The Shadow in the North (22 page)

Sally stood in the yard behind the shop and looked into the back of the van. She ran her hand over the nearest pile of cardboard folders and then turned and flung her arms around Frederick.

He responded in kind, and the embrace only came to an end when a round of applause broke out from somewhere above them. Frederick looked up to see the broad grins on the faces of the glaziers who were putting the windows into the new studio.

"What the devil are you grinning at?" he roared.

But then he saw the fiinny side of it and grinned himself; Sally smiled too. They went into the kitchen.

"D'you want to check them?" he said. "See if they're all there?"

"In a minute. . . . Oh, Fred, thank you, thank you!"

She spread her hands, helpless, and sat down in tears. Jim opened a bottle of beer and poured it out for them. Frederick drank deeply.

"How did you do it?" she said. "Its unbelievable. . . . I really thought I'd lost everything."

"I wrote a letter," he explained, "on the firm's stationery—not this firm. Turner and Luckett's—authorizing the removal of certain files to number forty-seven, Hyde Park Gate. That's all."

Turner and Luckett didn't exist. Frederick had had various items of stationery printed in that name, which had earned their keep several times already. Sally nodded, beginning to smile.

"I guessed they were at Baltic House," Frederick went on. "Obviously they weren't in the police station; Bellmann's men might have worn police uniforms to impress your landlord's clerk, or they might even have been real police—I bet he's got enough influence to swing that—but he's the only one who'd be interested in them. No, we waited till we saw Bellmann leave the building, and then we just walked in. I guessed they wouldn't question it if they thought the files were being moved to Bellmann's house."

"We've done it before," said Jim. "Its funny, aint it, Fred? Amazing what you can get away with. You could walk in anywhere with a bit of paper in your hand— you could get away with murder, almost."

"Oh, if I'd lost these. . ." Sally felt cold at the thought. If her files were out of her hands, she couldn't look after her clients' money—and if the stock market moved in the wrong direction, it could be disastrous. She'd made some surprising profits for some of her clients, but she'd had some narrow escapes, too. Everything depended on having the information close at hand and being able to move quickly; when she thought what she might have lost. . .

"Could you take them to Mr. Temple's for me?" she said. "There isn't room for them here, and since they know where I live, that's not safe either."

"I'm going to have a bath," said Frederick, "and then I'll have something to eat, and then I'll take 'em wherever you want. And while I'm eating, I'll tell you what I found out up north. But not a word of that till I've got some food inside me—though I tell you what, Jim: we've got to find Mackinnon."

Sally was different, Frederick thought as he shaved. More than just shaking her, Chaka's death had altered something deep inside her. Was it in her eyes? Her mouth? It was hard to say where the expression showed, but it moved him unbearably. And when she'd arrived, dark-eyed and paper-white—it was the first time he'd ever seen her helpless in that way, frightened, needing

him. And the way she'd clung to him . . . Everything was changing.

Over lunch he told them about Henry Waterman and the Steam Gun, and Sally added her findings from the patent library. Webster came in from the studio, heard what they were talking about, and sat down to listen.

"What d*you think happened, then?" he said. "Summarize."

"Bellmann and Nordenfels went to Russia," Sally began. "Nordenfels designed this gun and patented it there, only they couldn t build it in Russia because they haven t got the factories, or the techniques, for that matter. They needed somewhere with a lot of locomotive-building experience."

"Then they had a fight," went on Frederick. "They quarreled over something—don t know what—doesn't matter, really. Bellmann killed Nordenfels and stole the plans for his gun and came to this country—and invented a designer called Hopkinson."

"And patented the invention in his own name. He must have had Russian money," said Sally.

"Why?" said Webster.

"Well, when his match business collapsed he was left with nothing. But when he arrived in this country in '73 he had no end of money. This is just a guess, but I think he was subsidized by the Russian government. They wanted the Steam Gun built, and they ftmded him to get it done. The rest of his activities—the ship-

ping, the buying up of companies and selling off their assets—all that's just spare-time stuff. The Steam Guns the main thing.. . . But, you know, I can't see who'd use a gun like that."

"I should think any general would give his right arm for it," said Webster.

She shook her head, and Frederick smiled, recognizing Sally the military tactician.

"In the first place, you could use it only where there's a railway line," she explained. "And you couldn't expea an enemy to wait politely until your engineers had laid down a line in the right place. Besides, it only fires broadside, doesn't it?"

"That's what I understood from Mr. Waterman," said Frederick.

"In that case the line would have to go right through the middle of the enemy position. Otherwise you'd have to have it parallel to their lines—and even then half your firepower would be aiming back at your own troops."

