steps.

  “His Lordship h’instructed me to bring these ladies to ride with you . . . on account of how he will not be able to return until the next station stop.”

  “Oh. Is there something wrong with him . . . or perhaps Lieutenant Worthington?”

  “Not as I knows, Ma’am. I h’understands he will be h’interrg . . . h’interr . . . ah, questioning the prisoner in the goods van.”

  The steps were set in the doorway and the first of the ladies helped to ascend. When she reached the compartment she bobbed in a polite curtsey—which Roberta reciprocated.