The Sensaurum and the Lexis

by Richard Dee

  Jessamine looked surprised. “Sold you?”

  “Yes, she had sold me to a man who supplied workers for the Rail Ryde company. People who dug tunnels and built brick bridges. They had paid her to take me off her hands. No doubt they were hoping to make the cost back by using me to build something.”

  “What happened?” Jessamine had heard of the forced labour gangs; men were desperately needed in the rapid expansion of the rails and the roads. To begin with, she had thought that only convicts were made to work in such conditions. The men were worked like canines, till they dropped, then they were stripped of any valuables and buried where they fell. Children were especially prized for their ability to get into small spaces and lay blasting charges in mines and rail tunnels. To have it confirmed that men were buying children to turn a profit didn’t surprise her; after working for Langdon, little was left that could shock.

  Jackson was still telling his tale. “They had me and several others in the back of a mobile, the driver was drunk, we were swerving all over the road. The Watch gave chase and we were all pleased, with luck it meant an end to our captivity. But the driver would not stop, he just laughed and drove faster. We saw nothing of his route, only our pursuers first gaining, then losing ground on us. In the end, we crashed into a wall and turned over, the back door opened. Before the Watch arrived, everyone else had run away, I had hit my head and was dazed. The Watch brought me to the orphanage.”

  “That’s a terrible tale,” she said, “and as much as any of my adventures. My childhood was boring, my mother died in childbirth, my father remarried, his new wife did not like me. She put me into the orphanage whilst he was away, serving in the army somewhere. To be honest, I was glad to be away from her. I miss my father terribly, I know not if he lived through the wars, I suspect not, as he has never returned to find me. It saddens me; the last I saw of him was when he marched off, in his uniform.”

  So they were both bruised by life. “But now we have a family,” she said. “As good as any made of blood.” She got up. “Come, let’s gaze on the city.”

  She set off again, through the trees they came to a clearing, they had swung around and were now facing back towards the river. Jessamine sat Jackson down on the grass, it felt as soft as silk, the warm air was on his face and below him he could see the river and the city on the north shore. All the smoke from the multitude of chimneys was blown away, over the sea.

  She spread the cloth on the ground and set out their luncheon. Jackson looked around, there were many other such scenes, this was the life he remembered. There was a pie and bread, some tomatoes and apples and a bottle of Mrs Grimble’s lemonade. They ate in silence for a while, Jackson gazing around at the city spread out below them, the sunshine on the river and in the distance, the sea.

  They ate and chatted about trivialities; the talk of their childhoods had changed the mood again. Jackson now felt able to broach the subject that had been bothering him. “You became cold to me, partway through my training, before you went away,” he said.

  “I’m sorry if I was distant,” she said. “I was preparing myself for a mission, but couldn’t tell you about it. I suppose that, as it was all new to you, you must have wondered what you had done.”

  “I thought that I was too forward, that night in the room when you dressed my wound.”

  She laughed. “You are naive, Jackson, maybe you were but that’s not always a bad thing. I wanted to kiss you but knew that I had to resist. Langdon frowns upon such activities between his agents. When you get to know everyone better, you will see the reasons. Then I got involved in an investigation and had to concentrate on that.”

  “Then we are still friends?”

  “Of course we are.” She took his hand. “The best of friends.” Jackson was pleased, it was a start; friends could always become more.

  “In fact,” she said, “now that you will have a little more time, there are things that I can teach you, that may help your new life.”

  “And what are they?” he asked. “Some more clandestine subterfuges?”

  She laughed. “Oh no, this is pure pleasure. It may be that you will need to blend in socially. I will teach you to dance, play cards, engage in small conversations.”

  Jackson was relieved; he had fretted about his lack of social skills. Seeing how the other agents acted together had made him nervous of joining in, concerned that he may have to do or say anything that would show up his lack of etiquette.

  “That will be fun, I need to know how to behave in company,” he said. “It’s all very well learning how to spy on folk if you can’t mingle with them.”

  She gently touched his shoulder. “You should not fret, you will soon grasp the elements. It will be something to look forward to.”

  “I still can’t believe what has happened to me,” Jackson said, as he ate his pie. Pastry crumbs dropped to the ground and small birds came nervously to peck at them.

  “I would guess that Langdon has had his eye on you for some time,” she said, taking his hand. “There are always things that are coming to a head, things that he needs to investigate, and no doubt you are the perfect one to do something for him.”

  What are they? Jackson could not think how he could be useful; he was nobody special, an orphan, his parents dead in a factory accident, six years in an orphanage. How could he help in matters of national security, the like of which would interest a man like Langdon?

  “Has he asked you about your home?” she asked.

  “Yes, in Cobblebottom, I told him all of it.”

  “And your parents, their lives and works?”

  “Everything. They worked in the Prosthesium, making artificial limbs for the government to dispense to war veterans and the like.”

  “Until an accident at the works killed them both,” she said.

  “How did you know that?” Jackson had never told anyone in the orphanage about his parents’ deaths; the subject was too raw. Except for one person. “Langdon,” he muttered, “Langdon told you.”

