A deadly deception, p.23
A Deadly Deception, page 23
“How did you get here?” Hawkins asks her, breaking away, as if suddenly realizing he has acted inappropriately. “Surely not on foot?”
Jolted back to reality, she shakes her head. “I took a ride on a cart.”
He looks at her with caring eyes. “That won’t do. I’ll hail you a cab.”
Constance feels awkward. “No. I’ll walk,” she counters.
“I insist.” His arm signals to a passing hansom and he tells the driver to take his fare to Whitechapel.
Helping Constance into the cab, Hawkins settles her onto the seat. “If you see anything . . . ,” he tells her, emphasizing the word “see.” She takes it as a validation of her powers; he is telling her he has the utmost faith in her. I will keep trying to break through into her head and shine a light into the darkest recesses of her mind. If a tragedy is to be averted, she has to let me in.
CONSTANCE
It’s growing late by the time I arrive back in Whitechapel. The cabdriver drops me off on Commercial Street, so I don’t set tongues wagging round here, turning up in a hansom instead of Shanks’s pony.
I find Flo’s been crying. Her eyes are all red and puffy. Ma’s out at the pub with Mr. B, so she’s had the house to herself and she’s been able to let her tears flow freely. She’s in the kitchen. The gin’s on the table and I can tell she’s had a tipple. She regards me over a bowl of spuds she’s peeling. I think from the way she fixes me with a bitter look, she’d like to stick the knife into me right now.
“You been to see your detective fella?” she asks. “Told him Joe’s done a runner, have ya?” Her remark is a shard of ice that freezes me in the moment.
There’s no easy way of telling her the truth. I have to say it straight. I take a deep breath and she sees from my look that I’m about to deliver news that’ll shock her. “You mustn’t tell Ma. Not yet. Mary Jane and Timmy are alive, but I think Joe’s taken them.”
The potato falls from her hand into the pan and the blade of the knife is suddenly pointed at me. “What gives you the right to say that?” she cries. She rests her free knuckle on her hip, shifts her weight onto one foot, and cocks her head to mock me. “You had one of your visions? Miss Tindall told ya that Joe’s kidnapped ’em, did she? Did she?”
I’ve not the strength to argue with Flo. I’m feeling drained, and all I want is to lie down, but I know I owe her an explanation at the very least.
“There’s a bombing planned,” I say. It’s a blunt way of speaking, but it’s the only language my sister understands.
The knife clatters down on the table. “A bombing? What you on about?”
I sit at the table and tell her, “You may want to sit down, too.” She pulls out the chair with the unsteady leg, frowning. “I’m afraid Joe’s a Fenian.”
“What?” She slaps the table with her palm. “Don’t be so daft.”
“I think he’s plotting something.”
“Plotting?” She coughs out a laugh. “All of a sudden he’s Guy Fawkes, is he?” She pushes herself up from the table and turns her back on me. “I’ll not sit and listen to this.”
I shake my head. Flo just can’t seem to take me seriously. “Mary Jane knows too much. I’m fearful for her and Timmy,” I plead.
Lifting the pan of potatoes onto the stove, she stands back and wipes her hands on her apron. “So, where will this bomb go off? Eh?” she asks me. I think she might be softening a little.
Again I shake my head and sigh. “That’s the problem. I don’t know,” I tell her.
She shrugs and puts a lid on the pan of potatoes. “You don’t know? So you didn’t see a big bang in one of your visions?”
Her mocking hurts me. I can’t tell her that I fear I’ve been deserted by Miss Tindall, and that my head is a jumble of sounds and images that make no sense. There’s no point trying to reason with her.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, unable to bear her teasing tongue any longer. I rise and head for the threshold, but just as I do, I hear a terrible hissing sound behind me. Twisting round, I see the lid has lifted and scalding water is cascading down the sides of the pan of potatoes. Flo rushes toward the hob and grabbing the handle lifts the pan off the heat, and the boiling liquid retreats from the rim. She sighs heavily, then tosses me a look of relief. All I know is, I wish my task could be dealt with so easily.
