Chapter Eight

“Murder in London Town”

1.

THEY RETURNED TO Russell Square a day later than planned, largely due to Edwin’s developing friendship with Burroughs. Nathanial would not have thought Burroughs would be the kind of man that would attract Edwin’s interest, but there was something about his dynamic and blasé attitude that appealed to Edwin. For his own part, Nathanial occupied himself with a long country walk and developing new designs for various limb replacements; designs that verily excited Burroughs, who had politely asked to retain them so he could show the designs to his engineers later in the week. Nathanial was happy to allow this, which, he now considered, was odd since he was usually so protective of his work. Perhaps Burroughs had impressed him almost as much as he had impressed Edwin, although in a different kind of way.

Sometimes such things could be so confusing.

It was a new decade, and, Nathanial decided, it had got off to a relaxed start—but a promising one. After the last few weeks, he had wondered if things would ever return to some semblance of normality, but moving to London had been a wise decision. Doors were once again opening for him, doors that allowed him to move forward, away from the disastrous events of the last few months of 1889. One such door was found in the rather opulent shape of Archibald Lécuyer; something Nathanial had not expected, and, he had to confess, it was still something to which he was not entirely sure how to react. If he embraced the life Archie offered him there would be consequences, perhaps damaging ones. Could he countenance such a thing now that his career was on the path he always wanted it to be on? He needed to seek the advice of older and wiser people, but in all honesty who could advise him on such things? Times were changing, and the older people often had the hardest time adapting to such change.

Nathanial stopped at the foot of the steps leading to the door of Thirteen Russell Square, and looked up at the building. Edwin proceeded up the steps, and stopped at the door. He looked back.

“Nathanial, please, we have travelled long and I am tired. Not to mention cold.”

For a moment Nathanial ignored his brother. He would have to talk to Archie, express his concerns about the damage such an acquaintance could mean to his career. Perhaps Archie had a solution.

Nathanial took the steps, two at a time, and opened the door for Edwin. His brother dashed the keys out of his hand and ran up the stairs to the rooms on the third floor. It was such improper behaviour, but since Miss Carmichael was not about to witness it, Nathanial allowed it to pass without comment. Miss Carmichael was, he believed, still visiting her family and was due back later today. If he knew Archie, then Nathanial felt sure he would not allow his fever to stand in the way of her two days off. Archie was a robust man; Nathanial did not expect the fever to ail him for long. Nonetheless, he should probably look in on Archie before he settled himself at home once more.

He knocked on the door to Archie’s rooms and waited patiently. He did not expect Archie to bound to the door, although such a profuse response to Nathanial’s return home would not go amiss. Several moments passed. The first inkling of concern scratched at Nathanial, and he leaned in close to the door. There was no sound of movement on the other side.

“Archibald, are you there? It’s Nathanial, old man.”

Still nothing. Nathanial reached for the door knob, fighting against propriety, and began to turn it when Edwin shouted down from the floor above.

“Nathanial! Quickly!”

Something had clearly excited his brother, so deciding to attend to Archie later, Nathanial ran up the stairs and into the living area of his home. He staggered to a stop at the sight before him. His blood ran cold, his heart leaping into his throat. This was impossible!

Lying there, curled up before the burned out fire, was Archibald Lécuyer. A look of horror was frozen on his face; mouth agape, eyes wide. And in his hand, scrunched at the middle by his dying grip, was a rolled up piece of paper upon which were the schematics for the artificial leg Nathanial had demonstrated to Burroughs two days ago.

Edwin looked up from where he was kneeling next to the body. “Nathanial…he’s dead!”

2.

“THE BLUE LOCUSTS are on their way,” Edwin said, as he reappeared through the door.

Nathanial looked up from where he’d been resting his head in his hands. He was sat in the armchair beside the fireplace, barely inches from where Archie’s body lay, now draped in a sheet from the linen cupboard on the landing outside. “Really, Edwin, show a bit of class. We’re not from the East End.”

