Chapter Four

“An Offer is Made”

1.

JACOB FOLKARD thought it odd that he should be summoned like this, especially since he had requested to stand down as captain of HMAS Sovereign, and was now enjoying a period of rest while the Admiralty considered his request and the reasons he had given. Nonetheless, rest or not, he could hardly ignore someone of Rear Admiral Cavor’s standing. That the place of the meeting should be Charlbury in Oxfordshire added an unexpected mystery to the summons. And if there was one thing Folkard rather liked, it was a good mystery.

He was picked up from the rail station in the nearby town of Chipping Norton by one of Cavor’s footmen, and enjoyed a pleasant carriage ride through the country. It was not often that Folkard was afforded the opportunity of a day in the English countryside, his Earth-bound duties often centred around big cities like London, and so he enjoyed the bracing air. He was bundled up warm, a blanket provided for his legs by the footman, and had a great coat and scarf wrapped about his upper body. He had dispensed with the goggles once he had boarded the train in London, but he retained his flat cap. It had been some time since he had been able to step out of uniform, and was already in the process of growing a beard. He was uncertain of his future, and supposed that it was such that Cavor wished to discuss with him.

The carriage was pulled into the grounds of a small country house, and Folkard smiled at the sight. It had been many years since he had visited the admiral’s ancestral home. As Folkard understood it, the land had been owned by Cavor’s family since Anglo-Saxon times.

He alighted the carriage and was guided by the footman into the house, past the large central stairway, and into a drawing room. The footman collected Folkard’s hat, coat and scarf, requested he wait in the drawing room, and retired.

Folkard was not a man known for waiting, and Cavor knew this, which, Folkard reflected, was exactly why the admiral saw fit to make him wait. If it were any other man, regardless of rank, such behaviour would irk Folkard quickly. As it was, he and Cavor had a long history in their respective naval careers, going back some twenty years, and everything Folkard knew about being a captain he had learned from Cavor. Including the necessity of testing a man’s character. Hence the waiting game.

Finally the drawing room door opened again, and Rear Admiral Herbert Cavor walked in. Like Folkard, Cavor was out of uniform, which further suggested that the summons to Charlbury was unofficial. Folkard’s curiosity piqued once more. Small talk ensued, during which Cavor tugged the bell-pull and ordered the butler to bring them two glasses of the best local beer. Folkard remembered this to be that which was brewed by Hitchman’s Brewery in Chipping Norton, and with the first sip he recalled how much he had missed the thick taste of it. He had travelled as far as an aether propeller was able to take a ship, but nothing compared to homemade beer. Not that Chipping Norton was home, but it was close enough.

“Forgive my insensitivity, old man, but am I correct in surmising that your current state of indecision has something to do with the approaching, ah, anniversary?” Cavor asked.

“It is still a month away,” Folkard began, “and although the loss of Charlotte will be forever felt, it does not dominate my thoughts.” He raised his glass. “But I appreciate your concern.”

Cavor nodded and took a seat near the freshly stoked fireplace. He removed a cigar from a small case on the table beside the chair, and offered one to Folkard. He accepted, and settled himself in the chair opposite.

“You have read my report on the recent mission to Luna?”

“Of course, and also the reports of Lieutenant Bedford. Although he never said as such, there was a certain, ah, tone in his report that suggested he agreed with your decision to step down as Sovereign’s captain. I must say, the idea that some alien intelligence is able to compromise the integrity of one of our finest captain’s is somewhat unsettling.”

Folkard watched Cavor’s expression carefully. Although the admiral would never say such a thing, the way he glanced away when saying “our finest captain’s” struck Folkard as significant. Cavor certainly held quite a lot of sway within the Admiralty, and it was he who had recommended Folkard for the position of captaincy of Sovereign in the first place. That he should take Folkard’s failure personally was hardly a surprise.

“I quite agree, which is why I’ve requested to stand down. Sovereign is the most advanced ship in the aether, and will always be seen to represent the best of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. As such it is highly likely she will often be called upon for missions involving Luna and the developments occurring there. To have a captain who will be influenced by the Heart whenever in the vicinity of Luna would be…problematic at best.”

“Yes, and so your request is quite prudent. I daresay the Admiralty will agree, and will no doubt assign you to sea duty henceforth. Regardless of your service record, the two missions to Luna notwithstanding, I cannot envision the Admiralty allowing you to command an aether flyer again.”

