Table of Contents

Copyright

CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

Space: 1889 & Beyond—Conspiracy of Silence

By Frank Chadwick & Andy Frankham-Allen

Copyright 2012 by Frank Chadwick & Andy Frankham-Allen

Space: 1889 © & ™ Frank Chadwick 1988, 2012

Cover & Logo Design © Steve Upham and

Untreed Reads Publishing, 2011, 2012

Cover Art © David Burson and Untreed Reads Publishing, 2012

Space: 1889 & Beyond developed by Andy Frankham-Allen

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Other Titles in the Space: 1889 & Beyond Series

Journey to the Heart of Luna

Vandals on Venus

The Ghosts of Mercury

A Prince of Mars

Abattoir in the Aether

Dark Side of Luna

To Ceres by Steam

Terror in the Clouds

A Tale of Two Worlds

http://www.untreedreads.com

“CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE”

By Frank Chadwick &

Andy Frankham-Allen

In memory of Ron Cronin.

10th June 1935—22nd February 2010

“Reverend Ronald Stone has lived with me for years,

He’s almost appeared in many stories, but

for reasons unknown he never quite made it.

Always inspired by you; your strong heart,

your passion, and your good humour.

Finally the world gets to meet him.

Godspeed, sir.”

Andy Frankham-Allen

Prologue

“Treason”

1.

“AETHER PROPELLOR SECURED and ventral mast shipped, sir.”

“Very good, Mister Barry.” Lieutenant George Bedford, acting captain of HMAS Sovereign, the most modern aether battleship in the Royal Navy, took a quick scan of the bridge instruments and engine room repeaters before turning back to the young sub-lieutenant. “At what would you estimate our drop, Mister Barry?”

Barry had only worn the single thick stripe of a sub-lieutenant for eight months and Bedford hadn’t known him as a midshipman. The youngster had a good level head on his shoulders, Bedford had learned that much about him several weeks earlier when the two of them had dropped half a dozen Saltators—giant lunar red ants—with revolver fire when the monsters had boiled unexpectedly out of the hatch of a cutter on the docking bay. His technical skills were another matter, but they were coming along.

Barry squinted through the lens of the horizontal inclinometer, aimed out the bridge’s starboard observation blister, consulted his pocket watch, waited ten seconds and took a second reading through the lens. He paused, doing the calculation in his head.

“I make the drop fifty-five fathoms per second, sir.”

Bedford nodded; he made it nearly the same. Fifty-five fathoms a second, a descent rate of almost four miles a minute, was a bit steep and on this trajectory would put them down in the North Atlantic instead of the English Channel, as well as scorch the lower hull. “Trimsman, let’s have fifteen percent buoyancy on the lifters.”

“Fifteen percent buoyancy, aye, sir,” the petty officer answered and went to work on his forest of levers, each controlling the angle of one of the liftwood louvers which covered much of Sovereign’s lower hull.

“Mister Barry, my compliments to Lieutenant Boswell and he may light the coal boilers at his discretion.”

“Sir.”

They wouldn’t have enough atmospheric oxygen for the boilers for another ten minutes or so, but Boswell, the chief engineer, knew that well enough. The sun was still visible above the curvature of the Earth and would remain so all the way down through cloud-free skies. Although it was not yet day in Southern England, the eastern sky would already be pink and the sun would rise full up in the hour their descent from orbit would take, racing as they were toward the dawn. The solar boilers would do until Boswell put the black gang to work, would probably suffice until the last ten minutes of the flight, when they would penetrate the near-permanent cloud and smoke cover over Greater London. No solar boiler yet made would work down under that grey-brown shroud.

Bedford took another look at the bridge, its gleaming brass instruments and polished mahogany panelling, and he sighed. In an hour, a bit more, Sovereign would be down and secure at Chatham Dockyard and his temporary command would end. There was no chance for a simple lieutenant with eight years seniority to land a permanent command such as this—the choicest command in the fleet, coveted by officers with two more stripes on their cuffs and with the all-important political backing and social standing he lacked. No, he would be reassigned. In the past he had always looked forward to a new assignment, but not this time. After commanding Sovereign, however briefly, no other assignment had the capacity to stir his blood. Damn, she was a fine ship!

More than that, she held memories. Were it not for his assignment to HMAS Sovereign, he would never have met and befriended Nathanial Stone, and would not now be delivering him to the police for trial as a traitor and saboteur. He would never have met Cyrus Grant, one of the greatest scientific minds of the age, now reduced to confusion and madness by their experiences on Luna. Most importantly, he would never have met Grant’s niece, Annabelle Somerset.

Annabelle…

2.

NATHANIAL WATCHED AS the line of Russian former captives was led to the steam omnibus waiting at dockside. The irony of their situation and his washed over him like a cold wave. Former enemies of Britain, they, along with British personnel, had been captured by the alien Drobates on Luna, and all had been rescued by Bedford’s daring raid, leading fewer than a dozen Royal marines and naval ratings. Now the Russians would be released, amidst much public fanfare, to the custody of the Russian ambassador, who would in turn express the heartfelt gratitude of the Tsar.

In the subsequent fighting which had nearly cost all of them their lives, the Russians had done nothing to help while Nathanial, with a captured Drobate electric rifle, had held a long, dim tunnel against an alien horde, and had done so nearly alone and with little expectation he would escape with his life. Now British soldiers helped the Russians into the steam omnibus, showed them every courtesy, while a quartet of hard-eyed constables marched purposely toward Nathanial, obviously intent on taking custody of him from the two Royal Marines who guarded him.

Nathanial had at least expected to be met by some sort of government official, have the charges explained. Instead a black police four-wheeler loomed behind the constables. Were they really simply going to pack him up and cart him off to prison with no further ado?

Nathanial looked for any sign of his friends. Captain Folkard, who had relieved himself of command of Sovereign after the disastrous events on Luna had played themselves out, was nowhere to be seen on the dock, but Nathanial spied Annabelle making her way to him on the arm of Lieutenant Bedford, both of them limping. Bedford had suffered a nasty sprain of his ankle on Luna and Annabelle… Months earlier Annabelle had lost her right leg above the knee and now wore a mechanical limb designed by Nathanial and built using Drobate technology over the course of the last few weeks. It seemed to serve her well, the only bright spot in this uniformly bleak scene.

“Is this Stone?” the leading constable asked.

“Of course it is,” Private Jones answered, bristling slightly. “And what of it, then?”

“It’s all right, Private,” Nathanial said. “It is clear enough they are here for me. If you gentlemen would be so good as to give me a moment to take my leave of my friends, I would appreciate it.” He addressed this last to the leading constable.

Instead the man gestured to his assistants. “Seize him and put him in the van.”

“No! Just a moment, please!” Nathanial entreated but to no avail.

Two constables pinned his arms to his side and pulled him toward the black carriage. A few yards away Annabelle cried out and broke free of Bedford, reached out to him. The leading constable made as if to stop her but Jones’s rifle was suddenly in his hands at high port.

“Touch the lady, friend, and you’ll be chokin’ on your teeth,” Jones growled and the constable took a step back.

“Nathanial,” Annabelle said and thrust something round, flat, and metallic into his hand, “take this and remember—never lose hope.”

The constables pulled him away and he saw George Bedford comforting Annabelle as the doors on the back of the van closed and plunged him into darkness. He looked at his hand and saw a small gold watch, gleaming dully in the faint light which entered through the overhead ventilator. He recognised it as the pocket watch her father had given her—which contained on its inside a daguerreotype of her deceased parents; the only thing she retained from that former life.

Never lose hope.

Chapter One

“Broken, He Returns”

1.

IT SHOULD HAVE been good to be back home, but as the steam-powered omnibus chugged its way across Putney Bridge, Nathanial reflected on how unmoved he felt about his return. He had been away for almost two years, his work taking him further from Surrey than he would have expected. The initial trip to Arizona, to work with Doctor Cyrus Grant on redesigning the prototype aether propeller governor, seemed like quite some distance. After all, at that point, although having travelled well throughout the United Kingdom, he had never left the land of his birth. Of course, that fateful voyage to meet and work with Grant was destined to be the first very small step in a much larger journey. And now, having left Putney early 1888 fresh of mind and full of ideas about his future, he was returning home at the tail end of 1889 tired and defeated, with a mind to curl up under the table in his lab and just let the world carry on without him.

He glanced up at the polluted sky, and the dirty snow that was falling. He was away from London, and thus the taint was minor, but even then he could see it was spreading. When he’d left Putney there had been no sign of such airborne soot, but now, the rapid growth of industry in London was spreading outwards, casting the surrounding counties in dirt and grime.

As usual several boats floated on the Thames either side of the bridge, although the majority of them were west towards Mortlake, away from the tripods that dredged the Thames nearer the city in the opposite direction. Several boats moored alongside the embankment by The Star & Garter. Nathanial smiled briefly as a few memories of youthful peccadilloes in the company of Josiah Hawksworth fluttered into his mind. He wondered if Josiah still spent most of his time boating on the Thames. Much could change in two years. So, so much…

Nathanial lowered his head and buried himself deeper into his thick coat.

The omnibus turned onto Windsor Street, but Nathanial looked up at the High Street, which was unusually quiet. Halfway up the High Street was Fairfax House. Part of him felt like alighting now, visiting the house he grew up in—a certain comfort would come from such an event—but instead he remained in his seat while the omnibus continued up Lower Richmond Road. He pulled the cord that dinged the bell, notifying the driver that he wished to alight. As the omnibus came to a halt, the conductor mounted the steps and reached the top deck just as Nathanial removed himself, with some difficulty (it was incredible how even the simple things became a task of some effort when you lost the use of one arm), from his seat.

“Your luggage, sir, if I may,” the conductor said.

For a moment Nathanial just looked at the conductor, who was surely only a few years younger than he. He blinked and nodded. “Of course,” Nathanial said, and allowed the conductor to retrieve Nathanial’s luggage from the deck. Only the gentry and their ladies rode the upper deck of the omnibuses, the cost for such a privilege being more than the working class could afford, and, for all his sins, the now-infamous Professor Nathanial Stone, ex-government employee, was, at least outwardly, a gentleman. As such a person, the conductor was more than happy to assist the gentleman in the sling, with the expectation of a healthy tip, of course. Riding an omnibus was like spending a night in a swanky hotel, Nathanial mused, aside from the soot.

Once safely on the pavement, he fished into the pocket of his waistcoat, careful not to disturb the broken pocket watch, and handed the conductor a sovereign. “May she bring you more luck,” Nathanial said, and received a puzzled look in return. Nathanial smiled sadly beneath his cloth mask, and went to doff his hat, only to remember he did not possess one. Instead his cold hand found a mass of dirty and wet ginger hair, sodden by the slush that passed for snow in London Town.

“Thank you, sir,” the conductor said, and hopped back onto the omnibus which chugged away, billowing a trail of smoke in its wake.

Nathanial readjusted his sling, making sure the wrist of his right arm was at least a little comfortable, before picking up his Gladstone bag, thankful that it was only his right arm that had been so badly damaged in the…scuffle…at Chatham Convict Prison. The resident medical officer at the Dockyards had seen to his wrist yesterday; the damage had been done, Surgeon-Lieutenant Marter had claimed, and all they could hope for now was that it set in a way that would not be too prohibitive for Nathanial. If only the wrist had been seen to earlier, Marter carried on, then perhaps something more could have been done. If only! As it stood, Marter expected that forever more Nathanial’s right wrist would remain weak, ultimately giving into a form of arthritis. Not the best news for an inventor who used his hands so much in his work.

Nathanial looked down the Upper Richmond Road, gratified to be away from the pollution of the city, and removed his goggles and the carbolic-soaked cloth mask. Although the air in Putney was far from clean, it was not so dense than one needed the usual respirative protection.

He turned back to Putney Lower Common, and smiled sadly. So many years had been spent playing on the common when he was a child, before his genius made itself known and study became the order of the day. Simpler times, when all he needed to worry about was fishing for tiddlers in the streams. Times long gone.

He had received a telegram in the early hours of the morning, a response to the one he had sent last night from Governor’s House at Chatham, telling him to meet his mother on the common. It was not a place he wanted to visit, since that was also the location of All Saints’ Church, the parish of which his father was reverend. Alas, he could not countenance keeping his mother waiting, and so he crossed the road to Putney Lower Common.

He should never have sent that telegram! Rather he should have returned home without notifying his mother. She meant well, of course, she always did, but even on his best day Nathanial would never have sought such attention. And this was most certainly not his best day.

The common was fit to bursting, seemingly occupied by every denizen of Putney Parish, although of course Nathanial knew he was exaggerating. Even the common would have trouble holding in excess of thirteen thousand people, but enough people had decided to attend that such a claim was being tested. A bandstand had been hastily erected near All Saints’, where local musicians, led by All Saints’ organist, Mister Dancey himself, were playing. Mrs Biddick, known throughout Putney for her ability to carry a melody, was singing. The lyrics drifted across the air to where Nathanial was standing, casting his mind elsewhere, to a small untidy lab on the planet Mercury.

Oh, promise me that you will take my hand,

The most unworthy in this lonely land,

And let me sit beside you in your eyes,

Seeing the vision of our paradise,

Hearing God’s message while the organ rolls,

Its mighty music to our very souls,

No love less perfect than a life with thee;

Oh, promise me! Oh, promise me!

Nathanial sniffed, blaming the cold air for the tear that fell, which he promptly wiped away with the back of his hand before anyone noticed him.

Mrs Biddick stood before what looked to Nathanial like the mouthpiece of one of those telephonic machines, a cable running down the length of the pole. He prided himself on his ability to spot the smallest thing, and he followed the cable to a device that sat in the tree nearest the bandstand. It seemed to be fashioned on a telephone earpiece, only of a size big enough to place a man’s head inside, should one wish to do so. If he remembered correctly, the thing was called a loudspeaker, a device similar to the one patented by the German inventor Ernst Siemens some twelve years ago. He remembered reading about the failed attempts to make a similar device for use aboard naval craft, but to the best of his knowledge nothing had come of it. Even the crew of Sovereign, the most advanced aether flyer ever built, continued to use the tube to pipe commands throughout the ship. It was this loudspeaker which enabled the dulcet tones of Mrs Biddick to carry over Putney Lower Common. She had moved on from Oh, Promise Me and was now signing a new song, one of which Nathanial was unfamiliar, to which several people before the bandstand were dancing.

Bunting and banners had also been erected, connecting the trees of the common with messages of glad tidings. Of the return of The First Son of Putney! Nathanial could scarcely believe it, and would never have thought it so, had he not seen it with his own eyes, but the people of Putney Parish had put on a homecoming party for him!

This was not what Nathanial wanted. How was he to tell his parents, his siblings, that he had been dismissed from his post of responsibility and incarcerated for the last week in Chatham Convict Prison under suspicion of treason? When they saw his arm in a sling they would assume the best—a noble injury suffered in service to the Empire, instead of gained in a common brawl among inmates?

Regardless, his presence had been spotted. The thin, austere figure of Mister Payn, the verger of All Saints’, approached him, hand held out. “Professor Stone! A hearty welcome home, sir!” After a moment’s hesitation, Payn reached for Nathanial’s left hand and pumped it generously. “We have been following your adventures with the utmost interest. Every week your mother would share with us the particulars of your journeys. The plateaus of Venus, what! And a lizard-man wearing a deerstalker! What the deuce,” he concluded, with a wink that suggested they were sharing some secret.

Nathanial had been sending telegrams to Edwin ever since he had left Putney, but he was surprised to hear that his young brother had shared the contents of the missives with his mother, and she with the church! It was most unacceptable. There was information contained in those telegrams that was personal. He determined there and then that when he saw Edwin, and their mother, stern words would be said.

As Mister Payn continued to talk, Nathanial making but the briefest sounds in response, he cast his eyes around the common to see if he could espy either Edwin or his mother. Instead, however, his eyes came to light on a woman of the most amazing beauty on the arm of man he did not immediately recognise, although the man was certainly known to him. He was one Colonel Daniel Sanford of the Royal Horse Artillery, 3rd Brigade. Colonel Sanford was, of course, out of uniform, but two things gave him away. One, his posture; it was so defined and straight that he could only be a man used to military discipline. And two, the most important; the woman on his arm was his wife, Mrs Emily Sanford, the eldest of Nathanial’s siblings.

“If you will excuse me, Mister Payn,” Nathanial said, picking up his bag once more, “it wouldn’t do if you were to monopolise all of my time, after all this party is in my honour, and I think it only fair that I should…mingle.”

“Of course, Professor,” the verger said. “I believe your father is here…somewhere. Perhaps you would like me to find him?”

Nathanial forced himself to smile. A reunion with his father. How splendid! “If you would be so kind, I shall be…” He waved his cast randomly. “Somewhere in that direction.”

With that he turned and walked away, getting as much distance as he could from his sister, and her husband. People nodded and smiled at him as he walked, some of the men patting him on the back with a “welcome home”. Some of the faces he even recognised! He did not get far, however, before a deep voice, one he knew very well, bellowed out his name. Nathanial stopped, feeling the mud of the common squelch under his feet, and turned, his face grim.

“Dorian, how wonderful to see you,” he said, in a tone that made it clear it was anything but.

“Oh come now, Lucky, let us not pretend,” Dorian Stone retorted, smiling devilishly at his younger brother. Dorian took after their father, being a good foot shorter than Nathanial, his features deeper and more severe. Even now, at only thirty-three years of age, his hairline was receding. Nathanial could, at least, take some private pleasure in that. Dorian turned to the woman on his arm. “Do you see the way he cringes when I speak to him?”

The woman gave Dorian a look that said everything Nathanial needed to know about her. She was not one to suffer fools, which, in turn, led Nathanial to wonder how she had managed to find the arm of his brother. “Do forgive my fiancé, Professor Stone, but I suspect an element of jealousy which is most unbecoming of a man of his standing.” She removed herself from Dorian’s arm and stepped forward, hand out politely. “And since he has so singularly failed to introduce us, allow me to introduce myself. I am Kathleen Ashe, of the Esher Ashes.”

Nathanial assumed this was supposed to mean something to him, but the names of rich families meant very little to him. Of course, he was too polite to say so, and simply took her hand in his and kissed it gently. “Delighted, Miss Ashe. But, please, if you are to become my sister-in-law, do call me Nathanial.”

Miss Ashe laughed giddily behind her handkerchief. “Oh, Professor, that simply would never do. My father would never forgive me. He is a great fan of your work, and asked me to inquire as to when you will be publishing a paper on the principles behind your aether propeller governor?”

“Your…father?”

“Why yes, Lord Ashe.”

For a moment Nathanial was stumped, then it came to him. Lord Montgomery Ashe, Earl of Granville, was a patron of the Royal Society, and one of the men who had funded Nathanial’s initial trip to Arizona. Not that he had been in need of funds, but the Royal Society believed in vesting an interest in Nathanial’s professional activities. “I haven’t seen him since I last dined at the Clevedon Club with Professor Thomson.”

“Some two years ago, I believe, although in your absence Doctor Thomson has himself become Lord Kelvin.”

Nathanial regarded Miss Ashe, certain she was reproaching him for his lack of attendance. It was most unusual for a woman to take an interest, any interest, in the goings-on of a gentleman’s club. Clearly Miss Kathleen Ashe thought nothing of speaking on behalf of her father. Nathanial smiled, instantly reminded of his mother and how she often spoke on behalf of not only her husband, but indeed her own family, regardless of the fact that most of her children were no longer living in Fairfax House and were grown adults. He was quite drawn to Miss Ashe, and suddenly understood why she and Dorian had become engaged. “I feel it is a mistake I must soon rectify, now that I am back in Surrey it will be but a simple journey into London,” Nathanial said, with a light bow.

“My father will be most pleased to hear that… Nathanial,” Miss Ashe said, with tentative emphasis on his name. “Anyway, pray excuse me, for I believe your sister is most looking forward to seeing you. I believe I know where she is.” She looked up at Dorian pointedly. “It will give you gentlemen a chance to reacquaint yourselves.”

Nathanial watched her walk away carefully, minding not to slip on the increasingly boggy ground. Really, an outdoor celebration was not suited to winter on Putney Lower Common!

“Dear Kathleen believes I should make more of an effort with you, Lucky,” Dorian began, he, too, watching her retreating form, “but then she knows very little of our history. Except that which I have told her, of course.”

“Which I’m certain would have been a truly unbiased account.”

“Well, naturally,” Dorian said, turning to look at Nathanial, his pale eyes glinting with barely suppressed derision. “She knows full well that I, like Samuel, worked hard to attain my current position, whereas you were handed everything on a platter, not only by our parents but by everyone to whom you were ever introduced.”

Nathanial shook his head. “That is nonsense and you know it, Dorian!” he snapped. He glanced around, but if anybody noticed the verbal altercation between the brothers they chose to politely ignore it. Putney attracted a certain class of people, and was largely regarded as a well-to-do area, and propriety was high on their lists of socially accepted behaviour. Nathanial gathered himself together and reached down for his bag. “Well, it has been delightful to see you again, and I thank you for making the effort to see me, but…”

“Are you not going to ask after Samuel?” Dorian cut in.

Nathanial narrowed his eyes and, with a sigh, stood up straight once more, his bag remaining on the sodden grass. “Can I not ask him myself? I’m certain he, too, cannot wait to tell me about how hard he has worked to get where he is.”

“I’m sure, but, alas, he is even now in Portobello Road drumming up business. Not everyone can expect things to fall on their laps. Earning his keep, and ensuring his family is well fed, is of far more import to him than a spendthrift celebration in honour of the great Professor Stone.”

For a moment the air between them seemed colder than usual, but Nathanial refused to bite. He was tired, and wanted to quickly repair to his lab on Charlwood Road, away from all this nonsense. He had little to celebrate.

“I suspect you continued to receive great acclaim on your travels, parading your new invention for all to see? Kathleen does keep on about it so, the amazing aether propeller governor used on Sovereign, the pride of Her Majesty’s Navy.”

“You have no idea what I have been through, Dorian, none at all!”

Nathanial spoke with such force than Dorian took a step back in surprise. Even those nearby looked over, intrigued despite themselves. After a few moments of silence, all heads returned to their previous conversations, and Dorian regarded Nathanial’s damaged arm.

“A bit of humility it would seem,” he said, a hint of a smile on his face.

Perhaps Dorian was right. Nathanial remembered the crowds of onlookers that gathered at the Dover Embarkation Platform shortly before he had first boarded Sovereign, and how he had promised himself that he would never forget that he had come from the same place as most of them. Only that had not happened. He had, over the months that followed, become quite enamoured with the life he had fallen into, travelling the planets with Annabelle. Despite the dangers and the risks involved, he had come to enjoy his ever growing reputation. But then he had been arrested on Mars, and despite his actions on Luna he had immediately been thrown into prison for treason…

He shook his head. No, he would not dwell on the past week. Not now. Not in front of Dorian.

“How is business at Talbot Accountants?” he asked, forcing himself to be congenial. Anything to keep the nightmare of the previous week at bay.

Dorian raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and for a moment it looked as if he had become their father. “I am on the verge of becoming a partner; it is all dependent on how I handle our latest client. The Honourable Sébastien Fontaine, ex-French ambassador and the infamous philanthropist who is now on a self-imposed exile from the French Commune. A rather eccentric individual, who asked for me by name, would you believe? Clearly my reputation precedes me,” he finished with a smug smile.

Nathanial knew all about how one’s reputation could precede a person. He had become a victim of his own reputation, even now in Putney, regardless of how warranted such a reputation was. “Congratulations, I’m certain you will succeed.” He offered his brother his hand, which Dorian regarded like it was a poisoned chalice. “Please, Dorian, as I said, you have no idea what I have been through, but just accept my congratulations. Despite what you may think of me, I am glad to hear that you are proving successful in your career. You are, after all, my eldest brother.”

At this Dorian laughed. “Quite so, despite what Samuel may protest to the contrary, I was born minutes before him so that makes me the elder sibling.”

“Not counting Emily, of course,” Nathanial said, suddenly laughing, too. It felt good to laugh—something that had been in short order of late.

“She is a woman, Lucky, she never counts.” Dorian accepted Nathanial’s left hand and shook it. “Although,” he continued, the mirth now evaporating, “she has done rather well for herself. The wife of a colonel in the Royal Horse Artillery is nothing to laugh at.”

“Indeed not.”

“And here she is,” Dorian said, looking over Nathanial’s shoulder, an impressive feat itself considering Dorian only just reached Nathanial’s shoulder.

Nathanial closed his eyes. This was an encounter he was looking forward to even less than the one he had just survived.

“Professor Stone, an honour, sir,” Colonel Sanford said, shaking Nathanial’s hand firmly.

“Indeed,” Nathanial responded, barely looking the colonel in the eyes. He allowed himself to be distracted by Miss Ashe sharing a parting kiss on the cheek with his sister, before Dorian led his fiancé away. Nathanial was surprised that Dorian did not stay the course, happy to watch his younger brother squirm under the steely gaze of Colonel Sanford. Instead, showing an unusual amount of decorum, he excused himself almost as soon as Emily and her husband arrived.

Nathanial had to wonder why Colonel Sanford’s presence put him off his stroke. He had been around many military officers since Peregrine, and even went so far as to consider Jacob Folkard, Sovereign’s captain, a friend. Of course, much had changed since leaving Mars, despite his best efforts on Luna. He remained uncertain as to how and why he had been released from prison, but that he still carried the mark of a traitor to the Crown was something he felt keenly. His brother-in-law was a colonel in the Royal Horse Artillery, who was to know what information he had at his fingertips?

Nathanial braced himself and glanced a look at Sanford, who was now smiling at his wife, explaining the particulars of their first meeting in the summer of 1888. Was the colonel merely putting on a show for his wife, showing his open acceptance of her brother despite the truth he knew? Nathanial could not say, but he knew he wanted this introduction to be as swift as possible.

“Is he not a cad, Nathanial?” Emily asked.

“Yes, he is indeed,” Nathanial responded, although he had missed what Sanford had actually said. “I feel you shall fit in with my family perfectly, Colonel Sanford.”

“Please, call me Daniel, after all we are brothers now, what!”

Had Nathanial been away from Earth so long that the formality of relations in the British Empire waned so much? Between Miss Ashe and Colonel Sanford, Nathanial felt like he had returned to a world as different from the one he remembered as Mercury was from Mars.

“Yes, Lucky, Daniel is quite right. Such formality should be saved for the parade grounds.” As if to prove her point, Emily kissed her husband on his cheek, without a hint of regard for those around them. Good Lord, his sister was turning into a suffragette!”

“I see your arm is injured,” Colonel Sanford observed. “Something to do with that fracas on Luna, I suppose.”

Nathanial almost closed his eyes in dismay but maintained a noncommittal expression. “It is nothing really. A trifle.”

“Nevertheless he carries it in a sling,” Emily observed archly. “Lucky always had a flair for the melodramatic. How do you find Miss Ashe, by the way? She strikes me as the kind of woman you need.”

Nathanial eyed his sister, wondering if she were mad, pushing him toward his brother’s fiancé, or just picking a fight. First the comment about his arm, then this. He had lost count the amount of times when, as teenagers, she would badger him for not dallying with the local doxies. As if a young woman should be invested in such pursuits herself! Emily would argue she was being progressive, but as a man of some learning, Nathanial did wonder if perhaps she aspired to become one of the many harlots that scurried around the backstreets of London. All things considered, a suffragette was a better option, he supposed. Colonel Sanford was beaming at Nathanial, clearly enjoying his wife’s forwardness. Why was it that Nathanial seemed to always be surrounded by such women as these?

“I’m sure Annabelle would agree with you, Emily.”

“Oh, and who is Annabelle?” Nathanial did not care for his sister’s solicitous tone. “Are we to have another woman in the Stone family soon? God knows, I could do with another sister-in-law. Being raised with four brothers was so very trying.”

“And yet you acquitted yourself quite admirably, my dear,” Sanford said, still beaming.

“You have met my mother, Daniel, as you know I had the best teacher.” Emily turned once again to Nathanial, her smile now as sly as Dorian’s had been. “So, tell me of Miss Annabelle.”

Nathanial looked away, his hand finding its way into the pocket of his waistcoat, and the watch within. He ran his fingers along the contours of its casing. “She is a friend, little more,” he said softly. “Her heart belongs to another, I believe.”

“Then I am sad to hear that, Lucky. Perhaps you have found another suitable contender on your travels?”

Nathanial blinked away the memory of… He sniffed. “If I do, I will be certain to let you know first and foremost, Emily,” he said acidly. “Then you and Dorian can plan the best way to denigrate me before them. Tell your stories of ‘Lucky’ and why you all resent me so.” The look on his sister’s face was all the satisfaction he needed. Nathanial nodded at Colonel Sanford. “A pleasure, now if you’ll excuse me, I think there are others who require my attention.”

Closing his ears to the indignant responses, Nathanial picked up his bag and walked away. It really was time he returned to his laboratory. All this socialising and visiting memory lane was far too much for him. He had had such a horrendous week that it was time to find himself a bottle of cognac and retire. Perhaps permanently.

He should have known that such a recourse was not to prove easy, a fact bolstered by the return of Mister Payn and, a couple of steps behind him, the impressive bulk of the Honourable and Reverend Ronald Stone.

The two years had not been good on his father. Perhaps it was the cold and the way he was dressed up against it, or maybe the way he used his walking stick to support his weight, but every one of his sixty-four years were showing. Still the Reverend, as Nathanial could not but help think of him, maintained his bulk, but the skin of his face seemed to be thinning out, his once black hair now greying and thin as it protruded from his hat. The man seemed so much smaller now, hunched as he was. It did not take a genius to work out that the Reverend was ill.

“Nathanial!” he said, the strength of his voice as Nathanial remembered it “The prodigal returneth!”

“Father, I am hardly that. I did not run away, I was called away. On business.”

“Be that as it may, you have at the last returned. Your mother will be most pleased to see you.”

Mister Payn looked awkwardly between son and father. Reverend Stone noticed, and waved his verger away. “If you would be so kind as to inform Mister Dancey that my son and I shall be along shortly.”

“Of course, Reverend,” Payn said, and set off in the direction of the bandstand.

Alone, Nathanial and his father said nothing; they merely regarded each other with caution. There were many conversations—some might even have called them arguments—left unfinished, and Nathanial wondered which would be the first to be revisited. “Your mother will join us here shortly. She is currently engaged in her Christian duty at the Royal Hospital of Incurables, helping the unfortunates there to read.”

“Then I look forward to seeing her.”

“Quite.” A pause, one Nathanial did not like. He could see the gears of thought working behind the Reverend’s eyes. “Did you finally get to Mars?”

Such a question was not expected. “Why, yes I did. Although I hardly see why you would…”

“It disturbs me, that these godless people call us red devils. Did you know that one such Martian had been living here for a few years? Enjoying an Oxford education, no less! One of my parishioners showed me a photograph of him from one of the city papers. Those eyebrows—those ears! And they have the audacity to call us devils?”

Nathanial shook his head, the tiredness creeping on again. He had spent a whole month on Mars, and now felt he knew at least something of the people of that world. It was hardly a shock to hear his father offer up such a strong opinion about people he knew nothing of save a few rumours and one photograph. A man of the cloth his father might have been, but, nonetheless, he was also a man of strong, and often uninformed, opinions. A character flaw Nathanial had once shared with the Reverend, until he had left Putney. “This is not the time for such a conversation. I have only been in Putney for an hour, and already I have been accosted by…” He sighed. “It matters not. I am tired, and I need rest. This…” He waved his good arm around. “This is all too much!”

“Your mother planned this, Nathanial. She has been planning this since your brother received your telegram from Venus.” Despite his response, it was clear from the look in Reverend Stone’s grey eyes that he agreed with Nathanial.

“It is called a heliogram, Father, and I left Venus over five months ago.”

“Quite, so you see, she needs this. Half a year we have heard nothing of you, all we knew is that you were out there, in the heavens. A place man has no right to be! Your mother had been worried. At least your brothers and sister have the sense to remain on Earth, safe.”

“Safe?” Nathanial was beside himself. “How can you call Earth safe? I would wager that I was safer on my travels than I am on this world! I have seen the queerest things, Father; ghosts, lizard-men, giant ants that can speak! I spent a month travelling the plains and canals of Mars with an old Martian prince who cared more for Annabelle and me than he did for himself. I have even met intelligences that live within the hearts of planets, but nothing, nothing amazes me as much as the cruelty one man can show another! Certainly, I have experienced little that compares to the brutality and disregard for another man’s wellbeing than I have since I’ve returned to Earth. I travelled the aether for nigh on eight months, and where did I see the most destruction? On a heliograph station created by man. Death on such a scale…so many good people killed by a mad man…”

Nathanial stopped, aware that his face was red, the warmth of the blood almost stinging against the cold air. His father was looking at him; not quite sure if he ought to believe the words his son spoke. Nathanial wanted nothing more than for his father to reach out and embrace him, but he knew that would never happen. Any such display of affection ceased when Nathanial became a man. Reverend Stone showed more concern for his Church that he did for his children. It was something they had all got used to over the years.

“Have you not even wondered why my arm is in a sling?” Nathanial said, horrified by the painful need in his voice.

Reverend Stone simply raised an eyebrow. “I assumed some kind of accident. You were ever clumsy, Nathanial.”

“Clumsy? I am not that child you remember, Father,” he began, but stopped himself. He sounded like a petulant child, not a well-travelled and respected professor. Of course, he was not really a professor at all, despite being called so by some in the Navy, and he was not so well-respected as he had once been. Perhaps there was more of the petulant child in him than he cared to admit. “I…” He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing. “Good day, Father,” he said instead, his words barely a breath of air. “Give Mother my love, and tell her if she wishes to see me I will be at my lab. Otherwise, I have no wish to be disturbed by anyone!”

So saying, Nathanial walked away, a burning fire of hurt in his belly.

2.

HE HAD EXPECTED to return to a dusty lab, but instead, as he walked through the door of his lab housed in a small building on Charlwood Road, he found it to be in pristine condition. The wooden benches were polished, the instruments, including his beloved Crookes Maltese cross tube, were sparkling and, he reflected sadly, hopelessly out of date. He dumped his bag on the floor and walked over to the large sink. Several beakers sat beside the sink, and he selected one, blew into it to remove any residual dust, and pulled out a stool.

Once he had removed his long coat and poured himself a generous measure of the cognac he had procured from the landlord at The White Lion, Nathanial raised a toast to his missing friends. To two years of journeying, of meeting the most amazing people…of the worst kind of loss.

He was still sitting there, the cognac untouched, when the door of his lab opened gently. Nathanial frowned and turned his head slightly. For the first time in hours his heart felt light.

The figure at the door, looking at him with unbelieving eyes, looked a good deal younger than his twenty-one years. But there was no mistaking the intelligence in the grey eyes, or the strength in the tall body. Whereas Nathanial always looked taller than he was due to his slim build, the young man at the door looked shorter because of his more muscular body. The multiple layers of clothes only served to add to the illusion.

“Nathe,” he said, bounding across the lab in two strides, “it is so good to see you!”

Before Nathanial knew what was happening he was gathered up in the strong arms of his younger brother. Nathanial’s instinct was to pull away, to protest at the informality. After all, he was the older brother and he had to set an example. Such actions would not do! Instead, however, Nathanial embraced his brother in return, grateful for the warm welcome.

“It is most agreeable to see you, too, Edwin,” Nathanial said, once he had been released, and received a boyish grin in response. Nathanial regarded the lab. “I assume I have you to thank for the good condition of my laboratory?”

“Well, of course, you don’t think Dorian would entertain such a notion, do you?”

Nathanial could not help but laugh. “Well, no, I don’t suppose he would.” Glad for the laughter, he indicated the bottle of cognac. “Grab yourself a…well, a beaker.”

Edwin was clearly surprised by the offer—as close as they had been growing up, Nathanial had never encouraged any social interaction with his younger brother—but he didn’t wait for Nathanial to change his mind. As Edwin poured himself a measure, Nathanial reflected that maybe he should change that.

“Some things need fixing,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry?” Edwin bit back a choke on the heat of the cognac. “What was that?”

Nathanial shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Eddie,” he said softly, slipping the diminutive in unconsciously. Edwin noticed, and his brow furrowed in a way not to dissimilar to the way Nathanial creased his own brows when taken aback. Out of all his family, Edwin and he were probably the most alike. At least, they would have been had Nathanial been allowed a normal life.

For a long moment Edwin regarded Nathanial thoughtfully, chewing his bottom lip. “What has happened to you? You’re hiding away from people, drinking on your own…this is not like you, Nathanial.”

“Perhaps I am just tired. I have had a long journey.”

“Piffle!”

Now it was Nathanial’s turn to furrow his brow. “Really, Edwin, you sound like Dorian.”

“Ah,” Edwin said with a sage nod, “you think by insulting me I will simply leave so you can sulk away on your own? I may be the youngest sibling, and the only one still yet to leave Fairfax House, but I am not so green as all that. Spend as much time helping Mother at the Royal Hospital of Incurables as I have and you learn to see the truth behind things.”

Nathanial narrowed his eyes, and sipped his cognac. “Now I am reminded of a French geologist I know.” He lifted the beaker and regarded the brown liquid within. “Arnaud does so love his cognac,” he added softly.

“I assume this Arnaud is an esteemed French geologist? It will lessen the insult. That is, if it is an insult,” Edwin finished, with a sly smile.

“It was not. I am certain Arnaud would like to think he is so, but then I would rather suspect he thinks he’s quite an esteemed waiter, too.” Nathanial smiled at Edwin’s confused expression, and waved it away. “It matters not, Doctor Fontaine is a long, long way from Surrey. All I have is you.”

“And you think this a bad thing?”

For a moment Nathanial did not answer, then he shook his head. “Of course not, Edwin. You’ve always been a rock for me; the only one who did not resent my position in this family. I am sorry I have not been in contact since arriving on Mercury.”

Edwin cleared his throat and forced a smile. It did not fool Nathanial. The hurt in his brother’s eyes was clear. “I was looking forward to hearing more of your adventures in the aether. When I received your telegram, that you were not returning from Venus but going on to Mercury, I grew quite envious I admit. And excited!” The forced smile was replaced by a sincere one at this. “Did you meet the creatures living on the dark side? I read about them in a recent scientific journal. Body chemistry based on ammonia! What a wheeze!”

Nathanial wondered at the tone in his brother’s voice. It was close to awe, a reverence that his journeys did not deserve. “I did not venture to the dark side of Mercury, I fear, rather I spent my time mostly at Princess Christiana Station, and in the caves beneath.” Edwin’s eyes grew wide at this, and Nathanial found himself unable to hold back on his telling. “But the things I saw there, Edwin! Arnaud and I discovered rock that was able to retain light, and then release it! Fontainite we called it. Only we later discovered it was so much more…”

Nathanial wasn’t certain how long they sat there, he talking about the things he saw on Mercury and Edwin listening with rapt attention, but they successfully emptied the contents of the cognac bottle between them in that time. He washed back the final drop, feeling quite light-headed all of a sudden.

“That is amazing! Do you suppose you will return there? I mean, your friend is still there, and he will no doubt expect you to return sometime.” Edwin grinned, his eyes glazing over. “I could come with you!”

“You?” Nathanial stood abruptly and staggered backwards. “That is out of the question, Edwin! I cannot take responsibility for you. I was responsible for Annabelle and look how that turned out! No,” he said, shaking his head profusely, which only served to add to his dizziness, “I cannot do that. You have no idea of what’s out there, Edwin, no idea! You just see the excitement, the wonder…not the truth. The danger! So many people have died because of me and I cannot…”

He stopped suddenly, shaken by the look of horror on Edwin’s face.

