Out of Time: . (Steamside Chroncles Book 1)

by Symon A Sanderson

  “A shrink?”

  “A psychiatrist, to see if I’m telling the truth.”

  Jacob stared into his brandy glass.

  “I’m not crazy and I don’t want to be locked away in an institution.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Jacob so firmly that it surprised both of them. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and put his brandy glass down onto his lap, “I give you my assurance that won’t happen,” he said in a quieter voice. Jacob looked up from his glass. “You don’t seem particularly threatening.”

  Kate smiled, “Thank you,” she said. Her smile faded, “I just want to go home.”

  Jacob looked back into his brandy glass. The joy he felt being with his daughter had faded and had been replaced with frustration at his inability to help the forlorn figure sat with him. He lifted the glass to his lips and finished the brandy off in one gulp. He put the glass back down. “As I said earlier you are welcome to stay until we can find a solution to your predicament,” Jacob pushed his chair back and stood. “Now if you would excuse me it has been a long day.”

  Kate let a bland smile spread across her face as she watched Jacob leave the dining room. She sat in silence until she heard a small cough behind her. Kate looked around and realised Ivy was standing behind her, waiting to clear the table. She rose and went to her room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The remainder of the interrogation had been short before Amos Coleman had been taken from the Watertown Armoury to an airship passenger terminal in Boston. He had been given an envelope containing information and photographs of persons of interest. Thumbing through them several times on the journey to London, he realised he already knew most of the faces. They were his old crew from his days in the Caribbean. They had been arrested by the British and gaoled in Kingston, Jamaica. Amos already knew this but what was news to him was that the prison compound had later been attacked by three airships and the prisoners freed.

  There were a few people in the photographs Amos didn’t recognise. Solomon Polperro was one, described by the agents as one of the richest men in the empire. Another was the scarred face of a man by the name of Harry Finch. “Find Finch and the cargo won’t be too far away,” the agent had told him. Amos watched through an oval porthole as the airship glided down toward the huge passenger terminal on Wimbledon Common. The gondola’s keel settled into the dry dock as the gentle throbbing of the airships steam engines descended into a soft hum.

  Catching a train to London Bridge Station and then a cab as far as Commercial Road, Amos ran his thumb along a chain and pulled a small watch out of his waistcoat pocket. It was almost five-thirty. He marvelled at how bustling parts of London were at such an early hour. In comparison the London Docks were eerily quiet, a consequence of the flying ban no doubt, thought Amos. He looked over the roofs toward the West India Docks and could clearly see where the restriction ended as lines of airships were waiting to dock and be unloaded. Amos walked to the Blackwall Stairs and around the side of the prosperous docks towards a pylon where an airship belonging to The Imperial Freight Company was tethered. Amos thoughts went back to the photographs the agents had shown him and he wondered how much of the company Polperro owned.

  Amos watched as crates and bags were lowered to the dockside in rope webbing and quickly transferred to steamers waiting on the Thames. He saw one small steamer turning into the River Lea and several more at the rail lines beyond. It was difficult to believe that nearly everything he looked at could be owned by one man. His train of thought was interrupted by a voice booming over the steam driven cranes.

  “’Ere, what are you doin’?”

  The man had climbed down from one of the larger steam cranes and was walking toward Amos in a way that suggested his intentions were not friendly.

  “I’m looking for work,” said Amos.

  The man was well over six feet tall, powerfully built and Amos could see the doubt in his eyes.

  “You don’t look like a dock worker to me,” he said.

  “I’m not,” replied Amos, “but if it floats I can sail it.”

  “You’re American?”

  Amos spun round on hearing the new voice. Emerging from the shadows of a warehouse was a man with a large burn mark on his right cheek. The unmistakable face of Harry Finch.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Finch.

  “The promise of work,” said Amos sticking to the agreed plan. “There was a large cargo held in Liverpool bound for Miami, It would have earned me a great deal of money had Her Majesty’s troops not located the compound and confiscated everything. Now I have to earn enough money to get home.”

  A sudden noise behind him made Amos drop sharply to his left. It wasn’t sharp enough as the large man’s fist landed above Amos’ right ear. Amos rolled to his left and had got to his knees when his assailant’s hand gripped him by the neck and lifted Amos clear off the ground. The giant inhaled and lifted Amos slightly higher. Sensing he was about to be slammed into the ground Amos grabbed the man’s lapels, swung his legs back and landed his knee with as much force as he could into his attackers groin. The man doubled forward and released his grip. Realising he only had one chance, Amos grabbed the man’s hair and forced his head down, bringing his knee up as hardas he could. The resulting crunch of the bone and cartilage as the man’s nose shattered convinced Amos that his last strike could be a little more measured. Pushing the man’s forehead back with the palm of one hand, Amos delivered a punch to the man’s jaw with all the force he could muster. Amos’s assailant fell onto his side, un-conscious.

  It was only then Amos realised the pain had returned to his injured shoulder. Whilst the wound was not as bad as he had first thought, he could certainly do without aggravating it any further. The sound of a man clapping made Amos turn back to Finch.

