Fogbound- Empire in Flames Page 4

  Isaac seemed to do nothing more than lean on the tiller. But they were angling back from the centre towards the southern shore. Isaac pointed to his own eyes with two fingers and then gesticulated. Feeling chagrined, Simmons raised a thumb in acknowledgement before turning to resume his vigil.

  Twisted rusty shapes rose from the dark water, and he signalled as instructed. Isaac avoided the obstacles, heading towards the remains of the southernmost arch.

  A dark horizontal line appeared through the fog. The rope clipped Simmons’ head, pushing it backwards. His mask pressed into his face, and as he twisted his body to free himself, the rope twanged past, taking his hat with it.

  “Stop, stop,” he shouted back towards Isaac, then remembering, held both arms out wide, waving them up and down hoping that would show Isaac that he should stop, right now.

  A heavy thrum issued from the stern and the whole boat lurched as the engine went into reverse. Water bubbled, thrashing at the rear of the vessel as she slowed and came to a standstill. Simmons regained his balance and grabbed his rifle before making his way towards the stern.

  Isaac was sawing at the thick rope that extended between the two piers they had tried to pass through.

  “A bloody rope,” Isaac said, thrusting the thick strands of woven fibres at him.

  “Yes, it almost took me off my feet,” Simmons replied. “It’s a good job I was kneeling. Otherwise, I’d have been taking a swim.”

  “Who the hell would do such a stupid—”

  “Drop that knife if you know what’s good for you.”

  The new voice came from somewhere on the bank.

  Simmons stopped and looked at Isaac. “You keep him talking while I sort this out.” He flicked his eyes down to his rifle in its protective waxcloth case.

  Isaac’s head bobbed in a slight nod then he turned to face the shoreline. “What the hell’s going on? Did you put this bloody rope across here?”

  Simmons used his body to obscure the rifle, his fingers opening the buckles with a familiar rhythm.

  “That’s our rope, and we want whatever you got on there.”

  “What on earth makes you think I’d give you anything?” Isaac shouted back.

  “Well, if you don’t, then we’ll just… sink your boat. Then what’ll you do?”

  “We’ve got guns,” another voice added from the same direction.

  A mumbled exchange drifted to them from the shoreline, Simmons thought it had started with ‘Shut up.’ He smiled to himself. Clumsy opportunists. “I’ll tell you what, chaps,” he shouted towards the shore. “Because I’m feeling generous tonight, I’ve decided to give you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I will give you… a head start.”

  “What?” came the confused reply.

  “I’m going to count to three. Then I’ll shoot you with my gun.” He waited a few seconds to let the concept sink in. “Now, I don’t know what type of guns you have over there, but mine’s very nice. It’s a Holland & Holland .303 double chambered hunting rifle. I used it while I was in India. I was a great shot, bagged quite a few tigers and a couple of elephants. It’s known as an ‘Elephant Gun’ because it’s powerful enough to stop a charging bull elephant with a single shot through the brain.”

  He winked at Isaac through his goggles. He was having far too much fun to stop just yet.

  “Well, there’s no need to get excited now,” called the voice from the shore.

  “Oh, but I am excited. In fact, it’s been a few years since I shot anyone. There was plenty of that in India, had to keep the locals and servants in their place. But, as an Englishman, it was only sporting to give them a head start. Oh, which reminds me. One…”

  Silence descended, broken only by the soft lapping of the river against the boat.

  “I can’t hear any running,” Simmons called. “Wouldn’t be sporting to shoot stationary targets, even if you do have guns. Two…”

  A splash, followed by frantic scrabbling came from somewhere on the shoreline behind the remains of the bridge.

  “Three…” A deafening explosion cut through the night from a single barrel, followed by a resounding metallic shriek as the massive round struck the support he’d been aiming at on the bridge. Isaac almost leapt out of the boat in shock.

  “Sorry,” Simmons said, looking at the waterman. “Didn’t realise you weren’t ready.”

  Isaac clutched at his chest. “My heart, my poor heart. What did you go and do that for? I nearly shit myself.”