Edwin visibly bristled at the reproach, but he was clever enough not to argue the point. Instead he regarded his brother with some concern. “Once the local blue…erm, bobbies realise who you are, I am certain they will do everything they can to find out who the assailant was,” he said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.

“A very conscientious assailant, it would appear. Look around you, Edwin; do you see any signs of a struggle? Did you notice any damage to the door when you entered?” Before Edwin could even put together a response, Nathanial continued, his tone harsher than had ever been directed at Edwin. “None whatsoever. And look where we are. Our rooms, Archie holding plans I drew up. There can no doubt as to who the intended victim of this crime was.”

The penny dropped as soon as the words exploded from Nathanial’s mouth.

“You mean you? Nathanial, why would anyone wish you harm?”

It was a fair question, but one Nathanial had no answer for. It was perfectly clear to him that the murder of Archie, no doubt in the mistaken belief that he had been Nathanial due to the pure circumstances of his location and the paper in his hand, had to be connected to the events he had experienced from the moment he stepped foot back on British soil at the beginning of December.

Things were unravelling around him again.

What a fool he had been!

“It makes no sense,” Edwin said, after he realised his brother had no answer for him. “Lécuyer looks nothing like you. How can anyone possibly confuse the two of you?”

For a moment Nathanial was dumbfounded by the enthusiasm pouring out of Edwin; his entire being had become animated by the mystery. Not because he was excited by the prospect of someone wishing Nathanial harm, but rather because of the extreme difference from his rather humdrum life in Putney. For his own part Nathanial felt a sort of disjointment about the entire scene. He knew he should feel something other, perhaps an ounce of compassion for the life ended in this very room, but he had seen his fair share of death since embarking on his travels through the aether. Archie’s body was no less worse than Professor Fournier’s, found buried under tonnes of rock in the caves of Mercury, and was in a much better state than his friends whose bodies had been rented asunder when Peregrine Station had been dragged into the primal forces of the aether vortex.

He shook his head. This was no good. Beyond the obvious, there was certainly something wrong about Archie’s death that troubled Nathanial, although he was not sure the source of such. Perhaps allowing Edwin his moment of excitement might help.

“I would have thought the answer to that was obvious, Edwin. But please, consider the methods of that detective chap in Doyle’s story. Look, what do you see?”

“You mean you read the book?”

Nathanial nodded his head. “I am familiar with Doyle’s work, although obviously not as much as you.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Archie’s body. “Focus, Edwin, what do you see? Deduce from that!”

“I…” Edwin stepped further into the room. “Well, for some reason he is in your rooms, and as you stated earlier there is no sign of foul play to gain entry, which means Lécuyer must have had a key to these rooms. The assailant presumably also had a legitimate means of entry. A key to the premises? If not, then Lécuyer surely must have let him in.”

“I would suggest not, if Mister Lécuyer and the assailant had conversed, then it’s clear that Lécuyer’s identity would have been revealed by his regional accent. He is, quite clearly, not from Surrey.”

“If we believe Lécuyer was thought to be you.”

“We do.”

“Very well.” Edwin scratched his nose thoughtfully. “The assailant had a key, let himself in and found Lécuyer in this room. Ah!” He smiled ruefully. “Very clever, Nathanial. He holds plans you designed, and this assailant would take his presence in this room, and that he was holding the plans, as evidence that Lécuyer was, in point of fact, you. Brilliant deduction!”

Nathanial shrugged. “Elementary, I should think. Even a bobby would be able to work that out, would you not agree, Constable?” he asked, looking over Edwin’s shoulder at the door, where, indeed, a police constable stood. Nathanial had seen him stop at the doorway while Edwin first supposed how the assailant had gained entry.

The constable nodded. “Very good, sir. From all this, am I to take it that you are the rightful resident of this room?”

Nathanial stood and straightened his clothes. “Indeed, I am Nathanial Stone.”

The constable nodded. “Yes, I believe I have heard word of you. A professor, unless I am mistaken?”

“You are not.”