  “Very good,” said Finch. “Very good. Although that doesn’t look like the first fight you’ve been in.” Finch pointed a cane with a bulbous chrome handle at Amos’s face.

  Amos rubbed his cheek and the bruise that was still there from his encounter with the American agents. “Not everyone is as hospitable as your friend here,” said Amos nodding toward the prone man.

  Finch smiled, “You don’t fight like a copper.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I have to be sure about the people who work for me. Can you pilot a tug?”

  “I can sail anything you’ve got…if the price is right.” Said Amos, flexing his right hand.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Coleman. Amos Coleman.”

  “Well Amos Coleman, keep walking down the dock,” said Finch, “Until you get to the Dockmaster’s office,” Finch reached into an inside pocked of his coat and smiled when he saw Amos taking a step back. “Here,” he said offering Amos a thin, rectangular piece of brass about the size of his palm, “Show this to the Dockmaster. His name is John Hobson. Tell him Harry Finch sent you and what you’re good at.”

  Amos took the piece of brass from Finch and looked at the intricate pattern of holes and etching on one side.

  “Pin that to your coat and make sure everyone can see it. At all times,” Finch stressed the last three words before adding, “Do you understand?”

  “I understand. Thanks,” Amos looked down at the unconscious man. “What about him?”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll wake up when he smells the pubs opening.”

  Amos had watched as Finch turned and disappeared in the mist, before heading to the Dockmaster’s building.

  John Hobson was easy to find. Despite the freezing night he was in shirt sleeves and a waistcoat, calmly orchestrating an apparent free-for-all which surrounded him.

  “You need a tug-boat pilot,” said Amos.

  The man stopped, leaving the apparent chaos to its own devices, turned around and fixed his metallic grey eyes on Amos.

  “Says who?”

  “Says Harry Finch,” Amos showed Hobson the intricately designed brass plaque. “He gave me this.”
/>   Hobson studied the inscription for a moment, “Are you any good?”

  “I can sail anything you’ve got.”

  “Can you now?” said Hobson nodding slightly before motioning Amos to follow him to the main building.

  “Stand on that line,” said Hobson pointing at a faded whitewashed line that had been painted on the floor.

  Amos did as he was directed and watched as Hobson inserted a key into a lock in the wall, turning it twice before pulling down a wooden shutter revealing a small, square window which Amos now faced. He looked intently into the window but there was a dark tint to the glass, making the identification of anything behind it difficult.

  “Stand up straight and look at the window.”

  Again Amos followed the instructions and as Hobson pulled a small lever next to the window down Amos heard a faint whirring from behind the window and thought he saw something circular move. A camera lens, he thought.

  When the noise stopped Hobson nodded, satisfied the procedure was complete. He moved the lever back and pulled the wooden shutter back up. He walked to an impressive oak desk in the middle of the room where he opened one of the drawers.

  “Perhaps I should have smiled,” said Amos as he approached the desk.

  Hobson ignored the comment as he gave Amos a sheet of folded paper.

  “Take this to the Blackwall Basin and give it to the harbour gaffer. He’ll show you where you need to be.”

  Amos read the instructions before placing the sheet of paper into a coat pocket. He was about to ask a few more questions, but when he looked up he saw Hobson scratching figures into a large, leather bound ledger and realised his audience was over.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following morning Jacob was up early as usual when Ivy informed him there was a gentleman at the door wishing to speak to him urgently. The conversation with that gentleman, short as it was, led to Jacob being taken to the American Embassy at Grosvenor Gardens and being shown into a large, elegant office which had clearly been furnished to impress. A man with dark, collar length hair which was parted in the middle and a full beard and moustache was sat behind a large, mahogany desk. He rose as Jacob walked into the room and shook Jacob’s hand like he was an old friend. Jacob recognised him at once as James Russell Lowell, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James. He beckoned Jacob to a chair facing the desk.

  “Thank you for coming at such short notice, Doctor McKinley.”

  “Your messenger said it was of national importance.”

  Lowell poured coffee into two cups, handing one to Jacob before sitting down behind his desk.

  “I won’t waste your time, Doctor. There was a robbery three days ago,” said Lowell. “Nothing particularly unusual in that you might say except the location and what was stolen. The robbery took place when a small steamer was attacked on the Charles River in Massachusetts. It wasn’t carrying money or gold Doctor McKinley. It was carrying a number of crates that we are very eager to recover. Their destination was the Watertown Arsenal near Boston. Our Secret Service has reliable information that those crates were loaded onto an airship. We believe they were brought to London where they were unloaded at the East India Docks.”

  “This is all very interesting, Ambassador,” said Jacob, “but I really don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

  “The contents of the crates are top secret and we have no desire for them to fall into the hands of an unfriendly state,” Lowell flashed a cold smile, “or a friendly one for that matter.” Lowell took a sip of coffee before continuing, “I’ve been reading your file Doctor. It seems that before you came to England you did two years training at the Secret Service’s forensic laboratory in Washington, paid for by the American taxpayer.”

  An icy hand gripped Jacob’s stomach.

  “I trained as a Doctor, not a spy.”