  “I told them I’d shoot when I got to three.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think you would really do it. I thought you was just trying to scare ‘em off.”

  “That was the idea. But if we want to keep them running all the way home, I thought I’d better show willing and make a bit of noise.”

  “A bit of noise? My ears are bloody ringing,” Isaac said, shaking his head. “Bloody kids. Don’t they got nothing better to do?”

  “Kids?”

  “Yeah, no doubt they was trying to impress the Elephant and Castle with this daring robbery.” He laughed, turning to Simmons. “It seems your Elephant gun was well named for tonight. Those little buggers probably thought you’ve shot members of the gang they’re trying to impress.”

  “Do you encounter this sort of thing often?”

  Isaac returned to cutting the rope. “Not really, there’s an unwritten law that means watermen don’t get troubled by the gangs. It’s bad for business, for them and us. If word gets around that boats are getting rolled, the supply of transport will dry up or will get very expensive. Apparently, things are changing.”

  “I see,” Simmons replied as the rope dropped onto the deck and slipped over the side. “So, you make yourself too important for them to upset you too much then?”

  “That’s the idea. Now, put that bloody cannon away and let’s see if we can get you to Lambeth without any more excitement tonight.”

  Simmons watched as the flaking red-painted arches of Lambeth Bridge passed overhead. “This used to be a horse ferry before they built the bridge,” Isaac said. “But there was too much demand to get across from Westminster, so they built a permanent crossing in sixty-two. That were a farce though. The engineers didn’t think about the cabbies that needed to cross, and the approach to the bridge was too steep. It was a right royal pain getting a horse-drawn cab onto the damned thing let alone across it. Most cabbies refused to use it and, after a few accidents, where two folk and a horse died, no-one would cross it other than on foot.”

  A run-down collection of close-packed buildings dominated the view eastwards. Occasional flickers of light marred the otherwise abandoned feeling of the whole area. “Here we are, Lambeth Palace.” It was an imposing five-storey building—a large central gate squeezed between two square towers of brick. “That’s Morton’s Tower, the gatehouse. The rubble to the right is the remains of St. Mary’s. I’ll drop you there.”

  Each of the towers had a single window, one per floor. The diffuse glow in a few suggesting they had fogsheets up to protect them from any ingress of the vile stuff. Battlements ran along the top of the tower, and Simmons realised why someone would find a place like this useful. It was a miniature castle.

  With a soft bump, the boat came to a halt. “Lambeth Road. That’ll be three and six, sir.” The amusement in Isaac’s voice was clear.

  “How about we add it to my tab?”

  “Maybe next time, sir. Cash for now, if you please.”

  Simmons reached into an inside pocket and drew a handful of coins. “Four shillings, keep the change.”

  Isaac dropped them into a money belt at his waist. “Thank you, sir. I suppose I’ll have to set you a tab up now then, won’t I? You want me to wait?”

  Simmons checked his watch. It was half-past six. “Yes, but if I’m not back by, shall we say nine, then presume I won’t need your services further this evening.”

  “Right you are. There are steps on the other sid
e of the church wall there.”

  “Thank you,” Simmons said, disembarking.

  He picked his way between the rubble of what had been St Mary’s Church and crossed toward the red-brick tower. The Thames reached the sill of the ground-floor windows, and red weed clung to the brickwork above, trying to claw its way higher in a vile imitation of ivy.

  A figure poked its head out between the crenellations of the central structure. “Oy, what are you doing down there?” It was a woman’s voice.

  Simmons noticed another dark outline with a rifle to the left of the speaker. “I’m here to speak with Diamond Annie, about a mutual friend. Is she here?”

  “Don’t move. I’ll send someone down.”

  A minute later and the wooden slats of a rope ladder clacked against the brickwork and made a wet sucking noise as they hit the ground.

  “Up you come then. Nice and steady.”