The constable walked further into the room, and knelt by Lécuyer’s body. “Foul play indeed, sir. And an interesting theory,” he added, glancing up at Edwin, who beamed in response. Nathanial shook his head, now shamed by his brother’s excitement. “But there will still be questions that need answering. I feel sure that my sergeant will wish to question you.”

“You don’t think Nathanial did this, do you?” Edwin asked.

“That’s not for me to say, sir. I’m only a bobby, after all.”

If Edwin took the pointed response to heart, it did not show. Instead he looked around. “Where is your sergeant, then? We need to get to the bottom of this.”

The constable frowned and stood up. He looked at Nathanial, who got an unmistakeable whiff of ale off the constable, and shook his head. “Does murder always excite this young man, sir?”

Nathanial opened his mouth to respond, but found he had no defence for Edwin. It was going to be a long day.

3.

“MY PREVIOUS WORKS have been tragedies in verse,” Fairfax Cartwright explained to Bedford and Annabelle. “They have been performed a number of times as well, but what I am working on now is a novel of The City, one which exposes the dalliances and infidelities of the richest and most powerful men in London.”

Bedford was not sure he liked Cartwright, and that knowledge brought with it a tinge of guilt. The Foreign Service officer had clearly saved Annabelle’s life, at considerable risk to his own, and for that Bedford had nothing but gratitude—or at least should have had. Perhaps, Bedford reflected, it was simply petty jealousy which irked him, the thought that someone else had supplanted him, even momentarily, as Annabelle’s champion and protector. That was unworthy, he knew, and yet it sat there in a dark part of his mind like a weed in a garden.

“I would think that publication a dangerous step for one engaged in government service,” Annabelle said. “Will it not anger the very men upon whose favour you rely for advancement?”

“I will publish it under a pen name,” Cartwright answered and made a dismissive gesture. “In any case, I care more for the truth than advancement. I entered the foreign service to serve Britain, but more and more I find myself answering to a small clique whose interests are contrary to those of the nation as a whole as often as they are in accord with them.”

Bedford wondered what protection a pen name would provide against the curiosity of men that powerful, or for talk which bordered on sedition if not outright treason. Scarce or none was his estimate, but if this idealistic fool was hell-bent on destroying his career, it was none of his concern. Bedford’s interests were more centred in the moment, and he had to admit that Cartwright seemed to know a great deal about the hidden world of London’s power and influence, a world entirely beyond Bedford’s experience.

They sat in the corner table of a tea room in Whitehall on King Charles Street not far from the Foreign Office building. Cartwright had slipped away from his office, supposedly on an errand, to meet them here. Bedford waited while a serving girl brought and served their tea and then left before he resumed in a low voice.

“What of Gordon’s masters?” he asked, bringing the talk back to their pressing concern. “What do you know of his department?”

“Quite a bit,” Cartwright answered. “His department is also mine, in a sense. You see, Major Gordon is with Military Intelligence while I am with the Foreign Office, but both come under the rubric of Lord Chillingham’s fief.”

“Lord Chillingham?” Annabelle said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him before.”

“He is the Lord Minister Overseas, and has been these last eleven years,” Cartwright said. “The two Lord Ministers, one for overseas and one for home, have oversight responsibilities for all actions of the government. In theory policy is made by the cabinet from Commons, and my department is run by the Foreign Secretary. But the Lord Ministers have so much control over promotion and advancement they wield enormous power over the bureaucracy. Nowhere is it more pronounced than in military intelligence, which Chillingham all but directs himself.”

“So Gordon is his creature,” Bedford said. It fit what he knew of Gordon, and what he had found out since the attack on Boxing Day—none of which elevated Bedford’s opinion of the man from his initial unfavourable impression.

“So I gather,” Cartwright said as he stirred sugar and cream into his tea after first offering both to Annabelle. “General Buller was made director of Military Intelligence about a year ago and he’s a bluff old soldier, not one willing to put up with Chillingham’s shadow games but not really able to put an end to them either—not without ending his own career and perhaps putting a noose around his neck in the bargain, ever since Salisbury drove through that damned Official Secrets Act last year. So Chillingham uses a handful of men personally loyal to him to carry out whatever jobs he wants done. I don’t know any of them by name, but it is now seems clear Gordon is one of them.”