Cavor chewed on his cheroot, allowing Folkard to digest such information. Since he had returned to Earth, Folkard had felt nothing of the Heart, but he had to admit he understood the Admiralty’s concern. How many times would an aether flyer under his command have to pass by Luna? Would he feel the Heart’s presence, be influenced by its whims, whenever his ship neared the grey rock? Who knew what danger that would bring to his crew? Although he was not foolish enough to believe he was directly to blame for every death on the previous two missions to Luna, as captain he was responsible for every man who served on his ship. Every officer, even the ratings, understood the risk of serving on a naval vessel, but only the captain bore the responsibility. As such, the actions of a captain had to be above reproach. Influence by an alien intelligence of unknown origin was a risk of which Folkard was unwilling to expose his men.

“They would be right, sir,” Folkard said, a decision made. “Perhaps it is time for me to retire from naval service.”

“I say, that is a little hasty. Maritime commerce is still the life blood of the Empire, and protection of the sea lanes remains the overriding mission of the Royal Navy. Good captains are essential to that task. Do not let recent events lead you to think you are less than you are. In the past year you have proven yourself to be a worthy captain; your service on Sovereign has been exemplary, like the rest of your naval career to this point.”

“Perhaps, but…”

“Jacob, there is something else. I am going to tell you something very important, although it must never leave this room. You are, of course, aware of Project ‘G’, and Sovereign’s involvement. What you are not aware of, however, is the connection between Project ‘G’ and Peregrine Station. Since the station’s destruction certain things have come to light, but I am not sure I can trust the source of such things. I need your help in finding out the truth.”

“Me? I am a naval captain whose reputation is under some scrutiny. What help can I be?”

“You are, right now, in the perfect position, precisely because of your current standing in the Navy. Depending on developments with Doctor Grant, the Admiralty may well have the perfect mission for you. However, before that time I have a more, unofficial, mission for you.”

“Hence your invitation.”

“Quite so.” Cavor leaned forward in his chair, and lowered his voice. “Unfortunately reaching Doctor Grant and Miss Somerset is something I may have some difficulty with since they are held by the Crown, and Miss Somerset is being accused of treason…”

“Treason!” Folkard could hardly credit it. “That is a ridiculous accusation.”

“Yes, a despicable affair, and one I cannot be seen to involve myself in. You, however, are a resourceful chap and I daresay something will occur to you in due course. In the meantime, I do not suppose you are aware of what has transpired for Professor Stone since he returned to Earth, so I will tell you. But before that, be aware that the mission I have for you is one of utmost danger. You see, many lives are at risk, foremost among them Professor Stone’s…”

2.

ANNABELLE SLEPT POORLY the night following the meeting with Major Gordon and Mister Lincoln, troubled by confused and alarming dreams, some involving a hangman’s noose and others, oddly, a small girl with raven-black hair. She woke well before dawn, or what passed for it in the smoke-shrouded city. She conducted her morning toilet, dressed, and then assumed her now-accustomed position on the couch in the sitting room and, in the still pre-dawn gloom of a single gas lamp turned low, simply thought.

What now?

Her immediate desire had been to formally renounce her British citizenship but Lincoln advised against it. It would have no bearing on the legality of the treason charge, he explained, but might be viewed as confirmation of her antipathy toward the British crown. For a diplomatic envoy, Mister Lincoln then spoke very undiplomatically about the British government, or at least what he termed the “scoundrels behind this affair”, and expressed a conviction that they would attempt to distort and place in the worst possible light any action she took, no matter how innocently intended. Therefore she must now act with great circumspection, guarding even her conversations with the domestic staff of Dorset House, who were, after all, apparently employees of some government agency. Mrs Dubbner came immediately to Annabelle’s thoughts.

Yes, act with circumspection—but act how? What options were now open to her, aside from awaiting the decision to charge her and then fighting the charges in court? If only she had someone she could talk this through with. Where was Nathanial? Why had he not visited?

For that matter, why had she not heard from George Bedford? On those last few days aboard HMAS Sovereign she had felt as happy as she could ever remember, comfortable in his company, sharing meals, sometimes simply reading together. His duties as acting captain of HMAS Sovereign would have occupied him for several days after landing, but once he learned she was being held as a prisoner he would have sent word to her or tried to see her. She might have doubted that once, wondered if concern for his career would make him reluctant to contact an accused traitor and saboteur, but no longer. If George had not contacted her, it would not have been due to faintness of heart. That thought brought a smile to her eyes, but the other possible explanations for his absence troubled her.