“Nathanial, what…”

“I am tainted, Edwin,” he said, the words pouring out of his mouth despite his best efforts to contain them. “You shouldn’t be here now, with me. I’m like the albatross. Good luck turned on its head! Lucky! They have no idea. What an apposite epithet! Not without reason was I born on the first of April.” Gathering himself together as best he could, Nathanial walked over to the bench and retrieved the empty bottle and beakers. “You should go, Edwin,” he said, turning his back on his brother.

He waited for the sound of the closing door to follow the scraping of Edwin’s stool on the tiled floor, but it never came. Once he’d finished washing the beakers he looked back. Edwin stood there, still by the bench, watching his older brother.

“I am not going until you explain yourself, Nathanial. I may be the youngest, but I am still your brother.” Edwin took a step towards Nathanial. “What has happened? Your adventures on Venus, on Mercury, even on Luna, sound so amazing. But what went wrong?”

Nathanial had not wanted to explain. He had simply wanted to return home, to escape the last few months. What he had experienced from the moment he had been forced to board Peregrine Station, everything that had happened to him since then, all the deaths, all the pain, the disasters…befriending John Pilling in prison… He wanted to be free of it. But there was something in Edwin’s eyes, something that reached deep down inside Nathanial.

“I killed them all, Edwin,” he said, unable to hold back any more. “Good men, friends… I killed them all.”

3.

IT WAS SOME time later that Edwin left, although he made Nathanial promise to return to Fairfax House before the night’s end. Alone once more, Nathanial sat on the stool, a piece of paper before him.

For a short while he stared at the blank whiteness, a state he wished his mind could mirror, but every time he closed his eyes he saw their faces. In the silence, the shadows from the flickering candles bouncing around him, he imagined he could hear the callous words of the inmates of Chatham Convict Prison still.

He glanced at the pocket watch beside the paper…

He gasped for breath as another boot crashed into his ribs. The pain did not matter; they could not take it from him. He scrambled in the dirt, his right hand reaching out for the pocket watch that lay, forever broken, the only thing he had left that gave him any hope. How many weeks, months even, would he have to endure this place?

His hand gripped the watch, and he yelled out as another boot crashed down on his wrist. Fire surged through his nervous system as bones cracked beneath the impact, but he refused to release his grip on the watch. He never would!

Even now he could feel the pain in his wrist, but that did not matter. The watch was safe, although Nathanial had no idea where the owner of the watch was now. No one would tell him, not the governor at the prison, not even Director White at the dockyard, but he was certain that somehow he would return the watch to her.

The last image he had of her was one of confusion, as Lieutenant George Bedford held her in his arms, protecting her from any danger that might come her way in the wake of the events that surrounded Nathanial’s return to British soil. As he was forcefully led away, she had reached out and grasped his hand, placing the watch in his palm. The only link she had to her parents. The importance of such an item could not be exaggerated, and the message contained in the act was simple. They would meet up again.

He dipped the pen in the ink and began writing.

My dearest Annabelle. I am so very sorry…

Chapter Two

“At Dorset House”

1.

ANNABELLE EXAMINED THE room with dismay: too much furniture, carpets laid one on top of another, the walls nearly covered with paintings—as if it were a warehouse for unwanted furnishings. Gaslights illuminated the room adequately but dimly, the heavy curtains drawn across the windows and keeping out whatever afternoon sunlight penetrated the clouds and omnipresent smoke. The curtains reeked of carbolic acid, the accepted way of holding the stench of London at bay. After a ride by steam carriage of nearly a mile through the city’s streets, the air thick with soot and stinking of both industrial and human waste, she accepted the necessity for this deodorizing expedient, but that made it no less unpleasant. Arizona’s clear skies and clean air seemed impossibly far away now, further even than in her darkest hours on Mars.

“Hellstink,” Uncle Cyrus muttered, “proof of the Pit, for poor fools who need it. Dreams don’t smell, you know. Dreams don’t smell!” His eyes grew wilder and his breath came in short gasps, Annabelle took his arm and tried to soothe him.

“It’s all right, Uncle. Here, why don’t you sit for a while? I’ll…”

“No, you stupid fool!” he cried out and pushed away from her.

She lost her balance and tumbled back over an ottoman, fell hard onto the carpet between an overstuffed leather wingback and an end table, cracking her head on the table leg. A maid, no more than ten or twelve, dropped the heavy valise she struggled with to scamper over to Annabelle’s side.

“Ooo, is ya ’right, Miss?”

Annabelle’s dress and petticoat had ridden up and exposed her legs, or rather her left leg and the square-cut black peg that replaced her right leg from lower thigh down. The young girl’s eyes flashed down to the peg leg and then grew wide. She drew back, shock and revulsion replacing her concern for a moment, and then pity sweeping them all away.

An object of pity from an illiterate girl destined for a life of menial servitude—that was what Annabelle’s life had come to. She sat up, her back against the chair, and rubbed the bruised side of her forehead. Uncle Cyrus shuffled about the room, looking from paintings to furnishings, his flash of anger gone and replaced by mumbling confusion.

“I am all right. Just give me a moment to collect myself,” Annabelle answered.

The little maid retrieved Annabelle’s cane from where it had slid under a sofa, gave it to her, and did a little curtsy before hurrying back to the valise.

Nathanial had built her a proper leg, using some of the finely machined gears and coiled spring steel of the Drobate’s City of Light and Science, although set to his own design. It was a marvellous thing and she was just getting used to it when it was taken from her and she returned to using her peg. For a week, ever since their return from Luna, she and her uncle had been held in the Tower of London—that is where they had made her surrender the articulated artificial leg. She and Uncle Cyrus had clearly been prisoners, although none of their jailers would answer any questions as to the reason for their incarceration. Then an official told them they were being moved to Dorset House.

She had never heard of that before, but it sounded so much better than the Tower. She had imagined something other than this soot-blackened brownstone in a poor neighbourhood, stuffed with ill-matched and cast-off furnishings. She looked at her uncle, now staring in silent bewilderment at the dozens of paintings on the walls, and she thought, of course. Where better to store the two of us than with the other ill-matched and cast-off things?

Using her cane and an arm of the wingback for support, she struggled to her feet. As she turned, Stanhope, the bald-headed butler, hurried to her side, his face creased in concern.

“Are you all right, Miss? I am terribly sorry I wasn’t here. The maid just told me you fell. Do you require a doctor?”

“No, but thank you for your concern. The injury is to my pride only, and it is not the greatest wound it has suffered of late. Please just show us to our rooms.”

2.

HER BEDROOM WAS, in contrast to the lower floors of the house, almost empty: a bed, wardrobe, dresser, and straight-backed chair were the only pieces of furniture. There were no pictures to break the dingy blankness of the wall. She and her uncle’s bedrooms adjoined a small sitting room where she imagined they would spend most of their time. The butler pointed out the lavatory at the end of the hall.

The maids had already unpacked their meagre possessions and put them away. Neither she nor her uncle had a rag of clothing between them when they alighted from the cutter at Chatham Dockyard, but a few garments had been given them to replace the mismatch of Martian attire and naval uniforms pressed into service. The dresses were large on Annabelle, nearly hanging from her frame, while Uncle Cyrus’s clothing was generally too small—trouser legs which showed several inches of sock at the ankle, shirts which strained against the buttons, vest and jackets which defied buttoning altogether. Thankfully the shoes provided fit.

She supposed their incarceration followed from the affair on Peregrine Station. Months earlier she and Nathanial had discovered the secret and experimental heliograph station in solar orbit between Mars and Earth, had discovered it quite by chance and would have passed it by had Esmeralda, their aether flyer, not been in the final stages of mechanical failure. The station’s subsequent destruction at the hands of a saboteur, and the loss of its entire company save only Nathanial and Annabelle, had been blamed on Nathanial—preposterously—and he had been placed under arrest after their arrival on Mars. Nothing had ever been said about Annabelle having been part of the imagined conspiracy, however, but now here she was, under what amounted to house arrest, and with no alternative explanation offering itself.

An hour after their arrival the maid served tea in the sitting room and Annabelle realised her hands trembled with hunger. She had skipped dinner moving from the Tower to here, and breakfast had only been a bit of porridge. Unfortunately, the only accompaniments to the tea were a half dozen buttered toast points, all of which her uncle immediately gobbled down. Well, better to have his stomach full than risk exciting his anger again, she thought. Two spoons of sugar in her tea today, instead of one—it would do until supper. She had, after all, endured far worse than an irritable relative and one missed meal. For his own part, Uncle Cyrus retired to his own bedroom soon after to take a nap.

She heard a knock on the sitting room door. “Come in,” she said and Stanhope appeared with a small silver platter holding a white card.

“A gentleman to see you, Miss,” he said and offered her the card. For a moment her heart raced at the thought of George Bedford, or perhaps Nathanial, finally finding her, but the card dashed her hopes.

Major Walter Hallam Gordon, CGM

5th Regiment of Foot, Northumberland Fusiliers

“Very well, show him in,” she said, knowing very well this was merely a polite formality. Jailers do not require permission from prisoners to enter their cells.

Major Gordon was tall and slender, dark-haired, and she might have found him good looking under different circumstances—or perhaps not. Whatever attraction his face might have had was ruined by his grey-blue eyes: cold and calculating.

“Miss Annabelle Somerset? Please accept my apologies for having to introduce myself under these circumstances. Major Walter Gordon, at your service,” he said with a little bow.

“I doubt that very much, Major Gordon. Were you at my service you would have two steamer tickets to America in your pocket and a carriage waiting out front.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure, Miss Somerset, I assure you, but my duty comes first. I am sure you understand.”

“I understand nothing. No one has told me why we are being held against our wills, nor has anyone told me what has become of our friend, Professor Stone. Unless you can do so, I suspect this interview will be brief.”

“Of course,” Gordon answered. “You undoubtedly have many questions.” He gestured to an arm chair. “May I?”

“Your vocal powers seem to function satisfactorily while standing,” she answered.

He inclined his head slightly in acceptance. “Very well. I can hardly fault your hostility. I apologise for your having been kept in ignorance, although in truth I doubt any of your…keepers knew quite what to tell you. Let me remedy that at once. Professor Stone has been released from custody and all charges against him have been dropped.”

Annabelle felt an immediate surge of relief. Finally this ridiculous business of sabotage had been dispensed with! “When can we see him and when can we expect to return home?” she asked.

“It is my understanding Professor Stone left for Surrey to visit his family. He expressed no desire to visit you that I am aware of.”

That is very odd, Annabelle thought. Nathanial could be quite forgetful at times, but to show no interest in contacting her was very unlike him. Immediately her suspicions rose, but she chose to say nothing to Major Gordon. At least for now.

“As to your own freedom, that is a more complicated matter. Your uncle, Doctor Cyrus Grant, is held here for his own safety. As you can see, he is incapable of caring for himself, and may come to some harm left untended.”

“I tended him in the Tower, and I tend him here. I can as easily tend him in Arizona,” Annabelle answered.

“Ah…yes, well, that is where it becomes complicated. You are not free to go, Miss Somerset, I am sad to say. While no formal charges have been filed, I am obliged to say that the Lord Chancellor is currently studying the evidence and is deliberating whether charges should be levied. Until such time as a decision is made, I am afraid you must remain here. I know that a week in the Tower as a prisoner must have been a harrowing experience, and now the thought of further captivity must be positively terrifying, but I ask you to…”

Annabelle laughed, and Gordon broke off speaking, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “When I was twelve years old my parents were murdered and I was taken captive by a band of the Chiricahua Apache. The chief, Goyahkla, led that band and I was held prisoner by him for two years until rescued. Three months ago I laid in a filthy tent in the Martian desert while, to save my life, two dear friends, neither of them physicians, sawed off my rotting right leg—rotting, I might add, due to a pistol ball from the French saboteur who was the actual architect of the Peregrine Station explosion. Major Gordon, if you honestly believe I find this,” and her gesture encompassed the sitting room, “or the austere comforts of the Tower harrowing, or the prospect of being held captive by the British Army terrifying, then you are a fool.”

She sat on the sofa with her back to the arm on the left and her artificial leg, her peg, extended out on the sofa itself. It was not heavy and did not require support, but it did not bend at the knee and if she allowed it to stick straight out she feared Uncle Cyrus, in his aimless wandering, would trip over it and hurt either himself or her, or both. She looked at it, at the reddish-black wood carved to look like a piece of machinery, with rivets and the suggestion of gears and pistons. Her Martian friend Kak’hamish, who had carved it and saved her life time and again, was dead, but she knew that near the top of the peg he had carved a legend in an arcane Martian script. It read, he had told her, Annabelle’s Spirit. It’s meaning, he explained, was that her spirit was like the peg carved from Martian blackwood—alive, but like steel.

She did not feel like steel, not really. Despite her defiant words she felt powerless and frightened and very much alone, but she would never let this Major Gordon see that. Perhaps that was what Kak’hamish had meant.

“I admire your courage, Miss Somerset,” Gordon said. “You will have need of it in the times to come. I must tell you that the charge the Lord Chancellor is considering is one of high treason, which is a capital offense.”

“High treason?” she exclaimed, and she felt her voice rise even as blood rushed to her face. “You must think me very silly and gullible to take such a threat seriously. I am an American citizen, not a British subject, and so whatever you imagine I have done, it could not possibly constitute treason. Really, this is too much. I must ask you to go, Major, and I demand to speak with the United States Envoy at his earliest convenience. That is my right, I believe.”

“As you wish, Miss Somerset,” Major Gordon answered. “I will arrange the meeting with the envoy.” With another small bow he left her.

Annabelle sat on the sofa for several minutes, struggling to get her emotions under control, or at least her breathing and heart rate. The nerve of the British! Who did they think they were to treat Americans this way? And treason? What a preposterous threat! It was so preposterous…in some ways she found it more unsettling than a more modest and believable threat would have been. Why would he even say such a thing?

3.

“BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND you, Nathanial, I am your mother after all.”

There was no doubting that, and Nathanial knew she had a point. It was a conclusion he had been fast approaching since returning to Putney earlier that day. Night had fallen since Edwin had left him in his lab, and he had drifted off to a much needed deep sleep. For the first time in over a week he could not remember a single moment of his dream, and for that he was thankful.

Perhaps it was the letter he had composed to Annabelle, which remained folded in the inner pocket of his jacket? He had no idea to where he should post such a letter, but writing it had been cathartic in itself.

He had returned to Fairfax House to find it empty. No doubt the Reverend was still at All Saints’, preparing the sermon he was to be deliver tomorrow, and he suspected Dorian and Emily had returned to their respective homes. There was little reason for either of them to remain overnight in Putney, after all; their objectives had been achieved: the denigration of Nathanial before Colonel Sanford and Miss Ashe. Edwin could have been engaged in all manner of things; he had never been one short of distractions, a fact the Reverend often bemoaned. As to his mother, Nathanial suspected she was still attending to her duties at the Royal Hospital on West Hill, which left only Cummings, the Stone’s butler.

Nathanial was admitted without fuss; indeed Cummings seemed to go out of his way to ensure Nathanial had whatever he needed, but really all he wanted was to be alone. He would have been quite happy to remain at his lab were it not for the promise he had made to Edwin. Cummings, after preparing a touch of sherry for Nathanial, had retired to the servants’ quarter, and Nathanial had finally been left alone to reacquaint himself with his childhood home. Such an act did last long before he found himself bored and strangely dissatisfied. Fairfax House contained too many memories that meant nothing to him anymore.

He was not too sure how long he had spent looking out of the window of his old bedroom, watching the quiet life of Putney High Street, before his mother returned home. Certainly he did not see her walking down the street. He first became aware of her presence by a gentle clearing of the throat. He turned to find her standing in the doorway, looking as resplendent as he remembered her. For a moment neither said a thing, until, with a smile, she beckoned him over.

“Welcome home, Nathanial, you have been missed so dearly,” his mother had said as she embraced him.

Nathanial was not sure how to respond, so instead he returned the embrace, lowering his head, with some effort, to rest on his mother’s shoulder. Like she had done countless times when he was a child, she gently stroked his hair, and Nathanial immediately felt a well of affection overflow for the woman who had guided him so much in his life.

“I would have thought this room would be turned into a guest room during my absence,” he said, once he released his mother.

She smiled at him and walked the length of the room. “Why would I allow that? This will always be your room.” She picked up a book from the bedside table. “Although something tells me this is not yours. You were never one for fanciful stories.”

Nathanial regarded the book, a grey affair with the words A Study in Scarlet printed on the cover. Unless he was much mistaken it was by that chap Conan Doyle, something to do with a consulting detective living on Venus. He dimly recalled its appearance in Beeton’s Christmas Annual, a gift he had bought for his brother two years ago. No doubt that copy had been thumbed so much it had fallen apart. “Edwin’s, I suspect. He was ever one for dreaming.”

His mother nodded. “He has been keeping watch. Did you notice how he maintained your lab when you escaped to that little sanctuary of yours earlier?”

For a moment Nathanial did not respond. She did not look offended by such a sleight against the party she had arranged, but nonetheless… “I merely wished to store my luggage. Escaped, indeed! Why would you even say such a thing?”

“Because I understand you, Nathanial, I am your mother after all.” She sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. Once Nathanial had sat down, she placed a hand on his leg and turned to look him in the eyes. Even sitting down her eye line was some distance from his. “You are in pain, that much is clear. I shall not pretend to understand what experiences you have had since you left Mercury, but I see none of the joy and excitement I read about in your telegrams to Edwin and me.”

Nathanial looked away. She had always understood him better than any other, and as such he chose not to mention that the heliograms were for Edwin only. It seemed to matter very little now. Pandora’s Box had been opened.

“When I received your telegram last night, Nathanial, I could have burst with joy. My son, the great Professor Stone, was returning home.” She patted his leg gently. “Where else would you go, but to the bosom of your mother?”

“It is hardly seemly that a man of twenty-six years should seek the comfort of his mother. I will take care of my own problems.”

“Of course you will. You always knew your own mind, but in the meantime you will remain here. This room is still yours.”

Nathanial looked back at his mother, and was surprised by the tears in her eyes. “Mother, I…”

She smiled softly. “I will accept no rebuttal, Nathanial. You are home now, and you will remain here. Whatever transpired in the last few months is over, and now you will make a new life for yourself in London. I am certain there is plenty of work for a man of your talents. As I understand it, you do not need to leave London to work on those machines that enable ships to traverse the heavens.”

“No, this is quite true.” Nathanial let out a sigh and stood up. He walked over to the window. Perhaps his mother was right. For whatever reason he had been given a reprieve from the charges of treason that were levied against him; it would be foolish to investigate such a change of fortune. He had tried being an adventuring scientist, and look how that had ended.

He retrieved the pocket watch and looked down at it. It may well be that he would never see or hear from Annabelle again. He remembered the look of horror on her face when he had been propelled to the waiting four-wheeler, but what struck him most was the way in which George Bedford had embraced her. That was where Annabelle’s future lay. As the wife of a Navy officer, not gallivanting the aether with a scientist who was, deep down, running away from his own truth.

Nathanial placed the pocket watch beside Edwin’s book. “Very well, Mother, I shall do as you ask.”

Chapter Three

“A Past that Haunts”

1.

“BETTER IS A handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit.”

Nathanial listened to the Reverend, standing in the pulpit, as he began his sermon with his chosen reading from the Scriptures. Unless Nathanial was mistaken the words came from Ecclesiastes, possibly chapter four. It could be he was wrong, after all it had been some time since he’d sought comfort from the Good Book. Listening to his father brought Nathanial back to the days when he was made to sit through many a sermon rehearsal; he, only eight years of age, and Edwin a mere three years. His elder siblings were saved such exquisite experiences, although their mother promised that when Nathanial reached ten years then he, too, would no longer sit through the rehearsals. As it turned out, Nathanial remained a participant of such events until he was fifteen to spare Edwin being the sole recipient. If anyone in the family showed any sign of disinterest in the sermons it was Edwin.

Nathanial was, therefore, surprised to find his brother now sitting in a pew near the pulpit, waiting to assist the deacons of the church in collecting the tithe of the parishioners.

Their mother sat beside Nathanial, she reading her own copy of the Bible so as to better embrace the words spoken by the Reverend with such conviction. Nathanial was content to simply listen, his eyes roaming the congregation, unsurprised by how little it had changed in the two years he had been away.

For all his faults, the Reverend certainly commanded a loyal following. Nathanial supposed that was true of the loyalty he commanded from his family, too. Despite their distance, still Nathanial was glad to have such a strong man for his father. If only he could confide in the Reverend like he could his mother.

“But woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up,” continued the Reverend, and at this Nathanial’s attention returned to the pulpit.

Was this his father’s way of reaching out, to let Nathanial know that he understood his son’s pain? Such a choice of Scripture could not be coincidence. Nathanial would have asked after the service, if he could only expect an answer. The Reverend would, of course, insist that any such conviction in Nathanial came from the Lord speaking through His Word. Perhaps he would have been right…

Nathanial caught his mother’s glance. She leaned in close. “Be open,” she whispered, “for you’re never truly alone.”

2.

15 DECEMBER, 1889

My Dear Miss Somerset:

I read your letter immediately upon its arrival, and then read it again, scarcely able to believe that two citizens of the United States of America could receive such disgraceful treatment at the hands of a Christian government. As a lawyer myself, I assure you that your conclusion as to the levying of a charge of treason against a foreign national is quite correct—it is a legal absurdity.

I have sent word to the British authorities demanding your immediate release to my custody. If it is convenient for you, I shall call on you tomorrow morning (Monday, the 16th instant) at 9:00 AM. If the British authorities consent to attend, it is my hope we can resolve this distressing affair in short order and move you and your uncle to the security of the American Consulate by sundown.

With sincere admiration for your courage in this matter, I am,

Your most obedient servant,

Robert Todd Lincoln,

United States Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James.

3.

NATHANIAL WAS LOATHE to admit it, but there was something comforting about standing in All Saints’ Church once again. It was not that he had ever turned from God, indeed, it was quite the reverse. When given the chance to travel the aether he had hoped to understand His creation better, and in so doing to understand his own nature better. There was still so much Nathanial did not understand, things that even the Good Book could not tell him. The Reverend’s sermons had always served to deepen the void of confusion in Nathanial’s soul; even his dean at Mortarhouse College was unable to help. When the possibility of travelling the aether had presented itself, on that fateful day of secondment to Chatham Dockyard, Nathanial had written to Reverend Matthews. The dean, who knew more about Nathanial than his father ever would, wrote back imploring Nathanial to avail himself of the opportunity, and so when asked to join Sovereign on its first mission to Luna he had hoped to discover the truth of himself.

That mission had ended quickly, however, and he was soon back on Earth, now with a ward in the shape of Annabelle Somerset. Secretly, he was more than happy to accept the request for help he had received from Miles Jericho on Venus a month later, and even more willing to continue travelling with Annabelle when she had suggested they visit her “uncle”, Colonel Shawbridge, on Mercury. Out there, Nathanial felt sure, was the truth he had sought.

Looking back on those seven months of travelling, perhaps he did learn much about himself. Two faces came to his mind, and Nathanial smiled. Out there, in the aether, away from all that he knew, such exploration was safe, but here, surrounded by the familiar, he knew that he would never be offered such a chance again. The inherent danger in such a course was…

It was time to accept that which he could not change.

“Is that a smile I see, Nathanial?”

Nathanial turned to his father, who had finally extracted himself from his flock. “Of a sort, Father. It seems that I discovered something of meaning in your sermon after all.”

“The Lord shines his face upon you.”

Nathanial tilted his head. It would not do for him to be seen to be in agreement with his father. “I must say, the church is coming along nicely.” He pointed to the two stained glass windows along the south wall. “These are new, are they not?”

“Installed this past year. Justia and Caritas, both originally drawn for Calcutta Cathedral twenty-five years ago. It is my intention that when finished each window in the south wall will represent the main Christian virtues. Can you recount them?”

“Reverentia, Fortitudo, Pax, and…” Nathanial paused, and stroked his whiskers, frowning in concentration. As expected, the Reverend supplied the final virtue.

“Humilitas.”

“Oh yes,” Nathanial said, as if he had forgot. He eyed the Reverend, and fought hard to suppress a smile. He knew the main virtues by heart, of course, he had been told to recite them often enough as a child. The Reverend was always so stolid in his dealings with Nathanial, a fact that used to bring out much the same in him. But Nathanial had changed in the two years away, discovered a less reverential side that he had hitherto never realised he possessed. It was a side his father would most certainly disapprove of.

“A virtue your travels may have removed from you, I perceive, Nathanial,” the Reverend said, pointedly.

“Perhaps so, Father, perhaps so. Now,” Nathanial said, and turned away from the south wall, “if you will excuse me, I have business to which I must attend.” With a slight nod and a smile, he made to leave.

“Your mother says you are to remain in Putney.”

Nathanial stopped and regarded his father. He wasn’t entirely sure, but there might have been an element of relief in the Reverend’s voice. “Possibly, I have yet to decide. It rather depends on a few variables, but I suspect I will most likely ‘set up shop’ in London. For the work ahead of me I will need a larger laboratory than the one I have on Charlwood Road.”

“London is close enough.”

Nathanial narrowed his eyes. “Close enough for what?”

“Your mother misses you,” the Reverend said shortly, his stern features setting.

“Quite.” Heaven forbid that the Reverend show concern for his son. “So much for a time to gather stones together,” he said, “or does the Word of God not apply to His servant? It is at times like these I rather wish you could see beyond your flock.” Nathanial shook his head. “What matter, I have much to do.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” the Reverend said, and turned away from Nathanial before Nathanial could think of a good parting comment.

For a long moment he remained standing there, wondering how it was that his father had turned away first. Once again it was Nathanial who stood alone. Returning home was, regardless of his mother’s words, the wrong decision.

4.

THE LETTER FROM Mister Lincoln lifted Annabelle’s spirits, and, in a more positive mood than she had felt in some time, she explored the parts of Dorset House open to her and her uncle—the downstairs front parlour and several rooms on the second floor. There were many locked doors, however, including broad sliding doors which cut off the main hallways leading into the interior of the building. What those locks guarded she could not say, nor would the staff.

As to the domestic staff, she met only four: Stanhope the butler and Dunstan the very young upstairs maid she had met when she first arrived, as well as Carlock the doorman. All three of them were polite and considerate in their reserved way. Annabelle supposed that, whatever their sympathies toward her and her uncle, their loyalties must by necessity lie with their employer, whoever that might be—some government ministry, she supposed. “Guests” such as the two of them clearly must come and go, while the house and its proprietors endured. Annabelle soon resolved that she would not mistake their sympathy for an invitation to confide openly in them. That would simply put them in the awkward position of having to choose between betraying her confidence and betraying the trust placed in them by their master, a choice it was unfair of her to thrust upon them.

The fourth member of the staff, Mrs Dubbner, was a decidedly less agreeable person. Older—perhaps in her forties—tall, thin, and severe, she served as downstairs maid but seemed to have more authority than that title might suggest, although Annabelle knew not how or why. Dubbner served their meals in the downstairs dining room, the food coming by dumbwaiter from, Annabelle supposed, a basement kitchen. Certainly the smells of cooking sometimes made their way into the lower floor. Dubbner served and removed without comment or expression, as a general rule, and if she ventured a look at a half-eaten meal or a bit of gravy dripped on the carpet, it was with clear disapproval. There was, of course, no question at all of confiding in her.

Uncle Cyrus had lapsed into a confused silence and her efforts to engage him in conversation over breakfast produced nothing but shrugs and blank looks. By early afternoon he had grown restless and irritable. He spoke—or rather muttered to himself—but he made no more sense than he had earlier. At times his words were not even recognisable as English; at times they sounded Eastern European, although when she asked him to repeat what he had said he would simply shake his head and say it was unimportant. She knew that her uncle spoke both French and German, but no other language. Perhaps, she thought, he had spoken to himself in German, as he often did when working through a problem in chemistry, and she had simply mistaken it for something else.

5.

“MISS SOMMERSET, I am very pleased to meet you. Will your esteemed uncle be joining us?”

The American envoy kissed Annabelle’s hand. Mister Lincoln was a distinguished-looking gentleman. He was bespectacled but not thickly so, greying at the temples, his closely-trimmed pointed beard all but white. Annabelle estimated his age as the mid-forties. His furrowed brow communicated a sincere concern for their welfare more eloquently than words ever could.

“I am afraid he is indisposed. His experiences on Luna have left him mentally…exhausted.”

Major Gordon, who stood silently in the open doorway to the sitting room, raised one eyebrow slightly at that description but offered no contradiction.

“I have asked the maid to serve us tea here in the sitting room. Will you take a chair?” Annabelle gestured to the armchairs but the envoy bowed and gestured for her to precede them. Once Annabelle had arranged herself on the sofa, the two men took the armchairs either side and facing each other, with the American envoy taking the chair closest to the end of the sofa on which Annabelle sat. The arrangement was both natural and symbolic, with the two Americans facing the lone British officer.

“Mister Lincoln, I could not help but notice your last name and wonder if you were related to our late president,” Annabelle said.

“He was my father.”

“Ah, I suspected as much. My uncle will be doubly disappointed as he is a great admirer of your father. I am as well, of course, although I was born after his death, but my uncle remembers his election well. He has often remarked that the terrible War of Succession might have had a far happier outcome had typhoid fever not taken your father from us so soon after his election.”

“Your uncle is very kind, and I take that as an especial honour from so prominent a scientist. As to what might have been, only the Almighty knows for certain. But now let us turn to your situation. Major Gordon, are we to be joined by any other representatives of your government?”

“No, your Excellency,” Gordon answered. “I have been directed to explain our position on this matter to you and answer your questions to the extent within which it is my power to do.”

Lincoln shifted in his chair and frowned slightly. “That hardly seems the proper task of a serving officer in the…what was it again?”

“The Northumberland Fusiliers, Excellency. You are correct, but I am currently serving on detached staff duty, seconded to the Department of Military Intelligence. I suspect that may be confusing to a civilian but I…”

“I quite understand, Major,” Lincoln broke in. “I was privileged to serve as Secretary of War for four years, so I am familiar with the rudiments of military staff responsibilities. How is General Buller these days?”

“Healthy, your Excellency.”

“But not happy, I shouldn’t imagine, stuck behind a desk.” Lincoln turned to Annabelle and explained. “General Redvers Buller is the head of British Military Intelligence, has been for slightly more than a year, if I recall correctly.”

“Your Excellency is well informed,” Gordon answered.

“Well, please give him my kindest wishes when you report the substance of our discussion to him,” Lincoln said. “Now as to that substance, it is my understanding that you are considering charging Miss Somerset and her uncle with felonies, among them high treason. As I am sure your own Foreign Office will tell you, there is no legal basis for Britain to charge an American citizen with treason. As Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant are not British subjects that should be obvious. So what are you actually after?”

Gordon picked up a thin leather portfolio which he had leaned against the leg of his chair when he sat down. “First, your Excellency, let me clear up a misunderstanding. The Crown contemplates no charges against Doctor Grant. He is held here only for his own protection. As Miss Somerset rather circumspectly suggested, his mental faculties have become so confused by the shock of recent events that to release him would simply endanger his own safety. At present, he is non compos mentis.”

“His mind will return to him,” Annabelle said. “I am certain of it.”

Gordon inclined his head. “I join you in hoping for this outcome, Miss Somerset, as does my government, although I have less certainty in its eventual fulfilment than you profess, for understandable reasons. But that is beside the point. Evidence has come into the hands of the government which suggests a collaborative involvement between the suspected saboteur, a Fenian revolutionist by the name of Dolan, and Miss Somerset.”

“Dolan? He nearly killed me!” Annabelle protested, but Lincoln held up his hand to calm her.

“And the nature of this evidence?” Lincoln asked.

“That I am not at liberty to say, sir, although if the matter comes to trial it will become public.”

Lincoln frowned and shook his head. “Thin soup, Major Gordon, very thin soup indeed. But in any case this does not address the obvious point of the impossibility of Miss Somerset having committed treason against a government to which she owes no allegiance. Under the circumstances I must insist, on behalf of my government, that your government either produce the evidence it claims to hold against her, or release her and her uncle to my custody at once. And let us hear nothing more about treason.”

Gordon released the clasp on his leather portfolio and drew out a folder. He opened it, studied the first paper for a moment, and then turned to Annabelle. “Your father was Ezekiel Somerset?”

“Yes.”

“He immigrated to the United States from Australia?”

“Yes,” she answered, but more cautiously. Where was this going?

“This is a notarised copy of Ezekiel Somerset’s baptismal certificate, showing he was born 19 August, 1842 in the hamlet of Pontesbury, Shropshire, England.” Gordon handed the document to Mister Lincoln who examined it for a moment and then nodded. “This is a notarised copy of the trial judgment entered against him in the municipal court in Liverpool for theft, on 7 August, 1859, wherein he was sentenced to be transported to the Australian colony of New South Wales. Here is a copy of the passenger manifest of the S.S. Argonaut, including his name, which arrived at Sydney on 23 December of the same year.” Again he passed the documents to Lincoln who examined them thoughtfully.

Lincoln studied the wall of the sitting room for a few moments, but Annabelle could tell his eyes were unfocussed, his mind lost in thought. He glanced at her and his eyes bore a suspicion and a warning. He seemed to know where this trail of documents led, or at least might lead.

Gordon produced several other documents, one establishing Ezekiel Somerset’s residence in New South Wales, one showing his service in the New South Wales Lancers for two years, a transfer deed involving purchase of a small sheep farm and then sale of it three years later for a substantially higher price, and then another passenger manifest, this for an American steamer which carried him to the port of San Francisco in 1867.

“Although we do not yet have a copy of the marriage license,” Gordon went on, “we are confident we will be able to obtain it and other documentary evidence establishing a complete record of Ezekiel Somerset’s movements up to the time he sired Miss Somerset.”

“Your point, Major?” Lincoln asked, but something in his voice suggested to Annabelle he already understood the point, although she certainly did not.

“Ezekiel Somerset never renounced his British citizenship, nor does your State Department admit to having a record of his naturalisation as a United States citizen. As a result, Miss Somerset is a British subject.”

“I am an American!” Annabelle exclaimed. “Even if my father were British, my mother was American and I was born in the Arizona Territory. That makes me American, does it not?”

Mister Lincoln leaned back in his chair and removed his spectacles to rub his eyes, as if suddenly very tired.

“We do not dispute your American citizenship, Miss Somerset,” Gordon explained patiently. “We assert only that you have dual citizenship, and are entitled to it until such time as you renounce one or the other.”

“Then I renounce it now, immediately! I owe allegiance to no flag save the star spangled banner.”

“Yes, you may renounce it today,” Gordon answered smoothly, “but you may not retroactively renounce it as a legal convenience.”

Annabelle looked to Lincoln. “What does he mean?”

Lincoln put his spectacles back on and avoided her eyes as he answered. “He means, my dear, that regardless of your actions now, you were, legally, a British subject at the time this alleged sabotage took place. But, Gordon, as Miss Somerset had no notion she was a British subject, this is nothing but a technicality. It cannot have bearing on her state of mind, which is central to a charge of wilful treason.”

“She is certainly free to make that argument in court when and if the time comes,” Gordon answered, “although I would think such legal hair-splitting would look unseemly as a defence, and leave her more open to conviction on the simple charges of sabotage and murder.”

Lincoln was silent for a few seconds and then spoke in a low voice. “This is a shameful thing your government does.”

If the accusation angered or offended Gordon, he gave no evidence of it. “I am here as a courtesy, your Excellency, to lay out our position and answer what questions I can. It is not my place to defend my government’s actions, even should I believe they required defending, which of course I do not.”

There seemed little else to say, and so the meeting was ended. Once Major Gordon had left, Annabelle turned to Mister Lincoln.

“This is all quite preposterous. Surely you must see that?”

“I do, dear lady, I do. However, it would appear our hands are somewhat tied at this moment.” He stepped over to her and took her hands in his. “Be assured, however, that the United States Government will underwrite your defence. For my own part, I shall interview and hire a solicitor. And perhaps a barrister, should this matter come to trial.”

Annabelle was shocked. “Do you suppose that is likely?”

Mister Lincoln looked at her sadly. “I hardly see how any other course of action could present itself.”

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.”

Chapter Five

“Officers and Gentlemen”

1.

“YOU SHOULD JOIN us in the summer, Nathanial. A retreat to St Leonard’s-on-Sea might be just the thing for you. Plus, of course, your help with the patients would be invaluable.”

As they walked through the grounds of the Royal Hospital of Incurables, Nathanial regarded his mother with incredulity. “Really, Mother, I am a scientist, not a doctor! As much I pity the poor unfortunates who find themselves in this place, I do not think I will ever feel the need to help them.”

“Yet you will create things to help man’s greed?”

Nathanial chose not to respond. It was very unlike his mother to confront him so, that was usually his father’s preferred method, and Nathanial could only assume that her work at the hospital was putting great strain on her. After a short moment of silence, his mother placed her arm in his and began telling him more about the hospital. Of course, he had known of its existence since he was a boy, but he knew little of its history.

The current location for the hospital was on the grounds of what used to be Melrose Hall on West Hill; twenty-five acres of land, the hospital had its own farm and livestock, as well as an orchard and market garden which provided fresh produce for the patients’ meals. The land had once been owned by Lord Spencer, part of his estate in Wimbledon Park. His mother explained that Florence Nightingale herself was consulted on the design of the hospital, which had undergone many sympathetic extensions since 1863, the last of which had been the northern facade built in 1879, the foundation stone of which was laid by Prince Edward.

“An impressive history, Mother, but it does not change my view. I will be the first to sing of the work you are doing here, but my future is not in Surrey.”

His mother raised an eyebrow, but she refused to comment on his announcement. Nathanial suspected she already knew about his intention to return to London. If not the Reverend, then certainly Edwin would have told her. Nathanial had spent some time with Lécuyer since Tuesday, and was almost certainly going to accept the offer of lodgings. He had seen the place in question, the upper rooms of a three story house in Russell Square owned by Lécuyer, with more than enough space for Nathanial to set up a lab. It would feel good to be inventing again, patenting designs that would improve the lives of many. A line in extra mechanical limbs, perhaps. He certainly had no intention of designing anything that would bring him to the attention of the Navy again.

“Do you have any concept of the work I do, Nathanial?” his mother asked, interceding on his thoughts, “or the opposition I have in such work?”

“I believe it has something to do with helping the patients to read.”

“Something, yes. I’m one of very few Authorised Lady Visitors; naturally the hospital administrators do not consider a hospital such as this as a place for ladies, despite the example Miss Nightingale shows in her own life. Nonetheless, I am one such, and I visit four to six patients a week, to help them with writing letters, reading, and playing cards.”

Nathanial stopped and took his mother’s hands in his. She looked up at him, her eyes searching. “Mother, I could not be more proud of the help you give these poor souls, but I fear you mistake me for Edwin. I will accept that when I returned to Putney on Saturday I was less than I am usually, but I have since decided to pick myself up. As you have always taught me, I will amount to nothing unless I try.”

His mother shook her head, and placed a gloved hand on his cheek. “Nathanial, you are my son, you will never be nothing.”

“I have achieved much in the past two years, seen so many amazing things. But my travels from Earth cost me much, too.” He turned away. “Perhaps I will one day tell you of…” He shook his head, unable to even conclude the thought.