Upstairs I undress and wash my face at the stand. The water is cool against my sticky skin. When I bend over the ewer, I see my own face is reflected at me. Even though I’ve been praying for Miss Tindall to come to me, I can’t sense her at all. I loosen my hair and brush it with firm strokes, then climb into bed alone. Closing my eyes, I try to blank out all my thoughts and let Miss Tindall fill my mind with her message. Still, my head thrums like a trapped bird in an attic, ceaselessly beating its wings. Trying to rise above the storm, I tell her softly, “I am here. I am waiting for you.”
Outside, I can hear the sound of fiddle music from the Frying Pan. It’s a ballad that soothes my mood. My aching muscles relax and worry starts to float away as my mind drifts with the current. My head feels weightless and yet my body is anchored to the bed.
Suddenly I find myself outside a lofty building made of carved stone. I can see statues. There’s Jesus, and is that Solomon? It’s a church. No, wait. It’s so grand it must be a cathedral. I walk up the shallow steps and enter through the huge portico. My head snaps back to look at the vaulted ceiling that rises above like a forest canopy. I’m marveling at the magnificence of this place, but then there comes the fear. It grows in my gut like a gallstone, and soon I realize why: This is where the bomb is. This is where it’ll explode. In a cathedral. It must be!
Is it the same place where the Fenians planned to blow up the queen on her Golden Jubilee? Westminster Abbey? It’s only then that I look down to see the floor is of the most beautiful mosaic. I think it odd there are no gravestones. On the walls are portraits of judges and there are stone pillars that taper into arches rising up on either side. I’m mistaken. It’s not Westminster Abbey at all. I’m in the Royal Courts of Justice.
CHAPTER 24
Friday, August 9, 1889
EMILY
The sound of the chimes from the Black Eagle Brewery a few yards away prompts Joseph Barnett to consult his own pocket watch.
“Six o’clock,” he announces, as if Samuel Doyle needed reminding. The fish porter strides over to the table strewn with cogs and springs and canisters and peers over the American’s shoulder.
Doyle has worked through the night on the bomb and now it’s nearing completion. “You’ve got another ten minutes before we leave,” Barnett snaps. The bile rises in Doyle’s stomach once more at the thought of the destruction the device that is being wrought by his own hands will wreak. He inhales deeply, something he often forgets to do during the process of bomb making, and allows his thoughts to wander to his lover and her son.
“Mary Jane and the boy . . . Where . . . ?”
Barnett, standing by his shoulder, ruffles Doyle’s hair again. “The Lord knows where she is, but she’ll not be putting a spoke in the wheels this time,” he tells him.
Doyle unthinkingly raises his arm to swat away Barnett’s hand, but the porter grabs it and his eyes fall on the tattoo of the phoenix. Clenching Doyle’s forearm tightly, he glares at him. “Remember, we’re doing this for the cause. For Ireland,” he growls.
The American meets his gaze. “For the cause,” he agrees.
Barnett lets the arm fall and, bending low, thrusts his face to Doyle’s. “The court will be packed with the people who are forcing families out of their homes in the winter and who turn their backs on starving children,” he snarls. He straightens himself again. “They deserve to die, and no mistake, so don’t go soft on me. Ya hear?”
Doyle wipes a speck of spittle from his cheek. He stares at his captor in sullen silence for a moment, then smiles stiffly. “Sure, I hear,” he says.
“Now let’s get on,” counters Barnett with a nod. “One of the lads is waiting with the wagon.”
At the back entrance of the Royal Courts of Justice, in Carey Street, a small army of cleaners moves in before the sessions begin, to ensure the courtrooms and corridors are spick-and-span. Many of these men and women are Irish, grateful to find work at all. Among their ranks are two new recruits—one with dark, wavy hair, and the other with a fair moustache and small eyes.