She must have dozed on the couch because she awoke with a start at a knock on the sitting room door.

“Major Gordon to see you, Miss,” Stanhope announced after she had called for him to enter. The butler turned up the gas lamps as Gordon entered and bowed, the leather portfolio again under his arm.

“Have you come with more evidence against me, Major?” she asked once Stanhope left them, and she gestured to his portfolio.

Gordon inclined his head slightly. “No, Miss Somerset. But I have a document which I believe may end this entire affair to everyone’s satisfaction. May I sit?”

This time she allowed it. If nothing else, Gordon had at least captured her attention. He sat, opened the portfolio, and drew out several pages of documents.

“I have been directed by my superiors to make the offer of a settlement with you, in which you will receive immunity from prosecution on all charges relating to the Peregrine Station incident,” he said.

“By your superiors, you mean General Buller?” she asked.

Gordon shifted in his chair and frowned slightly. “I am not authorised to disclose the source of this offer,” he said, and something about the way he said it made Annabelle think that the offer came from higher than some general in charge of military intelligence. “However the offer includes a letter to you signed by General Buller thanking you for your full cooperation in the investigation, commending you on your efforts to prevent the destruction of Peregrine Station, and extending the Crown’s sympathy for your injury sustained in that effort. Coming from the chief of Military Intelligence, it is as complete an exoneration as is possible under the circumstances and would make any effort to prosecute you effectively impossible.”

“I see. And what am I required to give in return?”

“A court will certify your uncle mentally incompetent. As his closest living relative, the court will appoint you his legal guardian with complete power of attorney. You, in turn, will transfer all rights to both the original Grant pattern and the Grant-Stone pattern aether propeller governor patents to the British crown, in return for a royalty paid on every governor manufactured and a life-time pension for both you and your uncle. It is, if I may say, a very generous pension.”

Annabelle sat quietly and for several seconds the only sound in the room was the steady ticking of the mantle clock above the fireplace, a sound so soft she normally did not even notice it.

“No.”

“Miss Somerset, I understand your reluctance, but please allow me to persuade you,” Gordon said, and for once there was a flicker of…something human, even compassionate, in his eyes. “Your uncle may recover and go on to other work, or he may remain in his current state for the rest of his life. If so, he will be unable to provide for you or himself. You are clearly willing to shoulder your familial burden with respect to him, for which I hold you in the highest esteem, but how will you provide for your material needs while also constantly tending to him? And that assumes you are able to prevail in court against the charges now in preparation against you. If you fail in your defence, who then will look after him? I ask only that you consider these things before making your decision.”

“Thank you, Major Gordon, for your advice, which I must assume you offer with the best of intentions. However, my decision remains unchanged. Please be so kind as to convey this answer to your superiors, whoever they might be: no, and again, no.”

3.

THE SAVILE CLUB, located in Piccadilly, was a place Nathanial used to frequent with great regularity. It had been some two years since his last visit. The lower halls were reserved for dining, while the rooms on the upper floors were reserved for the more exclusive members of the club.

One such member was the Honourable Sir Eleias Thomas, who greeted Nathanial warmly. They now sat at a table by a window overlooking Green Park, a view unmarred by the industry and aerial flyers that polluted most of the London skyline, a decanter of sherry standing between them.

“I must say, I did wonder if you would ever grace us with your presence again, Stone. When word of your adventures reached us, most of the lads expected you to return to bigger things than this club can offer,” Sir Eleias said, his Welsh baritone verily shaking the lid of the decanter.

“Stuff and nonsense, dear chap, I have always found the Savile Club quite adequate for my needs.”

“Ah! But that was before you became the creator of the aether propeller governor. I hear it will change the very nature of aether travel.”

Nathanial idly wondered how many more would make that mistake. He had not created the governor, merely improved on Grant’s original design. Although he supposed he ought to do something about the design patent, after all even though he had worked on it at the behest of Director White, he still owned the design. Or, at the very least, half of it. One more thing to put on his list of business to which he had to attend once he was settled in London.

“I think you hear too much, perhaps, Sir Eleias.” Nathanial offered his friend a genial smile and sipped his sherry. “I also think that perhaps your mind is better suited to law than to the application of the sciences.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Sir Eleias responded with a deep belly laugh. “However, it does pay to keep one’s ear to the ground. The details are scarce, but I hear talk that the political ramifications of your inventions are quite broad.”