“You do not need to, I have seen the hurt. I can feel it.”

Nathanial turned back to her, and smiled. “I know,” he said softly. “You always were the strongest in the family. So much more than the Reverend.”

“Do not be too harsh on your father. He loves you as much as I; he understands that you are hurting over something so deep that you cannot tell us. But…” She smiled at him. “Your father is a complicated man, Nathanial.”

“If you say so, Mother.”

For a short while they walked on, once again linking arms, and Nathanial drew from her strength.

“I am petitioning for the development of a Ladies’ Association,” his mother began, “with a view to collecting money to help ‘unbefriended candidates’. There are so many who need the service the hospital provides, but lack the funds to pay for such. We will help them gain admission.”

As his mother continued to tell him of her plans, Nathanial’s mind drifted away to another strong woman he knew. Ever since he first met her in Arizona, he had been drawn to Annabelle. He had never quite understood why, although he knew the reason had little to do with what Cyrus Grant had thought at the time. Now, in the presence of his mother, it all made sense. All his life he had been around a woman of such inner strength that it was perfectly natural for him to find other strong women compelling. Most men would probably disagree, opposed to the suffragette movement, but Nathanial knew he was not most men. In so many ways he was different to the men he knew.

Now he was, once more, back in touch with his fellows in the Savile Club, it was time to discover just what had happened to Annabelle. For nearly two weeks now they had not been in contact; as far as he knew she could be back in America, or even away on further adventures in the aether in the company of George Bedford. It seemed inconceivable that she would have made no attempt to contact him, but then what effort had he made? Certainly he had attempted to get the governor of the Chatham Convict Prison to find out, and had even implored Director White for information, but neither man had been willing to help. Indeed, Director White had been most obstructive on that point. That had been almost a week ago.

He had wasted enough time, Nathanial decided, and he would waste no more. He would discover the whereabouts of Annabelle Somerset.

2.

“TREACHEROUS BRITISH COWARDS,” Uncle Cyrus muttered when Major Gordon entered their sitting room. “You’d have blown them all up if you had a lick of sense.”

“I did not blow anyone up, Uncle,” Annabelle answered with an air of resignation. Her uncle’s comments grew increasingly random and carried little meaning any more, aside from a reflection of his current mood. “It has been two days since your last visit, Major Gordon. Have you come with a new bribe?”

As usual, his face registered no offense at the comment, or even reaction. “No, and I must apologise for my absence. The Queen’s business has kept me away. I trust you have both been well?”

“The Devil’s business, more likely,” Uncle Cyrus snapped.

Gordon smiled at him as if he had wished him good morning. Annabelle considered her own retort—that they had prospered rather than suffered from his absence—but following her uncle’s remark she realised she would have sounded like just another petulant half-mad American. She was powerless at the moment, and these little gestures of angry defiance did not disguise that fact, she suddenly saw, but rather emphasised it.

“We are both well, as you can see. What business brings you here, Major Gordon?” she asked.

“I had intended to send you a note but duty brought me near Dorset House and so I thought I would look in on you.”

“Where is she?” She heard the familiar voice echo from the downstairs parlour, up the stairs, and down the hall.

George!

Gordon half turned to the doorway with a look of surprise. “Who the devil is that?”

As she heard the stairs taken at a run, two at a time, she tried to compose herself. Why George, how good to see you, she would say, and offer her hand. Or was that too formal? How wonderful to see you. No, how very wonderful to see you. How–

The door burst open and George Bedford paused for a moment, face red with emotion and exertion, snowflakes still off-white on the shoulders of his naval greatcoat, and then he brushed past Gordon as if he were the doorman and enfolded her in his arms.

“Oh, George!” she said, and then could say no more as her tears choked her.

“I will leave you,” Gordon said, but George turned on him, one arm still protectively around Annabelle’s shoulder.

“Not before you answer for this! What do you mean to hold these two as prisoners with no word to their friends? If the American consulate had not contacted me I would still not know where they were, or even that they were held against their will.”

“What do I mean by it?” Gordon said. “I mean to follow my orders, sir. While I understand naval officers are rather more relaxed with respect to orders than we in the Army are used to, I still imagine you understand the concept.”

“Orders! Orders to hold a young lady and her uncle incommunicado? To what purpose? How can a man of honour allow himself to be part of such a shameful business as this?”

For the first time Annabelle saw Gordon react to a comment, saw his lips tighten and colour come to his cheeks and ears.

“Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant are held pursuant to legal orders of the government you and I both serve. Neither of them has been mistreated in any way. As to my honour, sir, it would hardly survive direct disobedience to lawful orders issued from the highest—I emphasise the highest—authority. I certainly cannot take it upon myself to unilaterally release someone whom I have never met prior to this week and against whom the Lord Chancellor is considering charges of treason.”

“Treason!” George practically spat. “What a lot of rot! Perhaps you’ve never met her before, but I’ve known Annabelle Somerset long enough to understand not only the impossibility of this charge, but also the debt the Crown owes her and her uncle. I’ll vouch for her.”

“But I do not know you, Commander, and in any event your opinion, no matter how well-founded you believe it to be, does not relieve me of my responsibility. Now I fear my continued presence here will produce nothing of benefit to any of us, and so I leave you with your admirer, Miss Somerset.”

3.

GEORGE BEDFORD HELPED Annabelle situate herself on the sofa and while she dried her eyes and composed herself he turned to her uncle.

“I hope you are well, sir,” Bedford said.

Cyrus Grant, one of the greatest scientific minds of the age, peered at him through squinted eyes as if trying to remember him, or remember something important about him. “You. Bedford, isn’t it? You saved the Heart.”

The Heart, that unimaginably old, alien intelligence resting deep in the underground caverns of Luna behind walls of unrusting, unyielding metal. Whether it was an organic or mechanical intelligence, what it wanted and where it came from—all these remained unanswered questions. What was known was that it reached out and touched the minds of a very few people, but once it touched them, it changed them—perhaps forever. It had touched Cyrus Grant’s mind and left him like this.

They had also learned, nearly too late, that the Heart reacted traumatically to violence and death. George Bedford had almost given his life keeping a detachment of Russian soldiers at a distance, as a deadly struggle in proximity to the Heart would have had unpredictable, perhaps catastrophic, consequences.

“Well, a number of us saved it, I should say,” George said, “and I came close enough to killing it myself by dispatching all of those Saltators in its presence.”

Grant’s eyes cleared for a moment and he waved the words away. “None of us knew. How could we? But afterwards you did what was needed.” He patted Bedford’s arm. “For that I am very grateful. The Heart is all I have, you know.” His eyes lost their focus and drifted to the walls of the room. “All I have,” he said again softly, and then he wandered away and disappeared through a side door.

Bedford pulled an armchair closer by the sofa and took Annabelle’s hand is his when he sat. “You wear the black peg instead of your mechanical leg. It’s not damaged, is it?”

“No, they took it from me at the Tower.”

For a moment Bedford had difficulty understanding the words, their meaning was so alien. “Took it? The Tower? Good heavens, you have been through a difficult time! What sort of swine would do such a thing? The ordeal seems to have affected your uncle as well. Is he always like this?”

“Worse, usually. He was more lucid for that moment with you than I have seen him since our return to Earth. For just a moment he seemed himself again. Mister Lincoln informed you of our presence here, you said?”

“Lincoln?” Bedford asked. “I honestly don’t know who it was. The note was unsigned, but the messenger boy said he’d been sent to the US Consulate building and met in front by a gentleman who gave him the note and instructions for its delivery to me. It may be your Mister Lincoln wishes to avoid direct involvement, but if so I have ruined that with my outburst.”

Annabelle’s face creased in thought. “How odd,” she said. “He is already quite involved, as he has offered to underwrite my defence at trial. Perhaps he thought informing you went beyond diplomatic propriety. I cannot fathom why, but so much of this affair makes no sense to me.”

“But you trust this Lincoln chap?”

Annabelle nodded immediately. “Oh, yes. He is a forthright man who I believe will do everything he can to help me, provided only it is consistent with his duty to our country.”

There was that word again, Bedford thought—duty. He had always thought of it as his own guiding compass, but when did it stop being that and become simply a crutch? This Major Gordon fellow seemed to hide behind it, use it as a blindfold for his own conscience. His thoughts must have shown in his face for Annabelle squeezed his hand.

“Major Gordon was truthful,” Annabelle said, “at least by his lights. We have not been mistreated or injured, beyond the enormous injury to our freedom.”

He supposed that was true, and the decision to incarcerate Annabelle and her uncle had undoubtedly been made far above Major Gordon. What had he said? The highest level. Bedford had himself had to do things which he considered wrong, or at least wrong-headed, and sometimes an officer had to just hold his nose and follow orders. Gordon, however, did not have the look of a man holding his nose. “I still don’t think I like him,” Bedford said and Annabelle smiled in reply.

“Oh, you just met him, George,” she said. “Once you have known him longer, all uncertainty on that point will disappear.” He chuckled at that, and he felt warm inside seeing the humour sparkle in her eyes again. “But I have been without news for nearly a fortnight,” she went on. “He said Nathanial was released. Is that true or simply another deception?”

Bedford settled back in the arm chair, finally beginning to relax. His morning had been a tidal wave of anxiety and suspense since receiving the mysterious note, the emotional tension heightened by a breakneck ride by hansom cab through the crowded city streets. Now that he could see her safe and sound, feel her hand is his, he felt the tension slide away.

“It’s true, although the professor has been let go by the government. Why they would clear him and then sack him is beyond my understanding. Of course we had no idea you were being held. At first I imagined you were simply occupied with…family business,” he glanced toward the door to her uncle’s bedroom, “and were simply too busy to contact me.”

“I would never be that busy, George,” she said and squeezed his hand.

“Well, it’s nice to hear you say that, and I will remember it for future reference. But when it came to explaining your silence I found it more comforting to think it was an oversight rather than anything untoward. Then as the days stretched out I became concerned and began making inquiries. I even hired a detective to look into the passenger manifests of steamers and airships leaving for America, to see if you had already left.”

“Left without saying goodbye?” she asked.

How could he put into words how he had felt when facing that prospect? A sinking, hollow, empty feeling, to be sure, but one unaccompanied by any bitterness toward her. As a boy his pain might have found an outlet in anger. As a man he was no stranger to solitude, or to melancholy when it came to that.

“Annabelle, I have no claim on your affections. You have no obligations to me in that respect.”

She drew back slightly. “You would not care if I left without a word?”

“I would care very much, dear, and I would feel a great many things as a result, sadness above all else. But I would not feel betrayed. Do you understand the difference?”

She studied him for several seconds, her lips slightly pursed in concentration and her brow furrowed. Then her eyes softened and she seemed to relax. “I believe I do, George. Oh my, how complicated life can become when facing a charge of treason.” She laughed softly then, and Bedford smiled.

“But tell me about you,” she said, her voice again light. “The major called you Commander. Have you been promoted?”

“Yes, I have. I completely forgot in all the excitement of finding you, but they gave me my third stripe.” He held the sleeve of his coat up and she took hold of it, turning it slightly to examine the new gold stripes on the cuff.

“You had three before but the middle one was thin. Now all are the same.”

“Yes, the thin stripe in the middle meant I had eight years seniority in grade, but it wasn’t a substantive rank.”

“Will your duties change with this promotion?”

“No. Sovereign should have had a commander as first officer all along but Captain Folkard insisted on me. He once told me he chose me because we were so different I would be a good complement to him. He already had a shadow, he said, and was not interested in acquiring another.”

“That sounds like him,” she said. “Is he better?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since we reached Portsmouth. He left the ship shortly after we grounded, and a couple of days ago we received word he had been officially relieved of command and sent away on sick leave.”

“Will you receive command of Sovereign, then?”

“The most junior commander on the lists? No. The Viscount Theobald will take command, as soon as he returns from the Caribbean. He’s master of HMS Medea, one of our cruisers on West Indies Station. He’s never been off the planet before.”

Some of his bitterness must have leaked through in his voice because Annabelle’s expression darkened. “Why would they give command to someone so much less qualified than you?”

“Qualification is a matter of opinion, of course, and being someone’s son and heir is often the only qualification which counts. But it’s not important. As I said, I had no prospect of commanding Sovereign given my own rank and standing, and if I’d have got a command at all I couldn’t have expected much more than a steam sloop somewhere on China Station. If they’d chosen a captain who knew his business, that’s where I’d have ended up, but they need me, you see. So I’ll still be second in command of the pride of the fleet. Honestly, I could hardly have expected a better assignment.” Bedford smiled at Annabelle’s look of pride, once again reminded why he wished to have her on his arm. He cleared his throat. “So it will be several weeks before Captain Theobald arrives to take command, and in any case Sovereign is laid up at Chatham in refit, having her aether propeller rebuilt.”

“Yes, I remember the difficulty we had before diverting to Luna,” Annabelle said.

“Quite. Boswell—you remember him, the chief engineer—has everything in hand. Really nothing for me to do during the refit and the crew’s been sent off on leave. I’ve some leave coming myself, so I’ll be here to help you sort this business out. We have faced much more dangerous foes than a gaggle of faceless bowler-hatted bureaucrats—both of us have, Annabelle, individually and jointly.”

She looked down for a moment and her expression became serious. “I will not hold you to that, George. You have a career, hard won, and I would not see it ruined by scandal on my account. You must do nothing which will reflect ill on your reputation in the Navy. Recall, I am an accused traitor. What assignment can you look forward to as an associate of a saboteur?”

Bedford sat quietly with Annabelle for a few moments before answering, drawing his thoughts together and trying to decide where to start. “My father was a tanner,” he said finally. “He’s gone now, God rest his soul, but my brothers followed his trade. I would have as well, except for some extraordinary luck. Sometime I’ll tell you about that, but it’s not important now. The thing is, being a tanner stinks—physically stinks. It’s from the chemicals used to tan the hides. I hated that stink. I suppose it’s the stink I fled when I went to sea, and then later to the aether. But here’s God’s honest truth, Annabelle. If it comes to abandoning someone I care for, abandoning them to a disgraceful travesty of justice, I’d sooner scrape hides for the rest of my life than hold my peace or do the safe thing. Tanning stinks, but the stink washes off at night if you work at it. But if I abandon you—well, I’d never scrub that stink off.”

4.

“I TRUST YOU enjoyed your visit yesterday from Commander Bedford,” Gordon said after bidding Annabelle good morning.

“I did, although I do not recall introducing him to you,” she answered. She would rather have had her breakfast in peace than see Gordon and have to go back and forth with him again. She had not slept well the previous night, thinking in part about the perils which faced her, but more about those to which she was subjecting George. Not for the first time did she reflect that her affection for someone usually seemed more curse than blessing—her own parents murdered, her uncle mad, Nathanial disgraced, and now George apparently hell-bent on running his career aground on the reefs of her legal difficulties. Perhaps she was not destined to go through life in the happy company of others.

Major Gordon placed his dark leather portfolio on the white tablecloth and took a chair across the table from her. Mrs Dubbner appeared with a cup of tea and set it down before him without the customary thunk and sloshing of tea into the saucer she reserved for Annabelle. “Thank you, Mrs Dubbner,” he said. “I wonder if Doctor Grant would prefer to take his porridge in the parlour?”

“Of course, Major Gordon,” she answered, and went to Uncle Cyrus’s side. “Come along, Doctor. Your porridge is in the other room today. Nice and hot, and cook found some Jamaican molasses for it.” His otherwise blank face showed some interest at the mention of molasses and he went with her without complaint. Mrs Dubbner closed the sliding doors to the dining room behind her.

“No, Miss Somerset,” Gordon said once they were alone, “you did not introduce us, but I am an officer in military intelligence. I would not be worth much if I could not discover the identity of a fellow officer in my own armed forces. Commander Bedford is a rather remarkable man. I expect him to be heavily decorated for his part in that business on Luna, maybe even come out of it with a knighthood.” He looked down and stirred his tea, although he had added nothing to it.

A knighthood? Annabelle considered the possibility of George the tanner’s son becoming Sir George, and for the life of her she could not encompass it. True, Nathanial had been quite convinced George was about to become a national hero after leading the attack and rescue mission against the so-called City of Light and Science on Luna—was certain of it, the merits of the accolades notwithstanding, because it would serve the interests of the backers of jingoistic colonialism. Bizarre and interesting as these possibilities were, it also occurred to her that Major Gordon had not mentioned them simply to make polite conversation.

“What is your point, Major?”

He looked up and set the spoon down beside his saucer. He picked up the cup but paused before drinking. “With respect, Miss Somerset, I believe you know very well my point.” He sipped the tea, returned the cup to the saucer, and placed his right hand lightly on the leather portfolio.

“You have brought the agreement again? You have wasted your time, Major.”

“Not the agreement, or not only that,” he answered and unlatched the case. He drew out a large sheet of heavy paper folded oddly in upon itself in a manner she had never seen but which had the look of some sort of official document.

“I have obtained special permission to bring this and show it to you. It is, for the moment, sealed, but will soon become public.”

He passed the paper across to her and she felt the blood pound in her ears, felt slightly light-headed as she accepted it with trembling hand. This, then, was the evidence against her. She unfolded the paper and read.

It was not the evidence.

It was a formal indictment for high treason. The words seemed to blur before her eyes, but with difficulty she read them. The paper bore the signature and seal of the Lord Chancellor, or at least purported to. She had no idea what the seal would actually look like, or who the Lord Chancellor was, but she suspected this was no stage prop. Something about it…something about it seemed very, very real. One phrase in the indictment caught her eye: “…and such other accomplices, both before and after the fact, unnamed here but also subject to prosecution…” The meaning was clear: they would not stop with her.

She put the paper down and looked at Gordon. He studied her face carefully, had no doubt done so as she read. She wondered what he had seen when he did so, what she had revealed about herself. She said nothing and for several seconds they studied each other.

“Let me now explain where I believe matters stand,” Gordon said at length. “If this goes forward, you will be prosecuted and, in all likelihood, convicted. I am not myself conversant with the evidence, but I am told it is quite damning and in any event the Lord Chancellor would not proceed with a case of this sensational a nature if there was much prospect of the government being humiliated by a loss. He has ambitions of his own. If and when you are convicted, the courts will remove your uncle from your guardianship, appoint another guardian with power of attorney, and the rights to the patents will come under control of the government the same as if you had signed—although I cannot guarantee the terms will be as generous. As to what extent this will darken the reputations, indeed the lives, of your friends I can only guess, but the prospects for them are not bright.” He drew another document from his portfolio. “This is the agreement I brought before you earlier this week. It still stands, I am somewhat surprised to say, but only so long as the indictment remains sealed. Once the charge becomes public, there is no going back. It cannot then be swept under the rug without too many embarrassing questions being raised by Mister Gladstone and the opposition in Parliament, not to mention the Austrians, who had a considerable interest in the station. However, if you sign, there will be no charges against you or any of your friends.”

Annabelle looked at the two papers—one amounting to a death sentence and the other a reprieve for all—and she felt both a choking fear and a burning sense of outrage, the two struggling for control of her mind.

“If the government thinks me innocent,” she said, “why bring the charges? Or if they believe me guilty of this heinous crime, why let me go? And if this is simply blackmail to force my hand, what sort of people would—or could—harness so much of the machinery of a government to such base purpose? And why would they risk so much simply for two patents?”

Major Gordon looked away thoughtfully for a moment and when he looked back his eyes narrowed. Annabelle had considerable experience with dangerous men, far more than she cared to. She had never considered Gordon a dangerous man—cold perhaps, and calculating, but that was a different matter. As his eyes narrowed, though, she thought…perhaps. But she did not believe him dangerous to her, which was quite interesting.

“I cannot answer those questions, Miss Somerset, but I can tell you this: Were I in your position, I would do everything in my power to find out.”

Yes. It would be hard to do that while standing trial for treason, though, wouldn’t it? She took a deep breath and then slowly let it out.

“I shall require a pen, Major Gordon.”

Chapter Six

“A Taste of Freedom”

1.

“IF YOU HAD told me this two weeks ago, I would hardly have believed it. As it now stands, in conjunction with Miss Annabelle’s own situation, I find it very credible.”

Folkard studied his former first officer with caution. He had been most certain that Bedford would be the ally he needed in the unofficial task Cavor had set him—the fact that seeking out help from someone like Bedford would most certainly be considered ill-advised by Cavor was by the by. He had known Bedford, on and off, for twenty years, having met him when he was a young midshipman on HMS Saratoga under then-Captain Herbert Cavor, and had grown to trust his sense of duty and loyalty to the Crown. It was not only those attributes which Folkard was dependent on now, however, but rather Bedford’s relationship with Miss Somerset.

“In conjunction. Very well put, Bedford, for I feel sure that both Professor Stone’s and Miss Somerset’s situations are intricately linked. There is something very big going on, and we need to discover what.” Folkard glanced around the busy public house. He had chosen a pub in Lambeth as it was unlikely to be a place one would expect to see two naval officers. Neither he nor Bedford were in uniform, and he had sent word that Bedford should find clothes that would enable him to blend in with the locals. Bedford had done just that, even gone so far as to dirty his face with soot. “If I were to mention Project ‘G’, what would that imply to you?”

Bedford gave this some thought. “On its own, nothing, but clearly there is something secretive about it.” He stopped for a moment, while his mind caught up with his words. “The gravity on Sovereign?”

Folkard nodded. “Quite so, and as you know every man who served aboard Sovereign was required to sign the Official Secrets Act after it was passed last August, ensuring that the event of gravity on ship was not ever to be discussed.”

“Of course, they were ordered not to discuss it before the Act was passed.”

“Agreed, but now the penalty is much harsher. Regardless, as captain, I knew a little more about its origins, but even my knowledge had its limits. Until five days ago.”

Bedford listened intently as Folkard explained what he knew of Project “G”. It did not cover a great deal, but it was enough to make Bedford settle into a ruminative silence for a short while after Folkard had finished.

“This is incredible, and surely a complete violation of certain terms of agreement.”

Folkard raised any eyebrow. “Since when did that stop the government, Bedford? All you need do is look to Luna. The government was quite content to defy the Luna Treaty when it became inconvenient, although it is only now that they’re beginning to realise the consequences of such disregard for the other nations who signed the treaty. Possibly not the most enviable time to be a naval officer.”

“Although I have entertained such thoughts from time to time, I am surprised to hear them from you, sir. But as to the desirability of service in such times I must disagree. When are officers with an eye to the protection of the Crown more needed?”

“But who are we protecting it from, Commander?” Folkard asked, pronouncing Bedford’s new rank with genuine pleasure. He was still young, and was about to become responsible for the finest ship in Her Majesty’s Navy—they both knew that the appointment of Captain Theobald was pure politics, and it was Bedford who would really be in charge of Sovereign—but he was capable, more so than most officers of the same rank. Before that, though, he had an equally big task to undertake. “From greedy and corrupt politicians, from admirals who have risen to power through sheer political manoeuvring.”

Bedford smiled. “Is that not always the way of things?”

“Perhaps, but that does not make it right. There are still honourable men in the government and Admiralty. There is a conspiracy rotting the heart of the Empire, and we’ve been tasked to expose it.”

“But I still do not understand what this has to do with Annabelle, or Professor Stone. Certainly they have been aboard Sovereign, but…” Bedford shook his head. “The treason charge was related to the destruction of Peregrine Station.”

“There is a link here, Bedford, and that link is Project ‘G’. We must uncover the truth behind Project ‘G’, and expose these men. But let me warn you, George, we are treading a very dangerous path. It could very well cost us our careers, if not our very lives.”

Bedford nodded slowly. “Annabelle also warned me of such, but as I told her so I will tell you, I will stand by Annabelle to the ends of the Earth, and beyond. She has been forced to sign documents that give the patents of both Grant’s aether propeller governor, and that designed by Stone, to the British government. This in itself is curious, but in doing so she has been forced into, at least unofficially, admitting to the charge of treason, even though on the surface she appears to be a free woman once more, we both know she is not. I will do whatever must be done to ensure she is released from all such charges.”

Folkard ran a hand over his beard. “The British government now owns the patents to the only aether propeller governor designs? Most interesting, since without such no ship can hope to navigate Luna.”

“Except the Russians, who have access to Tereshkov’s own modulation device.”

Folkard nodded. “Whoever is behind this conspiracy is certainly well connected.” For a moment he was silent, allowing all the new information a chance to circulate through his brain, while he quaffed some of the ale from the tankard in his hands. “Very well. If I know Miss Somerset at all, even now she will be thinking of ways to investigate why she’s been accused of treason. Assist her in any way you must. For more my own part I shall continue to make discreet enquiries about Project ‘G’, and locate Professor Stone.”

“We will need to move carefully.” Bedford considered. “How will you contact me? I am still an officer in the Navy, after all, and our association may draw some interest the deeper we dig.”

Folkard smiled. “The guttersnipe, Mister Bedford, of course.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“London, full of children, many homeless. Street urchins who will do almost anything for a scrap of bread. They move throughout the city largely unseen, privy to things the city’s best bobbies would have trouble learning. I shall contact you through them.”

Bedford blinked at this, clearly surprised by his former captain’s audacity. “Well, then… Mister Lincoln has secured lodgings for Annabelle, for she is moving out of Dorset House today. You can get word to me through her, at Number Seventeen Chapel Street, run by a Mrs Collingwood.”

“Capital.” Folkard stood, and finished the dregs of his ale. “You remain for a while, so we are not seen to leave together.” He took Bedford’s hand in his and shook it, smiling grimly. He retrieved his respirator mask and hat from the table, “good morning to you,” he said, and departed.

2.

THE COLD WIND blew the pollution out from the City, and Nathanial found himself having to rely on a respirator mask to keep his breath in check. He had never been to Perivale before, and now he understood why. There was not much of it, not even a village blacksmith. This, at least, made finding the house easy. He rang on the bell and waited on the door step, glancing over at the carriage which had brought him from London. Lécuyer sat warmly within, and waved somewhat flamboyantly when he noticed Nathanial looking over.

He had been living in the Russell Square rooms provided by Lécuyer for a couple of days, and had spent most of his time engaged in making contact with several gentlemen at the Savile Club, known for their government connections. Thus far he had learned nothing about Annabelle, although Sir Eleias promised to have something for him within a week. With thoughts of Annabelle still occupying his mind, and unable to focus on any work, Nathanial set to work on locating the one person he knew would help him.

The door opened and a young man stood there. Nathanial had not seen him for some weeks, and when they had last laid eyes on each other, the young man had been resting up in Sovereign’s sickbay being administered to by Doctor Beverly. At that time the young man was ill, recovering, and only then just barely, from treacherous treatment at the hands of the Drobates, the dwellers of the lunar City of Light and Science. Now, as he stood before Nathanial, the young man seemed to be of a stronger bearing. Not as well as when he and Nathanial had first met some eight months ago, but still, as Doctor Beverly would no doubt say, “on the mend”.

“Nath… Professor Stone, what are you doing here?” asked Ordinary Seaman Erasmus Stevenson.

Nathanial almost stepped back in shock. To hear such formality from Erasmus’ mouth. He had expected Erasmus to be surprised, but this was the not the surprise of a happy reunion. “Erasmus, for the first I have come to ask for your help, and in the second instance I have come to see how well you fair, now you are home. I imagine your sister is most happy to finally meet her big brother?”

Erasmus’ eyes darted about. “You should not be here. I… I cannot speak to you.”

Abruptly the door closed on Nathanial’s shocked countenance. For a few moments he lingered on the doorstep, his mind awash with feelings of confusion and betrayal. When they had been on the run from the Drobates, secreted in the underground railroad of Luna, Nathanial had felt sure that he and Erasmus had come to an understanding. That something deep and personal had passed between them. But now…

Nathanial turned and retreated to the carriage. He did not look at Lécuyer, instead his eyes continued to rest on the house, and the lit window in which the silhouette of a man could be seen. It was Erasmus, Nathanial was certain, but for what was he watching? To make sure Nathanial left forthwith, or did he watch with longing in his heart?

Lécuyer signalled the driver, and with the crack of a whip the carriage moved on.

“Nathanial, I think you need some cheering up. It is a Sunday, is it not? As is my custom I must visit my friends, and I believe you will enjoy them.” Lécuyer leaned forward and placed a hand on Nathanial’s knee. “For they will certainly enjoy you!”

Nathanial barely noticed Lécuyer’s hand, instead as the carriage continued on into the night, away from Perivale village, he continued to watch as the house sank into the distance.

He had been certain he could have counted on Stevenson.

3.

THE WATER FELT so good on his face. Nathanial stood up and dried himself with the towel resting by the basin. After leaving Stevenson he had not been himself, that was the only excuse he could find for his behaviour afterwards. He had seen much, and engaged in much else besides, that would be considered unconventional, and he had always known that in some ways he had been made wrong, but last night redefined his perception of such things.

He walked across to the table on which lay the cluttered mess of gears and pistons, levers and switches. He knew he would never discuss the events of last night with anyone, as Lécuyer had discovered when they had returned to their house in the early hours of the morning, but to himself he could at least admit that he very much enjoyed himself.

He sat at the table. His first task, he had decided upon awakening, was to perfect the mechanical leg he had started designing during his journey across Mars. He turned to his schematics and unrolled the paper upon which they were drawn. Looking around for two paperweights, he found a large book and the silver pocket watch. He picked up the watch and looked at it curiously.

He did not remember putting the watch on the table. The last time he had seen it was when he’d first moved into the rooms on Friday, and then he had placed it for safe keeping in a small drawer located under the table.

He must have removed it when he’d returned from that den six hours ago. It did not matter; it would serve sufficiently as a paperweight. He placed the watch at one end of the schematics. It was time to get to work.

4.

“OH, IS THAT so?” her uncle demanded of Annabelle for perhaps the tenth time. “Is that so? Is that so?”

“Yes, Uncle Cyrus, it is so!” she exclaimed in frustration. “These are good people we share these walls with and you must—well, you ought to show them the same courtesy they have extended to us.” She held her hands over her face and took a breath to steady herself. What was the point of growing angry at him? It was as sensible as berating a man with malaria for perspiring. Her mind carried her back over the past three days which had begun so hopefully.

Saturday morning had been consumed with travel to and from the magistrate court building and waiting for the competency hearing, although the hearing itself had taken less than a quarter of an hour. A wigged and silk-robed Queen’s Counsel had presented the petition to the magistrate, the supporting documentation had already been filed, and after Annabelle answered a few routine questions under oath the petition had been granted. The only real point of concern centred not on her uncle’s competency but rather her own, considering her age and gender, and the questioning had determined that she was, indeed, his only living relative and in any case the only United States citizen in the United Kingdom to whom the courts could reasonably entrust another American. The ease with which Uncle Cyrus had been declared incompetent disturbed Annabelle. It was true, of course, he was incompetent, but would it have been any harder had he not been?

Annabelle spent Saturday afternoon making arrangements for their move from Dorset House, as they were no longer “guests” of the Crown, but had received a cash advance against their pensions with which to secure lodgings. Mister Lincoln, again by anonymous courier, had recommended a boarding house north of the Thames and on the near west side of the city just off Edward Road, and they made the actual move on Sunday. Two sailors from HMAS Sovereign rode on the back of the carriage George hired and carried their bags in and up, although one could have managed them without difficulty, so destitute were they of material possessions. George accompanied her and Uncle Cyrus, and he also gave her a brief orientation as they rode to the place.

“I made some inquiries. This is a respectable boarding house and Mrs Collingwood is said to set a good table. The house and neighbourhood itself is safe enough although I would not recommend you walk at night. When you walk in the day, walk south and then return north before dusk. This is Edward Road,” George said, meaning the broad boulevard the carriage made its way along. “We are heading nor’ by nor’west. You see those roofs to the west? Those are the homes on Norfolk Circle, all of them quite fine.”

Annabelle saw well-maintained tile and shingle roofs rising above the shops and brownstones which lined Edward Road. Everything she saw here looked prosperous and the people moved with an easy confidence which bespoke gainful occupation.

“This neighbourhood is safe, as you can see, as are those in the two of three streets north of here to Chapel Street. I would say the houses on the north side of Chapel Street mark the limit of the genuinely middle class neighbourhood. North of there the people are working class, generally good people, but economic want always threatens them, while north of Bell Street the neighbourhoods become quite desperate, and hence dangerous.”

“I don’t know that I will remember all of that,” Annabelle said.

“You will witness it and it will all become clear. Mrs Collingwood’s house is one of those on the north side of Chapel, between Edward Road and where Carlisle broadens out into Hyde Park Street.”

Mrs Collingwood greeted them at the door with a polite but not fulsome welcome. She struck Annabelle as a sensible woman of early middle age, plump and plain, with a natural dignity but no evidence of snobbery or self-righteousness. There was no Mister Collingwood, he having perished in the army overseas some years earlier. This was, Mrs Collingwood explained, a gentleman’s boarding house, but as their rooms would be let to her uncle, Annabelle could certainly board here with him. If her landlady thought to elaborate as to the sort of proper behaviour she expected from Annabelle, she must have changed her mind and left her explanation at that. Perhaps the sight of Annabelle’s cane and obvious physical infirmity, or Uncle Cyrus’s bewildered look, influenced her.

Annabelle introduced George as a friend of both hers and her uncle’s. Mrs Collingwood accepted that after first spending a moment in frank appraisal of the tall naval officer at Annabelle’s side, an appraisal which ended on a satisfactory note to judge from the slight nod she gave.

Their rooms consisted of two small bedrooms and a sitting room, very like their quarters at Dorset House, but also very much unlike them. Pastel-coloured walls with a few country landscapes, and yellow-upholstered chairs and settee, gave the sitting room a light and open feel. The curtains smelled of carbolic acid, which she had by now grown used to, and the sitting room also had a lingering odour of tobacco smoke, but in London those were by no means the worst smells encountered. The carpets were a bit threadbare but lent a homey feel to the rooms, and if the rent of two pounds a week had seemed high to Annabelle at first George assured her it was reasonable for this part of London. That was particularly true, he added, as Mrs Collingwood’s lodgers were reputed to end each week with the same number of shirts in their closets as they had started out with, which was by no means a universal characteristic of boarding houses.

George had seen them settled into their rooms and then taken the sailors away, having an appointment of his own at the Admiralty. At Sunday dinner she met the other four lodgers, two older retired army officers and two young men in the professions, one a clerk at a bank and the other a junior official in the Foreign Office. Her uncle had been silent through dinner, eating what was placed before him but saying nothing. The others had apparently been alerted by their landlady that Doctor Grant was recovering from a nervous collapse and so they showed no mawkish curiosity at his silence, nor did they try to draw him out.

Dinner had been an almost surreal delight. She tried to remember the last time she had dined with a group of people who were not either in Her Majesty’s Service—one way or another—or members of an alien race, and although she knew it had been more than a year earlier, she could not recall the exact circumstances or company. It would have been too ordinary to embed itself in her memory. She would remember this meal; its very ordinariness now rendered it extraordinary. She had herself spoken little and merely enjoyed the conversation of the others, enjoyed it for its meaninglessness. Here there were no hidden motives to puzzle out, no alliances to make or potential enemies to identify. There was only portly Major Blount, the retired Army officer, teasing Mister Blessingham, the young clerk from Hoare and Company, for never attending the races or staying out late at night like a sensible young man of his age would. Not like Cartwright, of course, he added, gesturing at the other young man, the Foreign Office staffer, always scribble, scribble, scribble up in his rooms. Another tragedy in verse is it, Cartwright? A novel, Major, in three volumes. Three? Damn me if I’ve ever seen a novel that needed more than one, and most could do without that.

And so the meal went: roasted chicken and boiled potatoes, garnished with this friendly banter and gentle teasing between men who knew and apparently liked one other. Mrs Collingwood ate with them but did not join much in the conversation, nor did the elderly Colonel Wyndham—tall, slender, and erect, and who, like Annabelle, walked with a cane—although he smiled in quiet enjoyment. She would like it here, Annabelle decided, she knew she would.

The atmosphere became even more convivial the next day when George called in the afternoon. She introduced him to the two retired military lodgers taking tea in the parlour and Colonel Wyndham had stood almost in shock.

“Bedford?” he asked. “Commander George Bedford, HMAS Sovereign?”

“Yes, sir,” George answered with a note of caution in his voice. Colonel Wyndham dropped his napkin and thrust out his right hand.

“Then I’d like to shake your hand, sir. Your dispatches from Luna were just published in the Gazette. Read like a damned adventure novel. Good show! Damned good show.”

George coloured in embarrassment but shook the colonel’s hand and then Major Blount’s when he rose. Annabelle and George did not have a chance to speak together much that afternoon as Wyndham and Blount had plied him with questions for the better part of an hour. But when he left, Annabelle felt more accepted into the household, if only by association with her suddenly-famous friend. Was friend the right word? For now it was all she had, but it seemed inadequate.

Dinner on Tuesday had been a less happy affair. Uncle Cyrus had begun muttering to himself during the meal and, although everyone at first tried to ignore him, he became increasingly agitated, eventually berating the other lodgers and carrying on about the Heart of Luna in increasingly incoherent terms. Annabelle was obliged to excuse herself and, with difficulty, persuaded Uncle Cyrus to accompany her back to their rooms. There she had tried to explain to him why, if they hoped to remain here, he could not treat the other guests in this manner

“Oh, is that so?” he had said over and over again until the words seemed only a series of meaningless sounds strung together.

She struggled for a different approach, one which would be less inclined to elicit this stubborn rejection, but a knock at their sitting room door interrupted her thoughts. She rose unsteadily to foot, peg and cane, crossed the room, and opened the door to find Mrs Collingwood looking particularly stern. Annabelle looked back into the sitting room, knowing she should invite her landlady in but fearing its effect on her uncle.

“Mrs Collingwood, I… I am very sorry for my uncle’s outburst at dinner. I am trying to calm him now and…”

“Of course, and I will not detain you long. You will have seen, Miss Somerset, that this is a happy house with lodgers at their ease with one another.”

“Yes, of course, and I repeat that I…”

“Yes, I understand you are sorry and no doubt mortified, which speaks well of you as a young lady. I also am not unsympathetic to your position and the difficulties you must face. I have never suffered an injury such as yours, but I was not much older than you when war took my Charles from me. As we had married contrary to the wishes of both our parents, this left me facing the world on my own. I am not prepared to ask you to leave, Miss Somerset, provided you uncle’s behaviour does not grow worse and completely destroy the peace of the house. However, I think it better if, from now on, you take your meals in your rooms, and I would remind you that you are responsible for your uncle’s behaviour at all times. Good day, Miss Somerset.” She said these things not unkindly, but rather out of obvious overriding consideration for her other boarders and, having said them, left.

Annabelle and sat down in an armchair. From across the room Uncle Cyrus regarded her with a hostile, challenging expression. She had enjoyed dinner the previous day, but this was not to be their home forever and if she had felt warmed by the possibility of being again surrounded by harmless friends, people who came to value her simply for her company rather than her pluck or her utility in a crisis, it was only because she was so weary of being tested. But it was foolish and irresponsible to think that a few meals could change the reality of her situation. She still faced challenges, and none of these people had a role in that. Her more immediate concern was Uncle Cyrus himself. How was she to do the things which needed doing if he required her constant attention? She could not very well take him with her and she would not lock him up like some animal.

There was an answer to this question, she was sure. She would simply have to study on it further.

5.

