Sergeant Cummings had said five days after the meeting at Babbage’s house, his little sandy moustache bristling, “That government man has sent for you again. A special job he says. Mind you do your best.”
“I will Sarge,” Robert had promised.
He’d arrived at an address not far from the new General Post Office building near the church of St Martin-in- the-Fields. From not far off came the sounds of hammering and construction, as the fire-blackened ruin of the old Houses of Parliament was removed, to make way for the new grand building designed by Barry.
He was shown into a small, cold windowless antechamber painted cream, one wall being devoted to leatherbound volumes of law. Under Secretary Clark joined him in there, and began his usual agitated walking as he spoke in a breathless way.
“I could’ve called upon one of the old Runners — most’ve them have gone into private investigations, and it really is no good that we have no detecting force now, though I intend to put forward ideas to change that — but I decided the fewer who know the better. You’ve not been talking?”
“No, only me and the Sergeant know and we don’t even talk to each other.”
“Good man, good man. I have news. Mr Babbage has made some progress, in fact he sounded almost disappointed that the first quadrant of code was so easy to crack.”
Robert was still. “What does it say?”
Clark stopped in front of him. “It’s not good. It says: ‘You have looked on my works, and ignored them, the cleansing fire, the falling rocks. Beware my next eruption.’”
“You were right sir, it looks like a warning. What of Miss Byron’s reading of the signature?”
“It still seems possible, but we can only wait as they work on the rest. Babbage mentioned something about frequencies and transpositions which I don’t understand. I leave all that to him. Meanwhile, I have used my own official channels and have found that the mastermind of last Friday’s meeting lives and works in the Rookery, very near the White Hart Inn itself. I’m asking you to go there — not in uniform of course — and strike up a conversation, see what you can find out.”
“You don’t think our coder is the same person who organized the meeting then?”
“That’s Connor O’Brien, a hothead, with links to protection rackets, but this is not his style.”
Robert nodded. “The man who penned this message, though, he must be an educated man, maybe someone who’s fallen on hard times.”
“Or deliberately turned his talents to criminal activity. There are plenty of clever minds in these rookeries, the ones that organize the faking and the swindling.”
“But why choose such a random way of passing on his message?”
Clark’s face darkened as he paced up and down. “He thinks he’s a clever man, much cleverer than us. This is part of his cat-and-mouse game. If we don’t respond, he scores, then he tries again. Thank you, Constable Duckett, report back direct to me.” Then as Robert did not leave he said, “You have a question?”
“He says his previous messages have been ignored. What did he mean?”
“I was afraid you’d ask that. This is to go no further, understand?” Clark leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “There have been two earlier messages, both dismissed as nonsense. One was pushed through Wellington’s letterbox and was written in children’s doggerel verse. It spoke of houses tumbling down — and there was that terrible collapse in Borough when many died and were injured. The second, we worked out, was Biblical References, and, when we found the verses, fire and brimstone were mentioned — ”
“The Houses of Parliament burned down earlier this year.” Robert was ahead of him.
“Exactly. There has never been any suggestion the fire was anything but an accident but … we can’t take any chances.”
Now, Robert looked up at the sign of the Inn. Outside was a board advertising an Ordinary Fish Supper. He was the bait, he thought, being sent in in the hope that their fish would reveal something of himself. Even though he would revert to his full Bristolian accent, and mention Dorset enough he’d be associated with the Tolpuddle martyrs, he was sure the people here could sniff out a policeman a mile away, however much he tried to disguise himself.
Four tankards of watered down ale, with an “aftertaste of the Thames” later, he’d made four new “brothers”, who promised to let him know when the next political meeting was being held — “Legal or otherwise” — and they’d make them all illegal if they could. “Combined, we can make a difference, ain’t that right?” one had said.
He staggered across the threshold, the sound of Irish singing in his ears, and began to thread his way along the alley towards the bigger, safer street ahead. He tried to marshal the few facts he’d gleaned into some sort of order before they floated away in a beer haze. Names of speakers, the principles of combining into unions; was there any fact or name that stood out? Someone who was a bit different, whether in speech or beliefs? He thought there was something that had been said, but what was it? He tripped on something sludgy and nameless in the dark and automatically put out a hand to steady himself when …
Pain exploded across his left shoulder, he lost his balance completely and collapsed on the ground, hitting his forehead. All the breath seemed to have left his body and he struggled to breathe. As he blinked to clear the cloudiness from his eyes, he felt the hard cap of a boot connect with his ribs, then another. He tried to curl into a ball but could not make his body obey. The shock of the attack had robbed him of control over his limbs as well as his senses.
Then he heard a shout, “Here, you! Leave that man! Get off him!” He heard footsteps running off, and then felt the blissful end to the well-aimed kicks.
Robert managed to pry his eyes open. A face swam into view.
“What took you so long?” he managed to croak. “Nearly had him, though, didn’t I?”
“Sure,” came Will’s cheery voice. “You had him against the ropes. Think you can stand?”
With Will’s arm supporting him Robert managed to clamber upright on to wobbly legs.
“Ouch. He must’ve had steel caps on those boots. I thought you were never coming. You know I bruise easily!”
“Had to finish my ale didn’t I, keep up appearances. Besides, I’d bought the round.”
“Nothing … to do … with the pretty barmaid then?” Robert panted, then groaned as he took a step.
“What an idea! Good thing you asked me to shadow you and watch your back. What’ve you done to rile that man? Owe him some money do you? But isn’t this the place we came the other night.”
Robert nodded, and instantly felt sick. “Thought I’d try and spot the one who shoved that paper on me, find out why me … ooh, I feel dizzy.”
“Here, I think you need proper attention.” There were voices ahead on the high road and Robert heard Will saying, “This feller’s been attacked, robbed most like — stop a cab can you, he needs a doctor,” before he lost consciousness.
Ada walked swiftly along the corridor of Westminster Hospital behind the orderly. The hospital still smelled new and fresh, not yet overlaid with the stench of sickness and medicines. She felt a tingling sensation between her shoulder-blades, as if her mother was watching her, or at the very least knew exactly what she was doing, and was planning a severe punishment as well as a lecture. But she would be only ten minutes here, no more; and who could object to her spontaneous gesture of giving — bringing a basket of food to the sick and needy in this brand new building, just opened on Broad Sanctuary, Westminster, on her way home from a shopping trip in the Strand? The waiting driver in their carriage would not know she had actually spoken to one of those needy patients.
“Constable Robert Duckett, Miss,” the orderly said, opening the door to a private room and, leaving the door open, positioned himself on a chair outside.
Robert was sitting up in bed, several pillows behind him. His forehead had a bruised swelling on it and he was pale, but otherwise well — and surprised to see her.
“Why, whatever are you doing here — ”
Ada held up a finger before he could say her name. “And why shouldn’t your cousin visit? Were you hurt badly? What happened?”
He quickly understood. “Thank you, cousin, I was set upon from behind near the White Hart Public House. I hurt my head when I fell.” He touched his forehead then winced, “But it’s my ribs he gave a good workout, and they’re all bandaged up. Nothing broken though.”
“Do you have everything you need?” Ada asked. “I’ve spent so many long hours in the sick-room at home, struck down by debilitating conditions —