Nathanial shrugged, and indicated the newspaper on the table. The headliner was the news that the Austrian Ambassador had been assassinated. “I do not care much for politics, as you know. Look at the inherent dangers in such things! I have experienced enough danger on my travels. Besides which I have only been back these past few days, and I am eager to return to inventing things of a more humanitarian benefit. I was never one for aether travel, and now my feet are firmly back on terra firma I see no reason I should leave again.”

“So, work shall now resume in Surrey? I hear many of the well-to-do end up in Putney, not to mention inventors. That Henry Fersey Brown chap resides there, does he not?”

“Yes, I have heard of Brown, but I have yet to meet him. Of course, I have been away for two years, so who’s to say how popular he is in Putney.”

“Much less so than you, I’ll wager.”

Sir Eleias was, no doubt, thinking he was being kind, but Nathanial cared so little for popularity contests. If Henry Brown wished to become the most renowned inventor living in Putney then Nathanial would not stand in his way. Indeed, to his mind, he had already settled on the notion that he would not remain in Putney for long. The last conversation he had with his father had cemented that. London offered many more opportunities. Which was, of course, the sole purpose for his visiting London the past two days.

“Things change, Sir Eleias. It is time I returned to London.”

“A superb notion!” said a voice Nathanial did not recognise. He turned to look up at the owner of the voice, and found himself facing a man of some girth, his large face surrounded by an abundance of hair. The man, his ruddy cheeks puffing at the large cigar in his mouth, smiled at Nathanial. “Forgive a gentleman for eavesdropping, but I could not help but catch the last of your conversation.” He reached out a large hand and grasped Nathanial’s in a heavy shake. “Archibald Lécuyer, your servant, sir!”

“A pleasure, I am sure,” Nathanial said, looking across at Sir Eleias, who was examining Lécuyer with some bemusement. “Mister Lécuyer, we were having a private talk, and do not care to be intruded upon. Such is the privilege of being a Savilian, no?”

“Sodalitas Convivium. Is that not our motto? Do we not make a point of talking to other Savilians regardless of previous acquaintance?”

Nathanial raised his eyebrows at Mister Lécuyer. There was no hint of a French accent to his voice, one of the many upper-class Englishmen with fancy French names that London seemed to attract. “Normally that would be so, however even Savilians know when not to intrude. Manners are never to be taken for granted,” Nathanial said pointedly.

“I have offended you, Professor Stone. Forgive me, for that was not my intention,” Lécuyer said with a bow, an impressive feat considering his bulk. “But I heard of your intention to return to London, and I assume you will need lodgings in such an event.”

“Erm, yes.”

Lécuyer beamed. “Then I am your man!”

It had only been a day since he had started making known his need for accommodation, and a decent London lab, as such no such abode had presented itself yet. Accepting the lodgings of a stranger was, in Nathanial’s opinion, unadvisable… But then, Lécuyer was a Savilian, was he not?

Nathanial bowed his head in a quick nod. “Then forgive me, and please do join us. That is, if Sir Eleias in agreeable?”

Sir Eleias was smiling. “Always interested in making the acquaintance of a fellow of the Savile Club, of course.”

“Then it is agreed.” Without further ado Lécuyer turned and retrieved a chair from a nearby table, not bothering to ask the occupants of the table if the chair was going free.

Nathanial shook his head slightly. It was rare to find such an eccentric gentleman in the Savile Club, and Nathanial had to admit, to himself at least, he was suddenly rather glad that Lécuyer had intruded on their conversation. He missed French eccentricities.

4.

THOMAS ST JOHN Curnoble, 28th Earl of Chillingham and Adderstone-Lord Chillingham to friend and foe alike-sat quietly at his desk in Westminster and studied the newspaper. He had already twice read the story of the assassination of the Austrian ambassador on the previous afternoon and how the bomb blast had killed seven and injured a score more-none of them anyone who mattered, fortunately. Franz Deym, the Austrian ambassador, had been a boring and harmless nobody, scarcely worth the powder to blow him up, and Chillingham could not fathom why anyone had even gone to the trouble. Now he simply studied the paper, as if the physical thing itself might contain some clue, and wondered what impact the spreading shockwaves would have on his plans.

Try as he might, he could not see how he could turn this to his advantage, or at least not his immediate advantage. The bomb plot would excite public alarm, the papers would demand action, and Chillingham would sponsor a bill, had in fact already drafted it, to increase the police powers of the Lord Minister at Home. That was Belvedere’s portfolio so no one would see Chillingham’s bill as grasping at power for himself, and Belvedere would later find a way to show his gratitude. All of that went without saying.