ELSPETH STONE CONSIDERED her son with a warmth in her bosom she had not felt for some time. This was the Nathanial she remembered before he vanished for two years. The enthusiasm for his latest project was overflowing from him; she and Edwin listened with rapt attention, while Ronald hit their son with a barrage of questions. All of them pertinent. This was how she liked to remember her family, in the days after the twins and Emily left Fairfax House, when it was only Edwin, Nathanial, Ronald and she. Nathanial regaling his family with tales of technical genius, the likes of which they could never hope to understand—but then, she reflected, they did not need to. From a young age Nathanial had worked hard, training his academic genius, preparing to make his indelible mark on the world of science and invention. Without the presence of Emily and the twins there was no fear of jealousy clouding over the meal, just pride from Nathanial’s younger brother and parents. Yes, even Ronald. Nathanial could say what he wished, but Elspeth knew her husband loved all his children equally, even though Nathanial had always been his most favoured child. It was this fact that always prevented Ronald from showering extra attention on Nathanial; he did not want his elder children to add his attentions to their fire of jealousy.

“Marrying what I know of Berlichingen’s work with the discoveries I made in the City of Light and Science, I have perfected a design that will revolutionise artificial limbs throughout the civilised worlds. No longer will people need to stand out, with obvious replacements. With my designs, they’ll have greater dexterity; indeed it will almost be as if they have their original limbs intact! Already several private investors have shown an interest in providing the financial backing for the designs. It is only a matter of weeks before we interest companies in the mass manufacture of such. The Stone-patent Artificial Appendages will bring me quite a tidy sum.”

“I caution you, son, do not become too indentured to the riches of worldly things. They are only passing, and will account for nothing in the next kingdom.” Ronald pointed to the nativity scene situated beneath the Christmas tree in the corner of the dining room. “The Day of Our Lord’s Birth is the perfect time to be mindful of such things.”

Nathanial bowed his head slightly. “Fear not, Father, riches are not something I seek. They are merely a means to an end, in this case a way to procure more materials for my future inventions. If I can better the life of my fellow man, and live comfortably while doing so, then I will consider it a blessing from the Lord Himself.”

Ronald smiled at that, and Elspeth felt a warm glow. He had taught his children well, that much was certain, and although Ronald and Nathanial differed on their approach to most ecclesiastical pursuits, there was no doubt that they both shared the same reverence for their faith.

“Perhaps your new found riches will lead to you replacing the top hat I bought you?” Edwin said, a sly smile on his face.

Nathanial, who was carefully cutting himself another slice of turkey, failed to notice the mischievous look on Edwin’s face, and so took the comment to be a sleight. “Edwin, I have apologised many times over,” he said, “but if you could have seen the view from the plank. Why, I was over twenty thousand feet above ground, the Dover Straight below me. Imagine that, me!”

Edwin laughed. “Oh, I can imagine. You get dizzy just looking out of your bedroom window.”

“Yes,” Nathanial said, now laughing, too, “my fear of heights is one thing I’ve learned to overcome since boarding Sovereign in such a spectacular fashion.”

“One wonders what other fears you have mastered in your time away,” Ronald interjected, no sign of humour evident in his tone. Elspeth gave him a warning look, but the damage to the good mood of the room had been done. Nathanial looked at his father sharply, and resumed eating his dinner in silence.

For a few moments more no one spoke, as the Stone family ate their Christmas meal, but Elspeth was determined to enjoy the day. It was, after all, the first Christmas that she had shared with Nathanial for two years. Who knew where he would be a year hence? He had only been back in London less than a week, after all, and his career seemed to be gaining momentum.

“Nathanial, tell me more about this Archibald Lécuyer. He sounds a rather…uh, eccentric character,” she said.

Nathanial looked up at her, his eyes conveying a silent thanks for the change of subject. Neither Edwin nor Ronald seemed to notice. “Eccentric is certainly one word for him. I would go so far as to call him foppish, but I must confess I do rather enjoy his company. Why just the other day we were discussing the merits of…”

6.

CHRISTMAS LUNCH WAS finished and while Edwin helped their mother to clear up the dining room (the household staff were never required to work on Christmas Day, one of the Reverend’s more charitable acts—he did not believe the Lord expected anyone to serve another on His birthday), Nathanial and his father repaired to the drawing room. Soon it would be time to exchange gifts, but they would wait until they were joined by the rest of the family. Even the twins and Emily were making their way across London for the occasion. Nathanial found himself waiting on that with baited breath!

The Reverend offered Nathanial a small glass of port, before taking his place in a comfortable chair near the fireplace. He waited for Nathanial to join him, and then asked; “Just what kind of trouble are you in, Nathanial?”

This was so typical of his father, always on the offensive. Throughout dinner Nathanial had to listen to the Reverend looking for faults in his stories, seeking ways to debunk him before Mother. Not to mention, as ever, preaching to him as if Nathanial did not know the tenets of his faith.

“I am in no kind of trouble. Or perhaps you were not paying attention during dinner?”

The Reverend narrowed his eyes. “Yes, it would appear you are turning your life around in a laudable fashion, however when you returned to this parish a matter of weeks ago you were running from some kind of trouble. Is this not so?”

Images of being arrested on Mars rushed to Nathanial’s mind. “Nathanial Stone, I hereby place you under arrest for the deliberate sabotage and destruction of the heliograph station Peregrine, and for the attendant loss of property and life. Guards, take him away.” The words of Major Witheringham continued to mock him to this day, words that set in motion a series of events that led to a week of incarceration at Chatham Convict Prison.

He shook the images away. This was not his father’s concern. Regardless of intention Nathanial had somehow got himself into the predicament, and it was he who would find a way out. He would not be confessing his sins before the Reverend.

“Stuff and nonsense, Father, I had merely served my time at Chatham Dockyard and wished to resume more civil duties. I was never born to be a designer of military hardware.”

“Hmm.” Clearly the Reverend was not convinced. He reached into his smoking jacket, and removed a card, which he proceeded to hand to Nathanial. “I have not made your mother aware of this, but a gentleman came to visit you yesterday. A captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

Nathanial took the card and read the name. A miasma of conflicting feelings rushed through him. On the one hand he was elated to learn that Captain Folkard had been in touch, no doubt with news of Annabelle, but alternatively he was horrified at the timing. It had taken him a couple of weeks, but he was now determined to put the past firmly behind him. Everything, from the devastating events on Peregrine Station all the way through to his connection to the Navy. To his mind that included Captain Folkard.

“Thank you, Father,” Nathanial said, careful to keep his tone neutral, “an old Navy friend, no doubt calling to convey his seasonal greetings.”

The Reverend held his hand up. “Pray, Nathanial, do not think your old father a fool. My business is the maintenance of people, and I know agitation when I see it. You are in some kind of trouble, and whatever business Captain Folkard has with you, it is quite clearly something serious.”

Nathanial swallowed. It would be so easy to simply pour his soul out to his father, tell him of everything, all those good people that had died because of him. But what good would such a thing do? No.

“Father, I appreciate your concern, but I am my own man now, and I must take care of my own life.”

Nathanial could not attest to certainty, but it appeared to be that his father swelled with pride at Nathanial’s words. The Reverend stood up.

“Very well, I shall see if I can assist your mother. I am sure Edwin wishes to talk to you about something. He has hardly been able to contain himself these last few days.” As he walked out of the drawing room, he briefly rested his hand on Nathanial’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

Nathanial dared not move. Instead he continued to look at the now empty chair opposite him, his eyes glazing over with tears he could ill afford to release.

Some moments later the door opened again and Edwin entered the room. He bounded over to the empty chair and sat down heavily. “Take me to London with you!”

Nathanial blinked away the tears and stared at his brother. “I beg your pardon? Edwin, how can I do that?”

“You must! If I remain here Father will continue to try and mould me into your image. He’s been doing so for the last two years.”

“Absurd! Father is most happy, I think, when I am absent.”

Edwin shook his head. “You may be a genius, Nathanial, but you fail to see what is before you. Father holds you most dear, although he would never tell you such. And he wishes me to be you, but I am not!”

Nathanial did not know what to say. He would never consider his brother a liar, but this was such bunkum! As if the mighty Reverend Stone, the Revered and Honourable spiritual leader of Putney Parish, considered any of his children more important than his flock. It was an inconceivable notion.

“I want to be a writer, like that Doyle fellow. Imagine, if I lived with you, you could teach me science, I could experience that romantic life you live. Travel!” Edwin sat forward in the chair, as if the excitement in him would not allow him the comfort of sitting still. “Scientific romances, Nathanial! None of your penny dreadfuls, but something with meaning. An exploration of everything this life has to offer!”

“Edwin, you have barely left Surrey your whole life. What do you know of what this life has to offer?”

“I have heard your stories, and I want to know more. Please, Nathanial.”

Edwin was old enough to branch out, and their parents could hardly stop him, but what kind of brother would Nathanial be to bring Edwin into the danger his life held?

No, that was nonsense, too. He had left danger behind when he moved to London. Having Edwin with him for a time would be a good thing. He could help set his brother up, show him London.

“Very well, Edwin, but only for a time. We shall tell Mother and Father that you are merely visiting for a week or so, and if you get a feel for London life, then we shall reassess. How does that strike you?”

Edwin beamed.

“Then it is settled,” Nathanial said, and added to himself, plus this will give me something to concern myself with other than Jacob Folkard.

Chapter Seven

“A Harrowing Holiday”

1.

BOXING DAY was a pleasant holiday, one with which Annabelle had not been familiar, but upon which wealthy people gave a present to their less-prosperous servants. Annabelle had never considered herself wealthy, but she was certainly better off than Rachael, Mrs Collingwood’s maid, and as Rachael had been particularly kind to Uncle Cyrus for the last week it gave Annabelle considerable pleasure to give the maid a folded two pound note and see the look of surprise on her face. She answered all of Rachael’s protests as to not being her servant with, “Well, this is how we do it in America.” That was nonsense, of course, but it satisfied Rachael’s guilt over the gift.

She had pulled the curtains earlier and watched a soft snow filter down but had drawn them once the gaslights were lit outside. The snowfall was more beautiful after dark but the wind had picked up and Mrs Collingwood’s windows were slightly drafty. Uncle Cyrus had been quiet all day long and George had visited earlier. He had spent Christmas with his family, which is to say his brothers’ families, but had returned by train that morning. So far their investigations—conducted by George as Annabelle remained here to watch Uncle Cyrus, had turned up little, although the information George had learned from Captain Folkard provided considerable food for thought. They had much to consider.

She pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders against the chill. George had given her the shawl as her Christmas present when he called today—a lovely paisley pattern shawl from Kashmir. She saw few women wearing them and she supposed it was because it would not hang well with a bustled dress. She did not care. She liked the way it felt on her shoulders and against her cheek, and in any case she did not own a single bustle, nor did she intend to fill her closet with them as she rebuilt a wardrobe.

She shivered—there definitely was a draft, although the curtains didn’t move. Perhaps it was from under the door. Perhaps someone had left a hall window open, although she had never seen any of the windows in the house opened and couldn’t imagine why anyone would during a snowstorm. She rose and crossed to the bell pull to call Rachael but before she got to it someone knocked on her door.

“Is that you Rachael?” she said as she opened the door. “I was about to…”

Instead of Rachael, two burly men in rough clothes and black knit masks faced her. She took a step back and began to call out when the first man seized her by the collar with his left hand and hit her hard in the face with his balled right fist.

She did not feel the blow, nor did she remember flying across the room or sliding across the floor into a side table, or snapping one of its legs off with her shoulder and bringing the contents of its drawer down around her, but all of those things must have happened. She lay there for a moment, surrounded by the important papers and few precious objects she owned which had been in the drawer, and she tried to make sense of what was happening around her.

“Fetch the old ’un,” the first man ordered in a gravelly voice. “I’ll finish ’er.” As the other man made for her uncle’s room the first one crossed toward her, pausing to pick up a bronze paperweight, cast in the shape of an Indian elephant, from the writing desk. He sat down on her waist, straddling her, and hefted the paperweight.

“Yer a right pretty one, an’ that’s the truth. A shame to crush yer skull in right away, it is, but nuthin’ fer it.”

In her panic she groped through the jumble of papers around her on the floor and her hand fell on a long, straight, intricately carved animal horn, the horn of a Martian aerial beast called a skrill, and for an instant time seemed to stand still as her mind went back to a moment months before.

“There is blood in the design.” Gillsa looked up. “You used it on an enemy? Did you kill him?”

“Yes, I did—use it I mean, and no, I did not kill him.”

Gillsa handed it back to Annabelle.

“Next time, kill.”

“Thank you I shall!” Annabelle shrieked and drove the skrill horn, held like a dagger in her right fist, completely through the brigand’s throat.

He made a wet, strangling sound and his eyes grew wide and seemed to protrude from his face in shock. He fell back off of her and pushed himself across the floor awkwardly for a few feet, strange grunting cries his only sound, his hands fluttering about the embedded skill horn—as if drawn to it by a powerful magnetic force but reluctant to seize firm hold of it. The blood came bubbling out of his mouth, spraying from the wound in his throat, spurting in thick, sticky gouts that splattered and stained the yellow-upholstered furniture and faded Oriental rug.

His accomplice emerged from the bedroom door with a bewildered Uncle Cyrus in tow. The man froze when he saw the gory scene in the front room. His eyes turned to Annabelle with a mixture of horror and rage. She tried to push herself upright but immediately became light headed, still suffering from the blow, and so she did something she had not done of a very long time. She screamed as loud as she could.

2.

“THIS STINK IS intolerable!” Edwin said.

The three of them sat in the back of Lécuyer’s private carriage, on their way to the Savile Club where they were to attend the annual Boxing Day celebration. Nathanial had missed the advantages of being a member of such a gentlemen’s club, and had forgot how much he had once enjoyed all the social occasions. As much as he enjoyed his work in the last two years, he definitely preferred the life of private inventor, no longer constricted by the rules placed on him by living on an official military instillation.

The carriage was passing through Piccadilly Circus. Lécuyer chuckled at the outburst, and sniffed. “Your brother is most correct, there is a definite stink penetrating this carriage.”

Nathanial knew precisely what it was, but it was a smell his respirator mask usually protected him against. However, with the closed doors of the carriage between them and the city outside, the need for a mask was deemed unnecessary.

“In short, Edwin, that would be the sewers,” he said. “The very reason we douse cloth with carbolic acid and hang it in the windows at the house in Russell Square. As you know, we tend to build up these days, as you have witnessed by the towers in London—which makes perfect sense, of course, since it would be very difficult to land dirigibles in the city, and so the towers make perfect docking platforms for the aerial flyers that navigate the London skyline. Nonetheless, digging still occurs and the massive sewer system beneath London is fit to bursting, straining under the burden of toxic chemicals. The result; rat infestations, pea soupers, and this unenviable stench. One gets used to it.”

“And the government have done nothing to combat this problem?” Edwin asked, bringing a handkerchief to his nose and mouth.

“It is an unending task, Edwin, dear man,” Lécuyer pointed out. “Believe me, we have tried. We have placed tripod platforms all along the Thames, dredging the river of waste, and we even tried using clockwork men in the sewers in an attempt to filter the detritus beneath our feet, but unfortunately such mechanical men seized with rust. Unless we can find a non-corrodible metal, the government must resort to conscripting those poor unfortunates in the workhouses.”

“Children!”

Lécuyer raised a hand to silence Edwin. “Please understand, we would rather not, but something needs to be done, and such manual labour is not easy to come by. The workhouses have the numbers we need.”

“But children?”

Nathanial shook his head. “You wished to explore the world beyond Surrey, Edwin, then you must be prepared for the ugly truth of living in the city. Granted the further you go out from the London, the less the pollution lingers, both beneath and above us. But in the city, the air is polluted as much by the aerial flyers as by the waste of industry. Are you certain you still wish to experience life in London?”

Edwin nodded grimly. “I suppose so, after all if I am to write about life I need to experience it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Lécuyer said, patting Edwin on the knee, a simple act that burned a fire in Nathanial’s belly. “We do what we can, but we must embrace every aspect of this world if we are to have any hope of understanding it.”

“It does make one wonder about the price of progress,” Edwin mumbled, and Nathanial found himself agreeing.

“Enough of this depressing talk,” Lécuyer said, although he had shown no sign of being depressed by it, “it is Boxing Day and we have much to celebrate.”

“Indeed,” Nathanial agreed. “Besides which, I wish to introduce Edwin to the fellows of the Savile Club. Perhaps one day you may become a member, Edwin, until then I shall help you make the acquaintance of some artistic types. The Arts has never been much of a concern of mine, but I know several patrons frequent the Savile Club. You will find them splendid company, while I conduct business of my own.”

“Meeting with more private investors?”

Nathanial shook his head. “Not this time, no, I have an important meeting with Sir Eleias, criminal judge extraordinaire!”

3.

“BLOODY FOOLS, that’s all the police are!” Major Blount exclaimed, his round jowly face redder than usual. “The idea that this was a robbery attempt! They were clearly trying to abduct your uncle, Miss Somerset. Well, let that scoundrel try again and we’ll be ready for him.” He brandished his revolver for emphasis.

Annabelle still felt light-headed from the attack. The perfunctory interview by the police detective, and the matter-of-fact way two working men under a constable’s supervision had rolled the body up in the bloody carpet and hauled it out like a broken piece of furniture, had added to the surreal sense of the incident. Had it really happened? Yes, it must have; her dress was still spattered with blood, as was the yellow upholstery of the sofa.

“Thank you, Major, I appreciate the sentiment more than you can know. Have you heard how Mister Cartwright fares? Has the doctor finished with him?”

“He has,” Mrs Collingwood answered from the doorway, “and Mister Cartwright will recover completely. The doctor described the wound as superficial and applied five stitches and a bandage.”

“It was very brave of him to come to my assistance unarmed,” Annabelle said. “I am certain the second man would have killed me and escaped with my uncle had he not intervened.”

“He is fortunate to have escaped with only a cut,” Mrs Collingwood answered, and her voice remained formal and remote as she moved to the centre of the room. “He is a promising writer and rising member of the diplomatic corps, so it would have been a great loss had he been slain. Miss Somerset, my boarders live here, in part, because they expect a degree of security in their lodgings, a degree of tranquillity, which has now been disturbed. It has been disturbed in the most profound manner imaginable. Mr Blessingham has already given me notice of his intent to move to other lodgings; his bank simply will not look upon this sort of incident with anything but disapproval.”

“I… I understand, Mrs Collingwood, and I am very sorry.”

“I have no doubt that you are and I am certain you had no intention to bring this upon us. Nevertheless, that has been the result and I see no remedy short of asking you to leave. Of course I will allow you time to find suitable lodgings, but—”

“Gordon did this!”

All three of them looked sharply to the bedroom door and saw Uncle Cyrus standing unsteadily in the archway, hair still dishevelled from the attack, eyes wild, and finger pointing at them. “Mark my words, he is behind this somehow!”

Major Blount went over to Uncle Cyrus and put his arm around his shoulder, guiding him to a chair. Mrs Collingwood looked from Uncle Cyrus to Annabelle, brows coming together and mouth pursed with an intensity of expression Annabelle had never seen on her. “To whom does your uncle refer?”

“Major Walter Gordon, although we have no evidence of his involvement in this.”

Mrs Collingwood paled visibly, backed up a step, and sat heavily in a straight-backed chair. “Walter Gordon,” she repeated, but softly, as if to herself, and she shook her head.

“Walter Gordon of the Northumberland Fusiliers?” she heard and looked up to see the elderly Colonel Wyndham in the doorway to the sitting room, resting part of his weight on his black cane. “What was your business with him, if I may ask?”

“He was our jailer,” Uncle Cyrus answered, “and a smiling serpent in our midst!”

All eyes turned on Annabelle and she felt the colour come to her cheeks. “That he was our jailer is true enough. We were held in the Tower of London for over a week, and then in a private home maintained by some government agency, I do not know precisely which.” Then she told them the entire story of their imprisonment, Gordon’s blackmail, and how they had come here. When she finished, Mrs Collingwood shook her head again.

“I would expect no better from Walter Gordon,” she said. “My husband Charles was a subaltern in the same regiment with him. When Gordon’s battalion was sent to Afghanistan on campaign, he convinced Charles to exchange with him, so Gordon could stay here in London, safe and sound. We were short of funds and the prospect of prize money was seductive, but Charles never came back. He died in Gordon’s place.”

Gordon was about thirty years old, Annabelle judged, and if Mrs Collingwood had been a young bride ten years earlier, she must be about the same age, but Annabelle had assumed she was at least ten years older. Sadness and loss had aged her well before her time.

“I never cared much for him myself,” Colonel Wyndham said.

“You knew him?” Annabelle said. Major Blount and the colonel exchanged a look.

“Both of us knew him, although I don’t know that anyone knows him well,” Wyndham answered. “We are both retired from ‘The Old and Bold’, as the Northumberland Fusiliers are known. I can’t say I had as bad a time with him as poor Mrs Collingwood, but he never made a good impression on me.”

“No,” Blount added and shook his head vigorously. “Kept to himself too much, never really fit into the mess. He was always a bit too keen for my taste, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t do for an officer to be too keen, not in the fusiliers, at any rate. Better off in the sappers or the artillery if you run to that sort of thing, what?”

“We took our lodgings here,” Wyndham continued, “I suppose at first to help the widow of a fine fellow-officer, but over time that common thread of our regiment has made it a more like home. That Gordon would be involved in something like this…well, it’s embarrassing. He is still a member of the regiment, you know, although he’s been seconded to the staff for years.”

“I am terribly sorry,” Annabelle said. “Of course we will seek other lodgings at once, but—”

“Other lodgings?” Mrs Collingwood said and rose suddenly to her feet. “Why you will do no such thing! I would sooner lose this home and have to go begging to my relatives than refuse my protection to a victim of Walter Gordon.”

“Now that we are alert to the danger, I think you will have less to fear,” Colonel Wyndham added. “Blount has his revolver, of course, and I recall a time years ago when he was a passable shot. Let’s hope his aim has not deteriorated too much. As for me…” he raised the black-lacquered straight cane he habitually carried, pressed a button on the silver handle, and drew it out a bit, exposing the first six inches of gleaming steel sword blade, then snapped it shut again, “…I was always a respectable fencer.”

“And I boxed at Eaton,” Mister Cartwright said from the hallway and then came to the open archway. Annabelle stood up, leaning on her cane for balance.

“Oh, Mister Cartwright! I am entirely in your debt, and happy your injuries were not more severe. I hope you will have no further need for violence. This fight is mine and my uncle’s. You must—”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Somerset, but I cannot agree,” Cartwright said cutting her off. He stood beside the colonel and absently fingered the fresh bandage which swathed his left forearm. “Wyndham and Blount dedicated their lives to public service, and I intend to as well, in my own way. That your antagonist may be a member of their regiment, and my government, makes our obligation to you not simply one of duty, but also of honour. If there is a stain on the bodies we serve, we must by our actions remove it.”

Major Blount nodded in vigorous agreement and Colonel Wyndham looked at Cartwright with the mix of affection and amusement older men often direct at enthusiastic but well-intentioned youth.

Annabelle felt a flood of relief, but a surge of apprehension at the same time, tinged with guilt. Had she simply managed to entangle more innocent people in her own troubles and put them in harm’s way? Cartwright already sported a bandage. Would that be the most serious injury to come to them from this, or the least?

There was one way to minimize their risk and allow them to help: they could see to her uncle while she and George carried out any needed expeditions and inquiries. She was becoming adept enough with a cane that she felt up to it, with his assistance.

4.

WITH THE MEAL finished, and Edwin safely ensconced with a couple of patrons of the Arts, Nathanial was able to retire to a private room with Sir Eleias.

“I am afraid I have very little information to offer you, Professor. Whatever has transpired for Miss Somerset, it has involved some of the highest authorities in the British Empire. As you can imagine, very few wish to speak for fear of the political hue and cry such talking would rain down on them. I can tell you, however, that Miss Somerset is no longer being detained, and…”

Nathanial turned from the window overlooking Green Park. “Detained? What the deuce! Detained by whom, and for what?”

“For the latter I have no information, but for the former, she was detained by the Crown, held for some time at Dorset House.”

Nathanial was no expert in law, but he felt sure Dorset House was often used as a place to hold those facing criminal charges of a political bent. What could this possibly mean for Annabelle? She was an American citizen, surely, so what power could the Crown hold over her?

Nathanial felt terrible. He had put her out of his mind so much since returning to Putney, caught up in his plight, he had not even considered that she, too, might be targeted by whoever sought to blame him for the destruction of Peregrine. She had been by his side through all the adventures of the past seven months, she had been there when Peregrine had been destroyed. He had assumed that she had not been arrested here because on Mars the sole charges had been directed at him. Now it transpired that whoever had pressed those charges had merely waited for her to step on British soil. As if she had not been through enough since they had crashed on Mars.

“Sir Eleias, I thank you, but would it be too much to ask for you to find out just what she was detained for? And indeed why she was eventually released.” He was, of course, glad she had been released, but his own freedom had come about in the most mysterious of circumstances. Perhaps learning more of Annabelle’s situation would help him understand his.

Sir Eleias considered this. Eventually he nodded his head. “Very well, for a fellow Savilian I will do so. But such information will not come easy, and most likely there will be a price to its procurement.”

Nathanial waved that away. “Whatever the price I am willing to pay.”

5.

“SPLENDID, ABSOLUTELY SPLENDID!” Mister Burroughs said, and Nathanial had to confess he could not disagree. The mechanical leg was out-performing even his best projections.

A former athlete, his career cut down in its prime by an unfortunate accident the result of which meant the removal of his right leg, was running a third circuit of the racetrack. The prototype leg had been built by Nathanial himself for this demonstration. Mister Burroughs was the owner of a company who wished to extend their portfolio beyond manufacturing parts for steam locomotives. As much as trains had improved life since their inception, it did not take a genius to work out that such travel was being superseded by the much more efficient aerial travel. Mister Burroughs could not compete with the companies that built aerial flyers, but with Nathanial’s designs he could become the forerunner (as it were!) in the manufacture of a whole new boon to society. Realistic mechanical limbs!

The leg he had built was by far in advance of that which he had cobbled together for Annabelle on their return from Luna, and even then he had the mechanical leg he had discovered in the City of Light and Science as a starting point. That leg was a construction that merely responded to pressure points, using opposing springs to store and discharge energy at different points in the leg’s motion, secured to a knee-stump. This new leg, although still using opposed springs in places, contained many components utilising pistons and gears, and was powered by steam. It was also a complete leg.

Mister Burroughs turned to Nathanial and pumped his hand enthusiastically. “I must congratulate you on an excellent design, Professor Stone. This is the way forward! Why imagine, never will a man truly be crippled again. We could, perhaps, even extend your design to those horses that are no longer able to run at Ascot due to damaged tendons! Professor Stone, you are a marvel, sir!”

Nathanial basked in the adoration, and noticed Edwin beaming at him from his position by the side of the racetrack. Bless his brother. He had been invited to a social gathering of writers, but had rejected the invite in favour of accompanying Nathanial on this field trip.

The athlete, the name of whom Nathanial could not remember, began to slow down as he neared Edwin’s position. Then disaster struck. One moment the man was slowing to a trot, and then next he was setting off at a brisk pace, a look of surprise on his face. Steam bellowed from the small pipe located at the rear of the mechanical thigh. And then sparks.

“Oh dear,” Nathanial mumbled, but before he could say another word the leg collapsed upon itself, sending the athlete sprawling in the dirt. Several people moved to assist the fallen man, and one fellow pulled off the broken artificial leg which had now begun to burn. Nathanial remained where he stood, frozen by dismay. Burroughs walked over to him, smiling grimly.

“Well, every new product has a few initial glitches.” He looked out at the racetrack. “Nonetheless, this was a resounding success. The leg itself works splendidly, like no other device of its sort in history! You should be proud, Professor Stone. There are some engineering problems to address, but they are minor compared to the achievement of the limb itself.” He offered his hand. “You have just sold you first Stone Artificial Appendage. What better way could one expect to end a year on? Congratulations.”

Nathanial could only stare at Burroughs dumbly, as the man continued to shake his hand.

6.

“WOULD THAT I could,” said Lécuyer, “but as you see, I am not at the best of health.”

It was true; the large man was laid up on the couch, extra logs added to the fire, while a damp cloth rested on his forehead. When Nathanial had returned from the racetrack with the good news of the deal he had made with Mister Burroughs, he had found the housekeeper, Miss Carmichael, fussing about in the larder for herbs with which to make a brew. She had told Nathanial that Lécuyer had come down with some kind of fever, due, she pointed out, to too many late night excursions to that den in Chelsea. Having attended the place on a several occasions now, Nathanial suspected that Miss Carmichael would hardly credit what Lécuyer may have picked up there. On the surface, the Aesthetic Movement was harmless enough, but beneath the facade of fops and exquisites lay a darker secret.

“It is a pity, for it looks to be a party to end all parties. Edwin has gone on ahead of me; he’s taken quite a shine to Mister Burroughs.”

“The magnetic appeal of wealth drags many a young man to his doom, Nathanial,” Lécuyer said.

“Perhaps, although I do no suppose that would apply to my brother. He is merely enticed by the social circles he has found himself in. As is perfectly understandable.” Nathanial looked around Lécuyer’s room. “Are you certain there is nothing I can get for you?”

Lécuyer waved him away. “Go; enjoy your moment in the limelight. I suspect there will be many more occasions in which I will be able to bask in your glorious achievements. Miss Carmichael is quite content to fend for me while I endure this tedious bout of fever.”

“Very well, then,” Nathanial said with a bow of the head.

Lécuyer reached out a sweaty hand and Nathanial went to shake it. Instead, though, with effort Lécuyer leaned forward and brought the back of Nathanial’s hands to his lips. A gentle kiss, and he allowed Nathanial his hand back.

Nathanial frowned for a moment, turned, and walked to the door. He stopped, the door half open, and looked back at Lécuyer. “If it is not too impertinent of me, I wish you a very Happy New Year, Archie. I feel 1890 will be an interesting year for both of us.”

“As do I, as do I. Now go, I will still be here when you return.”

A smile passed between them, and Nathanial exited the room, wondering just what the next year would bring for him and Lécuyer, for that they were in it together was absolutely certain.

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.

Chapter Nine

“Gathering Stones”

1.

A DARK WINTER’S night was falling early as Nathanial trudged through the backstreets of London, respirator and goggles firmly attached to his face, following Folkard towards the place of his lodgings. Although Nathanial did not know the backstreets as well as the captain, his sense of direction was strong enough that he realised they were walking south west of Compton Place. In other words, towards the land that was owned by the Duke of Bedford; now known as the Bedford Estate, it comprised many square miles, wherein the Thomas Cubitt firm helped to develop several garden squares, including Russell Square, Bloomsbury Square, Tavistock Square and…

“Really, Captain, Bedford Square?” Nathanial asked, with some amusement, as they emerged from the backstreets.

Folkard glanced back at Nathanial. “Indeed, Professor, suitably lower class enough for my purposes. Considering the unconventional mission I am on, I do not wish to attract undue attention.”

“I understand that, but I was referring to your choice of residence.”

“Oh, I see.” Folkard grinned. “A nice touch of irony, do you not think? Best place to hide things is the most obvious place, since no one would think to look there.”

Although Folkard’s mission was still a mystery to Nathanial, it was clearly important enough for him to intercede at Compton Place Police Station, so Nathanial was not sure he appreciated the good humour the captain had about him. He made no mention of this, however, intrigued despite himself, and so he accompanied Folkard on this journey through the backstreets of the Bedford Estate.

They continued to a small Georgian house, and Folkard guided Nathanial to his room on the second floor. Nathanial remained at the threshold of the room for a moment, hardly able to believe the squalor of the place. It was inconceivable that anyone could live like this. He was not sure if he ought to remove his respirator mask, since there were no carbolic sheets covering the draft coming in through the cracks in the windows. Folkard, however, removed his, so Nathanial did likewise. The smell, although unpleasant, was not unbearable.

“There are worse places in London, Professor,” Folkard said, reading the look on Nathanial’s face correctly.

“Perhaps we should repair to my rooms in Russell Square?”

Folkard laughed. “You mean to say you live near here? Good Lord, and to think I have been searching high and low for you these past two weeks and you were only at the other end of Montague Place. Now that, Professor, is a wonderful touch of irony.”

Nathanial furrowed his brow. “I am glad you can find humour in these circumstances, but forgive me if I do not. Since returning to Earth someone has been out to discredit me, and now, it appears, they wish to kill me. Or possibly more than one person. I am undecided on that point.”

“Yes, I am quite aware of that. Which is part of the reason I was…enlisted for this mission. To protect you, and get to the bottom of everything.”

“And what have you discovered?”

“Many a disturbing fact, but at this point I wish to maintain my own counsel.”

At this Nathanial entered the room, closing the door firmly behind him. “Captain Folkard, this simply will not do. I demand an explanation! It is not only my life I fear, but that of Annabelle. I am certain that she, too, is in danger of her life.”

“Miss Somerset is quite safe, I can assure you.”

“You have seen her?”

“I have not, but she is under the watchful care of Commander Bedford.”

Nathanial sank into the nearest chair, relief washing through his body. He reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat and removed the pocket watch. “Please, Captain, tell me all that you know.”

For a moment longer Folkard just looked at Nathanial, but eventually he nodded. “Very well, Professor,” he said, sitting himself at a small table in the corner of the room. “But first tell me what you have learned on your own.”

“I have discovered she was detained for some time at Dorset House, although I remain unclear as to the particulars of that event. Beyond that, my sources have failed to furnish me with any further information.”

Folkard raised an eyebrow. “I am surprised to hear this, Professor. Pleasantly surprised. You seem equally as resourceful in London as you were on Luna.”

Nathanial accepted the compliment, although he would not explain the guilt he felt for not doing more to assist Annabelle. For he certainly could have done more, had he been less concerned about securing his own future. “If you could tell me the complete story, as it is known to you.”

“I shall,” Folkard said. “Miss Somerset’s troubles did not begin with her detainment at Dorset House, I fear. After her return to Chatham, while you were removed to Chatham Convict Prison, she and Doctor Grant were sent to the Tower of London…”

Nathanial listened, with growing dismay, as Folkard told the story of Annabelle’s trials over the past month. His heart sank. As if poor Annabelle had not suffered enough since Le Boeuf had shot her on Peregrine Station.

“But that is not all, I am afraid,” Folkard said after he had finished with Annabelle’s story. “There is the matter of tomorrow’s edition of The Morning Post.”

“I am afraid I seldom read the Post,” Nathanial replied. “I believe it is aimed at a loftier readership than I represent.”

“Yes, but all the more reason to pay it mind on occasion. A letter, reportedly from ‘A Concerned Citizen’, will appear in it tomorrow. You had better read it, and it is as well you are seated.”

Folkard handed him a long thin strip of paper, what Nathanial recognised as a newspaper galley, and for a moment he wondered how the captain had obtained it. That and all other questions were instantly driven away by the content of the letter.

Esteemed Editor:

As one who holds the Security of the Realm above all other considerations, it is my most distressing duty to report an Alarming Occurrence which I know of pursuant to my position of government trust. Last year a research laboratory of Extraordinary Importance, one jointly funded by our government and that of Austria-Hungary, was destroyed with Grievous Loss of Life. The perpetrators of this Monstrous Deed were arrested by the authorities but now have been set free, and for no discernable reason save expediency or a desire to brush the embarrassing affair under the carpet. In truth, could their villainy have achieved these ends unless abetted by the Incompetence and Complacency of the government?

The main villain in the matter was a Mr S, late of the Chatham Dockyard, now Discharged in Disgrace for his part in the affair, although that is scarcely punishment enough. He promotes himself as a “Professor”, although he has no honest claim to the title, never having been so employed. He was accompanied and abetted in his crimes by a notorious American woman, Miss S, of such loose moral compass as to accompany “The Professor” with need neither for chaperone nor the Vows of Matrimony.

And what has been the result of their release? No sooner had this Diabolical Pair found their freedom than the Austrian Ambassador—a man intimately involved in trying to bring the perpetrators of the Terrible Crime to justice—was struck down by an explosion, the same sort of explosion which destroyed the research laboratory. Can there be any doubt in the mind of a single thinking person who is to blame? What will it take before the authorities will act?

Your very humble servant,

A Concerned and Loyal Citizen

Nathanial let the papers fall to his lap and looked away.

“A very cleverly-phrased smear,” Folkard said. “There is not a single fact in it which is incorrect, beyond the claim concerning yours and Miss Somerset’s culpability. It is the manner in which they are presented which makes it sound so damning. Do you know who might have reason to attack you is such a way? Stone?”

Nathanial paid no attention to Folkard’s words. His mind was on a dining room table in Putney, his father and mother seated for breakfast like any other day. Which of his siblings, he wondered, would bring them a copy of the Morning Post to read? With how much care would the messenger mask his or her gloating triumph with a mask of mournful sympathy?

What would they think?

2.

NATHANIAL AWOKE IN a sweat. Dreams of Annabelle, her mechanical leg being torn off her, being forced to work the treadmill with one leg… He shook his head, trying to dislodge the images. He looked around, for a moment wondering where he was, and his eyes alighted on Folkard, himself fast asleep on the floor, a blanket and the burning coal in the fireplace the only warmth this room had to offer.

They had spent several hours talking, Nathanial listening to all that had transpired for Annabelle since leaving the Tower. The last Folkard had heard from Bedford, was to report that Annabelle had, herself, been attacked while Bedford had been busy at the Admiralty. This news incensed Nathanial, and he demanded to be told where Annabelle had taken up residence, but on this point Folkard refused to be persuaded. Until they had incontrovertible proof, keeping Nathanial and Annabelle apart was essential to the success of their clandestine investigation. The less attention drawn, the better. Nathanial was not convinced, not even when Folkard had explained how Annabelle had acquitted herself against her attackers.

Carefully, as to not make a noise, Nathanial extricated himself from the blanket covering him, and rose from the sofa he had fallen asleep on. The story Folkard had told him had disturbed him greatly. As he suspected, both he and Annabelle were targets, and most certainly the same person was behind the death of Lécuyer and the attack on Annabelle.

No doubt Annabelle would be the first to protest, but to his mind he had failed her once again. She had been dragged into the darkness that surrounded his life. Too many had suffered because of him.

He stood. He had to return to his rooms at Russell Square. Edwin was there alone, and the chances of him becoming another victim of association with Nathanial were not in his favour.

Nathanial had failed Annabelle, but he would not fail his own brother.

He glanced back at the sleeping Folkard as he creaked open the door. “Sorry, captain,” he whispered, “but Edwin’s life is more important than mine.”

3.

A STRAIGHT WALK up Montague Place and he was at Russell Square. He was not sure of the time, but the sounds of activity in the distance, even the blare of ship horns down the docks along the Thames, drifted through the air, so from that he could wager it was at the very latest near the five o’clock. It had been early evening when Edwin had been sent home by Inspector Starling, so almost twelve hours had passed since then. Nathanial dreaded to think what trouble may have found him in that time.

Nathanial kept to the middle of the pavement of Montague Street, carefully using the light from the streetlamps to illuminate his way, mindful of every shadow. He should have checked Folkard’s person for a weapon before he had left, if only so he could protect himself. An image of Lécuyer’s body sprung, unwanted, to the forefront of his mind. The look of shock, the lack of obvious injury. Whoever had killed him was a professional, eminently used to killing without leaving evidence. What use would Nathanial be against such a man?

It did not matter. All that counted was that he find Edwin and get him to safety immediately.

