Chapter Sixteen

“A Fine Vintage”

1.

“Do you take me for a fool, Stone?”

Van den Bosch was having none of it. Nathanial had entered their evening insisting to see the inside of Professor Wren’s lab, claiming there might be a power drain somewhere within which could have rendered the stabilisers unable to function. Van den Bosch responded much in the way Nathanial thought he would, with outright refusal. They argued over it for several minutes, until Nathanial could see the administrator becoming frustrated, at which point he once again broached the subject of test firing the stabilisers.

“No, I believe you are quite a capable man, but you must understand, I cannot know what is wrong with our patient without examining it myself.”

“And so you construct this clever ruse. You do me a disservice.”

“You are asking me to ignore method, Doctor!” Nathanial said. “I am asked to take the word of others rather than make direct observation. I get the impression you want me to fail.”

Van den Bosch rumbled with laughter. “You’ve been listening to Miss Somerset, with her rumours of evil conspiracies. What would it benefit me to stifle your work? If Peregrine Station comes to grief, it is my reputation which will be ruined. If anything, I seek to maintain strict secrecy. If that interferes with your direct inquiry, so be it, but you must learn to approach the stabiliser problem from a different direction, one that doesn’t force my hand.”

Nathanial found himself about to roll his eyes, as he often did as a child during one of his father’s interminable lectures. He kept calm, though, and stayed any unnecessary gestures. The ruse, of pretending to argue with van den Bosch, was necessary. The administrator had to believe Nathanial was oblivious to what was happening. To do this, he had to stall with useless conversation. He need only last until dinner, after which he could confer with Holmes and the others. They had to know what Nathanial had discovered. Van den Bosch as saboteur added a different light to the mystery. Nathanial could expect no help from him any longer, nor could he solve the stabiliser problem through official channels. Reluctantly, he would have to employ his new friends, which was likely to place them in both physical and professional danger.

“What question, then, should I ask?”

Van den Bosch spread his hands. “I cannot answer that, for I don’t know. I can tell you this: you are looking in the wrong place with your power depletion theory. Moreover, I think you know that. Your curiosity is getting the better of you, Mister Stone, or rather, you’re letting it drag you in the wrong direction. You want to know the secrets behind this place, as do the others. But you should not mistake that selfish desire for pure investigation.”

“Play Devil’s Advocate a moment, Doctor. Say that I am working from pure motivations. What can you tell me that will allay my suspicions about the station’s power distribution?”

Van den Bosch was pleased. “Ah. Now you are approaching the matter properly, Mister Stone. Professor Wren was performing experiments on Peregrine Station under my orders. When he died, all of his experiments were either destroyed in the fire or were disabled by my staff. Thus, it would be impossible for any of them to be a draw right now.”

“What about an experiment you don’t know about?”

Van den Bosch sneered. “Don’t be absurd. Peregrine is not so large a place as to hide something drawing the kind of power it would take to render the stabilisers inoperative.”

Nathanial pretended to deflate in his chair, much to van den Bosch’s delight. “I don’t know how else to proceed,” he said. A dangerous idea struck him then, and before he could stop himself, Nathanial asked, “What about Professor Wren’s notes? Did he keep a journal? Perhaps a clue might be found there.”

Van den Bosch’s delight vanished with a stiffening of his posture. He cleared his throat and spoke, but his voice was tight. “A journal was found, but it contained nothing pertinent to our current concerns.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Of course. I arrived at the same conclusion when the stabilisers first malfunctioned, but there was nothing to be found in the journal.”

“What about his notes?”

“Again, nothing.”

“Could I see them?”

“Ah. But here you are again, Stone. Surely you must know I can see what you’re doing. From the notes you can discern what experiments were being performed, and those experiments form the cornerstone of the secrets this station contains. Of course you must know that I cannot allow you to see them.”

And so it went, for an hour or more. Nathanial feinted and lunged, while van den Bosch sidestepped or parried each assault. Finally their conversation was interrupted by a steward who entered carrying a bottle of wine. The tall man had a Prussian manner about him. He came to van den Bosch’s desk with the bottle cradled in his arm. He bowed, presented the wine for inspection, and set it on the desk once van den Bosch had approved of it.

“Where’s Sarp?” van den Bosch asked the steward, meaning the fat Turk who normally brought his evening wine.

“Busy at the moment,” the steward said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No. When is dinner?”

“We’ll dine within the hour, sir.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

The steward left as quietly as he had arrived.

The arrival of the wine meant an end to all argument. The only truly civilised characteristic van den Bosch appeared to possess was that he did not like for a conversation to end with animosity. They would instead share a glass of wine and discuss other matters until dinner was served.

The administrator heaved his bulk to his feet and went to rummage in a cabinet for his corkscrew.

“You remind me of Thaddeus,” van den Bosch said, at that same moment finding the corkscrew and snatching it from the drawer, which he closed. “Always so mule-headed.”

“I just wish you would be more forthcoming with what you know,” Nathanial said, half-believing that lie himself. “From my perspective, you’re playing games with other peoples’ lives, and I find it appalling.”

“I hope you never find yourself in so similar a game, Mister Stone.”

What? Nathanial almost leapt from his chair. Is this to be a confession?

“Has it ever occurred to you, that by denying you access to certain knowledge, I am in some way protecting you?” van den Bosch asked.

“Yes, indeed it has, but what is one life, compared to the dozens who will lose theirs if we must evacuate? You’ve said as much yourself; we cannot take everyone.”

