Prologue

The Bomb and the Dead Men

1.

THEY WERE THE fingers of an artisan, and they worked quickly—he didn’t know how much time they had. The choking smog that descended, night after night, on the streets of Westminster had bought them a few minutes, but no more. They were out in the open, and even with Potsdam on guard he felt vulnerable. The opalescent sheen of soot and chemical residue would mask them only for so long—if the prying eyes of Scotland Yard’s finest got within a few feet of the monument even the dimmest of their number would quickly realise that something was terribly amiss.

He clicked the timing mechanism’s ratchet into place. A proud man, he couldn’t help but feel satisfied by the elegance of his design, one built to please his eye as much as it was built for murder. He’d often been mocked due to the time and effort he took in producing his little devices—but let the others use jam jars, scrap brass and broken watch springs. To him, his trade was as much about producing works of art as it was about making engines of death.

With the timer in place, he began to wind the handwheel like a seamstress at her machine. A constant stream of clicks, inexorably increasing in volume, began to emanate from the clockwork mechanism in the bomb’s elaborate housing. From somewhere behind him Potsdam growled his disapproval—this was too much noise. Klopstock agreed, sweating despite the cold. If Potsdam got riled the clicking would be irrelevant, drowned by noises far louder and fleshier in nature. He looked up from his kneeling position to the eyes of his watchdog, but as usual, the thick round discs of black glass he wore gave absolutely nothing away.

As he wound the wheel he tensed, sympatico with the spring he was tightening. He looked up at the monument. Erected in 1886 to commemorate the British killed at the Battle of Bous, the plinth held two soldiers standing back-to-back, one British, one German. At their feet lay a French shako, tipped to one side. Klopstock bristled. He found the whole thing insulting, and would’ve spat on the ground had propriety and excellent schooling not curbed the instinct. To be relegated to a hat on the ground—that was as much recognition as this ham-fisted sculptor would give the French, lacking the spine and the imagination to go against instructions from his over-privileged, overfed and autocratic paymasters.

With the timer fully wound, Klopstock reached to the back of the device to ensure the clamps holding the dynamite were sufficiently tight. There was only one last thing to do—sliding the polished wooden lever inset onto the front of the device would release a catch attached to the timing mechanism, dropping a ball bearing into a cradle that sat beside the fuse. If the bearing hit the metallic sides of the cradle, it would complete a circuit, activating a clockwork arm that pulled a pin from the timer, causing it to run down almost instantly and then, Klopstock thought—and he couldn’t help but allow himself a wry smile at the vulgarity of it all—boom. His mother would not have been proud.

As he reached for the lever, the sound of boot-steps from behind him made his spine turn to steel and his head whip round. Potsdam stepped forward, one monstrous clodhopper crunching the debris on the cobbles, his dark grey greatcoat almost imperceptible against the night. Klopstock held out a hand to stop him, and Potsdam relented. But only just. Breathing out steadily, Klopstock brought the lever across and heard the almost imperceptible tap! as the ball bearing fell from its housing. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stood up and turned around, suddenly glad for the cool night air and the dimness of a London lit by the hiss of gaslamps.

And found himself looking at an unmistakable silhouette, roughly six feet in front of him. The domed hat, the cape…there was no mistaking a member of the constabulary. If Klopstock could see him he could surely see Klopstock, but Potsdam was standing slightly further behind. The smaller man brushed the grime from his knees and wordlessly urged his hulking companion to step back into the night, and be ready.

“Bit late in the day for a constitutional, isn’t it, sir?”

His nose was pockmarked and ruddied by rum. Under his helmet were bulbous cheeks and a moustache that, despite obvious and continual waxing and trimming, still managed to look unkempt. But his eyes…they were sharp and keen, and despite the ruptured capillaries that betrayed a drinker, tonight was one night when this particular constable had abstained.

“Not at all, officer, not at all!” beamed Klopstock. “For I am, you see, a member of that curious breed known as the artist. My mind is as restless as paper scraps in the breeze, sir. As active as a tiger by night, sir. As fanciful as these great ships that take us to the stars and back, sir. I am here—” and Klopstock breathed in, puffing out his chest and spreading his arms wide, “—for inspiration.”

“Well,” replied the policeman, raising an eyebrow. “I doubt you’ll find it here, sir.” He stepped closer to Klopstock, who smiled at him beatifically. “Have you been drinking at all, sir?”

“Not a drop, constable. Not a drop.”

“And your place of residence?”

“No fixed abode, officer. I am but a dandelion seed on Melpomene’s wind.”

“Melpomene, eh? I see. If you could just step over here, sir? Into the light. I wouldn’t mind asking you a couple more questions.”

“Of course, constable! Of course! Although if you’ll excuse my impertinence, I must beg you to not delay me too long.” The policemen stopped and eyed Klopstock wearily.

“Inspiration suddenly striking, is it, sir?”

“Not at all. It’s more a matter of patience, you see.”

“When it’s police business, sir, you’ll be as patient as I need you to be.”

Klopstock made a noise at the back of his throat, something caught between a tut and a snort of laughter.

“Ah, well, that’s it, isn’t it? The thing is, it’s not my impatience that you need worry about…”

A figure, fully a head taller than policeman—helmet and all—appeared from the smog. A massive hulking rectangle of a man, dressed in a docker’s greatcoat, scarf and an almost comically undersized bowler hat. He seemed to be made almost entirely of black, the only specks of brightness on his person the dim reflections of gaslight in the welding goggles strapped to his face. The policeman whirled round, but too late! Without even time to yell or dash away, the policeman’s neck was gripped and he was lifted, eyes bulging, a full foot-and-a-half from the floor. And yet he did not feel the flesh of man tightening around his throat—there was nothing but cold bars of metal pressing the very life from him.

He began to kick out, booting the monster in the chest and groin, but to no avail. On the contrary, this only seemed to enrage the beast, and he lifted the policeman higher still. For a moment that lasted forever in the unfortunate constable’s mind, and yet was no more than a brief moment in the life of the world, he was held up high and granted one last look at the stars above London, dimmed by a chemical smog. And then with brutality the body was brought down and the skull was smashed on the gritty, sewer-soaked cobblestones of Horseguard’s Parade.

Like a dog with a rag doll, Potsdam straightened his arm and offered the corpse to his companion for inspection.

“Ergh, I don’t want to see that,” said Klopstock. “Throw it in the river.”