He turned left onto Russell Square but did not approach his house, instead he carried on past it and stopped on the corner of Southampton Row for several moments. He cast his eyes about for any suspicious signs. Seeing nothing, Nathanial made haste to his house and was about to ascend the steps to the front door, when it opened before him and Edwin emerged.

Edwin stopped, looked at Nathanial in surprise, then smiled broadly. Before Edwin could utter a word, Nathanial launched himself up the steps and grabbed his brother by the elbow, dragging him inside. He slammed the door behind him.

“Nathanial, what is the meaning of this?”

“Edwin, please be quiet and listen.” Nathanial shuddered at the wide-eyed look he received. There was no fear in Edwin’s eyes, only excitement. “You must leave London immediately, return to Putney. It is no longer safe for you here.”

“Well, of course it is not! I am not a dullard, Nathanial. Whoever killed Lécuyer will almost certainly return. Which is why I have been keeping watch,” he said, and pulled a revolver from inside his coat, “with this!”

“What the devil! Where did you procure such a weapon?” Nathanial snatched the gun off his brother.

“It is mine. I brought it to London with me.”

“Why would you own a revolver?” Nathanial shook his head. “It does not matter. All that matters is you leave immediately.”

Edwin brought himself up to his full height, which still came short of Nathanial’s. “I will not leave you to face the danger alone.”

“I am not alone.” Nathanial darted past Edwin, and took to the stairs. “Come with me, and while you assemble your belongings I shall explain everything.”

4.

“THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE!” Edwin stood by the window, looking down at the square below. He had listened intently as Nathanial explained all he had learned from Folkard, but still he refused to pack his belongings. So, to that end, Nathanial found himself gathering his brother’s clothes and books together while Edwin maintained watch at the window, his revolver once more firmly in his hand.

“Regardless, that is the situation I find myself in,” Nathanial said, struggling to buckle Edwin’s bags together.

“But I still do not understand why someone would wish you disgraced or even dead. Just what did happen out there, Nathanial?”

“It is unimportant. You know all that is required.” Nathanial looked up from the baggage. “And I must implore you, do not tell any of this to Mother and Father. They must be distressed enough at the appearance of this slander in the Morning Post. The less people know of the physical threat, the safer they are.”

“Of course I will say nothing; after all I have no intention of returning to Putney and leaving you to… Hallo!”

“What is it?” Nathanial rushed over to the window, and peered out to try and catch what had caused Edwin to stop in his protestations. One or two people were leaving their homes, off for an early start at whatever jobs they did, but otherwise Nathanial saw nothing unusual out there. “What did you see?”

“Out there, between those two trees.” Edwin pointed just beyond the entrance of the garden square, but still Nathanial did not see.

“The glare from the streetlamps is…”

“There!” Edwin snapped, and pushed past Nathanial. “I’ll show them not to mess with a Stone!”

For a moment Nathanial continued to look out of the window, trying to see beyond the corona of the streetlamp. Finally he saw them. At least three men, dressed in dirty clothes, work caps on their heads. He had not had the displeasure of meeting such people before, but he knew their type. Street toughs; men who scoured the backstreets of London looking for wealthy people who had no business out on a cold night, ready to alleviate them of their overabundance of possessions.

Three!

“Edwin,” he hissed, “dammit, no!”

En route out of the room he grabbed the poker from the fireplace, then darted down the stairs and out of the house. For a moment he froze. This was insane! He had been forced to harm others several times since venturing into the aether, but he had never caused another person harm on Earth before. This was not the kind of life he wanted. He was a scientist, an inventor, a man of learning and not a man of action.

The moment of indecision lasted but a split second. Across the road, by the gate of the garden square Edwin stood, pistol raised, angrily shouting at the tough before him. The man, burly and big, regarded Edwin as a man would an insect. His unshaven face, slightly disfigured by things Nathanial hardly wish to countenance, mocked Edwin.

“Wot ya gonna do, shoot me? Look et ya, can’t even ’old the gun without shakin’! Ain’t seen nothing so pafetic in all me puff, I ain’t.”

The tough was right. For all his bravado, for all the thrill Edwin experienced at the notion of this exciting life Nathanial seemed to live, his brother was wildly out of his depth. He had barely ever left Surrey before, his life one of routine, service to their father and the Church, the only rebellion and excitement he had known were the pranks of childhood. Nathanial knew the real dangers that surrounded his life. He had seen death, and he knew there was no excitement to be had in such a thing.

“Edwin!” he called, running down the steps. “We need to get out of here!”

Edwin glanced back, and it was that moment of distraction that cost him. The second of the toughs jumped out from the bushes and coshed Edwin on the back of the head. The young Stone dropped like a sack of potatoes. Nathanial, his blood boiling at the sight of the two toughs approaching his unconscious brother, charged forward, the poker held high.

So intent was he that he failed to spot the third tough, a little way up the road, jumping the fence that surrounded the garden square. The large man landed with the grace of a gymnast, and within moments he was slamming into Nathanial’s side. The lanky scientist stumbled sideways, reaching out with his right hand to brace his fall. His weakened wrist, still not wholly healed, took the brunt of his weight and he yelled out in pain, the rest of his body hitting the ground harder than if he had not bothered to try and brace himself.

He lay there, looking around, winded and in pain, watching helpless as two toughs converged on him while the third retrieved the revolver from the ground by Edwin. The two toughs dragged Nathanial to his feet, forcing a squeal of pain to erupt from his mouth. The third tough aimed the gun at Edwin’s unconscious form.

“Wait!” Nathanial shouted. “Why are you doing this? Whatever you are being paid, I can pay you more.”

The third tough looked up from Edwin, smirking, the light from the streetlamp revealing his rotting teeth. “Doubt it, squire, ain’t nothing a toff like you can pay that we ain’t been paid already by the Government.” He cocked the revolver. “The likes of you give the Empire a bad name.”

Government? What did this mean? “I give the Empire a bad name? Do you even know who I am?”

“Don’t matter none. You keeps the wrong company, see?” He once again turned the gun’s attention to Edwin.

“No! Don’t do this!”

The two toughs holding Nathanial laughed, but their laughter turned to gasps and their bodies jerked and twitched, accompanied by the wet sound of bullets impacting flesh. Nathanial staggered back, no longer supported by the two men who collapsed to the ground, blood seeping from well placed bullet wounds in their chests. There had been no sound of gunfire, however. He looked up at the third tough, who was now aiming the revolver at him.

“Clever,” he sneered, “but it won’t save ya.”

Nathanial wanted to say he had nothing to do with the two deaths, as if justifying himself would prevent the third tough from killing him. Such words, though, never had a chance to come before another sound of a bullet smashing into flesh and bone echoed in the dark morning air. The man pitched to the ground, his revolver discharging harmlessly into the turf. A glance was enough to assure Nathanial he was dead from the bullet straight through the head.

A whistle came from the distance. A police officer alerting his fellows, alerted no doubt by the gunshot.

Nathanial looked around, trying to find the face of his saviour, but there was no one. Not wishing to break his lucky streak, he scrambled over to Edwin and shook his brother awake. Edwin looked around, holding his head, confusion in his eyes.

“What happened?”

“I do not know, all I know is that…”

“Professor!” came a shout from deep inside the garden square.

Nathanial steeled himself, then relaxed when a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Folkard. Nathanial smiled grimly. “I take it I have you to thank for the timely rescue.”

Folkard looked around at the dead bodies, and shook his head. “Nothing to do with me,” he said, and patted his overcoat, “my derringer hasn’t left my pocket since I set out to find you. It is high time we got out of here.”

Nathanial agreed. The sound of many shoes hitting the cobbled roads drew closer. “Yes, we will have a hard time explaining this away to the local constabulary.”

Folkard reached down and helped Edwin to his feet. “Introductions later, now we must away.”

Edwin, although still dazed, smiled. “I quite agree, Captain Folkard,” he said.

Folkard raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, as sharp as your brother I see.”

While Folkard helped Edwin away, Nathanial held back for a few moments, looking around in the hope that his unknown saviour would show himself. Many strange things were going on. The toughs were clearly hired by the same man who had sent the assassin after Nathanial before, and undoubtedly after Annabelle, too. He already had his suspicions about Lécuyer; could it be that whoever had shot these toughs was the man for whom Lécuyer was working, or, perhaps, working with?

What had been Lécuyer’s game? Clearly something to do with Nathanial’s designs. Whatever it was, it included Nathanial staying alive.

At least for now.

“Professor, make haste!” called Folkard.

Nathanial shook himself out of his stupor. Such questions could be addressed in the safety of Folkard’s room. He set off after the captain and his brother.

Chapter Ten

“Salt and Gravity”

1.

“WELL IT TOOK more digging than I anticipated, but I believe I have something,” Fairfax said, once they all drew chairs into Annabelle’s sitting room and pulled the doors closed. Mrs Collingwood and Rachel sat with Uncle Cyrus in the parlour; he seemed perfectly content in their company. George, Fairfax, Colonel Wyndham and Major Blount sat with their chairs arranged in a semicircle facing her on the settee, which now had a quilt over its back to cover the red-brown blood stains. She looked at the four and could not avoid thinking of them as her Council of War. Although none wore a uniform, all but Fairfax were military men and bore themselves as such, and Fairfax was young, slender and athletic of build, so could easily have passed for one himself. They might not be brutes or bruisers, but they were formidable, each in his own way

“Pray tell us then, Mister Cartwright,” Annabelle said. “We have been waiting in the dark for what seems a very long time. Illuminate us.”

Fairfax leaned forward and began. “I was correct that the death of the Austrian ambassador Deym by a bomb blast is the immediate cause of concern throughout Lord Chillingham’s domain, but it was not the original cause of distress. That, apparently, was the destruction of a highly secret experimental heliograph station in deep space, so secret I had never heard of it before.”

Annabelle exchanged a look with George who shook his head minutely. Yes, better to not react yet and see what followed. Such a secret shared would only add to these men’s hazard.

“A heliograph station?” Blount demanded. “Secret? Why everyone’s heard of Harbinger. You say it’s been blown up?”

“No, Major, not Harbinger in orbit here above Earth, nor its sister above Mars, but a third station in solar orbit between the two. You see, when the two planets are on opposite sides of the sun, or even close to opposition, heliograph is no good as the sun’s in the way, you see? So I suppose the idea was to build this other station to relay messages between the two worlds in those times.”

“That seems perfectly sensible, even mundane,” Colonel Wyndham said. “Why was it secret?”

“I have no idea,” Fairfax said, “but I did discover that the Austrians were partners with us on it. Perhaps that’s the secret, although I can’t see why that would be sensitive either. The Germans might not like the idea of us getting cosy with their neighbours to the south, but they’re still nominally our allies against France, so I can’t see any serious repercussions from it getting out.

“Whatever the reason, apparently this new Austrian ambassador has a brief to get to the bottom of the whole affair, and there’s something Chillingham wants to keep from them.”

“What?” George asked.

“Again, I have no idea,” he said and Blount groaned slightly while Wyndham shook his head. “But I do have a bit more. Lord Belvedere, the Lord Minister at Home, is beholden to Chillingham for some recent legislation, and so has turned the police upside down trying to track down these anarchists who blew up Ambassador Deym. I suspect that is why your own attack received such scant notice, Miss Somerset. They were short-handed and whipped into the streets to track down the other culprits. They haven’t, but there are rumours the nest of vipers resides in Whitechapel. I realise that last information may be of somewhat limited value.”

Blount and Wyndham both sat back in their chairs and frowned, apparently in agreement with the last sentiment.

“Why would that be?” Annabelle asked.

“Whitechapel?” Blount asked. “A thousand alleyways and hidey-holes, a hundred thousand souls packed together like insects, and every one of them raised in violence, steeped in gin, and damned desperate. Why, I wouldn’t want to clean it out with less than two battalions of the foot guards.”

“And an armoured landship or two,” Colonel Wyndham added to which Blount nodded in vigorous agreement. “Send in two-hundred bobbies with orders to stir things up and there’ll be at least a hundred widows collecting police pensions, I’d wager.”

“Mister Cartwright, would you care to accompany me tomorrow?” George said quietly. It was the first he had spoken since they all sat down.

Fairfax’s eyebrows rose and he sat up straight. “Accompany you where, Commander Bedford?”

“Why, to Whitechapel, of course.”

2

“I AM THE prey of two disparate individuals, Captain, I feel sure.”

Several hours had passed since they returned to Bedford Square, affording Nathanial plenty of opportunity to ruminate over his current situation. Edwin was sleeping on the sofa, despite Folkard’s concerns about concussion, while Folkard and Nathanial sat at the small table in the corner of the room. Folkard indicated Nathanial’s freshly bandaged wrist.

“How is the hand?”

“I suspect it will look worse before this business is concluded,” Nathanial said wryly, recalling a similar sentiment the captain had shared with him almost nine months ago when they had first approached Luna. At that time Nathanial’s left hand had been badly burned in the engine room of Sovereign and had been bandaged with a dirty rag. “Fortunately this time it is my right wrist, and I am left-handed.”

“That’s the spirit.” Folkard turned his attention outside the house. “And what makes you draw that conclusion, Professor?”

For a second Nathanial thought Folkard was still talking about his damaged wrist, then he recalled his comment about the two men who were preying on him. “That ruffian who attacked Edwin and I mentioned he was being paid by someone, and that it was ‘government orders’ that I should be killed. Thus I can draw the conclusion that it is in connection with the treason charge that was levied against me. Clearly someone in the government believes I ought not to have been released, and that the punishment for treason still ought to be carried out.” Nathanial frowned. “Of course, I am still unsure why I was arrested for treason in the first place, since the destruction of Peregrine Station was not my fault.”

“Not according to the evidence found,” Folkard said absently.

Nathanial blinked. “What evidence?”

Folkard looked at Nathanial sharply. “Ah.”

“Captain, I think it about time you shared with me what you know as to why I was charged. As much I can appreciate there is a time and place for one to keep one’s own counsel, I think the attempt on my life proves we have passed such a time.”

Folkard turned his attention back to the window, one eyebrow raised. “Perhaps you are right, Professor. Although I’m not convinced that knowledge of why you are wanted dead will help us discover who is behind the plot.”

“So, you do know why, then?” Nathanial shook his head. “Out with it, then,” he said, attempting to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“The destruction of Peregrine Station caused quite a stir in certain quarters of the government and the Admiralty, especially those aware of Project ‘G’. As I believe you know, Peregrine was a joint effort between the British Empire and the Austrians. The reasons for the Austrian’s involvement is highly confidential…” Nathanial opened his mouth to ask why, but before he could speak Folkard said, quickly, “it will become relevant in due course. Now, when Peregrine was sucked into that aether vortex no one knew what went wrong. Until just over a week later, when a cutter from Peregrine was discovered on the Isle of Dogs.”

“Someone survived?” Nathanial could not hide the hope in his voice. Until now he had thought only he and Annabelle had survived that catastrophe. He hardly wished to hope, but one of his friends may have survived.

“Unfortunately not. The aether cutter was a wreck; the poor unfortunate who had managed to pilot it from Peregrine did not survive the journey back to Earth. According to reports the body was burned beyond belief, no doubt due to the cutter almost burning up on re-entry. I do not know how much you know of aether cutters, but they are not designed for atmospheric turbulence.”

Nathanial nodded. “Yes, I am aware of this. Annabelle and I were in a cutter when we crashed on Mars. That we survived was nothing short of a miracle.”

“Quite so, Professor. But I had no idea.” Folkard paused. “Where was I? I have always been much better at writing reports down than giving them in person,” he said with a smile.

“The cutter on the Isle of Dogs, and the charred body within,” Nathanial said shortly, no longer wishing to stray from the path he was on.

“Yes. Quite. A stroke of luck occurred during the search of the crash site, when a journal was discovered, charred and burnt, but with enough pages intact to put together the story of Peregrine’s final days. The journal belonged to one Avram Salt, whom it is believed to be the body in the cutter.”

Avram Salt. The name sounded familiar to Nathanial, and for a moment he could not place it, then an image of the Jewish art and antique dealer came to his mind. Salt had been on board Peregrine, brought aboard to oversee the station’s garish interior design. Nathanial had not seen much of the man, except for occasionally bumping into him when Salt was wandering around the station, appearing for all the world like a man lost.

With a twinge of guilt Nathanial was relieved that it had not been one of his friends who had escaped. Being aboard Peregrine while it was rented into little pieces had to be preferable to the slow and painful death of burning up on re-entry. At least Peregrine’s destruction had been swift.

“A rather convenient discovery, I’m sure you will agree, Professor.”

“Convenient that it survived, when Mister Salt did not, yes.”

“Even more curious when you consider that the cutter, although badly damaged on re-entry, was less burned up than the body within.”

“Suspicious,” Nathanial agreed. “May I enquire as to what was found in Salt’s journal?”

“I’m afraid this is where my source rather dried up. They risked much getting the reports of the Peregrine’s cutter to me, but they did mention that the journal explains how you broke into Professor Wren’s laboratory, how you murdered a man called Brennan and then blamed the bombings on him. And, apparently, you also incited a coup, overthrowing the station administrator, one Mister van den Bosch.” As Folkard explained this, his smile became wider, clearly not believing a word of it.

“Well,” Nathanial said quietly, “such events did occur. But you have to understand the circumstances, Captain,” he insisted, not wanting to lose the one ally he seemed to have. “The station was in the grip of a madman, at the mercy of a diabolical plan to construct a super weapon. Le Boeuf was behind everything!”

Folkard was silent, his attention shifting between Nathanial and the square outside. “I believe you, Professor, only because I know you. I have seen you in dangerous situations before, and I have come to trust your reactions. Nonetheless, the evidence, such as it was, was pretty damning.”

“I would rather like to see this journal. Salt did not seem to be the kind of man to keep one.”

“Alas, I highly doubt either of us will get to lay our eyes on it. Nevertheless, the evidence was enough to convince those who had secrets to keep that you were the perfect scapegoat upon whom to blame everything. If the station’s destruction was the result of sabotage from a rogue employee of the British government, then everyone could accept that. Even the Austrians.”

“A rogue employee indeed! Director White allowed me some time of leave, to assist a friend on Venus.”

“Nathanial,” Folkard said carefully, “please understand how these people think. You had been away for several months, with no word of why you left Venus and did not return to Chatham. You were rogue in their eyes—a brilliant scientist who had in his possession a secret known only to a few. I’ve never had the pleasure to meet the former Austrian Ambassador, but I have heard tell that Franz Deym was ‘an easy sell’. Certainly he would have been happy to lay all the blame on you.”

“I do not care for the politics of the situation, Captain. But what is this secret you mention? I know of no secret, other than those I had been sworn to keep during my time working at Chatham Dockyards.”

“Project ‘G’, Professor. You had been aboard Peregrine, discovered a station with on board gravity.”

Nathanial did not see the problem. “Captain, I have noticed that neither the flyers that took me to Venus and Mercury, nor Esmeralda, had gravity…” He stopped and verily smacked himself on the head. “By Jove! So much has happened since I arrived on Mars I completely forgot. I had every intention of looking into why there had been gravity on both Sovereign and Peregrine, but…well, events quite sidelined me.” He shook his head. “The truth behind the ‘why’ is this big secret I am supposed to the keeper of?”

“Someone had made a serious misassumption, I fear.” Folkard shook his head sadly. “By making you their scapegoat, the orchestrators of this entire affair have created their own problem. You really had no idea you carried the secret. Whoever is targeting you has made a grave mistake.”

“It would seem so. But if the gravity on Sovereign was a secret, why did they allow me on Sovereign in the first place?”

“Perhaps they relied on your ignorance? After all, it was one mission. With what had you to compare it?”

Nathanial considered this. It was true. Had he not been summoned to Venus by Jericho he would have been none the wiser regarding gravity on aether flyers. Indeed, at the time such an anomaly had not even occurred to him. He certainly would not have ended up on Peregrine if he had refused Jericho’s cry for help. “Tell me, what exactly is this Project ‘G’? I assume the ‘G’ stands for gravity.”

“Not quite.” Folkard sat back in his seat. “Ever since they past that blasted Official Secrets Act last August, Project ‘G’ is protected; if I tell you that I am a traitor to the Crown.”

“How can it be considered treason? I have already been arrested for treason, and reprieved from that charge, when in fact I was never guilty. They have my own journal, and that of Professor Wren. Compared alongside Salt’s journal they must have seen the truth, and thus released me. Yet still, someone believes I am aware of this Project ‘G’, the great secret that will…destabilise the British Empire?”

Folkard laughed. “Hardly that serious, Professor. But it would cause a great deal of problems, for both our government and the Austrians’. Oh very well,” he added, with a sigh, glancing over to make sure that Edwin was still asleep. “As the captain of Sovereign I was fully briefed on Project ‘G’, how in early 1888 Austrian geologists on Mercury made one of the most important discoveries since the Martians revealed their liftwood to us. Deep under the surface they discovered a layer of ‘heavy tar’, this heavy tar, or ‘gravitar’ as it has become known, is responsible for most of a planet’s gravity. I do not understand the science of it, but I am sure if you used your deductive brain you would be able to work out how gravitar works.”

Nathanial had to admit he was stumped. “I would need to speak to those geologists who discovered it.”

“An unlikely occurrence, I think.”

“Agreed. So, this gravitar was used on Sovereign?”

“Illegally, yes.”

“Illegally?”

“Yes, Professor,” Folkard said shortly.

Nathanial raised his hands in submission. “Sorry, this is all very fascinating. Pray, continue.”

“Naturally the British Empire, the dominant force on Mercury, soon learned of the Austrians discovery and so a secret alliance was formed between the Empire and Austria. Political channels between our two governments have always been generally good, but still not strong enough that either government wished to acknowledge the existence of gravitar until its worth could be proven beyond a shadow of doubt. As you can imagine, once the secret of gravitar is out it will affect aether travel in a drastic way. Not only that, but there would be mining expeditions throughout the inner planets—how long before it becomes a marketable commodity?”

“This gravitar layer exists on all the planets?”

“That is the considered opinion. Secret expeditions have already been sent out to Venus and Mars to prove it.”

“And here on Earth?”

“Yes. If proven, a price will be attached to it, with us and the Austrians determining just what it will be.”

Nathanial could see it. With gravitar, and the income it would bring, the Empire would spread out even further. Whoever controlled gravitar would, essentially, control the future of aether travel. There was no way the Empire would share such power. Not with anyone, and certainly not with the Austrians.

“Wait, the Austrians do not know about gravitar’s usage on Sovereign, do they?”

“Of course not. It was to be tested on Peregrine, which is why the Austrians had such a big stake in the construction and deployment of that station. As far as the public and the majority of our governments know, Peregrine was the prototype heliograph station built to improve communication between Earth and Mars. If successful, other stations would be built between Earth and Venus, Earth and Mercury… But the truth was, Peregrine was a testing ground for gravitar.”

“We should be glad, then, that no one else survived its destruction. Its secrets died with it.” But Nathanial was not glad, not really. Secrets had a habit of being exposed eventually, usually causing much damage along the way. “Which is just as well,” he added, “for I suspect Le Boeuf almost certainly would have known about the gravitar. He spent enough time on the station. If it served his purposes, he would have revealed all.”

“Then it is good he died on Peregrine.”

Nathanial let that thought settle between them for a moment. Despite all the sad loss, something good had come of Peregrine’s destruction. It was of little consolation, really, but it was something. “So, our wonderful government decided to test gravitar aboard its most advanced naval vessel?”

“Of course. The military application of gravitar was an obvious eventuality, and it makes sense that the Empire would not allow the Austrians to explore that potential first.”

“What troubles me most now, is that only someone in the government, privy to this secret, could be responsible for my death sentence. Just to ensure I keep my silence, and not reveal their duplicity.”

“There is plenty of blame to go around, Professor, and the Admiralty are keen to keep their secret, too. But those who knew of Peregrine’s secret knew that in all good conscience they could not keep you incarcerated after the evidence of the journals they removed from you. But,” Folkard said, his voice carrying the weight of the danger, “someone very high up in the government wants you quiet, it would seem. Both you and Miss Somerset.”

“Someone who works closely with the Austrian Ambassador, I would wager. And now, this someone has secured the patents to both mine and Doctor Grant’s propeller governor designs.” Nathanial lowered his head and rubbed his temples. “My head is heavy.”

“You did not sleep well last night,” Folkard pointed out, “and it is now midday. Perhaps you should follow the example of your brother? Sleep on all we have talked about.”

Nathanial nodded slowly. “Yes, there is much to think about.” He smiled tiredly. “When I awake I will tell you why I believe there are two people preying upon me.”

Folkard laughed. “Ah yes, we did get a little sidetracked by the triviality of Project ‘G’.”

Nathanial rolled his eyes, grateful for Folkard’s humour. “Yes, we did rather.”

3.

BEDFORD WAITED for Blount’s and Wyndham’s protests to run their course. Cartwright simply sat very erect and looked at him while Annabelle took his hand and studied him with a look of worry.

“Thank you for your concern, gentlemen, but if the key to the mystery is in Whitechapel, then we must go there. I assure you I am not so reckless as to venture there without a plan and a reasonable prospect of success. My mother’s wayward brother, Alton Smithwyck, the black sheep of her family, resided in Whitechapel before his untimely death. His son Horace is a used-clothing merchant there. I have recently re-established contact with him and let him know I may be calling on him. I had meant to see him to see if he knew of any thugs gone missing from gangs, in hopes the one Annabelle slew might have friends who remembered him.”

“You did not mention that, George,” Annabelle said.

“Honestly I had no real expectation of success so did not wish to raise your hopes. I thought it more likely the thugs who attacked were locally-raised and the survivor probably disappeared into the slums a quarter mile north of here. But now that we have a clue attached to Whitechapel itself, I think an expedition makes more sense. We will dress down to avoid attention, or to excite anyone’s greed, but still I would not mind Mister Cartwright’s company. Did I hear correctly that you have boxed?”

“You did, Commander,” Cartwright answered quietly, and Bedford thought he was assessing this exchange, trying to decide if it was a sincere request for assistance or a sort of challenge to his courage. Bedford could not say with conviction which it was himself—likely a bit of both, he supposed.

“Well, I’ll come as well, then,” Major Blount said, “and bring my revolver.”

“Thank you, Major, but I would esteem your assistance more here as guard, and you as well, Colonel Wyndham, if you please. I have just today received a note from a colleague. His identity is not important, so let us call him ‘F’. Annabelle knows to whom I refer.”

“Indeed I do. Is he well?”

“He is both well and dedicated to our cause, although he follows his own path in this. But his note tells me that an attempt was made against Nathanial’s life on or about the first of the year.”

“No!” Annabelle gasped and he saw the colour drain from her face. “You say an attempt. He is alive, then. Was he injured?”

“No, thank the Lord, he was not harmed. The assassins felled another by mistake, a friend they found in Nathanial’s lodgings while he was out. A Mister…” The name escaped him. He dug the note out and read. “A Mister Lécuyer. Hmmm. Wonder if the fellow was French?”

“Lécuyer? My God!” Cartwright exclaimed. “It cannot be. He was a man of considerable influence in government circles, although not formally holding office. He advised, suggested… But I have not seen him since the first of the year and that is odd. With all this business with the Austrians I would have thought… My God! Lécuyer dead.” He shook his head in shock and dismay.

“So you see, this has become even more serious than I thought a moment ago,” Bedford said. “I ask you two gentlemen to remain here and safeguard Miss Somerset and Doctor Grant.”

“Of course we will,” Wyndham said and Blount nodded in vigorous agreement.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Annabelle said, “for protecting my uncle, but I will accompany Commander Bedford and Mister Cartwright on the expedition.”

“Out of the question,” Bedford said.

Annabelle withdrew her hand from his and folded hers in her lap. “No, George, it is not. What was it you said several days ago? That we had, individually and together, faced far more dangerous foes than a pack of bowler-hatted bureaucrats, and you were quite right. We have also faced foes more dangerous than street toughs.”

“The last street tough was dangerous enough. He nearly killed you!” Bedford said.

“He had the benefit of surprise. That will not happen again. Besides, given what I currently have to wear I will not have to ‘dress down’ a bit. I certainly look as if I am in need of clothing,” she said with a jaunty smile. Then she again grew serious. “This is my life we are striving to salvage, George, and I will not send either of you into that sort of hazard without sharing at least some of the danger. If something were to happen…” Her speech had been confident and forceful up until then but her voice faltered at the end.

Bedford reached over and took her hand. “Very well. I’ll see about a revolver for myself,” he said.

4.

WHILE THE STONES slept, Folkard left his room to contact his guttersnipe. Once he had passed word on about the attack at Russell Square, he returned to his room. The professor was still sleeping on the floor, but his brother now sat at the table, nursing a sore head.

“Good day, Mister Stone,” he said, announcing his return. The younger Stone looked up, and forced a smile. “I did recommend not sleeping,” Folkard pointed out. “You took a nasty bump on the head. I have seen the worst cases of concussion, and it is my opinion that people often underestimates the effects it can have on a person.”

“Yes, Captain Folkard, but as you say, it was only a bump. I have been through worse when I was a child.”

“I find that hard to believe. Life in Putney Parish is not, I believe, fraught with danger.”

“Perhaps not,” Stone said, offering a weak smile, “and it is certainly true that nothing this exciting has happened to me before.” He looked down at his brother. “How is Nathanial?”

“I believe he will fare well. He has been through a lot in the last nine months. Did he ever tell you of our missions on Luna?”

At this Stone’s face lit up. He was still in some pain, but he was man enough to brush it aside. Folkard sat at the table, pleased to see such gumption in the younger Stone. It took the professor some time to find his own metal, but it looked as if Edwin Stone was made of sterner stuff.

“I think the professor made a mistake, wishing that you be returned home. We still have quite a journey ahead of us before we discover who is behind this plot to discredit and kill your brother, and I doubt we have seen the last of such attempts on his life. I for one am glad to have you by our side.” Folkard indicated the revolver on the mantelpiece. “You even have your own firearm!”

Stone beamed at this. “Well, one never knows when a weapon might come in handy. Nathanial told me of his adventures on Venus, and the rescue of Doctor Grant on Luna, and I just knew he would soon find some kind of adventure in London, too. There simply was no chance that I would remain in Putney after hearing that. You see, I wish to write adventure stories, Captain, and for me to do that I need to experience some adventures first hand.”

Folkard shrugged. “I have heard of worse reasons, Mister Stone.”

“And I would be pleased to hear some of your own stories. Nathanial mentioned you have served in the Royal Navy some years now.”

“Two decades of service. I daresay I can share with you some of the less secretive missions. I have always fancied myself a space mariner, but official duty prevents me from indulging my dreams. I believe I can, through you, live that…”

“Sshh!” Stone hissed suddenly. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Sshh!” he hissed again. Stone stood abruptly, his whole body agitated. He looked around quickly. Folkard frowned, concerned by the faraway look appearing in Stone’s eyes. He stood and moved to the young man’s side. Stone gripped his arm hard. “It’s outside the door!”

Folkard heard nothing. “Still yourself, Edwin,” he said, attempting to sit Stone down once more, but the young man would not respond. Despite the way his eyes were rolling about their sockets, his back was ramrod straight.

“No. Listen!”

His voice disturbed Professor Stone out of his slumber. He rubbed his eyes, looking around, clearly none the better for his couple of hours sleep. “What the deuce is going on?” His eyes locked on Folkard and Edwin. “What is it?”

“Can you not hear it, Nathanial? Outside the room!”

Folkard shook his head sharply, and gave the professor a pointed look which, he hoped, suggested he humour his brother. “Professor, please be so kind as to take a look at the landing.”

Professor Stone dragged himself off the floor, still a little groggy, and moved across the room. The younger Stone continued to fidget in Folkard’s arms, but he was at least quiet now, anxiously watching his brother open the door.

“Good Lord!” the professor exclaimed. “What do we have here? Funny looking critters.”

Folkard released Stone, and met the professor at the door. Scuttering along the skirting board were several mechanical spiders. They were no bigger than his palm. The professor crouched to get a better look, but Folkard held him back. “Professor, no! Do you not see the fuses?”

Out of the backs of each spider a short fuse protruded, each burning down as they looked.

“Bombs!” Folkard turned to Edwin Stone, who was leaning on the table, one hand to his head. “Mister Stone, move! You, too, Professor!” He shoved the professor onto the landing and pulled Edwin behind him. .

As he ran down the stairs, Folkard banged on the doors he passed, shouting for everyone to leave the house immediately.

At the bottom of the final flight, the professor skidded to a halt. The front door was blocked. A plank of wood, nailed into place, prevented them from exiting the house. People in nightclothes began emerging from rooms, blinking in irritation or confusion. An explosion boomed from somewhere up above followed by several more in rapid succession. The building shook, dust and plaster fell from the overhead, and the boarders began to shout or scream in fear.

“Out the back! Now!”

Needing no further encouragement, and probably used to Folkard’s orders, the professor raced across the hall and crashed through the back door. Edwin followed unsteadily. Several more spiders moved along the skirting boards on the ground floor. Pushing the professor on, Folkard shouldered his way out the door and was propelled the last few feet by another series of explosions, these on the ground floor. The shockwave from the blast threw them both into the wall, the heat suddenly searing in its intensity.

5.

THE HOUSE BURNED. In the distance Folkard could hear the whistles of policemen, and the cries of residents of Bedford Square. They could not stay here. Professor Stone was getting to his feet, moving toward the conflagration.

“Professor, you’ll be killed,” he said, scrambling to his own feet. He grabbed Stone by the arms and pulled him back. “We need to move now,” he said, thinking they could scale the wall behind them, and escape via Caroline Mews and onto the busy Great Russell Street.

“Where is he?” Stone asked, his voice barely a whisper beneath the crackling of the fire.

Folkard looked around the garden. Of Edwin Stone there was no sign. He had been right behind them but either the sudden explosion or his previous concussion must have got the better of him. Folkard spun the professor around, but the tall man wasn’t looking at him, instead he tried to turn his head around, in a vain attempt to see his brother through the flames. “Professor Stone! Nathanial!”

Stone’s head snapped back at him, but he was not seeing Folkard. His eyes looked vacant.

“Nathanial, we need to move now. I am very sorry about your brother, but we cannot stay here. Let whoever did this believe we died in the fire.”

“But Edwin is… I promised to keep him safe, bring him to London, to build his future. He has to be a writer. It is his dream.”

Folkard shook his head. As much as he felt for the professor, it was imperative they moved before the place swarmed with police and fire fighters. “I’m sorry, Professor, truly.”

Without another word, Folkard pulled Stone away from the fire. His mind elsewhere, the professor offered little resistance when Folkard helped him climb the wall, and urged him up the garden on the other side.

Chapter Eleven

“Deadly Secrets Revealed”

1.

“HELLO, HORACE,” Bedford said, taking off his respirator. He hadn’t seen his cousin in several years and they had not been kind years. He remembered Horace as an angular young man with a spark of wit. Horace was now round in the middle, his face fleshy and sagging, complexion greyish, and the wit in his eyes had been replaced by cunning. Horace pushed aside a large bundle of linens on the cluttered counter and folded his arms across his chest.

“So it’s you. Never think of old ’Orace unless you need summat, huh?”

“As I recall, the last time I heard from you was to ask for a loan,” Bedford said.

“As I recall, last time was when I repaid it. What’s it about, then?”

Bedford walked to the counter, in part to make room for the others in the narrow aisle behind him. Crude shelves rose almost to the ceiling to either side, bulging with folded or rolled clothing, with dusty bundles of sheets filling some of the open spaces between them. Cartwright drank in the sights of the store as a parched man at a desert oasis drinks in water—grist for a writer’s mill, Bedford supposed. As he moved into the more open space before the counter Annabelle followed him into the small circle of dim light cast by the lantern hanging from the ceiling. Horace looked at each of them with an expression of superiority bordering on contempt until he saw Annabelle resting her weight on her cane. He leaned forward and looked at her skirt as she took a step forward, heard her peg tap on the coarse boards of the floor, and he sucked in his breath, his eyes going wide with fear.

“You brought the one-legged woman here? You bloody fool! You’ve killed me, like as not, or made me a tidy sum if I turn you over. Did anyone see you?”

Annabelle had only just taken off her veil and respirator and froze in surprise, looking from Horace to Bedford.

“There are people about on the street, Horace,” Bedford said. “Of course someone saw us, but Annabelle’s face was covered, as were all of ours. The soot is particularly thick today.”

“Who cares about ’er bloody face? How many peg-legged nobby young blowens do you suppose are about these days? Here, take this.” He thrust a round bundle of cotton sheets, the corners of the outer sheet tied together on top, into Bedford’s hands. “Now cut your lucky, fast, before someone comes snoopin’ for you. As soon as you’re gone I’ll close up and nip down to Coggin’s boozing-ken, report you to the can, and someone’ll come lookin’—so don’t dawdle takin’ in the sights.”

“You’ll have your reward that way, will you?” Bedford asked.

“I’ll have me neck, damn you, and so will you! Anyone sees you leave will see the sheets, think you come on business, coincidental-like. No one knows we’re kin, nor needs to, but if I don’t welsh on you and someone else does, my number’s up.”

Bedford saw the genuine fear in his cousin’s eyes but shook his head. “It won’t do, Horace. We need to know what’s going on here and you obviously know something.”

“All right, but there’s no time now! It’s a bad mob looking for your lady friend, George. Meet me tonight, eight o’clock, on Frostic Place.”

“Where on Frostic Place?”

“Anywhere. It’s only a short block long, between Finch Street and Old Montague, half-mile west of here, maybe less. And if you’ve got a barker, bring it. Now do a scoot!”

2.

THEY ALL THOUGHT he was one of them, he certainly looked like one of them, and as he made his way to the room he had managed to rent for just he and Stone, Folkard responded to the calls and offers of solicitation with great humour and noise. On the surface, he suspected, no one living in the St Giles rookery would know he was a captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.

After escaping the scene of the fire he had considered shacking up in a penny sit-up, or maybe even a four-penny coffin, for the night. But looking at Stone he realised they needed something a little more secure. At the same time, though, they had to go somewhere no one would think to look. And so, working on the principle that the best place to hide something was in plain sight, Folkard decided that they should remain as close to Bedford Square as possible and so he took Stone to the St Giles cellar, one of the worst kinds of slums in London.

Normally the houses in St Giles would be piled high with people, with as many as six to one room, but with a few extra shillings Folkard had been able to secure a room for just the two of them. It was far from ideal, the putrid stench of human waste mixing with the usual choking smells coming from the pollution in the skies above, but it would do while Stone worked through his grief. They had to lie low for a while, ensure that the person who wanted Stone dead believed he had died in the fire at Bedford Square.

Stone had taken his brother’s death badly. Folkard could sympathise. He had lived through his own share of loss over the years, not least of all was his beloved wife, and he understood the devastating pain such loss could bring.

It was only in the last two hours that Folkard had felt able to leave the professor alone; the man had tired himself out, emotionally drained, and now he slept fitfully in their room. The professor had very little sleep over the past two days, and Folkard was certain he would not stir again for many hours. Enough time for Folkard to meet with his contacts and get word to Bedford.

Soon he would have to reveal everything he had learned to Cavor, leave it all in the rear admiral’s hands. But first he needed the name of the man behind the attempts on Nathanial and Miss Somerset’s lives. The last he heard Bedford and Miss Somerset were to meet with Horace Smithwyck, who had some information for them. He hoped it was a name.

In the meantime, the best way to keep Stone safe was to keep him hidden under the shroud of death. St Giles was, therefore, the best kind of place in the whole of London.