Doyle leads the way past two policemen on duty. He is aware that Barnett is close behind. A gun is concealed in the fish porter’s pocket, but it is easily accessible should the younger man prove uncooperative. False moves are out of the question. Doyle is armed with a mop and a bucket; inside the bucket is a heavy metal box. Together the men make their way to the probate court. It is where the penultimate session of the Parnell Commission will be held in just over three hours’ time. It will be filled then with the best legal minds in the land, alongside many worthies and government officials, all come to hear Mr. Parnell himself speak.
Just as Doyle is about to enter the courtroom, however, he hears Barnett say, “Not that one.” He turns to find him shaking his head and pointing to the floor. “Below.”
The American frowns.
“The coppers’ll be searching the court, but they won’t look in the room underneath,” he mumbles in a low voice.
They peel off from the rest of the cleaners to take the back stairs and reach the vaulted corridor below, unseen. A number of doors lead into offices and storerooms on either side. Barnett enters the third door on the left. It’s a relatively small room, lined with shelves used for storing court rolls, by the looks of it. Once inside, they hastily make their way to the farthest corner.
Barnett points to the ceiling. “The beaks’ bench,” he says with a gleeful smile, as if picturing the three judges being blown to smithereens in the planned explosion.
Doyle does not react, but merely sets down his bucket with extreme care. Delving into the pail, he retrieves the box with both hands. Slowly he opens the lid to rest it on a nearby chair while Barnett keeps one eye on him and one on the door. The American feels his mouth go dry and licks his lips as he surveys the tangle of wires, a metal canister, and a clock. It is the latter that demands his attention. Cautiously he opens the glass over the face and sets the hands—one to eleven, the other to twelve—then presses the alarm button. His next intention is to slide the box containing its unpredictable contents under one of the shelves. Before he can do so, however, Barnett grabs hold of his wrist.
Doyle’s eyes widen in horror. “Careful!” he chides.
Barnett delivers a scowl and proceeds to put his ear to the casing.
“Quiet,” he growls, listening for a tick. You see Joseph Barnett does not trust the American, who has shown himself disloyal before. The metallic noise marks the seconds, and once satisfied he can hear a clock ticking inside, he signals Doyle to continue. The timer has been set and the box is secreted below one of the shelves directly below the probate court, just underneath where the three learned judges will be seated. The bomb will explode in four hours, at precisely eleven o’clock this morning.
CONSTANCE
“The Royal Courts!” I cry, jerking up from my mattress.
“What you on about?” Flo’s voice brings me back down to reality. I’m sitting up in bed as the daylight streams into the room.
Shaking the sleep from my head, I leap out of bed and struggle into my best clothes, mindful of my appointment with Lady Kildane.
“What’s the rush?” asks Flo, an arm crooked over her tousled head.
Of course, I can’t say that I’ve just seen where a Fenian bomb will explode. I try and dismiss her as I struggle into my skirt. “I have to see someone,” I say.
The truth is, I need to tell Thaddeus about my dream straightaway. Although I’ve no notion when the bomb might explode, at least he will be warned of the possibility and can send extra men to patrol the courts.
Flo turns over and trains one eye on me from under the blanket. I can tell she’s still bitter. “Off to see your copper, are ya?” she mocks as I pin up my hair. I ignore her, and as soon as I’m done, I head off, but she’s like a dog with a bone.
“ ’Ad another of your dreams, ’ave ya?” she shouts after me as I rush down the stairs. “Shame you can’t tell me where Timmy is!”
EMILY
The butler interrupts Bernard Royston’s breakfast porridge at his home with an urgent message.
“Inspector McCullen is here to see you, sir.”
The spy handler rests his spoon in his bowl. He is eating alone. His wife has gone to stay with her mother for a few days.
“Show him in,” he orders, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. The detective is ushered into his morning room.
“What is it that couldn’t wait until I’ve taken my daily constitutional, McCullen?” He does not invite the inspector to sit. “Surely, Kelly hasn’t escaped again?”
The inspector’s mouth relaxes into a faint smile. “No. She is safely behind bars, sir.”
“Good. Then what is it?”
“One of my spies spotted Barnett and Doyle at the Royal Courts, sir.”