“It must be convenient for the Foreign Office to have such a close relationship with Military Intelligence,” Bedford ventured but Cartwright laughed.

“They don’t tell us a damned thing. Buller’s people think we’re all in league with Chillingham and Chillingham’s act as if we’re agents of the French Commune. The best foreign intelligence we get comes from the Times, and whenever we have a particularly thorny question someone just pops over there and asks, confidentially of course. That’s where I’m supposed to be headed now, except I already know the identity of the new head of the Austrian legation in Brussels: a chap called Rudolf Graf von Khevenhuller-Metsch if you’re curious, although I can’t imagine why you would be.”

Annabelle looked up from her tea and for a just an instant Bedford saw a flicker of the fear and stress she fought so hard to keep hidden. “But why is Lord Chillingham doing this?” she asked.

“I regret that on that subject I am still very much in the dark,” Cartwright answered.

“Well without that I’m afraid all of this is interesting but not very useful,” Bedford said and immediately regretted the sharpness of his words. “Of course, one never knows the value of a puzzle piece until most of the pieces are in place,” he added by way of conciliation. For a moment Cartwright looked at him keenly as if trying to sort out what Bedford meant by all that but then nodded firmly.

“Quite right, and I will endeavour to discover more this afternoon. For over a week there has been considerable buzz in my office over the death of the Austrian ambassador, much of the concern seeming to come from above, and with the urgency rising than ebbing, which is curious. I will see where that leads me, and any inquiries I make along those lines will be fully justified by my supervisor’s concerns.”

“Thank you, Fairfax,” Annabelle said and placed her hand on his arm. “I am very grateful for your help.”

Fairfax? Bedford thought and looked at her. Cartwright seemed to expand in the face of her smile as a flower opening its petals before the sun. Bedford understood exactly how he felt.

4.

LÉCUYER’S BODY WAS carted away, and since neither Nathanial nor Edwin were suspects, the police allowed them the time for a late luncheon before they were required for questioning at the station. Edwin, still rather excitable about the whole thing, did not understand why they were required to attend Compton Place Police Station; after all it was clear that they had been out of town at the time of Lécuyer’s murder. Nathanial suspected they were being regarded as immaterial witnesses, since it was in Nathanial’s rooms that Lécuyer died, and no doubt that was due to a case of mistaken identity. Which meant that Nathanial was a targeted man, and this was a key factor in the case.

They arrived at the police station in Compton Place a few hours later. As they entered they passed two people who were leaving the building. A tall man, although a few inches shorter than Nathanial, who was well dressed in his Ulster cape and double-breasted overcoat, if a little on the exquisite side. The man spoke with animation to a handsome young woman, with the tanned skin of someone used to life beyond darkest England, who was undoubtedly a suffragette if her knickerbockers were anything to go by.

“That’s the nature of the police mind. They respond to authority.”

“Like when you ordered him to arrange a…post-mortem?”

“Exactly! Even a flat-footed imbecile like Sergeant Kyle knows authority when he hears it! Now, then, to the mortuary we go!”

“To talk to the Cockney’s witch-doctor?”

“One of London’s most eminent pathologists. Our visit to the Palace Theatre will have to wait.”

The woman shrugged, clearly not terribly interested in such a trip anyway.

Nathanial could not help but grin at their conversation. Flat-footed imbecile, indeed! He had dealt with many people in authority over the last couple of years, and Nathanial could not disagree with that man’s assessment. He noticed Edwin looking back at the woman, his eyes wide with wonder. “You would have adored Annabelle,” Nathanial said softly.

“Your American friend? Perhaps you need to introduce us, if she is anything like that Amazonian wonder,” Edwin said, eyes still lingering on the strange couple as they turned a corner onto Hunter Place.