  She nodded. “Langdon spoke to me before I brought you out today. He has something in motion, I know not what it is but you are clearly important to it.”

  “And what else did Langdon say about me?” Jackson demanded, his voice rising.

  She changed the subject. “Nothing, no need for suspicion, Jackson, this is how it works. We are a small group and it’s better if we all know everything. Then nobody can use knowledge, or secrets, against us.”

  Jackson had to accept that explanation; in any event he did to want to spoil his renewed friendship. “What do we do now? You mentioned a meeting of some sort.”

  “Now we have eaten, I am taking you to meet a man called Clarence, although everyone knows him as Clarry. He is one of Langdon’s men, living as a labourer. It’s a good disguise; it allows him to be in all sorts of places without suspicion. He will tell us what is occurring on the streets, any little snippets of information.”

  They finished their food and set off, plunging into the streets of the artisans, with their wide pavements and genteel inhabitants. Jackson soon lost track of his bearings and had to hold Jessamine’s hand as they went into the areas where the manual workers lived; not that he minded that. Here the streets were narrower and more crowded, there were small furnaces and other works, the hiss of steam was ever present, clouds of the stuff billowed, disorientating him.

  The smell of hot metal gave the place a sinister air as workmen pushed past him, clutching barrels and sacks. “Avoid eye contact,” Jessamine advised. “Stay close to me.”

  In a matter of moments, he was totally lost; if he should he let go of her hand he would have no clue of his whereabouts.

  Jessamine suddenly stopped short. “Wait a moment,” she said. “I’ve dropped my glove. Stay here.” She let go of his hand and hurried away. Jackson was alone in a dark alley. He could feel the eyes on him, from inside the blank windows. People jostled him as they passed, carrying bundles, carcasses of porker and goodness kne
w what. “Get out of the way,” one growled. Where was Jessamine? He should have gone with her. Jackson shrank into a doorway, to his surprise it opened.

  Chapter 7

  “Come here, boy,” growled a voice. Jackson ignored it and tried to move back into the press of people in the street. “Boy, I’m talking to you,” it repeated. Jackson could not get away, a man now stood in front of him and there was the sound of a gas-gun being readied to fire. Before he could even move, Jackson was bundled into the dwelling, the door shut out the daylight.

  They were in a workman’s house, the carpet poor and walls stained with soot from badly trimmed gas lamps. A large man faced him, his huge arms folded over an ale drinker’s belly.

  There were three other men in the room; a large table held the remnants of a meal, the smell of cooked fowl was overlaid with that of grease and ale. They all looked up as Jackson appeared. “What you got there, Herbert?” asked the largest.

  “Found ’im outside,” Jackson’s abductor said. He was so close to Jackson that he could smell the ale on his breath, feel the heat from his torso. “Might have a bit of money on ’im I suppose,” said another. “Could be the Watch, spying on us,” suggested the third.

  “Put ’im in the chair.” Hands grabbed him; Jackson suddenly woke up to his situation and started to struggle. The men surrounded him and forced him into a large armchair, his wrists and ankles were secured with rope. At the last moment he had remembered his training, to make his body an awkward shape as they tied him, so that he would have slack in the bonds later. He braced his shoulders and legs against the chair, made himself as large as he could while they secured him.

  Jackson was starting to wonder; was he not a spy? He supposed that he might be, or at least an apprentice one, although not for the Watch. Would it make any difference if he said he was working on a matter of national security? No, he might be trained but he had no proof, no truncheons or quip-belt. Fairview had told him that if he was ever captured, he should endeavour not to volunteer information, to be calm and wait for a question. Then tell nothing, talk meaningless rubbish. How he wished that he had gone with Jessamine to find her stupid glove.

  “Now then.” Another man had come into the room; how many people lived here? wondered Jackson. This new arrival looked more like a leader than a follower, he was neatly dressed in a striped shirt and braces, with heavy corduroyed trousers. “What have you got for us, Mr Herbert?” he asked.

  “He was loitering in the doorway; reckon he’s up to no good.”

  “Well, were you, boy, up to no good?”

  “No, sir,” said Jackson, he felt relieved, this was all a misunderstanding. He could explain, they would let him go. “My friend was showing me around the city, she dropped her glove. I stood in your doorway to keep out of the way of the traffic while she retrieved it.”

  His story was dismissed by the man. “Oh yes, a likely tale; you, a well-dressed man, here with a lady, or so you claim. Where is she, what does she look like?”

  “She’s tall, with a red gown and bonnet, she has a basket, it had our luncheon in it. She will be here shortly and wonder where I am.”

  “Boys, outside and look for the lady, you heard what she looks like. I want a chat with our new friend.”

  “Right you are,” they said and departed, grinning.

  Jackson was now alone with the man. He stood in front of the chair. The silence stretched. Jackson was determined not to speak first, to let the other ask the first question. Even so, he began to wonder if that was the right thing. His abductor seemed to be considering his choices. Jackson pulled his hands against the rope, they were tight, but he felt a little room to wriggle. Even if he untied himself, he would be no match for the man.

  “Your story is all wrong,” the man finally spoke. “Nobody comes to this part of the city sightseeing, you’re up to no good, at least as far as we are concerned. And you found us, that means you knew where to look.”