  Simmons hauled himself up through the fog. It thinned as he passed the second storey, then he was looking up at a starlit sky. Pinpricks of bright light shone through the veil of deep black. As he reached the third-floor window, a fogsheet pulled aside to allow him access. He hooked a leg over the ledge and pulled himself into the small room—right into the barrel of a pistol inches from his face.

  A well-built woman in her late thirties motioned with the gun for him to move along the wall away from the window.

  “So what have we here?” she asked, pointing at his fog mask. “Take that off.”

  He reached up to the mask and undid the arrangement of buckles and straps that held it in place. “Gladly,” he said as soon as the respirator had loosened.

  “All right, let’s have it. Who are you, and what the hell do you want here?” The woman’s voice was loud and confident, as she calmly poked him with the pistol.

  “Simmons,” he said, placing the fog mask onto a nearby chair, proffering his hand. “I was hoping to speak with Diamond Annie.”

  She looked at the outstretched hand and grunted. “What have you got that Annie needs to know about?”

  “It seems we have a mutual dislike of a certain Mr John Maddox. She may find what I have to say… beneficial.”

  The woman fell silent, her eyes intent on his. “Maddox, eh?” Her demeanour shifted. “Perhaps she will want to talk to you.”

  Diamond Annie was tall. Taller than most of the men Simmons knew. There was an aura of confidence around her, a raw and ruthless ambition. It was in her eyes, an icy blue that spoke of a cold and grim determination. Her face was all sharp angles, and her nose followed an odd line, broken at least once before.

  The dim light from two lanterns illuminated the opulent room, but what caught his eye were the myriad reflections from all the rings she wore.

  “So, Mr Simmons,” Annie said, breaking the silence. “Maggie tells me you want to talk about that walking bag of piss, Maddox.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I have a contract to recover him.”

  “Recover? And what exactly does that mean?”

  “Dead, alive, as long as he’s identifiable. I heard you had recent dealings with him, and as I’m looking for him, I thought we might be able to help each other?”

  Annie sat in a plush armchair, she pointed to the other. “Sit. Let’s talk details.”

  The aches and tension leaked from his body as he sank into the old cracked leather. “So, we have a common foe. What’s your interest in him?”

  The reflected points of light danced across the walls like stars through the heavens as she steepled her fingers in thought. Rings of all shapes and sizes covered her hands, at least one on each finger. “I want that bastard’s head on a plate, for what he done to Gracie.”

  “That might cause me a problem. I have already given my word on that contract.”

  “A man of his word, eh? Now there’s a rarity in these times.” Annie reached over to lift a silver tankard from a side table. “How about you return what he took from Gracie, and you bring him back in one piece? I’ll make sure you can claim your fee after I’ve finished with him.”

  Simmons pondered the options. “Provided there’s enough for the sergeants to identify, I can do that. What did he steal?”

  “A ring,” she replied, her voice low. She seemed on the verge of saying more, emotion welling behind those icy eyes for an instant, then gone. “A diamond ring, it was a gift. I want it back.”

  Surely you’ve plenty of those already, he thought, but he restrained himself. “How will I recognise it?”

  Annie pointed to the first ring on her right index finger. “It’s the spitting image of this one.”

  It was a large well-cut stone set in a plain gold band. “Fair enough. You’ll get the ring once I’ve got Maddox. Do you know anything of his whereabouts?”

  “He’s meeting a man called Silas Cooper.”

  Simmons’ eyes flared in surprise. “The political agitator?”

  “Oh, aren’t we well informed? You know him?”

  “Not exactly,” Simmons replied. “I’m aware of him from another case.”

  “Well, Cooper’s gonna speak in the Whitechapel docks in a few days—the Britannia pub. That will be your best opportunity to catch them both.” Annie took a long draught from her silver tankard then stood. The meeting was over.

  Simmons pushed himself from the comfortable chair. “Thank you for your time.”

  Annie gripped Simmons by the hand. The single solid shake dispersed rainbows of light that danced across her chiselled features. Her pale eyes narrowed, drilling into his. “Just make sure you bring that bastard to me alive.”