Van den Bosch held up a hand. “This is a conversation for another time.”

Nathanial nodded, eager to be done with the whole thing. What he had thought was to be a confession had turned into a cloying display of false affection. He thought of the rumours, of people whose lives had been destroyed because of this monster, of the wreckage in Wren’s lab, of Wren himself, and how he must have screamed as he burned to death. Nathanial had no illusions as to where he stood.

“Good. Shall we drink then?”

The wine bottle proved difficult to open. Van den Bosch, for all his size and obvious strength, strained with the cork. “Wretched thing,” he grunted.

“There will be more wine at dinner tonight,” Nathanial said.

“I’d like a glass now, beforehand.”

“Why don’t they open it for you before bringing it? That way, it could breathe a bit.”

“I like to do things myself.”

“Ah.”

A curious set of events occurred then. Van den Bosch, clearly frustrated with the wine bottle, began to jerk the corkscrew, wrapping a powerful bicep around the bottle to provide a strong grip. One pull proved too hard, and he lost control of the bottle. It slipped from the crook of his arm, and a hand shot out to grab it. The grab missed, and he bobbled the bottle three times before losing it completely. It tumbled upward in the air as van den Bosch gave a cry of alarm, and fell onto the hard deck floor. The bottle then exploded with the crack of a gunshot, as if its contents were under extreme pressure. Van den Bosch cursed mightily.

That was when Nathanial noticed something was terribly, terribly wrong. He smelled it first, but then noticed a thick, noxious gas, tinged slightly green, billowing out of the broken wreckage. Van den Bosch gagged, and, gripping his throat, fell backwards into his chair.

“Poison!” Nathanial cried, and leapt across the desk. Van den Bosch slid from his chair, limp as a rag doll. Nathanial held his breath and began trying to drag the doctor away, but the man’s bulk was too great. “Jasperse! Come quickly!” he yelled with what oxygen he had in his lungs.

The gas cloud continued to spread, filling the room. Nathanial pulled hard on van den Bosch’s jacket sleeves. He still held his breath, and had squeezed his eyes shut for good measure, but his exertions were starting to wear at him. Already his lungs felt like they were on fire, and he’d barely moved the man a foot.

Jasperse burst into the room, carbine at ready. He saw the rapidly expanding green gas and pulled a kerchief from his coverall pocket, quickly tying it over his mouth and nose, and dashed forward to assist Nathanial in dragging the administrator to safety.

2.

Outside, they shut and locked the door. Nathanial fell onto the floor, gulping air.

Jasperse called down the hall. “We have a gas leak on British side, Doctor van den Bosch’s office. We need ventilations systems sealed in this area. Hurry!”

A voice from somewhere replied with an affirmative, but Jasperse was already at Nathanial’s side. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked.

Nathanial could only nod. Jasperse went then to van den Bosch’s prone form. He rolled the man over and placed an ear his chest. Nathanial could see a slight rise and fall in the chest.

“Did he get a snoot full of the stuff?” Jasperse asked.

“I believe so. He certainly choked on some of it,” Nathanial replied.

Men armed with carbines arrived in a few minutes, led by a grim-faced Hague. Salt was with them, but he looked lost, as though he had been caught up in the undertow of men and pulled along with it. Holmes arrived on their heels, black medical bag in hand. He moved to help Nathanial, who waved him off.

“I’m fine. It’s van den Bosch,” he said.

A quick examination confirmed Nathanial’s fear. “Frantic heart rate, and his breathing is laboured. We must get him to sickbay at once.”

“Will he live?” Nathanial asked.

“We won’t know for sure until I can observe him further.”

A litter was arranged, and six men laboured under van den Bosch’s bulk as they carried him away, Mister Salt with them. Hague and two armed men remained. Jasperse was nearby, eyeing everything and everyone. His gun had been left behind in the room, which was now sealed, but Nathanial had no doubt the man remained dangerous.

“How did this happen?” Hague asked.

Nathanial explained what had happened. My God, the steward! Nathanial wanted to scream. Sarp usually served the wine, but tonight, it had been a new man. He had tried to poison us. Van den Bosch had gotten a good look at him, though. If he survived, perhaps he could provide a clue.

“Who delivered the wine?” Hague asked.

“A steward. I’ve never seen him before.”

“A large gentleman? Turkish?”

“I know Sarp, Mister Hague. This was a tall chap, thin.” Nathanial thought hard. “Prussian!”

Hague squinted behind his small, prim spectacles. “Are you sure of this?”

“Yes.”

“That is unfortunate,” Hague replied. “Unfortunate, for there is no one on this station matching your description.” Hague nodded at his men, and they left. He turned back to Nathanial. “Return to your quarters at once. I’ll send word when it is safe.” Hague turned on his heel marched away.

Jasperse, ever dutiful, took Nathanial by the arm and started to lead him away. “Come now, Professor,” he said. “Mister Hague may be right about this. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

Nathanial pulled away. “No,” he said. “We’re not returning to my quarters. We’re going down into Hell.”

“Whatever for, sir?” Jasperse asked.

“I had wanted to confer with the others first, but we may not have a chance like this again. We’ve been speaking to the wrong side in this, Jasperse. Van den Bosch had the stabilisers disabled. He won’t help us.”

“So who will?”

Nathanial clapped the man on the back. “Get yourself armed and go find Provost. We’ll need all the help we can get. We’re about to go in search of Professor Wren’s ghost.”