He returned to their room to find Professor Stone wide awake. He was sitting on his, undoubtedly, flea infested mattress, the threadbare blanket wrapped about his shoulders in an attempt to keep out the cold that circulated through the rundown house. He looked the part, too. His usual well groomed self had given way to a dishevelled man, one who had not washed for at least a day; ginger stubble growing out from his whiskers to cover his neck and jaw. Stone looked up as Folkard entered; his usually bright eyes had lost much of their life, sunk by the death of Edwin.

“Captain,” Stone said, a deep frown on his brow, “I have been thinking.”

“As have I, Professor.”

“Splendid. Then we are in accord. I propose we expose these devilish secrets forthwith.”

“Now steady on there,” Folkard said. “Exposing the secret of gravitar is not our mission. We need to discover who is behind all this. Whoever it is has a great deal to lose, and we…”

He stopped, shocked by the look of hatred sweeping over the professor’s face. Stone’s pleasant features just did not wear such a look well.

“Edwin died because of these secrets, Captain, and that cannot go unrewarded. I do not care of the damage such exposure will cause. All of them need to pay! If the government had been honest with the Austrians we would never be in this situation. Edwin would still be alive!”

“Professor, I understand you, I truly do, but consider this. Revealing Project ‘G’ will only make matters worse. The integrity of the British Empire must be protected above all else.”

“Integrity?” Stone rose forcefully from his mattress. “Do not talk to me of integrity. We routed the Russians from Luna because they broke the Luna Treaty, and what did the government do? They set up their own research base there. Further breaching the treaty, just so they could discover all the secrets of Luna. And to protect their interests in Luna, in the City of Light and Science, they threaten Annabelle with treason—with death—just to secure the patents of the only device that will allow them sole access to Luna. Where is the integrity of the British Empire you speak of?”

“Professor, you are talking nonsense.”

“Nonsense? Are you denying these events took place?”

“Of course not. But you are confused, distraught over the death of your brother. You are a subject of the British Empire, a servant of Her Majesty. You have sworn to protect the Empire.”

Stone shook his head. “I relinquished such servitude when I was cast in irons and escorted to Chatham Convict Prison. I am just a scientist, a civilian.” He pointed at Folkard. “You serve the Empire if you like, but I will not turn a blind eye anymore. While these politicians play their games innocent people die. Poor Annabelle lost her leg because of these damnable games!”

“Professor, I think you need to pull yourself together. Bedford and Miss Somerset will discover the orchestrator of these events, in the meantime we must remain here. Out of sight, out of mind. Let them believe us to be dead.”

“No, Captain, I live!” With a deep breath Stone drew himself up to his full height, and looked down at Folkard. The attempt at bravado was lost somewhat by the blanket over Stone’s shoulders. “You are either with me or you are not. There is no middle ground anymore. I have my own contacts, and I will expose these underhanded blackguards who are running our nation into the ground.”

Folkard could hardly believe it. Grief was a powerful emotion; it made the most sane men do the craziest things, but this…

He had been sent out to protect Professor Stone, to discover who wanted him dead or discredited, and why. What was his duty now? There were men who would say he should silence Stone himself, that the Empire had to be protected above all else.

Above all else. Above decency and justice and personal loyalty, it would seem, if that was what it took to preserve the reputations of corrupt and self-serving admirals and politicians hiding behind The Empire. What, Folkard wondered, was the point in protecting an institution which could hold those virtues in such small value?

The Empire. Was it anything more than just a word? But what else did he have?

3.

HORACE’S SHOP, for all its musty smells and signs of neglect, had been within easy walking distance of St Mary’s Station off the elevated train. Frostic Place rested much deeper in the bowels of Whitechapel and Annabelle’s leg grew sore on the walk there. George walked ahead and Fairfax behind in the hopes of reducing the visibility of her peg. The night was overcast but cool and crisp so there was no fog within which assassins, real or imaginary, could lurk in ambush, and the air was clear enough to go without respirators, which was a blessing. The streets were poorly lit, but that worked to their advantage as much to an adversary’s, Annabelle supposed. Still, she gripped the head of the cane tightly to keep her hand from trembling.

George had argued and argued against her accompanying them, especially as they now knew all Whitechapel was alert for a peg-legged young woman. Despite her private fears, however, she had been adamant. She still was not certain hers was the wisest course of action, but she knew it was the right one.

Perhaps the letter in the Morning Post, which Fairfax had brought in at lunchtime, overly influenced her decision. It should not have cut her so, but it had, to be spoken of with such contempt. She was thankful so much had happened to reveal her character to her new friends before this letter appeared. Had it become public before she applied for lodgings on Chapel Street, would she have been accepted with the same open minds? She doubted it. But now every new acquaintance she made she would do with this shadow hanging over all. Unless, of course, she dispelled the shadow, and did so by her own hand, to the extent possible. That was why she came—had to come.

“Oh! George, your cousin wanted you to bring a barker, whatever that is. Did you remember to do so?”

George lifted his right hand far enough out of the pocket of his overcoat to show the pistol grip of his Navy revolver.

“Ah. Yes, I see. It does bark, doesn’t it? Well…good then.” She forced herself to stop talking because she knew she would babble on and on if she did not. It was a natural enough reaction to nervous tension but she thought she was beyond that, had trained it out of her. Sometimes old acquaintances pop in to visit without warning, and old habits do as well.

The streets, while not crowded, were still busy enough even after dark. Poor women sized up the two men with Annabelle and several made offers as they passed. Annabelle wondered how they plied their trade when the air forced them to cover their faces—or if they even bothered to cover up. Many people she had seen here earlier did not wear masks, or wore only a dirty handkerchief covering nose and mouth, showing squinting red-rimmed eyes above. Even now soft coughing provided an almost continuous background noise. How much was from the air and how much from consumption she had no way of knowing.

They walked north along St Mary Street and then turned west on Old Montague. Frostic Place should have been easy to find but proved otherwise, as a number of street signs had been removed or defaced including that for their destination. When they crossed broad Osborn Street and Old Montague turned into Wentworth, and the neighbourhood and denizens looked even more poverty-stricken and desperate than they had before, Annabelle and her two companions had the sense they had gone too far. They retraced their steps, eventually asking a dirty-faced youngster and paying a shilling for directions to Frostic Place, which at the time they stood directly before—much to the delight of the boy as he pocketed his coin.

Frostic Place was narrow and dark, with many doorways close together along both sides of the street. The two and three-storey brick buildings, so close together they touched, had a tired, leaning aspect, as if they held each other up and might all fall if any one of them gave way. They loomed overhead and the only light came from the two ends of the street. Far fewer people made their way here than on Old Montague, and those that did hurried through the gloom. George found an alcove fronting a bricked-up doorway on the east side of the street and the three of them waited in the shadows.

They waited no more than a quarter hour before a man came down the street more deliberately and George recognised him by his gait. He whistled softly and Horace approached them.

“Ain’t got long. I’m thinking Billy Snide had a boy watchin’ me, but I gave him the slip a ways back. Ole Billy’s who you have to worry about. Word is the lady here killed his half-brother, Jimmy Tucker. Cut his throat did ya?”

“He was going to kill me,” Annabelle answered.

“Courts may nod to self-defence but Ole Billy don’t. It was business before. Now it’s personal-like.”

“What business?” George demanded. Horace shrugged.

“Billy calls himself Snide ’cause he claims he learned the counterfeit trade from an old-timer doing a stretch on the floatin’ academy. You ask me, it’s just him putting on airs. I never knew him to pass a queer screen, but it sounds better than Billy the Pimp. Only thing Billy’s ever been any good at is getting’ others to do his dirty work and takin’ a cut. ’E’s got half a dozen or so toughs workin’ with him—one less now, thanks to your lady friend—and summat’s changed this last month. No more looking for jobs but more gilt in their pockets.”

“Somebody’s hired the gang,” George said and Horace nodded in reply.

“Don’t know who, but a month past Billy was asking after davy’s-dust.”

“What’s that?” Annabelle asked.

“It’s gunpowder, Miss,” he said, “and you might wonder what a pimp wants with it. Then couple weeks ago Tom Duffer, one of Billy’s boys, comes in the same boozing-ken as me, buys a round for the house, and toasts to ‘one less stinking toff in the world’. That was the same day as someone blew up that Australian feller, and it ain’t like Tom to stand for drinks lest he’s got more gilt than he knows what’s what.”

“He was Austrian,” Cartwright said. Horace glanced at him with irritation and went on.

“Tom’s the same lad, three days past, comes in my place and tells me Billy wants everyone to watch for a peg-legged lady, and tells me why. What blowing up Australians,” Horace said, and scowled at Cartwright as if daring him to correct him again, “has to do with yer lady friend I can’t say, but it’s all I know. Now you better git.”

Without another word, he turned up his collar and hurried south toward Old Montague Street.

“We had better head north in case someone’s watching the street,” George said, and they made their way toward the irregular square of light where the lane opened out into Finch Street. They turned right onto Finch but had gone no more than a dozen paces when three narrow-eyed men came together from different directions and formed a wall blocking their progress. The handful of people nearby suddenly quickened their pace and within moments the six people staring at each other were all but alone. Cartwright pushed forward and stood beside George, with Annabelle to their rear.

“Perhaps we should have gone south,” Cartwright ventured.

A hand seized Annabelle from behind and abruptly wrenched her sharply about.

4.

BEDFORD HEARD ANNABELLE cry out in alarm and as he turned towards her the three thugs facing them sprang forward. Bedford made to pull the revolver from his overcoat but the hammer caught on the seam of the pocket and then one of the toughs was on him. The fellow threw his arms around Bedford and carried him back by his momentum against the brick wall of the closest building. The impact all but drove the breath from his lungs. He struggled with the assailant, trying to free his arms. He looked back and saw Annabelle in the clutches of a fourth scoundrel and for a moment the action seemed to slow.

The man had hold of Annabelle’s coat with his right hand and drew his left hand back as if to strike her. She raised her cane to the side and brought it forward sharply toward his head. For an instant Bedford had a flicker of hope but then groaned in dismay when the thug intercepted and grasped the shaft in his free left hand, perhaps a foot above the silver handle in Annabelle’s hand.

For a moment the tableau seemed to freeze and a distant part of Bedford’s mind remembered that Annabelle’s cane did not have a silver head. Then motion returned, Annabelle pulled her hand down, the wooden shaft remaining in her attacker’s hand, and the long gleaming sword blade came free, flashed, and her assailant howled in pain.

Bedford butted his own attacker in the nose with his forehead and then pushed him back and away. The man held his bloody nose for a second and then howled with rage, made to charge again, but saw the revolver in Bedford’s right hand and froze. He backed up, eyes suddenly wide with fright and hands climbing above his head. Bedford pointed the revolver toward the sky and fired twice, the detonations echoing down the street, and then he turned the revolver on Annabelle’s assailant.

“Let go of her or I’ll spread your brains on the sidewalk!” he shouted. The man fell back against the building wall, holding a bleeding thigh with his left hand.

“Run for it, Oinks!” Bedford’s assailant cried and sprinted down the street, closely followed by the other two who had been engaged against Cartwright. Annabelle swayed and Bedford ran to her, put a supporting arm around her, but held the revolver on her attacker the entire time.

“The shots will bring the peelers as quickly as a police whistle. Are you injured?” he asked. She shook her head wordlessly but shuddered in reaction to the fight, begun so suddenly and over as abruptly.

Cartwright joined them, wiping blood from his own mouth with a right hand sporting bloody knuckles. He examined the wound on the man who now slid down to sit on the paving stones, his back to the wall. “You slashed his leg, Miss Somerset. Thrusts are generally more effective. One through his abdomen would have put him on his back almost at once, I would think, and saved the magistrates a deal of trouble.”

Annabelle turned sharply on him. “Have you ever looked a man in his eyes, close enough to smell his breath and feel it on your skin, and then killed him, Mister Cartwright? Well I have, and I have seen the life pass from those eyes in my dreams every night since Boxing Day. I have no desire to add a second pair of eyes to my nightmares.”

Cartwright knelt and picked up the discarded hollow wood body of the cane. “My most humble apologies, Miss Somerset. I spoke thoughtlessly and from ignorance and insensitivity. Please, allow me.” He took the sword from her hand, wiped the blood from the blade on the skirt of his own coat, slipped it back into the wooden sheath until it clicked, and then handed it back to her.

“Colonel Wyndham’s cane?” Bedford asked and Annabelle nodded. From down the street Bedford heard feet running and the sound of a police whistle.

Cartwright raised his hand and waved. “Here! We have one of the villain’s captive,” he shouted.

“Not just any villain,” Annabelle said after taking a deep breath. “This is the man who tried to kidnap Uncle Cyrus and then cut Cartwright’s arm.”

Cartwright started and looked at the thug more closely. “Well damn me, so he is!”

Bedford released the pistol grip of his revolver and let it rotate on his finger through the trigger guard, spun it back and caught it by the barrel and held it out away from his body so the constable would see it and know it was not a threat. It wouldn’t do to have a misunderstanding now.

5.

THE NEXT DAY Folkard awoke, after a restless night, to discover Professor Stone gone. He thought he managed to calm the professor down, talk a bit of sense into him. Certainly when they had settled, after a few tips of port, Stone seemed a bit more content to proceed as previously planned. To lie low a little longer until Folkard got word from Bedford about the information garnered from Smithwyck.

Folkard stood by the window, looking out at the street below, watching the brawlers fighting over some trivial matter, urged on by the worst kind of women. To the south he could hear the sounds of dockhands at work down at the Thames, while to the north people set about their business of the day, finding ways to makes ends meet, only a hairsbreadth from falling into the kind of life those in St Giles lived. In some ways, Folkard reflected, he agreed with much of what Stone had said. The government were running the Empire into the ground.

Nonetheless, it was the Empire he had sworn to protect. He may have been on leave, working on a covert mission, but he was still a captain of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.

He had a duty to Queen and Country.

Folkard checked his derringer before turning from the window. Professor Stone had to be stopped, before he could irrevocably damage the Empire.

Chapter Twelve

“Callers”

1.

“WHAT DO YOU want here?” Annabelle heard Mrs Collingwood’s voice from the front hall. There was an edge to the sound which she had not heard before; not fear, so much as outraged challenge. Without hearing the reply she knew immediately who this must be. She looked around the table. Fairfax Cartwright listened with interest and Blount with irritation, but only Colonel Wyndham’s eyebrows rose in shared realisation of the obvious identity of their caller.

“Miss Somerset, gentlemen,” Major Gordon said in greeting as soon as he appeared at the doorway. “Please do not rise from your breakfast on my account. Your uncle is absent, Miss Somerset. I hope he is not unwell.”

“My God, you’ve got your nerve coming here,” Blount said.

“Uncle generally takes his meals in the kitchen with Rachael and the cook,” Annabelle said. “What do you desire of us?”

“I understand that my presence is not wanted and so will only remain long enough to pass on my news, and I believe it is news in which all of you will rejoice. But first let me express my admiration for your courage, Miss Somerset, and of course yours as well, Mister Cartwright. I hope you will communicate my compliments to Commander Bedford when next you see him as well. I am also pleased all of you managed to escape harm in this incident.”

Annabelle studied him as he spoke, and although Gordon was capable of sarcasm and irony, as well as a studied delivery completely opaque as to the sentiment behind it, this declaration seemed sincere. “How can you know of the events of last evening so quickly, Major? Surely you are not awakened with every police report filed during the night.”

“Ah, but this was not every police report, as I am sure you know. Mister Cartwright’s mention of the assassination of the Austrian ambassador transformed it, as the metropolitan police currently are working on little else but that outrage. The information you provided the detective concerning the gang and their involvement in that plot produced immediate action, and I have, within the hour, received word that the gang has been broken up and most of them arrested. You will be interested to know that two of the gang members have confessed to involvement in a plot to kill the new ambassador, this time with firearms. We have secured those as well, two pneumatic rifles of the sort preferred by assassins due to their silence. They were of Austrian manufacture, ironically enough.”

Mrs Collingwood walked past Gordon without looking at him and handed Annabelle a note.

“This just came, delivered by some dirty street urchin,” she said softly. “I gave him a shilling.”

“Thank you, Mrs Collingwood,” Annabelle said and opened the note.

“So you rounded up the entire lot?” Cartwright asked.

“Most of them but not the ringleader,” Gordon answered. “William Snide I believe is his name. With his confederates in custody and a price on his head, he cannot long evade capture.”

“Well, if you’ve delivered your news, it’s time you left,” Major Blount said and glared up at Gordon to emphasise the point.

Gordon smiled in reply. “Of course. Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you—”

“No,” Annabelle said. “It is not yet over. This is a note from our confidential source in Whitechapel. I will not share his name with you, but I think you will agree that his information has been reliable thus far.”

“What does it say?” Gordon said and held out his hand. Annabelle gave him the note. “More davy’s-dust,” he read. “Is this some sort of code, Miss Somerset?”

“The code of the streets, I suppose. It means Snide is again acquiring gunpowder.”

Gordon’s brows came together in thought and then he turned to leave. He paused at the doorway. After a moment he turned back to them. “I will, of course, pass this intelligence on to my superiors,” he said, and Annabelle felt he was suddenly choosing his words with great care. “Military intelligence is not directly involved with domestic policing, so they will, I am certain, pass it to the correct agencies. From there it will be acted on, without doubt. Time is, of course, short. The new Austro-Hungarian ambassador is scheduled to arrive in two days. He will be met at the aerial park by several cabinet members and, on behalf of the royal family, the Prince of Wales.”

“Well if time is all that short, you’d best be about your business,” Major Blount said. Gordon met Annabelle’s eyes once more and she saw worry there, and she felt certain she was meant to, that he intended her to see beyond simply his words. Then he turned and left.

“Well!” Mrs Collingwood said. “The cheek of the man! When he could as easily have sent a note with his news.” She sat down at the table and for a moment a look of sadness and loneliness swept across her face and Annabelle thought she was going to cry. Then the look disappeared, masked again by indignation. Annabelle reached over and took her hand and Mrs Collingwood smiled at her with slightly trembling lips. Whatever else Gordon had meant by his visit, Annabelle thought, it had been a cruel thing.

“Cheek indeed,” Major Blount said. He rose and carried his plate to the sideboard and examined the platter of bacon with interest. “Why, the chap’s no gentleman at all, no gentleman at all. I’m going to speak to his battalion commander, by God. Seconded or not, if the chap wants to wear the fusilier uniform, he’ll behave like one.’

Colonel Wyndham exchanged a look with Fairfax. “You are lost in thought, Mister Cartwright, and I think you have something to share with us, something other than Major Blount’s indignation,” he said, and then turned to Blount and added, “entirely proper as that indignation is, old fellow.”

“I think Gordon was trying to tell us something,” Cartwright said, “something more than he was at liberty to say in so many words.”

“He was telling us the information would not be acted on,” Annabelle said, “or at least not in time.”

Cartwright nodded in agreement.

“What?” Blount demanded, returning to his seat with a re-filled plate. “Why, don’t be silly, my dear girl. He said just the opposite.”

“He said it repeatedly,” Cartwright said, “over and over, as if making a point that his words could not be trusted.”

Blount looked doubtful but Wyndham nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid I agree. But why make a point of telling us?”

“Because we have acted already,” Cartwright answered, “and done so with some effect. He wishes us to act again, but cannot direct us to do so.”

“Well I don’t know why we should,” Blount said, “least of all on the say-so of that sort of chap. None of this new business seems directed at Miss Somerset, and that was our main worry, wasn’t it? Why not let the police do their job—or not, as suits them? Not that I’m for blowing up government officials as a general principle, but what are a few cabinet secretaries and Austrian ambassadors more or less? We never seem to run out of them, what. And as to the Prince of Wales…well, the less said there the better.” As if to emphasise the point he thrust a forkful of fried eggs and bacon into his mouth and chewed vigorously.

“I cannot agree,” Cartwright said. “The Prince may play the fool in public, but he is Lord Chillingham’s most capable and determined opponent. The Queen, out of fear of provoking a constitutional crisis, will not act against Chillingham and his clique, but once Albert Edward is king, he will. I am certain of the fact.”

“But what can he do?” Wyndham asked. “The monarchy has no real power over the government.”

“He can make lords, Colonel. He can flood the House of Lords with his hand-picked people and end the supremacy of men like Chillingham and Belvedere, and then push through reform legislation which will prevent someone else from taking their place. That’s the one power the monarchy still has: he can make lords.”

“But not if he is dead,” Annabelle said. “This is not my country and I have no direct interest in its politics. But regardless of where I take Uncle Cyrus when we are clear of this, I cannot think that our prospects will prosper if Lord Chillingham is freed of all restraints and impediments. Fairfax, you are the diplomat amongst us. I think you must take our information directly to the Austrian embassy and alert their staff to the danger. There must be at least one capable man there who will listen to reason.”

“Oh, there is indeed, a fellow named Konstantin Dumba. He just arrived this week in advance of the ambassador-designate as his special assistant. Until the ambassador arrives and his credentials are accepted Dumba is chargé d’affaires, to put the house in order, as it were.”

“You know him then?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. Or rather, yes I do, but unfortunately we are no longer on speaking terms. He and I met on his last posting here to London and disagreed over…well, the reputation of a young lady. It nearly came to a duel. He is a very clever fellow and no coward, I’ll give him that. No, if our message is to be harkened to, it must not issue from me.”

“Very well,” Annabelle said. “I will go this afternoon, as soon as George arrives to escort me. There is no time to waste.”

“You will call on him on Sunday?” Blount asked with disapproval in his voice.

“I doubt that the illegal gunpowder merchants with whom Billy Snide deals will forgo their trade for the Sabbath. With so few days left to us, we cannot afford to either.”

2.

FATIGUE CREPT in once again, but Nathanial knew he could not stop now. He was so close to an answer.

He had prevailed on Sir Eleias’ goodwill once more, as well as his sense of justice. Sir Eleias had secured the information Nathanial needed on Project “G”, although upon returning with the papers, short of breath and quite beside himself, he had stated quite adamantly that this was the last thing he could do for Nathanial.

“My dear chap, I do not know what it is you have become embroiled in, but these,” he had waved the papers about, “did not come to me with ease. I am always happy to help a fellow Savilian, but I can only go so far. I have my career to think about, not to mention my family. And now with all this business in the Morning Post, well…”

That was something Nathanial could understand. While Sir Eleias had been out, Nathanial was allowed to use the Thomas’ residence to clean himself up, sending out the housekeeper to get him fresh togs.

“For your generosity I thank you, Sir Eleias. Sodalitas Convivium,” he had said, and left looking like a gentleman once again, the bandage around his wrist hidden by the cuff of his coat sleeve.

Despite Folkard’s advice, he would not pretend to be dead, but he would move swiftly.

From there he had visited Talbot Accountants in the city, to ask a favour of his brother, Dorian. Naturally Dorian was of a mind not to help, quite put out by Nathanial’s unexpected visit and visibly outraged at the letter in the Morning Post. But after some insistence Dorian had provided his younger brother with the information he required. He had been full of unwanted questions, most of which he managed to deflect, but the last question, asked as Nathanial was about to leave the small accounting firm, gave him pause.

“How is Edwin adjusting to city life? Mother told me he is currently boarding with you.”

Nathanial turned back to Dorian, seeing their father’s eyes looking back at him. “Caught up in the adventure,” he said, his expression non-committal.

“Yes, I dare say. He is quite foolish, wishing to follow this fancy of his. A writer of ‘scientific romances’. He would do well to get himself into something that has a future.” Dorian narrowed his eyes, offering his final attack. “He has no future around you, Lucky.”

Wordlessly, Nathanial turned and left Dorian. As the door closed behind him, Nathanial could not help but think that he would never see Dorian again. Indeed, he would never be able to see any of his family again. None of them, his mother included, would ever forgive him for causing Edwin’s death.

Now he stood outside one of the houses that lined Buckingham Street, just off the Strand, and only a short walk from Trafalgar Square. Like all the houses on Buckingham Street the one before him was in good repair, having been built in the last five years. It seemed that for the ex-French ambassador only the best would do. He approached the house and knocked on the door. Presently the door was opened by a servant, and Nathanial handed his card over.

“I am here to see the master of the house, please see that he gets my card forthwith.”

The servant looked at the card. “Professor Stone, Mister Fon…”

“He will wish to see me,” Nathanial snapped imperiously.

“Yes. Right you are, sir. If you would care to follow me?”

Nathanial was seen to the drawing room, where he waited patiently. After a short while, voices echoed down the hallway outside. The loudest, a French man.

“Well, this is intriguing, wouldn’t you agree, Cooper?”

“If you say so, sir, the gentleman was most insistent.”

“One would expect little else from Professor Stone.”

Nathanial raised an eyebrow at this. Clearly the ex ambassador had heard of him, which only confirmed the hunch Nathanial was acting upon. Although insistent was a curious choice of word, and certainly not one Nathanial would normally use for himself. He would need to have a stern word with a certain geologist next time they met, he decided with a smile.

Cooper, the servant, opened the door further so the master of the house could enter. Nathanial was surprised by his appearance. He was much older than expected, with strong features, his hair white. His dress sense leaved a lot to be desired, wearing as he did a rather colourful lounge robe over a loose fitting shirt and trousers than had seen better days. His feet were bare, although that seemed not to bother him.

“That will be all, Cooper,” the ex ambassador said, his English perfectly enunciated, despite the strong French accent. This was a man who had clearly spent a lot of time in England. “Professor Stone, and of what service can I be to you?” he asked, once Cooper had left the room.

“I need your help, sir,” Nathanial began, put off his stride a little by the amused smile that seemed to dominate the old man’s face. “I understand you do not know me, but I rather suspect you know of me from your son.”

“You are known to Alexis?” He pursed his lips and gave an exaggerated shrug. “I think you are mistaken. Alexis has never mentioned you to me.”

Nathanial frowned. “That is hardly surprising, sir, for I do not think I have ever met an Alexis.” Or even heard of him, he thought. Was he even told about a brother? He did not think so, but then a lot had happened on Mercury, and perhaps he had simply forgotten, or maybe he was making a big mistake here. “I refer to your other son, Arnaud,” he said, hoping the man before him really was Arnaud’s father.

The old man rubbed the back of his neck. “Hmm. Arnaud, you say? The name does not sound familiar. Perhaps you are mistaking me for another Sébastien Fontaine?”

Now Nathanial felt remarkably foolish. He could imagine Dorian laughing greatly at this. “I feel you may be right, sir. Forgive me. Arnaud did not mention the name of his father, but when I recalled that upon your hiring the services of Talbot Accountants you asked for my brother especially, I assumed that it may have been because Arnaud had mentioned me and you wished to learn more about me.”

“A rather convoluted reason to acquire a notable accountant, would you not agree, Professor Stone?”

“Indeed, sir.” Nathanial retrieved his hat and respirator mask from the small table beside him. “Forgive me for wasting your time.”

“Of course,” Fontaine said, just as Nathanial went to open the door of the drawing room, “that is just the kind of convoluted reasoning I excel at.”

Nathanial paused, and turned to look at Sébastien Fontaine. “Sir?”

“Arnaud said you were the epitome of English manners,” Fontaine said, “he also told me that he took great pleasure in challenging your, ah, prim ways.”

Despite himself Nathanial smiled. Although he was in no mood to be on the receiving end of jokes, he now saw he was not mistaken. Sébastien Fontaine was definitely Arnaud’s father. “Yes, he was insufferable at times.”

“And still is, I daresay. Now, please, let us sit down and discuss what it is you would like me to do for you. I have been following your progress with great interest, and wondered how long it would take you to reach me.”

“You…?”

“Of course. Being the ex ambassador of France does have its advantages.”

“In a self-imposed exile, unless I am mistaken?”

Fontaine winked. “We shall let everyone continue to believe that, shall we?”

Nathanial smiled again. “I must say, your English is excellent. Far better than Arnaud’s.”

Fontaine raised an eyebrow as he sat in an ornate armchair. “My son’s English is as good as mine. Like me, he likes to project a certain image. As I was saying to Paul just yesterday… Oh, he’s just been assigned as French Ambassador to England, would you believe?”

“Paul?” Nathanial asked, sitting himself opposite.

“Surely you have heard of Pierre Paul Cambon?”

“I do not believe so.”

Fontaine eyed Nathanial for a moment, as if checking to see if Nathanial was playing the cod, then nodded once certain that he was not. “Hmm, well, Cambon has done a superb job in Madrid and has been rewarded the post of Ambassador to England. Can’t say that I envy him; things have changed a lot since my day. Still, politics are the art of the impossible.”

“I thought Chancellor Bismarck’s expression was ‘the art of the possible’,” Nathanial said.

“Bismarck lacks vision.”

“I see,” Nathanial said and smiled. “Well, politics is not really my field.”

“An irony considering your current predicament,” Fontaine observed.

At that Nathanial could only nod in agreement. “So, you were saying what to Cambon yesterday?”

“Oh yes! If people see what they expect to see, then they rarely look any deeper. I am sure you understand, Professor.”

Nathanial wanted to protest that he did not, but there was a certain sparkle in Fontaine’s eyes, and instead Nathanial had to wonder just what it was that Arnaud had told his father.

3.

“DOCTOR DUMBA WILL not see you today!” the clerk insisted again. “It is Sunday!”

Annabelle scanned the interior of the embassy’s foyer and saw two other clerks hurrying up the steps to the second floor with their arms filled with papers and portfolios.

“Clearly the staff is here and working, Mister Schaffhausen. Commander Bedford and I will wait here in these chairs until such time as Doctor Dumba agrees to see us. Would you be so good as to take my card to him? Please be sure to have him read the note on the back.”

“He will not see you!”

Annabelle smiled. “Please take him the card and if, after reading it, he asks us to leave, we will trouble you no more today.” She had already placed the card in an envelope and sealed it. It would not do for anyone other than Dumba to read it. She had no way of knowing if the clerk would honour the seal, but she supposed he would and in any case it was a risk worth taking.

The man snatched the envelope from her hand. Between black hair parted in the middle and slicked down, a tidy little moustache, and pince nez glasses on a black elastic cord, the man would have been a stereotypical office clerk had he not stood a bit over six feet tall and strained the buttons on the chest of his shirt and vest. He turned in exasperation and climbed the stairs two at a time, clearly anxious to have done with them.

“My dear, I am not as confident as you that Dumba will respond to your note,” George said as he helped her sit on one straight backed chair and prop her peg up on another.

“I am by no means certain myself. What I do believe is that if the note does not excite his interest then he is not capable of helping us in any meaningful way.”

In a few minutes the clerk returned. This time he walked down the stairs one at a time at a moderate pace—purposeful but not so fast as to compromise dignity. He crossed the mosaic tile floor to their chairs and bowed slightly.

“Doctor Dumba will see you now,” he said politely, without a trace of apology, defiance, or surprise, as if their entire earlier conversation had never happened.

George helped Annabelle to her feet and they followed the clerk back upstairs and to a cluttered but well-furnished office. The clerk closed the door behind them and left them with the man Annabelle assumed must be Dumba.

The man started to rise but then quickly sat back down, snatched a handkerchief, and sneezed into it, sneezed with the thunderous report of a small cannon. He wiped his nose with one hand and waved them forward with the other, gesturing to two chairs in front of the desk. There was, as always, the awkward matter of Annabelle’s peg which stuck out straight when she sat. George turned the chair on the left a quarter turn to face the other, settled her in it, then sat in the other and rested her peg on his left knee. It felt oddly homey, she thought, and quite natural.

“I am Konstantin Dumba,” the gentleman said in English with only a trace of a Viennese accent. “You are the infamous Annabelle Somerset, or course. I have not the pleasure of the gentleman’s acquaintance.”

“Commander George Bedford, Royal Navy.”

“I am pleased to meet both of you. You will forgive me for not offering my hand. All it will avail you is transmission of this cold from me to you. For two years I have been stationed in St Petersburg, two freezing cold winters, but a dry cold. Now I come back here and in two days I have this cold. It is…” he paused, raised the handkerchief and sneezed again.

“God bless you,” Annabelle said.

“Thank you. It is the damp, I am certain.” He wiped his nose again and examined them. Annabelle took the opportunity to do the same to him.

Dumba looked to be in his mid thirties and had a broad forehead and high brow, enhanced by his receding hairline. His dark moustache was full and drooping. His eyes had a droopy, sleepy quality of their own, offset by semi-circular eyebrows which seemed always in a state of mild surprise—as if he might drift off to sleep at any moment except for the two odd people before him and the remarkable card he had placed in the centre of his desk. His eyes now dropped to it. He turned it over to show the single word written on the back—Peregrine. He tapped it with his blunt finger.

“I know you by reputation, Miss Somerset,” Dumba said. “There are those who say you had something to do with the destruction of Peregrine Station. You were imprisoned for it and then released—yes, I know that much at least. Perhaps you should tell me your side of the story.”

“In company with Nathanial Stone I was on Peregrine Station right up to the hour of its destruction and we escaped on the same aether cutter together. The man who engineered its destruction shot me in the leg, the result of which you can see with your own eyes.”

“You have my deepest sympathy for your injury, Miss Somerset. And your role in this, Commander Bedford?”

George shifted in his chair. “I am here as a friend of Miss Somerset’s, to see to her safety. There has already been one attempt on her life, possibly a second one last night.”

“You believe her visit here places her in danger?” Dumba asked and his eyes narrowed. “Why, and what has it to do with Peregrine Station? I hope you do not hold the dual monarchy liable for your disability.”

“Liable?” Annabelle asked. “Do you think we have come here to extort money? Our immediate concern is the danger to your ambassador and, by extension, a number of senior British officials, possibly even the crown prince.”

Dumba’s face cleared and he leaned back in his chair.

“You need have no fear on that count, Miss Somerset. The police have broken up the ring, arrested the conspirators, and seized their weapons. But as to—”

“Did the police tell you that we captured the first member of the ring and provided the information which led to the others?” Annabelle asked. “Did they tell you the ringleader is still at large? Did they tell you the same source which led us to them now says the ringleader is acquiring gunpowder, undoubtedly for another bomb?”

“You two did all that?” he asked, disbelief showing in his eyes.

“We had friends helping us,” George said, “but the actual encounter with the villains which led to the capture occurred last evening in the Whitechapel district, and Miss Somerset and I were accompanied by one other stalwart gentleman. Four men set upon us and we drove them off with aid of a revolver, but Miss Somerset slashed one fellow’s leg with a sword cane and prevented his escape.”

Dumba looked from Bedford to Annabelle and his eyebrows rose a bit more. “A sword cane? How remarkable! Perhaps you should tell me everything.”

4.

ANNABELLE TOLD, as briefly and directly as she could, of her and Nathanial’s arrival on Peregrine Station, the troubles there, their efforts to get to the bottom of them, and the final confrontation with the French saboteur Le Boeuf, which ended with Annabelle crippled and the saboteur mortally wounded. Nathanial was barely able to get her into an aether cutter and escape before the station was destroyed in the aether vortex where the wake of Earth and Venus met. The following interludes on Mars and Luna she barely touched on, except as they related to the arrest of Nathanial and the attempt to lay blame for the disaster at his feet. She told of her incarceration upon their return to Earth, the British government’s blackmail of her to sign over control of the Grant-Stone patents, and the subsequent cascade of events leading them to Dumba’s office.

George and Dumba sat quietly throughout her account, Dumba with a look of intense interest, George with a neutral expression. When she finished Dumba looked at a landscape painting in the wall, chin in hand, and tapped a finger against the side of his nose absent-mindedly.

“So you have travelled the aether after your visit to Peregrine Station, and before as well, one expects,” he said at length.

“I have visited each of the inner worlds. It was not my original intention to do so, but happenstance so dictated.”

“And did you notice anything…unusual about Peregrine Station?”

“That a project of this apparent importance would be entrusted to command of a grotesque madman, that his staff seemed terrified in equal measure of him and of the spectre which haunted the place and cursed its very existence; those struck me as highly unusual. There was also the matter of gravity, of course. It was the only vessel, if you can call it such, on which I travelled where there was the sensation of gravity.”

Dumba nodded.

“Except, of course, for HMAS Sovereign,” Annabelle added and was rewarded with Dumba’s eyebrows climbing up his forehead, dragging his eyelids open beneath them.

George sighed and Dumba’s gaze fell on him. “You have something to add, Commander?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“You have no direct knowledge of these things?” Dumba asked.

“I am first officer of HMAS Sovereign, sir, so I have direct knowledge of a great deal. But I would add nothing to what Miss Somerset has told you.”

“What is this about your ship having gravity, as did Peregrine Station?”

“As to that sir, I cannot comment,” George answered.

“I insist on knowing,” Dumba said, leaning forward, and Annabelle saw a hard edge in his eyes she had not seen before. Was this the wisest course after all? But the question was meaningless—it was their only course.

“I am doubly bound not to satisfy your curiosity, sir, bound both by honour and law. I have pledged my word not to discuss this, and as to—”

“Yes, yes, I know, your damned Official Secrets Act,” Dumba cut in. “But surely you suspected Miss Somerset would reveal this secret. Does this not place you in an untenable position?”

“I am myself bound by the Act, but I am not bound to its zealous enforcement. Miss Somerset was never, to the best of my knowledge, informed of her responsibilities under the Act, if indeed she has any at all, which I doubt. On the twenty-eighth last, she officially renounced the British half of her dual citizenship. Beyond that she was never sworn to secrecy concerning…anything regarding Sovereign.”

“Why not?” Dumba asked.

For the first time since arriving at the Austrian embassy George smiled. “An oversight, I suspect, or perhaps the misguided belief that there was nothing much to fear from the actions of one young lady.” He turned and looked at her fondly and she reached out and took his hand.

“Yes, extremely misguided in this case it seems,” Dumba answered. He rose, walked to a window, and parted the curtain to look out. Sunlight briefly cast an irregular pattern on the floor, filtered through the patina of soot on the outside of the window panes. He dropped the curtains and turned back.

“I almost forgot. We share a common friend, Miss Somerset. Mister Lincoln at the US Consulate has been anxious after you. He has tried to contact you but has lost track of your whereabouts after leaving some government house or other.”

“Dorset House? But he knows my new lodgings,” Annabelle said. “He recommended them.”

Dumba shrugged. “Could that have slipped his mind? Like me, he has a lawyer’s mind, so I think not.”

Annabelle exchanged a look with George. Surely Lincoln had recommended the lodgings. Hadn’t he? The note had come anonymously, but it had come from the US Consulate—or at least from a gentleman standing outside of it. If not from Lincoln, then from whom?

A knock sounded at the door. “Now what?” Dumba asked in exasperation.

The clerk entered. “My apologies, Doctor, but you said to bring Professor Stone to you as soon as he arrived.

“Nathanial?” Annabelle said.

5.

BEDFORD HARDLY RECOGNISED Stone, even though his exterior appearance—extreme height, ginger-coloured hair, and thick whiskers—was unmistakable, but fatigue and pain lined his face and his eyes had a wild, desperate look to them.

“Good God, man! Are you injured?” Bedford asked, helping Annabelle to her feet.

Far from relief or delight at seeing them, Nathanial looked at Bedford and then Annabelle with an expression close to panic. “What…? I thought I was to see the ambassador in private!”

Bedford glanced at Annabelle and saw the remark had cut her deeply. She swayed as if to back away and then her face cleared and became an expressionless mask. Nathanial passed his hand over his face and shook it slightly, as if clearing it of unwonted visions.