  “You have it all backwards.” Jackson had decided on a plan. “You should have let me go, accepted that this was all a coincidence. Now you have admitted that you are worthy of scrutiny.”

  The man roared, “Ha! Is that the best you can muster? We must be guilty, or we would pretend innocence?” He moved forward and slapped Jackson’s face. The chair rocked, Jackson saw stars. “And do you think it matters, you will never see the daylight again to tell.”

  He drew a knife from his belt, a butcher’s knife, long bladed and thin. “See this blade? I spend all day turning porkers into food with this. You will join them, unless you tell me all the plans against us.”

  Jackson knew fear at that point. If he had been free, he could at least have tried to defend himself, as it was, he would be killed where he sat and his body disposed of with the rest of the offal from this man’s trade. Why had he chosen that doorway?

  “Why tell me of your plans then?” Jackson asked, surprised at how calm he sounded. The comment made no sense, he had been told no plans but he had been told to talk in riddles, to delay and to never reveal any useful information. At least Jessamine was free, provided the three did not catch her.

  The man picked up a piece of wood from the table and stood in front of Jackson. He held it in one hand and the knife in the other. He started to whittle; as the knife worked its magic shavings flew from the wood. “You will tell me why you came to this house,” he said, “or your bones will be carved in the same way.”

  Jackson’s bowels were churning and it was an effort to maintain control of them; he was sure his end was nigh. He knew not what to say; there was a commotion in the room beyond, a female scream. “Looks like my boys have her then. I’ll see if the lady is more open about your purpose.” He left the knife and the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Jackson relaxed his posture. Fairview’s advice had been good, there was a little room in his bonds. He tried to move the chair across the room. He had an idea. The knife was tantalisingly close. If he could just lean over a little.

  The chair toppled over, the crash brought the man back into the room. “Where do you think you’re off to then?” he said, picking Jackson and the chair back up with one hand. “I’m just talking to your friend; she tells it different, I fancy that she’s not as strong as you. Perhaps I should make you watch as I fillet her; it might loosen your tongue.”

  Jackson was silent; ignore the words, Patching had said, they are merely threats, pay attention only to actions. It felt like his plan had worked, the chair felt unstable, he had weakened the joints, would it be enough? The knife still lay where it was, now he needed quiet. Hard though it was, he needed to get the man out of the room, whatever it meant for Jessamine. He could not help her yet, but if he could get free and have the knife, all things were possible.

  “Go then,” he said, “do your worst with her, make me watch if you must, it will not make me talk, I have nothing to say.”

  “You will change your tune when you hear her wail, see her blood flow and know you could stop it all with a word.” The man left, slamming the door.

  Jackson knew he had to be quick. He twisted his body and felt the chair’s right arm detach from the frame. Lifting his wrist, he bit at his bonds. He managed to untie his hand. From then, it was a matter of moments to release his other limbs. Standing quietly, he felt elated. He was free and ready to rescue Jessamine or die in the attempt. He picked the knife up from the table, moved to the door. There may be four men on the other side but that was immaterial if they were hurting Jessamine. His anger flared as he grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

  Chapter 8

  He was in a deserted kitchen.

  Cautiously he crept through the space; finding himself in a long corridor. He could hear noise from a room at the end. That must be where they had her. Holding the knife as Patching had shown, blade on top, finger underneath, he crept forward. The door was ajar, the noise not like any interrogation he had imagined.

  “Come on in, Jackson,” said Langdon. Wha
t was he doing here? Perplexed, Jackson entered a drawing room, thick with brocades and lace. A brisk coal fire burned in the corner.

  Langdon was sat in a high sided armchair sipping Char from a cup, the saucer balanced on his knee. Jessamine was talking to another lady, nibbling at some sort of cake. And the large man was stood by a table, which was laden with food.

  “Hello again, Jackson,” he said, extending one large hand. “I’m pleased to see that you’re holding the knife correctly, but you can give it to me now.” Jackson reversed the blade and handed it over

  “Sit,” ordered Langdon and Jackson complied; choosing a chair filled with plump cushions. He sank into its embrace and could bear it no longer. “Can someone explain what is going on?”

  “Certainly,” said Langdon, “and then a cup of Char. As you’ve probably gathered, this is one of my houses, where you will be safe. Now, let me make the introductions.” The large man moved forward, no longer threatening, now he seemed like a favourite uncle. “You’ve already met this man; his name is Clarence Riggs.”

  The man smiled. “Pleased to meet you, sir, my apologies for the slap, it will all become clear in due course.”

  Jackson shook the hand, his fingers lost to sight. “This is another strange day, no offence taken. Since I met Sir Mortimer, my life gets stranger and stranger.”

  Clarence laughed. “I reckon it has, and I would not be surprised if there were not more strangeness to come; your friend Jessamine is drinking Char with Mrs Riggs.”

  The other lady looked up at him and smiled, she had been turned away and he had not seen her face properly. “Hello again, Jackson,” said Mrs Grimble.

  “We wanted to see how you would respond to the threats against you and Jessamine,” said Langdon, “see if our training was bearing fruit.”