Nathanial frowned. Would that he could! He was still awaiting further information from Sir Eleias, and, as they walked up to the desk, he wondered if Annabelle herself had any connection to Lécuyer’s murder. Not directly, of course, but whoever wanted Nathanial dead could well be after Annabelle next.

A police officer stood behind a desk, and looked up as Nathanial and Edwin approached. This was, no doubt, the flat-footed imbecile Sergeant Kyle. “Yes, gentlemen?” he asked, a singular disinterest in his voice.

Nathanial looked around. He was not accustomed to being in a police station. “I believe we are expected.”

“Very good, sir.” Kyle opened the small ledger before him. “Name, sir?”

“Nathanial Stone, and this my brother, Edwin.”

Kyle regarded the ledger, running his finger down a list of names. Nathanial peered in closer, in an attempt to assist, but pulled back at the glare he received from Kyle. As with the constable earlier, there was a definite whiff of alcohol on Kyle’s breath. Was every member of London’s Metropolitan Police Force a heavy drinker? If so, it certainly explained a great deal, Nathanial considered.

“I’m afraid you do not appear to be on the list, Mister Stone. Perhaps you could tell me what your business here is regarding?”

“Well…ah, a man was murdered in my rooms, and…”

Kyle stood up straight, his attention now fully focussed on Nathanial. “Murder, you say? Well, then, sir, that’s a different kettle of fish. Perhaps if you would care to…”

“That will not be necessary, Kyle,” came an imperious voice from behind Kyle.

Nathanial peered over Kyle’s shoulder and, for a brief moment, thought he was looking at Major General Sir Charles Warren, but then he realised the man was clearly too young…besides which, of course, Sir Charles died in mysterious circumstances in the summer of 1888, leading to the appointment of James Monro as Commissioner of the Police Metropolis. Grub Street had been awash with the news at the time, and they even tried to incriminate Monro in Sir Charles’ death, but as usual with the hyperbole of the London press such a story soon died on its feet. Nonetheless, the man approaching Nathanial bore a curious likeness to Sir Charles, possibly due to his massive Prussian style moustache, curling below the edges of the mouth.

“Professor Stone, good of you to attend. I am Inspector Starling, and will personally be looking into the death of Archibald Lécuyer.” He shook Nathanial’s hand, and looked to Edwin. “And who is this?”

“My brother, Edwin Stone.”

“I see.” Starling nodded sharply. “I do not think he will be necessary.”

“But, your constable told me to attend,” Edwin said.

“Regardless, your assistance will not be required, Mister Stone. Are you renting the rooms in which Mister Lécuyer was murdered?” Before Edwin could answer, Inspector Starling continued, “no, indeed. And are you the intended victim of this crime? I tell you again, no.” He smiled at Edwin, as a teacher to a particularly slow pupil, and turned back to Nathanial. “If you will accompany me, Professor?”

Starling returned the way he came, and paused at the open door. He looked back expectantly. Nathanial turned to Edwin.

“I am sorry, Edwin. Return to my rooms, I shall be as quick as I can.”

“But, Nathanial, I…”

“Edwin, please do as I say.”

It was clear that Edwin wished to argue the point, but Nathanial’s expression would broker no further discussion. Crestfallen, his brother turned and walked out of the police station.

“Professor?”

“I am coming, Inspector,” Nathanial said, and followed Starling through the door.

5.

“FORGIVE ME INSPECTOR, but I am confused. As I understand it, there are only four inspectors to each police division in London, so I fail to understand why you would be personally handling this investigation. Death, even murder, is not an irregular occurrence in London.”

Inspector Starling regarded Nathanial with caution. “Are you aware of Mister Lécuyer’s position in the government?”

Nathanial blinked. “He worked for the government?”

Starling nodded slowly. “Quite so, a civil servant of some import. It would not be a stretch to say that his word has often helped decide national policy. I can see this is news to you, Professor.”

“Well…yes. I mean, we never discussed his work, but I always assumed…” Nathanial shook his head. “Well, I do not know what I assumed, but I never imagined this!”