“I am very sorry for… I have been under some stress,” he said. He looked at his bandaged hand and added, “I have been in a fire and have not slept in some time.”

“Captain Folkard was with you. Is he safe?” Bedford asked.

“He was when last I saw him. I have left his company as our interests no longer coincide. I… It is good to see you well, Annabelle. I have worried a great deal about you.”

“I thank you for your concern,” she answered coolly.

“Yes. Um…your leg—it functions in a satisfactory manner?” he asked, as if struggling for a subject of conversation.

“I have no complaints,” she answered.

Bedford glanced at her before speaking himself. “She uses the peg carved by your Martian friend. The authorities took her mechanical leg from her when she was held in the Tower.”

“Took it?” Nathanial asked and Bedford saw a flash of pain pass across his face, pain and guilt.

“There will be time for reunions later,” Doctor Dumba broke in. “You have come here with information, I believe, Professor Stone. Your friends have already shared theirs with me. Perhaps you would care to do likewise. Pull a chair over to the desk.”

Nathanial stood awkwardly for a moment and then did as told, dragging one up so that he sat with Bedford between himself and Annabelle. He looked from Bedford to Dumba uncertainly, still clearly off-balance from the unexpected encounter.

“I know about Project ‘G’,” he said at last.

Bedford looked at Doctor Dumba’s face but saw no change at all, not a flicker of recognition or of surprise. Dumba, he thought, had chosen his career well. His face gave nothing away across a conference table.

“Do you have nothing to say about that?” Nathanial asked after a moment of silence.

Dumba shifted in his chair and frowned. “You were the one who requested my time, Professor Stone, and insisted you had something of great import to tell me. Surely ‘I know about Project “G”’ is not the sum of it.”

“It is odd to think,” Nathanial resumed, “that it was going on under our noses when Annabelle and I were at Mercury. The mention of the Austrian geological survey parties, the heavy deep shaft mining equipment in evidence, all of this becomes clear now, although at the time it seemed quite innocent. Mercury is mineral-rich for its size. Given the number of schemes in train for its exploitation, one more simply blended into the background. But that equipment was not used to extract metal, was it? Do you even know the material’s name, Bedford? Do you know what makes up that mysterious centre deck of your vessel?”

Bedford did not know in scientific terms, but he knew its effect plainly enough. He returned Nathanial’s gaze without answering.

“Commander Bedford has already explained he is honour-bound to remain silent on this issue,” Dumba said.

Nathanial looked away, his face twisted with contempt. “Honour! There’s a word used to excuse villainy more often than oppose it. Tell Edwin about your honour. Poor Edwin.”

Bedford was surprised to see Nathanial hastily wipe a tear from his cheek. What had happened to craft this profound a change in the man?

“Plastik-Schwerkraftmaterial,” Nathanial said, “that’s what the Austrian scientists named it, due to its malleability. Ours call it gravitar, hence Project ‘G’. Remarkable substance! I have, ah, procured all the documentation on it. All other matter we have encountered in the universe exerts a gravitational force exactly proportionate to its mass. Gravitar exerts a force over one thousand times that of its mass. How much of Mercury’s gravitational pull is due to the layer of gravitar deep beneath its surface, do you suppose?”

“I have no idea, Professor Stone,” Dumba answered. “My doctorate is in law, not physics.”

“No, but you’ve probably read the reports of your men. They don’t know either. It is certain the entire core of the world cannot be composed of it, given its orbit and apparent mass—whatever mass now means. But circumspection is required in its excavation, is it not? Who knows what the effect of disturbing the planet’s inner shell of gravitar might be?

“But that is really the least scientifically interesting thing about it. Gravitar’s force is polarized, bi-directional instead of omni-directional. A carefully constructed sheet, one crafted so the crystalline structure is aligned and coherent, exerts a constant gravitational pull in each direction perpendicular to the sheet.”

Stone turned and looked directly at Bedford. “You see, that’s what had me puzzled about HMAS Sovereign. If you just had a deck made of some super-dense substance, it would not attract everyone up and down to it as if it were a floor on Earth. It would attract everyone to the very centre of its mass, you see? And the tidal effects, due to its irregular shape, you’d suffer moving around on or near it! Why, I can hardly sort them out in my own mind, but they would not be pleasant.”

Bedford admitted that had never occurred to him, but now it was obvious. Men at the extremes of the centre deck should not be attracted to the deck beneath their feet, but to the very centre of the deck mass itself, and yet the deck remained a steady and constant down.

“So Great Britain and the Austro-Hungarian Empire embarked upon this joint secret project, a project founded on Mercury but which we touched first on HMAS Sovereign, and then entirely by accident on Peregrine Station,” Nathanial went on.

“But why?” Annabelle asked, speaking for the first time since Nathanial sat. “What is its purpose, aside from convenience?” She directed the question to Dumba, but his eyes turned to Nathanial, inviting him to continue.

“Health is the simple answer. People suffer marked deterioration in their health by prolonged times in an environment without gravity, particularly to their muscles, bones, and heart. Voyages between the worlds are short enough that the effects are not felt, and even frequent trips seem to have little long-term effects if a reasonable time is spent between them in gravity. But crews of the two orbital heliograph stations have to be rotated frequently. A deep-space station carrying out long-term research posed a special challenge to which gravitar provided the immediate answer, hence its use on Peregrine Station.” Nathanial paused, his eyes distant. “Why was it kept such a secret? As to that I can only speculate, but as a scientist I can easily come up with a dozen possible military applications, and that is not my normal field of endeavour. But there are more secrets here than simply the existence of gravitar, aren’t there? There is also the special nature of HMAS Sovereign, which was a secret even from you, was it not, Doctor?”

Bedford watched as Dumba returned Nathanial’s gaze for a moment and then nodded. That admission must have cost him something, Bedford thought. Dumba looked like the sort of man who was never comfortable unless he knew more than those he faced across a desk.

“Yes, Lord Chillingham arranged this conspiracy,” Nathanial continued, “this conspiracy of silence, and then he betrayed you. He took the gravitar laboriously assembled for the Venusian heliograph station and diverted it to the construction of HMAS Sovereign, so Great Britain would have not only the most powerful aether battleship aloft, but one capable of unlimited deployments away from Earth. He could only keep this move secret for so long, of course. Sooner or later your government would wonder why the Venusian heliograph station had not yet been built. The destruction of Peregrine actually helped him, I think, by providing a distraction as well as a reason to postpone further work on the Venusian station until the fate of Peregrine could be sorted out.”

Was this all true, Bedford wondered? It certainly fit what little he knew of Sovereign’s construction and the cloud of secrecy which surrounded centre deck and its effect. Everything else was entirely new to him, aside from the obvious reality that there had been a secret research facility called Peregrine and that first Stone and then Annabelle had been implicated in its destruction.

Doctor Dumba again studied the landscape painting on the wall in silence for some time and then shook his head.

“Interesting, but my principal concern at the moment is the threat to my country’s new ambassador. Miss Somerset and Commander Bedford have evidence of another gunpowder plot to assassinate His Excellence Hengelmüller von Hengervár. If it succeeds, Austria will lose a gifted and valued diplomat, but it will also lead to a rupture in relations with Great Britain, perhaps even war.”

“A French saboteur was behind the attack on Peregrine Station,” Annabelle said. “Could France be behind this as well? War between Austria and Britain might serve their purposes.”

Dumba thought for a moment before answering. “Anything is possible, of course, Miss Somerset. But my understanding of France’s policy lies in dividing the continental resistance to her. She has been particularly interested in separating Austrian interests from those of Bismarck and the Kaiser to the north. For all that the current British government blusters and postures, Mister Gladstone’s party advocates a more conciliatory policy and who knows what surprises your next election will produce? It makes diplomacy with your government so…eventful. Germany is the more deadly and constant foe of France. A rupture between my country and Britain would, by necessity, drive us into Bismarck’s steely embrace. No, I do not think France would desire that result.

“I also do not believe Lord Chillingham is behind this. In the event of an open breech in relations there is little my country can do in a material sense to punish Britain, but my government would certainly make public the discovery of gravitar. Your government’s clandestine violation of the Luna Treaty would then come to light as well, and shatter Britain’s system of European alliances. Yes, we know about Luna as well. I read your dispatches in the Gazette, Commander Bedford. They make for exciting reading, but it is easy to read between the lines when the other information is available as well. Tell me, are the rumours of an alien intelligence embedded deep in Luna true as well?”

“The Heart? Yes, quite true,” Annabelle answered. “Contact with that mind has rendered my uncle… Well, no longer himself.”

“But for all that,” Nathanial said, “it promises an extraordinary advance in our knowledge of the Solar System. It has even suggested travel beyond the asteroids as a possibility.”

Bedford saw Annabelle stiffen beside him and small wonder. Stone had as much as written off Annabelle’s uncle, who was also Stone’s own scientific mentor, in the name of progress toward some absurd vision of travel beyond the asteroids. To what? Bedford wondered. Worlds of frozen ice?

“Intriguing,” Dumba said, “but beside the point for the moment. What is clear is that Lord Chillingham has an interest in maintaining the secrecy of his various projects and is therefore unlikely to undertake action which will inevitably lead to their exposure. What does he gain?”

Bedford knew a possible answer to that although he was reluctant to give it voice. Still, someone had to. “The elimination of the Prince of Wales as a political rival,” he said. The others stared at him.

“I cannot dismiss it out of hand,” Dumba said at length. “I have a hard time believing even Lord Chillingham would involve himself in such a scheme, however. The risks are enormous, the rewards uncertain. In my experience he is a more careful man than that, and it still does not explain the assassination of Ambassador Deym. Clearly we are not yet at the bottom of this mystery and we are all but out of time.

“I can cable my government and delay the arrival of the ambassador, but knowing Hengelmüller that will not suit him. I am here to smooth the way for his arrival, not keep him away, but my resources are limited to a half-dozen clerks. I have no police power, no authority, but I still have a number of contacts from my previous posting here. I will put these at your disposal if you will undertake to uncover and thwart this bomb plot. Given your actions to date, I hardly think this beyond your capacities, nor will it compromise your other loyalties given the hazard to your own high government officials.”

“And in return?” Bedford asked.

“Ah. I am constrained with respect to rewards, but I am singularly well-placed to insure that all hint of public blame for the Peregrine incident will be shifted away from Professor Stone and Miss Somerset. Your names will be cleared, and the heroic nature of your efforts to thwart the true villains will be known. That much my government can offer in return for this service.”

“My objective is simply to understand what has transpired,” Annabelle said, “to discover what was so important that respected men would conduct themselves so shamefully. What we do with that knowledge is our responsibility, I believe.”

Bedford looked at her and wondered what she intended to do with such knowledge, but sensed she had no fixed intention yet. What she had said was simply a statement of truth as she understood it: her future course was hers to chart. Then she looked at him and smiled softly, as if to say that did not mean charting it alone. The smile warmed him.

“Will Chillingham’s duplicity be exposed?” Nathanial asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“That I cannot promise. The knowledge of his secret is the only real leverage my government has over him. To expose it throws away our only chip. You must decide, Professor Stone, which is more important to you: personal revenge or removing the stain upon your reputation, and by association your family’s as well.” Then he sneezed again.

Chapter Thirteen

“By Water, Air, and Fire”

1.

GEORGE BEDFORD LISTENED to the soft put-put-put of the steam launch’s engine, the slap of waves against the bow, and the muted sounds of London’s late night waterfront drifting across the choppy waters of the Thames. The vile smell of raw sewage and human waste rose from the river, London’s sewer. He looked to his two companions: Nathanial Stone sitting across from him and absorbed in his own dark thoughts, Captain Folkard holding the launch’s wheel steady with his knee as he checked the two bullets in his derringer for the fourth or fifth time. Folkard was not usually nervous before a fight, or perhaps he usually concealed it better, but their experiences on Luna had changed him. Bedford had not thought they had changed him so much as to leave him unmanned in the face of danger, but other men had been ruined by experiences less traumatic. Time would tell—and not much more time now.

“You’ll wear that out, Captain,” he said.

Folkard looked up at him and smiled crookedly as he snapped the derringer closed. “You’ve got your revolver, I know. What about you, Stone? Are you armed? These are rough fellows we’re come to call on.”

Nathanial looked at the captain for a moment through narrowed eyes. It was a new habit he’d acquired, this long appraising look before speaking. Folkard had told Bedford about the death of Stone’s brother in the fire, about how it had changed him. Well, there was nothing surprising in that, he supposed, but the nature of the change—that was a different matter. Bedford no longer knew what emotion lurked behind those long, silent stares, but he suspected something dark and violent, not at all like the man he had come to know this last year.

“I have a knife,” Nathanial answered at length.

Folkard shook his head. “You’d be better off with a firearm. A knife’s difficult for someone who’s inexperienced with it. It’s hard to actually plunge it home when the moment demands it. Everyone thinks they can, of course, until they actually face the prospect for the first time.”

Nathanial drew a knife from his pocket and examined it. It looked to be a boning knife and the long blade gleamed dully in the faint light. “I plunged a knife not unlike this into a man on Mars, a worm priest—felt it scrape between his ribs. I listened to him scream in pain and terror, and then I watched the blood bubble up from between his lips.” He looked up at Folkard. “I daresay I can do it again.”

Bedford shivered; he was not sure if it was from the cold and damp or from the lifelessness in Stone’s eyes when he gazed at the captain. He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and touched the reassuring metallic bulk of his own Enfield. “How much further, Captain?”

“My guttersnipe say he’s anchored just past this next dredging tower, bow and stern hooks out to keep from swinging with the tide. It’s a long, low-slung river barge painted green, but faded and peeling. I’m not sure we’ll be able to make out the colour in this light. There’s a cabin added amidships, so keep an eye out for that.”

“I wish your so-called guttersnipe had got this information to us sooner,” Nathanial said. “The ambassador arrives tomorrow and so far we are no closer to the plot than we were two days ago. God help us if this is another false lead.”

Folkard said nothing in reply. Stone was right. Time was quickly running out, and if they did not gain a clear lead from this encounter…well, he wasn’t sure what to try next. The launch carried them on past the massive steel girder tripod that supported the steam-powered river dredging pumps, parked for the night in the shallows. Folkard suddenly pulled the throttle back and the motor died, leaving the launch to carry forward under its own momentum and the river’s current. “There!” Folkard whispered harshly, “two points off the starboard bow, and showing a light.”

Bedford made it out fifty yards ahead, a swaying lantern casting the barge’s upper works into sharp relief, and he saw flickering movement, heard the creak of mooring lines and the scrape of wood gunwales on cloth bumpers. “Small boat alongside,” he whispered to Folkard who nodded. Bedford drew out his Enfield revolver and checked to see that the lanyard cord around his neck was secured to the ring on the pistol butt. He trembled with fear and excitement. It wouldn’t do to drop his pistol and have it sink to the bottom of the Thames.

Light flickered from beside the barge for a moment and then vanished—a firebox opened for another shovelful of coal. A few sparks burst from a smokestack and briefly illuminated a low steam launch similar to their own moored to the side of the barge. An engine came to life and the launch moved away, light flickering from its bow wave and stern wake.

“Follow it!” Stone hissed.

“It’s too fast for us and besides, it’s the Devil himself we’re after,” Folkard said. “He’ll still be on the barge.” He waited until the hand lantern disappeared from the deck of the large vessel and then gave the launch power, quickly closing the distance to the looming shape. Bedford made his way forward and found the end of the bow painter floating in the dirty bilge water. Folkard cut the engine again and the launch coasted for a second or two, coming up alongside the barge with a solid thunk.

With his revolver in his right hand and the end of the bow painter in his left, Bedford leaped up at the barge’s hull and managed to get both elbows over the gunwale, then a leg, before tumbling over onto the deck two feet below. As he searched for a cleat to secure the line to, the door to the cabin opened and light flooded out.

“Back again, Billy? You got engine trouble? Hey, who the bloody hell―?”

The man ducked back inside the cabin and Bedford sprang after him, dropping the painter on the deck. He ducked through the hatchway, cracking his brow on the overhead; his feet slipped off the stair step, causing him to lose his footing and slide down the companionway to the cabin deck seven feet below. He landed on his bum, stars from the crack on his head clouding his vision. Across the cabin a man dug frantically in a locker. He turned back, a marlin spike in his hand. Through everything Bedford still had his Enfield revolver clenched in his right fist; he raised it and fired a shot into the wood beam above the fellow’s head.

Hands up!” he shouted.

His opponent immediately dropped the marlin spike and threw his hands up. “Don’t shoot again, you fool! You’ll blow us all to hell and gone!”

From outside Bedford heard a sharp cry of distress and then a loud splash.

2.

NATHANIAL VOMITTED AGAIN and Bedford patted him on the shoulder—although gingerly, as if trying to do so on a spot which bore no obvious trace of the scientist’s immersion in the Thames. Nathanial shrugged the hand away.

“You were supposed to tie the boat up,” he hissed, gagging, although this time nothing came out but a trickle of spit.

“He had other things to do,” Folkard said. The captain covered the gunpowder merchant with his derringer, despite the fellow’s insistence that a single shot might blow them all to kingdom come. “You should have kept your mouth closed, Professor. No telling what sort of poison you swallowed.”

Nathanial gagged again, trying to empty his stomach. He shuddered with the cold as well as in reaction to the violent nausea which had overcome him as soon as Folkard pulled him from the river. When Bedford had let go of the painter, Nathanial had his hands on the barge’s gunwale and his feet in the launch. The two had immediately separated and Nathanial struggled for ten or fifteen seconds, trying to hold the two together with his leg muscles, but despite all the exercise he had had in the past year, his muscles simply weren’t strong enough. He had plunged into the filth. It was hard to imagine this was the same river on which he and Josiah Hawksworth had boated only two or three years before. It had not been like this then.

Bedford turned away from him and took a step toward their prisoner. “So this is ‘Devil’ Devlin, London’s least reputable purveyor of gunpowder. He’s not as impressive in person as I had expected.”

“Hook it, crusher,” the man answered with a sneer.

“He thinks we are the police,” Bedford said to Folkard and then turned back to Devlin. “No, we are not. We will probably turn you over to the police when we are done with you, and they will be very grateful to know who supplied the powder used to kill the Austrian ambassador. That’s all they seem to care about these days.” Bedford saw this take effect; saw Devlin colour slightly and lick his lips.

“If you ain’t crushers, what are you after?”

“Billy Snide,” Folkard said.

“And don’t waste our time saying you don’t know what we’re talking about,” Bedford added. “That was him leaving as we pulled up. That’s why you called me Billy at first. You thought it was your friend coming back.”

“Billy Snide ain’t no friend o’ mine,” Devlin said and then spat on the floor for emphasis. When Folkard lifted his left hand as if to strike him, Devlin continued quickly; “Don’t mean he weren’t a customer.”

“What is your price for gunpowder, Mister Devlin?” Nathanial asked through chattering teeth. Bedford looked at him curiously, Folkard with irritation at this seemingly irrelevant question.

“Twelve pounds a hundredweight, and a premium for smaller quantities.”

“Twelve pounds? Damn me!” Bedford exclaimed. “You must be the most expensive powder merchant in London.”

“And the least inquisitive,” Folkard added. Devlin nodded.

“How much powder did you sell Mister Snide?” Nathanial asked.

Devlin opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. His eyes narrowed and he smiled ruefully. “Ah, that’s a very pretty trap you set for me, Mister Young Gentleman. You’ll know from what’s in me tuck, won’t you? All right, I sold him two six-pound kegs for two pounds even, and threw in a roll of quick fuse free of charge. And yes, he could get it in a store for half that, if they’d let him out the door without whistling up the crushers.”

“Is that more or less than he purchased the last time?” Nathanial asked.

Devlin looked from Bedford to Folkard, perhaps calculating his chances of escaping this encounter alive. Folkard held the derringer slightly higher and Devlin licked his lips again. “If I tell you everything I know, will you let me go?”

“We’re going to tell the authorities. We have no choice,” Folkard answered.

“Yes, I sees that I does, but that ain’t what I’m askin’. Tell them the story, give them the barge and all the powder in the hold, and they’ll be happy enough. One neck stretched, more or less, won’t make that much of a difference.”

Folkard and Bedford exchanged a look and hesitated.

“Yes, let the scoundrel go,” Nathanial said, “provided what he has to say is worth anything to us.”

“Oh it is, sir, that it is,” Devlin insisted, nodding vigorously for emphasis. After a moment Bedford nodded and then Folkard agreed as well.

“This was less powder as he bought last time, and I hear that was a mighty bomb he made to blow up one man. Now he’s making a smaller bomb to blow up half a dozen. Makes you wonder, don’t it? Made me wonder, and I asks him. He says, ‘Dev, the stupid bastard’s bringin’ his own bomb with him. This here’s just for the trigger.’ I don’t know what he meant by it, but he meant summat. You blokes keen enough to sort it out?”

Bedford, Folkard, and Nathanial exchanged a look. Although they said nothing, Nathanial knew what this meant and so must the other two. The Austrian ambassador was arriving by zeppelin, its lifting cells filled with flammable hydrogen. Bringing his own bomb indeed.

3.

ANNABELLE BELIEVED DOCTOR Dumba looked considerably healthier today. The cold may have run its course, but she also suspected Dumba as a man who thrived on intrigue, and if it skirted the boundaries of legality, all the better. He had even nodded a cool greeting to Fairfax, and Fairfax had returned it, although neither of the old enemies spoke to the other.

They sat around Mrs Collingwood’s dining room table after the breakfast dishes had been cleared, and had to pull up three extra chairs for Nathanial, George, and Captain Folkard. Doctor Dumba sat at the head of the table in Mrs Collingwood’s chair and she had pulled the sliding doors shut behind her after serving tea. Dumba laid his gold watch on the table before him, a reminder of how little time they had left, and then heard what they had discovered on the previous night, and what they had concluded from it.

“Yes, you are quite correct in your assessment, gentlemen. Ambassador Hengelmüller arrives by zeppelin at the Hanover Square landing tower by Hyde Park in approximately two hours.” Dumba unrolled a street map of Central London and pointed to Hanover Square. “There will be an initial reception there, attended by the Prince of Wales and several government ministers. Then they will travel by steam carriage down Park Lane to Piccadilly, east to Trafalgar Square, then south on Charing Cross and Parliament Street to Westminster. The route is lined by two battalions of the foot guards for security and crowd control. At Westminster there will be another reception in the Old Palace Yard. The Lord Chancellor and the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod will welcome him on behalf of the House of Lords. Lords Chillingham and Belvedere will be present there as well.”

“But Chillingham will not be at Hanover Square,” Nathanial said.

Dumba’s eyebrows went up slightly and he leaned back in his chair. “That is correct. Police preparations at the Old Palace yard have been very energetic, I understand, under the assumption any attack will take place there, once the party is joined by the senior members of the House of Lords. Elsewhere it has been less thorough.”

“How do you know all this?” Major Blount asked.

Dumba made a dismissive gesture. “I have my contacts, some even in the Metropolitan Police.”

Blount shifted in his seat and frowned. “Rather irregular that some foreigner could learn all this so easily,” he said, shaking his head. “No offense,” he added.

Dumba simply looked at him for a moment and then turned to George. “Commander Bedford, I agreed to bring your circle of confederates into our counsels because time is very short. The ambassador arrives momentarily. If this plot succeeds, Europe may be torn asunder. Alliances will break and nations may go to war, although which nations and where they will fight I cannot sort out, and that is itself frightening. But how will your country react to the death of the Prince of Wales and half the cabinet? I think it will change your domestic politics in ways unimaginable from where we sit, but I will tell you this: what sets Britain apart now is your sense of self-confidence and security in your own island. It is sometimes infuriating to those of us who live elsewhere, but it is a source of strength to you. This plot will shatter that, and you will not recover it for a generation, if ever. I cannot help but believe your politics will become bitter as a result, and even more strident than they are already. If you value your country, you must prevent this thing. You must.”

Was that true, Annabelle wondered? Could one explosion so change the course of history, or the spirit of a country? Perhaps.

“I think we all understand that, Doctor,” George answered as if echoing her thoughts.

“I hope so,” Dumba said. “Now, as to the attack, if we are to believe this informant of yours, it seems clear the attack will take place while the ambassador is still aboard the zeppelin or shortly after he disembarks. I think the latter is more likely. From what you told me of this Devlin’s remarks, it seems certain the plot is aimed at killing many rather than just the one, so it must be planned for when the ambassador is actually at Hanover Square along with the first welcoming party.”

“Yes,” Nathanial said. “If Snide shared his intention to murder a half-dozen men with Devlin, it says as much about his confidence as his intentions.” It was the first thing Nathanial had said since arriving and he had yet to meet Annabelle’s eyes.

Bedford had told her some of what had happened to Nathanial, how his brother had perished in a fire which had nearly taken his life and Folkard’s as well. That must account for some of his changed demeanour, but certainly not all of it. Why had he made no effort to contact her? She still could not understand that. Until a few weeks ago she had thought herself closer to him than any other person alive, almost like brother and sister, and she had little enough real family as it was. All of those feelings now seemed lost.

Was it because of her growing feelings for George? Did Nathanial entertain a secret romantic attachment toward her? She had a hard time believing it, and if so he had certainly kept it very well concealed. But if that was the explanation it made little difference. Jealousy was no reason to discard a friendship, unless the friendship had no great value to begin with.

“We are agreed, then, that the attack must take place at Hanover Square,” Doctor Dumba was saying. “Once the zeppelin is in position over the reviewing stand, an explosion will almost certainly bring it down on the assembled notables below. Some may escape, but many will certainly perish, as well as scores of bystanders. So how will Snide deliver his bomb to the zeppelin?”

“Once it crosses the channel, will the airship stop anywhere in England? Possibly for fuel?” Colonel Wyndham asked.

“No, it will come immediately to London and will not touch down until it reaches the Hyde Park tower—is actually not allowed to do so sooner. Your animal and produce quarantine rules are quite draconian.”

Annabelle looked around the table and saw brows furrowed in thought. Major Blount studied the street map as if the solution might be found there. Colonel Wyndham leaned forward and joined him, looking at the outlined blocks of buildings to the east.

“Do we know the direction from which the airship will approach?” Wyndham asked. “If its route will carry it over a particularly tall building, the saboteurs might throw the bomb from a roof, or even launch it using a sling, or perhaps a rocket.” George and Folkard both began shaking their heads before Wyndham finished speaking.

“There’s no fixed approach path because you never know in advance the wind direction or velocity,” Folkard said. “That determines your angle of approach to the tower. You always want to approach into the wind, never across it and certainly not with it at your stern.”

“Why not with it at your stern?” Annabelle asked.

George turned to her. “We don’t like doing it because a sudden gust of wind can push you into the tower before you can back engines. As it is, the tower extends its mooring shackle on a long arm and the airship approaches into the wind and connects to it with its nose coupling. The support arm drops away leaving the shackle connected by a steel cable to a steam winch in the docking tower. The airship then cuts its engines and the winch takes over, reeling it in.”

Annabelle looked around the table. “Well then, assuming the reviewing stand itself will be guarded and inspected, there is only one place the saboteurs can be.”

George and Folkard exchanged a look and nodded in agreement. “Quite right,” the captain said. “They will be in the docking tower. Doctor Dumba, can you turn this information over to the police?”

“Of course. Whether it can get to the correct person in time for them to act on it is a different matter.”

“Assuming their superiors want them to act on it,” Nathanial said and Dumba looked at him for a moment and then nodded.

“Well, do your best, Doctor, but I believe we must act as well,” Folkard said “Bedford, you and I will go. I’m sure Professor Stone will also want to accompany us.”

“Cartwright as well,” George said. “He keeps his head in a fight.” Annabelle smiled at that. She knew George did not care for Fairfax, which was hardly surprising given the difference in their temperaments and interests. But George was too used to commanding men of every different stripe to let personal antipathy cloud his judgment as to a person’s worth.

“I will of course be going as well,” Annabelle announced.

Folkard’s eyes grew wide and George shifted in his seat next to her. “But my dear, there will be stairs to climb.”

“And your arm to help me do so, or Fairfax’s if you are not so inclined.” Fairfax made a small bow from across the table. That last bit was unfair, she knew, but it ended the argument and they had no time for pointless disputes now. “Major, I will thank you again to guard my uncle and the ladies of the house in our absence. Colonel Wyndham, I wonder if Doctor Dumba’s powers of persuasion with the police might be augmented by the presence of a distinguished retired officer.”

“An excellent idea, my dear. I will be happy to accompany him.”

“Are you armed, Mister Cartwright?” Dumba asked, the first words he had directed at his former rival of the heart.

“I have my fists, Doctor Dumba, which have stood me in good enough stead so far.”

Dumba made an irritated face, drew a revolver from his pocket, and slid it across the table to Fairfax. “Use this, but try not to lose it. It is one of the first production numbers of the new model Rast und Gasser.”

Fairfax picked it up and hefted it. “The latest in Austro-Hungarian weapons technology?” he asked with a trace of sarcasm.

“Do not bait me, Cartwright.”

Fairfax coloured slightly but then nodded. “You are quite right. Thank you, Konstantin. I will see that this does our common cause some good.”

There was a knock at the door and everyone at the table turned to see it slide open and reveal her Uncle Cyrus standing in the archway, his face alert and composed.

“Uncle, are you all right?” Annabelle asked.

“Why yes,” he said, “as a matter of fact I am splendid. I remember everything which has transpired these last weeks and I want you to know my mind has cleared, quite suddenly. I suspect it is because the Heart has again begun communicating with me. I had no idea it was capable of communicating at this remove, but the evidence is incontrovertible. I think we had better contact the authorities—perhaps the Admiralty, although the Colonial Office might be better. Mister Chamberlain strikes me as a sensible sort.”

“Uncle Cyrus, I am delighted to hear that, happier than I think you can know. But it will have to wait. We are off to thwart an assassination attempt on half the British cabinet and the Prince of Wales, and have only a little more than an hour to do so.”

“Oh. Well you run along then and we’ll talk when you return. I have a great deal to tell you.”

If we return, she thought.

4.

CAPTAIN FOLKARD PULLED his respirator mask off, the better to see. The air wasn’t all that bad this morning. The sun shone through a thin yellow haze, which a pleasant force three breeze from west nor’ west never allowed to gather into heavy clouds of soot. He peered through the branches of a park hedge as Bedford crawled forward beside him and pulled off his own mask.

“One guard,” Bedford observed. “A soldier. Is all well and proper here after all?”

The soldier stood at order arms in front of the door to the squat brick boiler and furnace room of the landing tower. The more slender tower itself, also brick, rose from the centre of the structure, ending in the iron copula and revolving mooring shackle. The support arm for the shackle was already extended and aligned with the wind direction. Beyond the building Folkard heard the murmur of the crowd assembling in Hanover Square for the arrival. Folkard turned his attention back to the soldier: white cork helmet, red tunic, blue trousers—the colours of the national flag repeated as a uniform.

“The foot guards are providing security today. That fellow has been in the service before, I’d say, but he’s no guardsman—he’s too short. And look at his trouser cuffs, all bunched up around his boots. Any colour sergeant in the guards would strangle a soldier before he let him out of barracks dressed like that. No, I’ll wager we’ll find the real owner of that uniform inside the furnace room, bound up or dead. This is the place, all right. I don’t expect we can convince Miss Somerset to go for help while we storm the place?”

“I’m afraid I sacrificed all of my credibility on that score by not informing her of our boating expedition last evening.”

“Are you going to marry that girl, Bedford?” Folkard asked. He’d been wondering that for some time now and this was as good a time as any to ask. Bedford couldn’t very well engage in a lengthy argument here and so he might get a simple answer. Instead Bedford only gave him an annoyed look. “Well, you’re a fool if you do, and a bigger one if you don’t.”

“Thank you, sir, for your assessment,” Bedford said dryly. “Now how are we to overcome this guard?”

“Can you tell if he was one of the toughs you fought in Whitechapel?” Folkard asked.

“Not through his respirator, no.”

“Right. Well, there’s too much chance he’ll know you or Cartwright by sight from that fracas, and of course their gang will recognise any peg-legged woman, by reputation if not by sight. I’m afraid that leaves it up to Stone and me. Don’t imagine he’ll fancy it, as he doesn’t seem to think much of me these days. Nothing for it, though.”

5.

NATHANIAL BRUSHED HIS hand past the pocket of his coat to feel the reassuring bulk of his knife, but as Captain Folkard had suggested, he did not put his hands in his pockets. Better to let the false guard see his hands, and that they were empty. Folkard’s hands were occupied with the street map Dumba had loaned them, raising it to look, then lowering it and looking around in bewilderment. Nathanial had to admit it was a convincing act.

“You know, that coat still smells frightful from your immersion last night,” Folkard said. They had already agreed to sustain a continuous banter between them and pay no attention to the guard until challenged.

“Yes, thanks to our mutual friend. I changed clothes but this is the only heavy coat I have. It’s still damp, too. I’ll probably catch my death,”

Folkard laughed for the benefit of the false guard, as if Nathanial had delivered a choice bon mot.

“’Alt, ’oo goes there?” the guard said, his words muffled through the respirator. He raised his rifle to the ready.

“Ah, a trooper. Splendid!” Folkard said, closing the distance to the man. “We seem a bit lost. Is this Wellington Place up ahead?”

“Move along,” he said and gestured with the muzzle of his rifle.

“Really, it’s a simple enough question. I mean, you must know where we are. We’re trying to find the Cavalry Barracks.”

“Move along, there’s a good gent,” he said with a hard edge to his voice

Folkard exchanged an outraged look with Nathanial and then glared at the soldier. “Such disrespect! Outrageous. Why, I’ll find your sergeant and have you up on charges! Where is he? Over there with those other men?”

Nathanial saw the man hesitate and shift uncomfortably, then pull his respirator down around his neck. “Awright then, calm down. No need for that. That there’s ’Anover square. Wellie’s Place is sout’, and the barracks just west o’ there.”

Folkard moved over beside him and held up the unrolled street map. “South? Show me here, could you? We seem all turned about. Where are we?”

The man let out a sigh of annoyance but looked at the map. As he lifted his finger to point he froze, feeling the point of Nathanial’s knife against his throat, having slid between the bunched straps of the respirator. Folkard kept the map held up so no casual onlooker from the distant crowd would see even a glint from Nathanial’s knife. They had no more interest in summoning the troops at the moment than the conspirator did. Alarming the villains inside might thwart the worst of the plot, but also might cause them to detonate the charge prematurely, and who knew how many innocent people below would be killed and injured?

Was this one of the men who had delivered the infernal devices to Folkard’s lodgings, the devices which had seen his brother burned alive? At the thought, Nathanial found the knife pressing harder against the man’s throat, as if it had a will of its own, and a tiny drop of red appeared at its point.

“Stone…” Folkard said. Nathanial looked at him and saw concern bordering on alarm. He eased off slightly with the knife blade and took a breath. After all, he did not know if this group was even responsible for the fire, did he?

“We’ll have that door open,” Nathanial hissed in his ear, “and quietly. If you warn your friends, you’ll die first. Do you understand?” The man nodded, eyes bulging from their sockets.

6.

BEDFORD SWEPT ANNABELLE up in his arms and carried her across the twenty yards of open ground to the door of the furnace building. She protested at first but he cut her off. “We have to make good time without looking as if we are hurrying. As it is, we are simply two gentlemen and a lady in the park, and all in a playful mood.” He grinned at her and she smiled back. Her peg was still rather awkward, sticking up in the air and her dress and petticoat sliding down it a bit, but they made in across the open lawn without anyone in the distant crowd taking notice. Once inside he put her down and drew his revolver, and saw Cartwright do the same. Folkard was tying the false soldier to an iron water pipe and had already securely gagged him. Stone knelt by an unconscious and bound up man in a union suit, presumably the original owner of the uniform

“He’s alive,” Stone said softly looking up, “but they hit him very hard. He has concussion at least, and perhaps a fracture. There’s nothing we can do for him now, however, except let him rest and hope Dumba arrives with the authorities and a doctor.”

The interior of the building was filthy with coal dust and for all its size was cramped, nearly filled with the boiler, firebox, and large engine which powered the winch. Flames flickered orange and yellow through the tempered glass slits in the firebox door and a shovel rose like a headstone from the pile of coal nearby. “Where is the regular crew?” Bedford asked softly.

“Here,” Cartwright said from beside the winch engine, looking into the shadows. Bedford joined him and followed his gaze: two men in dirty overalls and leather gloves, skin pale white under the coal dust, blood dark, almost black, and clotting around their throats and on their chests. “This will be enough to hang all of them. Why not do the same with the soldier?” Cartwright asked.

“Couldn’t afford to get blood on the uniform.” Beyond the winch motor Bedford saw the wrought iron spiral staircase winding up to the winch tower. A pile of worm shoes lay beside it. They would have gunpowder up there, be working with it, making the bomb. Someone had worked with it before, that much was clear, and had them working in their stockings or bare feet to avoid a hobnail striking a spark on the iron steps or floor above. He turned back to the others. Stone had risen to his feet and Folkard, finished tying up the false guard, drew his small pistol.

“Right then,” Bedford said. “Shoes off, everyone. We cannot afford a spark if there is powder about.” He sat down and began unlacing his own boots and the others followed suit except for Annabelle.

“I’m afraid I will require assistance with this shoe,” she said.

“My pleasure, Miss Somerset,” Cartwright said immediately, his own shoes already off.

“The stairs are narrow,” George continued in a low voice, “one person at a time. Captain Folkard and I have the most experience with this sort of business so we’ll go first, my revolver followed by his derringer. Then Cartwright with his Austrian revolver, then Stone, and then Annabelle. There’s a good railing to each side so I think you can manage, my dear, but Stone I’ll thank you to assist her.”

“That will not be necessary,” she said. “Do not delay on my account.”

“Very well. Everyone go slowly, choose your steps carefully, and try not to make noise. Going barefoot will help. They are almost certainly armed, and will be desperate to avoid capture which means execution for them, so surprise is essential.”

They moved to the stairway and when Folkard made to go first Bedford held up his revolver, pointing to the captain’s smaller two-shot pistol. Folkard frowned in thought for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. Bedford took the lead, left hand on the railing and right holding the revolver at the ready.

The building and tower were both new, within the last five years, and so the staircase was sturdy and firmly attached to the central supporting shaft. That was good. It took their weight without shifting or groaning the way an older structure might have.

The ceiling, which would be the floor of the upper room, was about thirty feet above the ground. As Bedford neared it he paused and glanced back down to see how the others fared. They were well closed up, even Annabelle, and as he watched he saw her brace her artificial leg on the stair, take hold of the railing with both hands, and lift her good foot up two steps, then pull and push herself up, carefully plant her peg, and repeat the process. She again carried Colonel Wyndham’s cane, her right hand holding it at mid-shaft so she could manage it and the railing at the same time. Her face bore an expression of concentration but nothing more, as if she climbed a spiral staircase armed only with a sword cane to face desperate assassins every day of her life. Folkard’s earlier question came back to him and he smiled to himself, but then he shook his head. Within seconds all their lives would be at risk and he could afford no distractions until they were clear of this peril.

He climbed the last few steps before the break in the floor and then carefully raised his head and scanned the room. The stairs rose into a semi-enclosed alcove which rested deep in the shadows, so he felt reasonably secure observing the assassins. The circular domed cupola, like a gun turret but much taller, was lit by a few electric lights but mostly by sunlight flooding in a series of horizontal slits around its circumference, about seven or eight feet from the ground. Eight massive angular steel girders formed the framework of the cupola, rising and coming together high overhead, the upper works lost in shadows.