But as to his own projects, that was a different matter. He had engineered the secret cooperation with Austria over Project “G”, had even managed to turn the unfortunate destruction of Peregrine Station into a distraction from his own rather serious departure from the agreement on joint cooperation, and had then been able to keep Deym happy with distractions and half-truths when he came with his government’s questions. But now Deym was dead, and beside the newspaper a cablegram rested on his desk blotter, an official cable from Vienna announcing the appointment of Ladislaus Hengelmüller von Hengervár as Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary from the Imperial and Royal Monarchy of Austria and Hungary to the Court of St James.

Hengelmüller! A disastrous choice.

Ten years earlier, when Hengelmüller had been a senior assistant in the London Embassy, he had managed to extract a public apology from William Gladstone, head of the Liberal opposition in Commons, for an inflammatory and typically ill-considered anti-Austrian remark. Chillingham detested Gladstone and everything he stood for, and had applauded Hengelmüller at the time for giving the “Grand Old Man” his comeuppance. But Gladstone was one of the most stubborn men Chillingham had ever known—almost as stubborn as himself—and for Hengelmüller to have forced an apology from him…this was not another Franz Deym to be put off with flattery and vague promises.

And why was Hengelmüller available for the post? He had been expelled from his last foreign post, as Minister to the court of King Milan of Serbia, expelled because of a British raid into southern Serbia engineered by General Buller as his first act upon being appointed Director of Military Intelligence a year earlier—a raid in which the Austrian authorities had been persuaded to participate. Chillingham had been distracted at the time with the early work on Project “G”. Now he kept Buller on a tighter leash, but in this case the damage had been done. Hengelmüller had not been consulted—or even informed—of the raid and so the accusations of treachery against him by the Serbs must have been particularly distasteful. He had always struck Chillingham as that sort of stiff, conventional Austrian to whom the opinion of others mattered, and of course he knew that Military Intelligence came under Chillingham’s own portfolio: Lord Minister Overseas.

So an intelligent and determined ambassador, embittered at British policy in general and Chillingham’s shadowy tentacles in particular, would soon come knocking, representing a government increasingly suspicious of Britain’s intentions with respect to their sensitive secret agreement. Even the guttersnipe newsboy who sold him the paper had seemed to know trouble was coming. “Austrian Ambassador Assassinated!” he had shouted. “Angry Austrians Allege Anglo-Anarchist Atrocity!”

What a bother.

A soft knock came at his door and Fairweather, his secretary, stuck in his head. “Major Gordon to see you, your Lordship.”

“Send him in.”

Gordon had been with Military Intelligence for almost as long as Chillingham had held the portfolio controlling it, and despite his involvement in Buller’s fiasco of a raid the previous year, Chillingham had come to rely on him more and more. There was a coldness about him that Chillingham appreciated. Also, Gordon’s family had been Scottish but had moved to Northumbria a century or so earlier and as Chillingham’s ancestral holdings were mostly in Scotland and Northumbria, Gordon was one of his own. Not that Chillingham had any sentimental attachments of that sort, of course, but men of Gordon’s class set great store by it, and so the lord sensed a loyalty from Gordon which extended beyond simple uniform, rank, and assignment.

Now the young major came to attention in front of the lord’s desk. “Your Lordship,” he said.

“I hope you have good news for me, Gordon. It has been an unsatisfactory day so far.”

“I am sorry, your Lordship, the American woman refuses to sign.”

First Hengelmüller and now this. Without the Grant patents, everything else became meaningless. He sat considering that and presently heard Big Ben, at the other end of the Palace, chime two in the afternoon. He looked back at Gordon’s blank, loyal face. “More pressure, Gordon. She must sign.”

“With respect, your Lordship, can we be certain the Lord Chancellor will return the charges we desire?”

“Not your concern, Gordon…but yes, we can. The Baron of Halsbury wishes to become the Earl of Halsbury. Since it is already unheard of that a criminal lawyer—and that’s what he was, if you didn’t know—reach the woolsack, if he expects to advance further he needs my support. Besides, all it takes is a mention of Fenians, bombs, or communards and Halsbury begins foaming like a mad dog—and this business has all three. He will do what is required of him. Now you must do so as well. Take whatever steps are necessary, but get me her signature. If not, she will have to be put out of the way, but a signature would be less…complicated.”

“I understand, your Lordship.”