  “You’re a surgeon and a damned good one. That’s why Sir Edward Riordan wants you to do the autopsy on the woman who was murdered at Lord Ashbury’s house.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We also want you to do that autopsy, Doctor,” said Lowell, completely ignoring Jacob’s question.

  “Why? What could the theft of your crates and the murder of that poor woman possibly have in common?” said Jacob, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  “We’re not interested in the governess,” said Lowell, “but doing her autopsy may be a means to an end. A body was fished out of Lavender Pond late last night. We’d very much like to have that body examined.”

  “Why don’t you just wait for the autopsy to be published?”

  “The publication would take several weeks, Doctor,” said a voice from the other side of the room, “and it wouldn’t be as thorough as we would like.” Jacob nearly spilled his coffee before managing to turn and see who the voice belonged to,

  “Henry Collins,” said Jacob. A large smile engulfed his face as he stood and walked towards the newcomer, “it’s been a long time. How are you?” The two men shook hands warmly but Jacob noticed there was no warmth in Collins’ face.

  “I’m well Jacob. It’s been a long time since we worked together in Washington.” He motioned Jacob to sit down again. “We believe the man found in Lavender Pond was involved in the unloading of the crates stolen from us. If he has handled the crates, or their contents, a stubborn residue would be left behind that even a day in the River Thames wouldn’t wash away. A simply administered test would give us the results.”

  “You believe that by doing the first autopsy they would allow me to do the second.”

  “I doubt they would turn down your kind offer,” said Collins.

  Jacob looked down into his coffee, wishing it were something stronger.

  “What if I refuse?”

  “It would be unpatriotic to refuse, Doctor,” Collins voice took on an unmistakably threatening tone and the atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed far more oppressive. “Besides,” Collins continued, smiling coldly, “we feel that by examining this body it may help you towards a resolution in your own personal circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?” Jacob’s mouth went dry.

  “Our agents have received information that the dead man was somehow involved in your wife’s death. I’m afraid the information was that sparse, but I would be surprised if you passed on this opportunity.”

  Jacob was silent for a moment before standing and placed his cup and saucer on the Ambassador’s desk.

  “Why me?” asked Jacob. “You’re the Secret Service, you have plenty of spies.”

  “We do indeed,” said Lowell, “but while the British didn’t invent spying they’re damned good at it. Officially we don’t spy on our friends. Unofficially, the British already know most of our operatives and if they start asking too many difficult questions they would soon be taken off the streets. You have two advantages, Doctor McKinley. Firstly you have been here ten years and there is no suspicion attached to you. Secondly, you have excellent contacts.”

  The full realisation of why he was being asked slowly dawned on him, “I’m not exactly on friendly terms with my brother-in-law,” Jacob pointed out.

  “I have no doubt your relationship will improve when you agree to do the autopsies, Doctor,” said Lowell.

  Jacob fell silent. He knew there was no way he could refuse. “What was in the crates?” he suddenly asked, not really expecting an answer.

  Lowell and Collins looked at each other before Lowell gave an imperceptible nod.

  “Cylinders,” replied Collins, “containing gas for a military airship.

  “Hydrogen doesn’t leave a residue, especially after a day in the river. So what’s so special about this gas?” said Jacob.

  “The cylinders didn’t contain hydrogen,” Collins explained, “they contained an experimental gas called Nydrolium. How’s your knowledge of airship construction Jacob?” he asked.

  “Fairly basic,” admitted Jacob, “a gondola which is underneath a rigid frame that co
ntains envelopes for gas. The gas is usually hydrogen.”

  “Accurate enough,” Collins nodded, “but the airship the Nydrolium was destined for was also of a new design. The outer gas envelopes would still contain hydrogen as usual. But there were two nacelles, about one-tenth the size of the hydrogen envelopes, into which the Nydrolium would be pumped.”

  “Why two different types of gas?” asked Jacob.

  “Nydrolium is extremely expensive to manufacture. The cost to use it in place of hydrogen in every ship in the fleet would be prohibitive. So, the hydrogen would be used for normal operations,” said Collins, “but as soon as it became necessary to lift anything heavier than normal, an electrical charge would be put through the Nydrolium. The effect is quite startling. The higher the voltage the more lift it creates. It can produce a lift several hundred times more than the equivalent amount of hydrogen. This means, of course, we can use either smaller airships or carry more cargo”

  “What kind of cargo?” Jacob already knew the answer.

  “Ammunition, artillery,” one side of Collins’ mouth curled upwards, “an entire Army division if the airship were big enough. And we could transport them to any part of the world faster than any steamship.”

  Jacob realised he had asked too much and now had no choice. He sighed, “What do you want me to do?”

  “All we want you to do, Doctor McKinley,” said Lowell, “are the two autopsies. As I say, a simple test on the male will be required,” Lowell nodded toward the door, “Mr Collins will explain the nature of the test and how he will collect the results.”

  Jacob looked around and noticed how wiry Henry Collins had become since their training days in Washington. He looked back at Lowell and nodded but Lowell had started reading the documents on his desk and Jacob realised the meeting was over. He walked to the door to be shown into a smaller room by Collins. Jacob watched as Collins opened a drawer to a small table and removed an envelope and a plain wooden box the size of two cigar boxes on top of each other.