There were five assassins, one holding a metal tube several inches in diameter and perhaps a foot long, another carefully pouring black powder scooped from an open keg into the tube, a third working at attaching a cap of some sort to a similar tube, the fourth standing on a slightly elevated metal platform and looking out an open vision slit, the last one standing in the centre of the room with hands on hips, another small keg of powder under his arm. The winch controls were close by the raised platform so that would be the station from which the gantry arm and tether cable was controlled.

He ducked back down and faced Folkard who had crept up the steps and wedged himself beside him. Bedford held up five fingers and Folkard nodded. He held them out for Cartwright to see and he nodded as well. Bedford’s heart pounded in his ears and he felt his hands tremble and his vision narrow. He took a breath to steady himself and then climbed the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could. He stood unnoticed in the shadows for the four or five seconds it took for Folkard to join him and then they strode out into the light, pistols raised. The man scooping powder saw them and his expression of alarm alerted the others with him who wheeled toward the stairs.

“Halt in the name of the Crown!” Bedford called and cocked his revolver, aiming it at the closest man, the one in the centre of the room. To his right Folkard did the same with his derringer and he felt Cartwright brush his left sleeve as he came even with him and held up Dumba’s revolver.

For a moment no one moved. Then the man with the powder scoop used it to toss powder high in the air toward them. The heavier grains came down at once, mostly on the man in the centre of the floor, but some dust remained in the air, clearly visible dancing in the shafts of sunlight. He threw another scoop and the man in the centre of the room, suddenly grinning in understanding, dipped his hand in the open powder keg in his own arm and tossed a handful into the air over Bedford and the others, to rain down on their hair and settle in the folds of their clothing. Cartwright began coughing

“Now shoot, you smart bastards,” the man in the centre of the room sneered. “Shoot and you’ll send us all to our maker, including that pretty lady back there as killed me brother. I’d say drop the barkers, but you don’t want to do that. They make a spark when they hit the floor, we’re finished.”

So this was Billy Snide, Bedford thought. He was a head taller than any of the others and had a good, strong voice—both handy for a leader.

The man on the raised platform, until now a silent witness to drama below, pointed out his window. “There it is! It’s comin’ from the sou’-east, almost over Peckham New Town.”

“Finish these mugs,” Snide barked to his cohorts, “and quick about it. But don’t kill the red-head. Him we just take with us back to Willie. Kill the others quick, so’s we can set the rockets and then cut the lucky.”

The three men on the assembly line put aside their powder and rockets, drew knives from their belts, and hurried past Snide to get at the trio in front.

Bedford reversed his revolver to use it as a club. The man who had first thrown the powder came at him, made a slash at his eyes, and then went for his ribs. Bedford managed to block the stab with his forearm against the fellow’s wrist and swung his revolver at his assailant’s head. The man was quick, shrugged his shoulder up and ducked so the pistol struck only a glancing blow.

Around them the melee became general, men crowded together, shoulders jostling, throwing each other off balance. The man facing Bedford pulled back his knife to strike again when a long steel blade slid past Bedford’s side and sank into the man’s abdomen.

“Ohhh!” he said with an odd mixture of disappointment and dismay as he staggered back. He said it not as one mortally wounded, but as a man might upon opening a letter expecting a cheque and finding instead a substantial bill. He clapped a hand to his wounded belly and fell to the floor on his rump, then he leaned against a steel girder and held his bloody hand in front of his face as if still not quite believing such a thing had happened to him. Where was his cheque?

“Take this!” Annabelle shouted and waved the sword cane.

Bedford took it and thrust for Snide, but he jumped behind a support girder rising from the floor and drew his own knife. Bedford had the advantage of a longer blade and better training. Snide’s only advantage was the girder between them, at least at first. Bedford lunged at him, drove forward and lunged again, the tip of the blade ripping Snide’s vest but not drawing blood. Snide scampered back, his knife held ready. Bedford slashed at the villain’s face and then pushed forward and lunged again, trying to drive Snide back around into the main fight where he would not be as free to manoeuvre.

A heavy spanner flew through the air and smashed into Bedford’s forearm. Pain exploded up his arm. His hand went numb and the sword dropped from his paralysed fingers and clattered to the floor.

“Thanks, Tuck,” Snide said to the man on the elevated platform. “No more time to waste on this.” He came around the girder, knife raised in his hand to strike.

Bedford heard a loud pop and Snide collapsed against the girder, howling with pain. Bedford glanced down as saw blood coursing from his thigh, staining his trouser leg black. Another pop and another assailant went down. Then he heard a familiar voice from the shadows overhead.

“All of you put down your weapons. And this time it really is in the name of the Crown.”

7.

ANNABELLE WATCHED MAJOR Gordon slide down an angled girder, emerging from the deep shadows high up around the zeppelin tether winch. As he did so she took stock of the party. She had tried to stay out of the way once she gave her sword to George. Fairfax, between his left fist and the heavy Austrian revolver in his right hand, had managed to bruise his opponent and drive him back to a step before a bullet—she presumed—penetrated the assassin’s shoulder and put him on the ground. Folkard had suffered what was clearly a painful wound in his left hand before Nathanial jumped forward with his own knife and kept that assailant at bay.

Gordon finished his slide down to the floor and Annabelle saw he carried a bulky rifle in his right hand. Once his feet were planted he had the two assassins still standing lay down their knives and drag the wounded men to one side, gesturing with the muzzle of the weapon. Then he held the rifle up for all to see.

“A Mannlicher―Girandoni Model 1877 Windbüchs, one of two we confiscated from the saboteurs. Assassins prize these compressed air guns for their silence, but their lack of powder flash can also be convenient on occasion.” When George took a step toward him Gordon turned and pointed the rifle at his chest. “Stand fast, Bedford. This is not quite done.”

“What are you doing here?” Nathanial asked.

“Professor Stone, I presume,” Gordon said with a nod of greeting. “Doing? Well…this,” he said and brandished the rifle. “A constable was sent to every suspected bomb site with orders, in the unlikely event there actually was a bomb, to arrest any and all people who had apparent knowledge of it—arrest them as arsonists and saboteurs and…something… The charges would be worked out later. I had a suspicion about this location, however, so I took the constable’s place.”

“You were up there the whole time with a rifle?” Folkard demanded, his face twisted and voice strained by the pain of his wound. “Why didn’t you arrest them as soon as they got here?”

“There were quite a few of them and they were armed,” Gordon answered. “I was hoping you might arrive and do all the dangerous work. I am not famous for my courage.”

“The card you sent me said CGM after your name,” Annabelle said. “I am told that means you hold the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. Isn’t that awarded for acts of courage?”

“Courage or foolishness, it’s a matter of some dispute, but in either case I am not anxious to repeat the experience,” he said.

“You said they sent only one man to each location?” Nathanial said. “Only one man?”

“Yes,” Gordon answered and flashed a broad smile. “Won’t they be surprised at my success?”

That was an interesting smile, Annabelle thought, and she wondered what it meant. Surely Gordon would not have violated his orders to come here, or at least not the letter of them. But was the spirit a different matter?

“Were the constables armed?” George asked quietly.

Gordon looked at him a moment before replying. “They had their whistles.”

“But…you can’t mean to arrest us,” Cartwright protested. “We are not the assassins.”

“Not for me to say, old man. Round everyone up and let the Lord Chancellor sort it all out, those were my orders. I am just a soldier doing his duty. Commander Bedford understands that.”

“I believe my understanding of the term differs greatly from yours,” George answered and Annabelle saw the two men trade another look, sizing each other up. She could see George’s back tense, as if gathering his strength for a pounce, and Gordon raised the barrel of the rifle slightly in clear warning.

“What do you intend?” Annabelle asked before the situation could deteriorate further.

“Intend, Miss Somerset? I intend to follow my orders to the letter.” With his left hand Gordon took a thin cigar from the breast pocket of his tunic, raised it to his nose and rolled it between his fingers, inhaled, and his eyes narrowed to slits in the anticipation of pleasure. “First, though, I am going to smoke this cheroot. I’ve earned it, I’d say. Not here, of course—too much loose powder about. It wouldn’t do to blow myself to blazes having come this far, would it? No. So I am going to leave and smoke this cheroot and when I am done I shall come back here and arrest everyone I find in the vicinity of this bomb.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Do you understand?”

George and Cartwright exchanged a bewildered look. Gordon turned to leave.

“Major Gordon,” Annabelle said, “I think I know why you sent Commander Bedford word of my whereabouts.” Gordon paused and tilted his head to the side a bit but did not turn back to face her. “Making the message appear to come from Mister Lincoln was an excellent touch and put us entirely off our guard. You brought him in to increase the pressure on me. You knew that seeing George, and then contemplating his ruin as well, would increase my likelihood of agreeing. Is that not so?”

Gordon turned back and smiled. “You do me a service, Miss Somerset. If that were all true, I’d be a very clever fellow indeed.”

“Keen is how Major Blount put it, as I recall,” Annabelle said. “Too keen for a fusilier officer.”

“There are cavalry mounts too keen for the good Major Blount,” Gordon replied.

“What I have a harder time understanding,” Annabelle continued, “is why you directed me to Mrs Collingwood’s lodgings. Of all the places in London, you sent me to a house populated by courageous and honourable people who would, because of their personal history, refuse any cooperation with an agency associated with you. It was as if you deliberately put me outside your power—and by extension the power of your superiors. I wonder how much of it was out of consideration for me and how much was payment of a decade-old debt. How much trade do you direct her way?”

Gordon’s smile had faded as she spoke and his expression became unreadable. “You must be mistaken, Miss Somerset,” he said when she was done. “That does not sound a bit like me. Do tie up Snide and his chaps securely, would you?”

And then he left.

Chapter Fourteen

“What Lies Beyond”

1.

FOLKARD PICKED AT the bandage swathing his wounded left hand and glanced at Bedford’s plaster-covered forearm which was supported in a sling. Four days had passed since the publically uneventful arrival of the new Austro-Hungarian ambassador and his reception by the British government. What had happened inside the zeppelin tower at Hyde Park would, it would seem, never be made public.

“You’ll still both be heroes, of course,” Rear Admiral Cavor said, and his gesture included Bedford in the chair beside Folkard, facing Cavor’s broad desk at the Admiralty. “That Stone chap as well. The official story will be that your capture of the gunpowder barge in the Thames thwarted the entire scheme. But the idea that a second bomb plot could have got that close to success, rockets actually up there in the tower…it just won’t do. Too many questions, too many accusing fingers pointing at too many people.”

“At Lords Belvedere and Chillingham you mean, sir,” Folkard said.

Cavor frowned in reply. “The less said about that the better.”

“But why?” Folkard asked. “You sent me out to uncover the conspiracy, and we did so. Now it is to be covered up again? Why, sir?”

“That’s not your concern, Captain,” Cavor answered.

“Not our concern? It was our concern when we jumped aboard a scow filled with gunpowder, our concern when we came within a whisker of blowing ourselves sky high in Hyde Park, our concern when I got this,” he said and held up his bandaged hand, “and when Bedford got his arm broken and nearly had a knife between his ribs. It was—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point, Folkard,” Cavor cut in. “I sent you out to uncover a conspiracy against the crown, and you two risked your necks to do so. But what you uncovered was a conspiracy for the crown, or for the Empire at any rate. To expose it would compromise our position on Luna at the very least and will likely start a mining rush on Mercury as well, all of which will be to our disadvantage.”

Disadvantage! For a moment Folkard wanted to spit. It was not simply the danger or these injuries the two of them has suffered. What of Stone and his brother? The youngster was gone and Stone changed, perhaps broken, and for what?

“Men shadowed me. Two of them nearly killed Stone and his brother once, and others certainly fired my lodgings and killed Edwin.”

“It’s a complicated, ugly business, and we may never sort all of it out,” Cavor answered, “but don’t you think it likely the assassins were responsible for that?”

“Certainly not. For whatever reason, the assassins were keen to keep him alive.”

“That’s right!” Bedford said, his first words since sitting down. “In the tower Snide told his henchmen not to kill Stone, only to capture him and bring him along.”

“Not only that; when the two toughs were on the verge of killing Stone and his brother outside the lodgings, they were shot by a silent weapon.”

“An air gun!” Bedford said. “The sort the assassins had.”

“Very well,” Cavor agreed, “I’ll give you that. The attempts on Stone’s life, if that’s what they were, and certainly on yours, Captain Folkard, were not the work of these assassins.” He paused then and tapped his desk with his fingers, obviously reluctant to say more. Then he sighed and continued. “I have reason to suspect that an informant in the Admiralty may have passed word of your mission to Chillingham. I think it possible at the very least the arson attack on your residence was the result of that, probably to end your mission. How the other business fits into it I am less certain. For that matter, I’ve never been able to puzzle out who planted the trumped-up evidence against Stone in that crashed aether cutter, or why.”

“And the attempt on the Prince of Wales?” Folkard queried. “There’s that as well.”

“Chillingham wasn’t behind Snide! You can see that clearly I should hope. He sent men to shadow you; would he then send Snide’s men to shoot them? Damned if we can work out who was behind Snide—somebody named Willie apparently, but it wasn’t Chillingham. Oh, I’ll grant you Chillingham and Belvedere weren’t above dealing with the second bomb in a dilatory manor, and had the prince perished in an explosion, and taken ‘Pushful Joe’ Chamberlain with him, not many on the Tory side of the aisle would have shed a tear. But you can’t prove anything but incompetence, and even that’s in question as the man Chillingham sent did thwart the plot.”

There was too much truth in what Cavor said for Folkard to reply. Had Major Gordon exceeded his orders or simply exercised commendable initiative? Who could say with certitude? No, there were no provable charges there, just ugly innuendoes which would tar everyone with the same brush. Still, it left a very bad taste in Folkard’s mouth. He would be more content if he thought Admiral Cavor felt the same.

“You did well, Folkard,” Cavor continued. “You as well, Bedford. You’ll have to content yourselves with that. Now it’s on to other tasks. Sovereign for you, of course,” he said nodding to Bedford, “and back to the aether for you as well, it seems, Captain.”

Folkard shifted in his chair. That made no sense and went against everything he and Cavor had discussed earlier. “Sir? I thought…”

“Yes, I know. No command of a naval aether flyer. That still stands. But there is need for a naval officer for another mission, and it is one for which you are uniquely qualified. Uniquely qualified. But you’ll find out about that this afternoon at the Austrian embassy, of all places. Be there at two o’clock sharp.”

An order was an order. He could at least see what they had in mind for him. “Four bells in the afternoon watch, aye aye, sir.”

“Admiral,” Bedford said, “have the Sea Lords made a decision on my recommendations for decorations?”

Cavor looked surprised for a moment at the change of subject but then nodded. “Ah, you mean for the business on Luna? Damn me, with all this other excitement I’d nearly forgot about it. Yes, they’re giving Maxwell the Distinguished Service Order and that other Marine officer—what’s his name? Larkins?—the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal. Stone will get the Order of the Royal Red Cross. Best we can do for a civilian, short of a knighthood, and he’s a bit twitchy for that.”

“And the enlisted personnel, sir?”

“What? Oh…yes, that Welsh Marine, I think he’s in for a CGM as well.”

“Private Jones,” Bedford said. “He shot and killed Vladimir Tereshkov, with one bullet put away probably the single most dangerous opponent of British interests anywhere. And Chief Coxswain’s Mate Charles? I recommended him especially.”

“Yes, but he died, Bedford. You know the rules on posthumous awards of medals. It isn’t done. You gave him a glowing mention in your dispatch. I’m sure his family will appreciate that.”

“There’s still the Victoria Cross, sir, our highest award. That’s allowed a posthumous award, and Chief Charles’s death was, if I may say so, exactly what that exception had in mind. He knowingly gave his life to save the rest of the party, and had he not done so I don’t believe any of us would have lived to tell the tale.”

Cavor frowned in thought for a moment and then shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Bedford. The Sea Lords have decided on one VC for the expedition, and won’t allow a second.”

“Sir?” Bedford said, obviously confused although Folkard immediately understood the implication, having made the recommendation himself. With his left hand bandaged and Bedford’s right in a cast and sling, shaking hands would be difficult, but he reached over and patted his friend and former shipmate on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, George. Richly deserved.”

2.

NATHANIAL STARED AT the polished wood floor of Dumba’s office until the silence grew awkward. Finally he slipped the pocket watch from his jacket and handed it to Annabelle in the chair beside him. “I thank you for the loan for this. I know it means a great deal to you, and feeling it in my hand sustained me through some very dark times. I… I see they have returned your leg to you. Is it satisfactory?”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said, enfolding the watch in both of her hands. She flexed and extended the artificial leg with its internal springs and clockwork devices. “It may need a slight adjustment in tension. I believe when we reset it from the low gravity of Sovereign to Earth’s we did not increase the spring resistance quite enough so it does not have the energetic return I grew used to. But aside from that it is a marvellous thing and I thank you very much.” She paused for a moment, a look of uncertainty crossing her face. She continued with a tone of tenderness Nathanial had never heard before. “I was…very sorry to hear of your brother’s death. I would say I cannot imagine how you feel, but in truth I can, as you well know.”

“Yes. Thank you, Annabelle. I am myself very sorry for—”

The door opened and Dumba’s secretary escorted Captain Folkard in. Nathanial felt himself stiffen involuntarily. Whether Folkard could have done anything to prevent Edwin’s death, Nathanial could not say. But Folkard had hustled Nathanial out of the burning building and all but ignored Edwin, and it was Edwin whose injury made him more needful of assistance. Nathanial doubted he would ever forgive Folkard, or himself for that matter.

Folkard greeted them and took the third seat, thankfully on the far side of Annabelle.

“I have just come from the Admiralty,” Folkard said. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, Professor Stone. You are to receive the Order of the Royal Red Cross for your action on Luna.” He held out his hand across Annabelle but Nathanial turned away.

He would not take the award and he would not shake Folkard’s hand. In truth, he could not think what he would do.

If only when he had fallen in the Thames he had never surfaced! That would have been easier. How could he face his family and tell them of Edwin’s death? The question was rhetorical of course—the truth was he could not, and he had known it for some time. Better they think him perished along with Edwin than have to see a reminder of their dead son and brother every time they looked in Nathanial’s eyes—if, indeed, they could ever again bring themselves to do so, which he doubted.

The room lapsed into awkward silence for perhaps a minute before Folkard spoke again, this time to Annabelle. “Where is our host?”

“I do not know, Captain. We were told to wait here and Doctor Dumba would join us shortly.”

Several more minutes passed in silence before the door opened again and the sound of conversation spilled into the office along with Dumba and three other men. One of them, to Nathanial’s surprise, was Cyrus Grant. The second was unfamiliar, a stout, bearded man in his middle years with deep, intense eyes. The third he remembered not only from numerous lectures, but also a lunch shared at the Savoy Club two years earlier. He superficially resembled the other bearded man—stout and bearded—but the other was much older, his hair thinning and white. There were other differences—eyes alert and probing but with a calm look to them, as opposed to the almost haunted look in his companion.

“Lord Kelvin,” Nathanial said rising. “May I congratulate you on your elevation to the peerage, sir.” Folkard rose as well and helped Annabelle to her feet.

“Please sit, all of you,” Kelvin said. “This is an informal meeting—or better yet, let us say an imaginary one. Our two governments will vehemently deny it ever took place. As Mister Stone has observed, I am Professor James Thomson, Lord Kelvin if you prefer, although I am still not quite used to that. Spend most of your life as Jimmy and when someone says ‘Your Lordship’ you’re likely to look about to see who came into the room. All of you know each other except I believe you three have yet to meet Doctor Ludwig Boltzmann, certainly the foremost Austrian physicist and the leader of the team which discovered the polarity of gravitar and how to manipulate it in a matrix. I understand that all of you are familiar with the basics of those discoveries? Excellent.”

Kelvin sat down in Dumba’s chair while the two Austrians and Grant drew other chairs over beside the desk and sat. Once they were settled, Kelvin folded his hands on the desk blotter and leaned forward.

“Remarkable as the gravitar discovery is, and I certainly will not attempt to minimize it, Doctors Grant, Boltzmann and I are convinced we are on the brink of a series of discoveries of vastly greater import. Doctor Grant has been in contact with the alien intelligence known as the Heart. You too, Captain Folkard, have felt its presence?”

Folkard nodded. “The contacts lack both the clarity and persistence of the assaults—I can call them nothing else—experienced on Luna itself, but I have felt them.”

“Grant is in more stable communication. I would scarcely credit this, but he has relayed information to us as to recent events on Luna, the accuracy of which was confirmed by heliograph. There is no doubt the communications are a genuine phenomenon as opposed to an hallucination. That by itself is interesting but hardly Earth-shaking. The content of those communications is of far greater moment.

“Lady and gentlemen, we believe it is within our ability to navigate a manned craft to the trans-asteroidal bodies and return with samples and observations.”

He looked at them and waited for a reaction. Nathanial recalled Grant babbling about something similar on Luna, but today his eyes seemed clear, his mind sound. The fact that Kelvin concurred was remarkable, and exciting, but still difficult to credit.

“I have difficulty understanding the mechanism for doing so,” Nathanial said at last.

“Boiler’s the problem,” Folkard said. “Get beyond the asteroids and the sun’s just the biggest star in the sky.”

“Yes,” Kelvin said. “That has always been the problem—energy, or more precisely, heat. Based upon information from the Heart, we believe we can solve that problem at last. To do so, we are establishing two teams which will, it should be clear, work in secrecy. The scientific team will be based here in Britain and will consist of Doctors Boltzmann, Grant, and myself. The exploratory team will consist of the three of you, if you are willing.

“I admit to some reluctance at adding Miss Somerset to the team, but Doctor Grant insisted on including an observer he could trust implicitly, and I understand his concern. His help is essential and as the United States is not party to the agreement concerning this venture, he is without the backing of a national government to guarantee a fair and objective report. The Austrians, for their part, are content with Doctor Grant and Miss Somerset’s reports for objectivity, so if you would consent we would be most grateful.”

3.

ANNABELLE SAT FOR a moment, unsure what to say, or even how she felt about this venture. She felt many things to be sure: excitement at the prospect of being part of this historic voyage of discovery, fear at its probable dangers, concern at being separated from George at a time when their relationship seemed to be deepening, a different concern at being in close proximity to Nathanial again after their relationship had grown so strained. But most of all she felt a sense of warmth and pride that Uncle Cyrus had expressed such trust in her. He had, in the best of times, been a challenging guardian, and lately had seemed lost to her altogether. Now she felt closer to him than she ever had before. This was an opportunity to cement the bond between them she had always desired, and one which would likely never come again.

“Yes, of course I will go.”

“Excellent,” Kelvin said and he seemed to relax. “And you, Mister Stone? Will you accept our invitation?”

Annabelle watched Kelvin watch Nathanial, felt the seconds draw out into an awkward pause. Her Uncle Cyrus frowned and shifted in his chain in impatience, and finally spoke. “Come on, Stone, what’s holding you back? This is an unprecedented scientific opportunity. If I were younger, wild horses couldn’t keep me off this expedition.”

She turned to Nathanial for the first time and saw him staring at the wall, apparently lost in thought. He turned back to the men at the desk. “First an observation. What Captain Folkard notes concerning boiler temperature is perfectly correct. If insufficient heat can be directed at the boiler to raise the temperature of water to boiling, no steam can be generated. That is an inescapable fact. I assume therefore that you believe it possible to either artificially lower the boiling point of water, or more efficiently capture the heat of the sun than current mechanisms allow, or that you believe there is a mechanism for generating heat independently of the sun and which does not involve oxygen combustion. Is that a fair assumption?”

The Austrian scientist shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Kelvin while Annabelle’s uncle nodded and smiled in appreciation of Nathanial’s remark. Kelvin’s eyes, however, never left Nathanial’s. “That is correct,” he said.

“Is this mechanism at hand presently?” he asked.

“No,” Kelvin answered at once. “Your first task will be to gather certain material necessary to complete the design.”

“Gather it from sources not on the Earth, but within reach of current aether flyers?’ Nathanial asked and Kelvin nodded briskly. “Very well, I accept under two conditions.”

The Austrian scientist Boltzmann exchanged a worried look with Dumba but again Kelvin gaze remained steady. “What are your conditions, Mister Stone?”

“First, I wish to be listed as dead.”

All of them stirred at that and Kelvin even blinked in surprise.

“Dead, Nathanial?” Annabelle asked. “Whatever can you mean?”

Nathanial turned to Folkard instead of her. “When I fell from the steam launch into the Thames, I never surfaced. You understand? If you will paint me a hero, and I understand that is the current intention, paint me as a dead hero. Give the Order of the Royal Red Cross to my parents as a remembrance. And make up something heroic about Edwin’s death as well. Have him dash back in to save a small child. Give him the damned order. Make his death worth something to them. Do you understand?” He began firmly and without emotion but his voice faltered at the end and Annabelle saw a flash of deep sorrow and shame pass across his face.

“I…were it within my power, Stone, I would do so,” Folkard said, “but it is not.”

“It is within mine,” Kelvin said. “We will do all of that and find an alternative identity for you. What is your second condition?”

Nathanial took a moment to collect himself and then looked up again. “If I understand where this is taking us, the expedition will profit from a good geologist. I know an outstanding one and will require his assistance. He is currently stationed on Mercury. Doctor Arnaud Fontaine.”

“A French geologist?” Dumba exclaimed. “Why not invite the commandant of Le Garde Rouge along as well? It is preposterous!”

Annabelle had to agree. She thought Arnaud an odd fellow but pleasant enough, but even she understood the political difficulties in including a French scientist on a secret Anglo-Austrian scientific expedition.

“Stone?” Kelvin said, inviting him to respond.

“Monsieur Fontaine, the former French ambassador, is an expatriate living here in London. He has no ties to the Commune, nor does his son. For us scientists, this is about knowledge, not politics. In any case, it does not sound as if he will be in a position to make clandestine reports back to Paris even if he wanted to.”

“And after the expedition is completed?” Dumba demanded but Kelvin himself shook his head.

“After the main expedition is completed, the results will inevitably become public. I am prepared to undertake this condition, provided you understand that Captain Folkard will bear responsibility for the secrecy of the mission.” Nathanial nodded his assent and Kelvin turned to Folkard himself.

“Captain Folkard, Rear Admiral Cavor informs me we can count on your participation as well, but I would not presume to continue without your confirmation of that.”

“A serving officer goes where he is sent, but this is not a disagreeable duty by any means. Admiral Cavor suggested that I have some unique skill to add. I cannot see that I do, beyond providing a serving officer’s experience, and that is hardly unique. I have also a…liability with respect to aether travel. Perhaps―”

“Yes, Captain, we know that you also are touched by the Heart. That is your unique contribution. You consider it a liability, and in some respects it is. But where you will be going, and for what you will be seeking, the occasional guidance of the Heart may prove essential.”

4.

WHEN GEORGE BEDFORD entered the drawing room at Mrs Collingwood’s boarding house he found Annabelle in earnest conversation with Fairfax Cartwright. A thick manuscript lay on the table before them.

“As your friend, Fairfax, I must urge you to reconsider,” Annabelle said. “I speak not only with your own interests in mind, but also those of your country. You are a promising diplomat of a sort any country would benefit from counting in its service. You are guided by courage and a sense of duty and honour which will always serve you well. The publication of this book will certainly end your career.”

“But it will not be in my name,” Cartwright protested.

“After all we have experienced and learned, can you seriously question that the men you lampoon here will not be able to discover the identity of the author? Can you?”

Cartwright looked up at Bedford standing in the doorway. “Ah, Commander Bedford. As you see, Miss Somerset is asking me to throw aside my life’s labour out of fear for its consequences. Surely you would not do so.”

“No, sir, I would not. But I would question whether my life’s work was best encompassed by devoting my energies and talents to the pursuit of my nation’s interests or the production of satirical novels.”

Annabelle beamed at him and applauded. “Oh, well said! That is what I mean, Fairfax. I would never counsel you to compromise your ideals for personal gain. I simply wish to see you use your God-given talents where they will produce the greatest effect. I ask only that you will consider what publication of this book will gain, and balance that against what its publication will cost, and then make your decision accordingly.”

Cartwright looked at the manuscript on the table before him and then nodded. “I promise I will do so,” he said, but Bedford could tell Annabelle’s argumentative arrow had found its target and Cartwright would relent.

Bedford was not sure whether he cared one way or another—it was the fellow’s life, after all, and what he did with it was his concern. But Annabelle clearly felt strongly on the matter and Bedford had come to trust her instincts as much as his own, perhaps more on some matters.

Cartwright rose and gathered up the manuscript. “I will leave you two alone. I’m sure you have much to talk about.”

Bedford took his still-warm chair after he left.

“How is your arm?” Annabelle asked.

“Aches like the blazes,” Bedford answered honestly, “but that’s to be expected. The doctor said the break is not serious. The pain’s as much from the bruising as the fracture. How is your leg? Are you growing accustomed to it?”

She stretched it out and lowered it again. “Yes. Walking remains awkward but it is a very great relief to be able to sit and not worry about the peg sticking out for people to trip over. I will always treasure that peg from Kak’hamish, but I do not miss wearing it when I sit.”

“Sovereign has nearly finished her refit and Viscount Theobald, her new master, has arrived from the West Indies. We will be fit for service soon.”

“Will they let you serve with your arm in a cast?” she asked, concern clouding her face.

“Oh, yes. It won’t be on for long and the ship’s surgeon can remove the cast when the time comes. I am unsure how long we will be gone. You also will be gone on your expedition for some time.”

Annabelle looked at him and nodded and he felt his ears and cheeks grow warm. This aimless small talk was not what he had intended at all. When he came here he thought he knew exactly what he would say, but now he felt as if he spoke in a foreign tongue, struggling for words which would not give the wrong meaning or sound absurd, comical.

“I mean to say, I feel we have grown closer these last months, not merely because of time spent in company with each other. These shared experiences have also revealed our characters to one another, in a manner of speaking. I would not like to see that…that understanding, if you will, diminish during an absence. Not that it would, of course, but perhaps without some formal understanding between us there could be—”

“George,” Annabelle broke in, “will you marry me?”

Epilogue

St. Petersburg, Russia, February 19, 1890

“HOW IS YOUR stomach, sir,” Khachaturian asked from the doorway. “Can I bring you a glass of tea?”

“My stomach is as good and as bad as ever. It would rest easier if your master would come. Yes, I’ll have some tea with a little honey.”

The Armenian servant brought the tea and Willie (as he was known to his now-dead or captured minions in London) sipped it slowly, careful not to take too much too fast lest he irritate his damaged stomach.

The effort to implicate Stone in treason by leaving Salt’s doctored journal in the crashed aether cutter had ultimately come to nothing. His whisper campaign to ruin his reputation had borne some fruit, although keeping the fool alive long enough to appreciate the depth of his fall had proved more difficult than he had imagined—and ultimately unsuccessful. Drowned in the Thames, and then hailed as a hero! Dead and vindicated: the worst outcome imaginable.

His efforts to shatter the Anglo-Austrian alliance had been no more successful, but there remained one more card to play there.

At length the door opened and Count Dorokov entered, snow still heavy on the shoulders of his fur coat and matching cap.

“I came at once. I am amazed to see you alive—amazed and of course delighted as well. Your note was cryptic but enticing. You have information concerning a secret British mission?”

“A joint mission between the British and Austrians, but of course that means British principally. The British seek to harness a remarkable new source of energy and use it to open the outer Solar System to exploitation. Russia is faced with a difficult choice: let them monopolize this source of energy or attempt to beat them to the prize.”

Dorokov’s face remained impassive as he took off his hat and coat and handed them to his servant, who took them in one arm and replaced them in Dorokov’s hand with a steaming glass of tea. When the door closed behind him, Dorokov sat at the table and looked at Willie’s face carefully.

“Your scientific expertise is much respected, as are your efforts on our behalf, but this strains credibility. Surely you see that. Given the failure of your recent efforts in London you must understand that there is a certain reluctance…well, to support further endeavours. I, of course, completely support your projects, but others oppose them and say they are dangerous. If you had some evidence…?”

Willie reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded yellow form, its face covered with rows of typed text, and laid it on the table between them.

“My evidence is as incredible as my claim: a telegraph message from beyond the grave. But there is factual information in the cable which can be independently verified to prove the identity of the author. This cable spells out the entire British plan of action.”

“And the identity of the mysterious informer?” Dorokov asked.

Willie looked up from the document, and said, with a twisted smile, “Vladimir Tereshkov.”

The End.

Next:

Ceres by Steam by Paul Ebbs

Acknowledgements

This book never would have been without a number of folks, prominent among them the other authors of the first series of Space: 1889 & Beyond books: KG McAbee, Mark Michalowski, L Joseph Shosty, and JT Wilson. Had those been sow’s ears in stead of the silk purses they were, there would never have been a second series of books. Thanks also to the folks at Untreed Reads who made all of this happen, foremost among them Jay Hartman and KD Sullivan.

A writer should write no matter what, even if no one cheers him on, even when he thinks no one ever will. A writer needs to be tough enough to write all by himself, alone. That said, it’s a hell of a lot easier when there are people who do read what he’s writing, and once in a while do cheer. So for making that part of my life easier, my heartfelt thanks go out to Craig Cutbirth and Bev Herzog, Jake and Beth Strangeway, Tessa Chadwick, The Hawk, Arturo Lorioli (get well, my friend), Nancy Blake, and especially my pal Bart Palamaro for, among many other things, figuring out why gravitar had to be polarized.

A big thanks to my co-author, Andy. Collaborations are supposed to be hard. This wasn’t. The writing part was as demanding as ever, but the collaboration part never was. And of course if it weren’t for Andy’s tireless dedication to the project, there would not be a Space: 1889 & Beyond series two, or even series one.

Last, but by no means least, thanks to all the loyal fans of Space: 1889, both those who have been with the world from the beginning and those who have discovered it along the way and taken it as their own.

Frank Chadwick—7th June 2012

*

As ever thanks go to the usual suspects, but in this case particular thanks must go to; Carolyn Biddick, the clerk at All-Saints’ Church, Putney, for her invaluable help in researching the history of the church. To the authors of series two; Paul Ebbs, Steven Savile, David Parish-Whittaker, Joshua Rainbird, Mark Michalowski, Sharon Bidwell and Jonathan Cooper—all stars! To Jay Hartman and KD Sullivan and their never-ending support and trust. To Tom Sanford and Christian Mansell, for their support and excitement in all things pertaining to writing and Space: 1889 & Beyond (watch out for these names—you will see them again!). And, of course, to Elizabeth Medeiros, my constant muse.

A huge thank you must go to my co-author, Frank. This was the novel which was always planned for Frank, but of course things change, and he made his prose debut in the previous series (twice!). Nonetheless, that Frank and I were going to join forces to pen this second-series opener was never in doubt. Much to thank him for (not least of all for creating Space: 1889), but in this instance it’s for his support in the last couple of years, and always being willing to let me bend, and sometimes break, the rules established in the original RPG. And, it has to be said, actually co-authoring a book with a New York Times best-seller is a pretty awesome thing.

Andy Frankham-Allen—8th June 2012

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

Several historical figures appear in this book in scenes as characters. The following sketches provide a look at their actual lives and accomplishments.

Robert Todd Lincoln

Robert Todd Lincoln was the only one of Abraham Lincoln’s three sons to survive to adulthood, but he established a reputation as a gifted lawyer with a head for politics. Lincoln served as Secretary of War from 1881 through 1885 under President Garfield. He was appointed Minister to the Court of St. James in 1889 by President Harrison and served in that capacity until 1893, after which he returned to his private law practice.

Fairfax Leighton Cartwright

Historically, Fairfax Cartwright published his three-volume satirical novel, Olga Zanelli, in 1890 but, upon urgent advice of his friends, quickly bought back and destroyed almost every one of the 1500 printed copies. He held a variety of diplomatic posts of increasing responsibility, enjoying success in all of them. In 1898 he married the charming and vivacious daughter of an Italian senator and when he was appointed ambassador to Austria-Hungary in 1908, he and his wife turned the British embassy into the most fashionable in Vienna, hosting many gala balls. It was said that on one occasion, when Mrs Cartwright was dancing with the Austrian foreign minister and the Russian ambassador attempted to cut in, a feud developed between the two men which nearly had international repercussions. Nevertheless, Cartwright probably came closer than any man alive to preventing World War I, having secretly negotiated a separation of Austria-Hungary from its German alliance in return for an international loan to underwrite the modernization of their armed forces. Unfortunately the loan negotiations collapsed and the rest is history.

Konstantin Dumba

As Franz Deym, the Austro-Hungarian ambassador to the United Kingdom, historically was not assassinated in 1889, Konstantin Dumba was not recalled from his posting in St Petersburg. He went on to a series of diplomatic assignments, culminating in his appointment as Austro-Hungarian ambassador to the United States of America in 1913, becoming the last man to hold that post. In late 1915 Dumba was charged with espionage, having been implicated in a plot to sabotage US armaments production. Although the US was not yet at war, its sympathies were clear and the output of its industry supported only the Triple Entente powers. Dumba was expelled and he was not replaced. There is no evidence that, in his earlier posting to the United Kingdom, he even met Fairfax Cartwright, let alone was involved in a romantic rivalry with him. Nor is there evidence he was not.

Lord Kelvin (Doctor William Thomson)

Thomson was a successful engineer and inventor as well as a respected professor and lecturer. He is best known for his work in thermodynamics, his recognition that heat was a reflection of movement, and therefore there was a bottom limit to temperature (“absolute zero”) where all motion, even at the most basic atomic level, stopped. He was also a pioneer in the unification of all of physics under the common principle of energy and in developing the Vortex Theory that an atom was simply a vortex in the aether. Although the Vortex Theory is all but forgotten today, work on it resulted in mathematical Knot Theory which remains an important tool and field of study.

Ludwig Eduard Boltzmann

Boltzmann was a visionary Austrian physicist best-known for his Kinetic Theory which provided a statistically-based description of thermodynamics. The theory relied upon the existence of atoms and molecules as the building blocks of matter, at a time when their existence was widely rejected by the physics community (but as widely accepted in chemistry). He was given to alternating bouts of intense activity followed by depression, almost certainly a product of bipolar disorder. He frequently became discouraged by the opposition to his theories in the scientific community, and committed suicide by hanging in 1906. Most of his theories were vindicated by the work of Einstein, Perrin, and others, with the main breakthrough (the confirmation of the values of Avagadro’s number and Boltzmann’s constant) coming only two years after his death.

*

HISTORICAL FIGURES MENTIONED

Several other historical figures are mentioned in the story, and have greater or lesser importance to its unfolding, but do not actually appear in scenes in this book (although some do in other Space: 1889 stories). They are:

Major General Sir Redvers Buller, VC (British military officer)

Pierre Paul Cambon (French diplomat)

Joseph “Pushful Joe” Chamberlain (British Colonial Secretary)

Franz Deym (Franz de Paula Severin Wenzel Maria Philipp Benitius Graf Deym von Střítež) (Austro-Hungarian diplomat)

Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquess of Salisbury (British Prime Minister)

William Ewart Gladstone (British Liberal Party leader)

Lord Chancellor the Baron (later Earl) of Halsbury (British jurist)

Freiherr Ladislaus Hengelmüller von Hengervár (Austro-Hungarian diplomat)

President Abraham Lincoln

King Milan of Serbia

Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII)

Sir William Henry White (British engineer)