“Did he indeed? Well, well. They’ve wasted no time, these Fenians, and nor must we. As I suspected, they’ll be gunning for the Commission. Parnell is due to appear today.” He sucks air through his yellow teeth. “Let’s make sure he’s seen to change his plans, shall we?”
“Sir?”
“Come, come, McCullen. That way, when the plot is foiled, the finger of suspicion will point firmly at the Irishman.”
McCullen’s brows lift in admiration. He nods. “I’ve also ordered a thorough search of the probate court, sir.”
“Excellent,” declares Royston, looking beyond McCullen and out of the window. “Just think of it. As I said, this’ll be even better than Westminster Abbey.”
“Sir?”
He switches back to the slightly baffled inspector. “In all likelihood this time we’ll be able to produce an actual bomb. Hard evidence, McCullen. The Metropolitan Police will be redeemed in the eyes of the public and that knighthood of yours will be assured.”
CONSTANCE
My breath comes in short, sharp pants as I race to the police station. All the while I’m reliving my dream, seeing the Gothic arches and the holy statues. The more I think on it, the more I’m convinced that the Royal Courts are the target. The plotters were foiled at Westminster Abbey then—even though no bomb was found—and they can be foiled again, as long as Old Bill keeps his wits about him. The trouble is, I’ve no idea when the dynamitards will strike. Miss Tindall has given me no clue about their timing.
Tired out, I arrive to find Sergeant Halfhide behind the desk. There’s surprise on his face as he surveys my fancy jacket and skirt. I can tell he’s puzzled by my appearance, but after his confusion comes a scowl. He senses I’ll be heaping more trouble on the station.
“You know you’re not supposed to be here, miss,” he tells me all serious, then leans over the counter. “Lucky for you, the guvnor’s out.” He winks and nods toward the big office. Thaddeus, hearing my voice, appears at the doorway.
“Constance!” He looks all alarmed as I rush toward him.
“I know I shouldn’t be here, but please listen to what I have to say.”
He ushers me into the interview room, but I’m too agitated to sit down.
“The Royal Courts. They’re the target,” I say, panting.
Thaddeus can’t hide his shock. “A premonition?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “Will you warn them so they can cancel the session?”
He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I will try,” he replies, but he’s not very sure of himself. After all, why should they close down a Royal Commission on the say-so of a humble flower girl? “But if they don’t heed me . . .”
I’m struggling for words. “There must be something you can do,” I protest.
He shakes his head. “Do you know when the bomb will explode?”
I shake my head. If only I did. “Today, tomorrow. I’m not sure.” My bleating must sound pathetic to him.
“I’ll have to go and tell Commissioner Monro in person at Scotland Yard, but no one else must know. The threat must not be made public,” he warns me, heading for the door.
“What about Mr. Parnell?” I ask suddenly.
Thaddeus, reaching for his jacket and hat from the coat stand, stops to face me. “We got word first thing this morning. His appearance is postponed.”
I look at him askance. “What? Did he give a reason?” Foul play’s afoot. I just know it.
Thaddeus looks at me all wary, like it’s not something he’d given any thought to before. “You believe it suspicious?”
“I most certainly do. It’s the day they sum up the case, isn’t it?”
“How do you know?” he asks, as if my sort shouldn’t understand these things.
“Because Lady Kildane has asked me to go with her,” I tell him straight.
“I see,” replies Thaddeus, pulling down his waistcoat, like he’s annoyed with me. “You do realize you are putting yourself in great danger if you attend today?”
“I know you and your men will do your best to keep everyone safe,” I say, even though I think sometimes I know their best isn’t good enough.
His hand on the door handle, he fixes me with a stern regard. “You must not utter a word of this, Constance,” he tells me.
“Not a word,” I agree.
“And rest assured, we will find the bombers and if there is one—the bomb.”
* * *
As arranged, Lady Kildane’s grand carriage pulls up at the end of our row. I see her mouth my name as I draw close. A lady such as her would never raise her voice in public.
“Your Ladyship,” say I with a curtsy.