“It is not common knowledge, which is most prudent given his…eccentricities.”

Nathanial frowned. Eccentricities indeed! He had partaken in such eccentricities himself, and now truly wished he had not. If Lécuyer’s personal vices were known, then who was to say how many knew of Nathanial’s involvement? If such information was exposed publicly it would ruin his career before he had a chance to get it started again.

“Now you understand my interest. The department of criminal investigation will no doubt wish to get their hands on this case, but not before I do.” Starling smiled. “I have some questions for you, and if you can answer with complete candour it would be most appreciated. Not to say sensible.”

“Well, of course, anything I can do to get to the bottom of this debacle. Why someone would wish me harm is of great interest to me, you know.”

“Quite so.” Starling looked to the papers on the desk before him, and retrieved a pen, dipping it in the inkpot. “Were you aware that Mister Lécuyer had keys to your rooms?”

“He did?”

“Indeed. Keys for your rooms were found about his person.”

“Edwin and I suspected he must have had keys, since there was no sign of forced entry. But I have no idea why he would need such keys. After all, I was renting the rooms from him, and the only one who should have had keys other than myself is the housekeeper.”

“Miss Mary Carmichael,” Starling said, consulting his notes. “Yes, we shall get to her shortly. You are an inventor; were you working on anything important? The designs found in Lécuyer’s hands seem rather advanced. More work for Her Majesty’s Navy?”

“No, my ties with the Navy were severed last month. Since returning to London I have been working on private designs. Artificial limbs. Even now I have a company interested in purchasing the rights to use my patents.”

“And you do not find your bandaged hand a handicap in your work?”

Nathanial looked down at his right hand. He had removed the sling before leaving Putney, but still the hand was bandaged, reinforcing his weakened wrist. It would be a long time before those bones fully knitted together again. “It has been difficult, but not impossible.”

Starling nodded. “Determination is a sign of a strong man, Professor Stone. Could it be that someone feels threatened by your resolve?”

Nathanial shook his head. This was all too much. He had trusted Lécuyer, considered him a friend, and now it seemed Lécuyer had an ulterior motive for his interest in Nathanial. It was not financial, that much Nathanial knew, since Lécuyer was solvent enough. Someone wanted Nathanial dead, that much had become clear, but now it appeared that someone else had an unhealthy interest in him, only he knew not what. “I cannot account for why Arch… Mister Lécuyer would wish to procure my designs. What use could they be to the government?”

“Who is to say? In all likelihood this is unrelated, except in that Lécuyer was in your rooms, for whatever reason, and was mistaken as you.”

“Pure chance, I should say. Had Lécuyer not fallen into a fever, I daresay he would have not even been at home. As you are aware of his…ah, eccentricities, I am sure you understand. It is most likely he would have been away from home for the New Year.”

“And you would have been in residence?”

“Yes,” Nathanial said slowly, “had we not been invited to the country by Mister Burroughs to celebrate our new business partnership, I suspect I would have been at home.” He swallowed hard. “I would have been the one found dead.”

For a moment Starling allowed Nathanial the silence, to compose his thoughts. “The question remains, who would want you dead, Professor? What is important about you that is worth killing for? And how did the assailant gain entry? We intend to speak to Miss Carmichael when she returns.”

“She is running late,” Nathanial pointed out. He sat forward suddenly. “Of course! If she is, for whatever reason, part of this, then she is most likely not running late at all. But gone into hiding!” He shook his head. “Why is this happening to me?”

“That is what we’re trying to ascertain, Professor Stone.” An abrupt knock at the door interrupted them. Starling looked up sharply, not in the least amused. “What is it?”

The door opened and the last person Nathanial had expected to see walked into the inspector’s room. Nathanial was not used to seeing him out of uniform, nor with a full beard, but the sly smile he gave Nathanial was unmistakable.

The newcomer looked at Inspector Starling, who had the look of a child about to lose his favourite toy. “The investigation ends here, I’m afraid, James,” Captain Folkard said.