  6

  Woodruff struggled forward hand thrust before his eyes. The storm raged, snow tearing at his face, the icy particles biting into his soft flesh. He was lost, and couldn’t even remember how he came to be in the mountains in the middle of the night. He was a financier from the Inner-City, not some bloody explorer.

  The last he remembered, he was out slumming it in one of the seedier areas of Whitechapel. After a skinful of spirits, and still revelling in the opium haze, he’d spotted the woman. She was stunning. An English rose among the orientals and lascars who inhabited the dens. His eyes struggled to follow her, and he realised she was little more than a girl. That didn’t bother him. The younger, the better.

  She noticed his stare and sauntered back, half-naked, and dragged him off to a waiting carriage. More drink and drunken fumbling, then they staggered into a sleazy bordello and up narrow stairs to a room. It was all a blur of light and dark amidst the sickly perfumed pipe smoke.

  It must be a dream. Either the smoke or the spirits had addled his brain. Another icy blast shook him back to the present, almost taking him off his feet. He slipped on the snow-covered path, his hand grabbing the jagged rocks as he fought to keep his balance. Pain tore through his palm, the frozen flesh burning. It was so cold, his skin hardly bled. This wasn’t a dream—he really was stuck on a mountainside in a nightmare of a blizzard.

  He cried out for someone to help him, pleading as he fell to his knees, tears freezing on his eyelids. Then she was there, the beauty he had met at the opium den, reaching out to him. He took her delicate hands, and she pulled him to her.

  “Don’t worry, Cyril,” she said. Her palms burned, but her words were honey. “Are you ready for some fun?”

  He was ready, all thoughts of the pain from the biting wind gone in an instant, consumed by lust. He reached for her, pulling her into a sinuous embrace as her two arms entwined around him, three, four?

  What the hell was going on?

  His eyes burst open, revealing the horror. Tentacles crushed him in a vice-like grip, their dead grey flesh squirming over his half-naked form. A scream froze as something slimy thrust itself into his mouth, clawing for his throat. Then he saw the eyes.

  He stumbled back over the cliff edge, and the obscene creature fell entangled with him, its writhing appendages gripping him in a ghastly embrace. Air rushed past, ripping at his flesh as the vile cluster of
eyes tore into his soul, and he howled.

  The girl gazed from the shattered third-floor window. Two street lights shed a dull glow over the pallid body impaled on the railings. Iron spikes jutted through his chest, neck and shoulder while dark liquid oozed from the mangled corpse. Shards of glass sparkled crimson where the light caught sharp edges on the blood splattered cobbles.

  She hawked and spat onto the disgusting figure. With a wry smile, she turned to leave the room, and the memories of her past, behind.

  7

  Simmons shot upright with a snort, not realising where he was for an instant. The paper draped half on his lap, the other half had somehow made its way onto the floor beside him. It was pitch black outside. He reached for the half-full cup of tea but realised it would be cold. It sat upon the silver platter, along with the sandwiches which Mrs Colton had left for him earlier in the day. He really had landed on his feet when he’d found this place.

  His pocket watch showed a quarter past two in the morning. Damn, I need to get back into a daytime routine. The rapid turnaround his line of work required accustomed him to a more nocturnal lifestyle. But for now, he needed more sleep if he was to attend this meeting where Silas Cooper was due to speak. Then he’d catch up with Maddox—two birds with one stone.

  The bare mantlepiece caught his attention, and he cursed, searching for his rifle case. It clicked open with the smooth action that spoke of expert craftsmanship, and he lifted a velvet-lined compartment revealing a teak shaving box.

  The familiar gouges in the weathered surface scratched under his fingers as he opened it. Angling the hinged mirror, he began his evening ritual. As he retrieved items from within, he laid them beside it: a short candle, a teaspoon celebrating Victoria’s Golden Jubilee and Surita’s wedding ring. The last thing, a cracked photograph from Bombay, was the only image that remained of her. Water-stained and torn around the edges, he placed his wife into the mirror frame and lit the candle.