"I see what you mean," said Webster. "But that's ridiculous."

"Only if it's designed as a battlefield weapon. But perhaps it isn't."

"If it's not for fighting battles with," said Frederick, **what the devil is it for?"

"Well. . .," Sally began. "Suppose you were the ruler of a country, and you didn't trust your people. You thought there was a danger of revolution. As long as

you had railway lines to the main cities and ports, and a number of Steam Guns, you'd be perfectly safe. It s an ideal weapon for that sort of thing. Its not to use against your enemies—it's to use against your own population. It really is evil."

They were silent for a moment or two.

"I reckon you've cracked it, Sal," said Jim. "But, look—are you going to move in here or not? For one thing, they know you're still alive. And once they twig we've snitched your files back, they'll go barmy. I would. And she ought to move in as well—Miss Meredith. We've got the room, after all."

"Yes," said Sally. "I think it would be best if I did." She didn't look at Frederick.

Jim went on: "And what's this about Mackinnon, Fred? You found out why Bellmann's chasing him, then? What's it all about?"

Frederick told them.

As he spoke Sally could see Jim's face getting redder and redder. Eventually he turned away and began elaborately to trace a design with his fingernail in the scrubbed wood of the kitchen table.

"So there you have it," Frederick said when he'd finished. "Scots law. You can get married at sixteen there, without any consent at all. I should have spotted it before I got to Netherbrigg: Gretna Green's the first village over the border. I guess Nellie Budd arranged it out of some kind of sentimental sympathy—she can't have been in love with him. That was just Jessie's jealousy.

But where does that leave Wytham? Where does it leave the girl, for heavens sake? We have to assume that Bell-mann knows about it, since Windlesham got the facts out of Mrs. Geary some time ago. Obviously Mackin-nons in danger, but..."

"He's in danger while no one knows about the marriage," Webster pointed out. "As soon as it's public knowledge, he's as safe as houses. Not even Bellmann would dare to bump him off then; the whole world would know why. Come to that, d'you suppose her papa knows?"

"Mrs. Geary said he did," said Frederick. "He came to her, apparently, and tried to pay her to keep silent about it. She sent him away with a Calvinist flea in his ear. I liked her, you know. Dry as dust, but she had a sense of humor—and completely honest. She said she'd say nothing until she was asked, and then she'd tell the truth, and no one could make her do less or more than that."

"So Wytham knew about it all the time he was arranging the engagement photograph and announcing it in The TimeSy' said Webster. "He's in trouble, isn't he?"

Sally said nothing. She was thinking about Isabel Meredith.

Suddenly Jim stood up.

"Think I'll go out for a breath of air," he said; and without looking at anyone, he left.

"What's the matter with him?" said Webster.

Frederick groaned. "The boy's in love," he said. "And

I forgot all about it. Look, Sally—^we'U take your stuff to Mr. Temples, and then go to Islington and pick up Miss Meredith and whatever you want to bring here Then I'll find Jim and we'll go and look for Mackin-non. What a case. What a case ..."

(Srlude Cpark

¥

It was a dry, mild afternoon, with a fitful sun-shine breaking through filmy clouds. Jim made his way to Hyde Park, fists thrust into pockets and a scowl on his face, and it was well for Alistair Mackinnon that he didn't bump into him.

But by the time he'd reached the park he'd calmed down. He made his way to the carriage drive and sat on the grass under a tree, running his fingers through the dry leaves beside him and watching the carriages pass to and fro.

It was the wrong season to drive in the park. The proper time to be seen here was the summer; the drive was so crowded then that the traffic hardly moved at all, but that wasn't the point. The point was to come here and be seen with your groom and your landau or your victoria, your grays or your bays—to be acknowledged by Lady This, to cut Miss That, In the winter all that social jostling took place indoors, and the carriage drive was left to the few people who wanted to breathe some fresh air and exercise their horses.

But Jim had come there to see Lady Mary.

Ever since that dreamlike day when he'd seen her in the winter garden, his mind had been fixed on her Uke a compass needle on the north. He'd haunted Cavendish Square, watched her leave and come back, seen her in the drawing room window. . . .

He admitted to himself that he was besotted. He'd known girls, dozens of them, barmaids and housemaids and dancers, bold ones and shy ones and provocative ones and prim ones; known them to talk to and flirt with, to take to the music hall or on the river. He'd never had much trouble attracting girls. There was nothing special about his looks, but he was maturing into a sort of rough handsomeness, most of which was due to his vitality and confidence. He was easy with girls, too, liking their company as well as their kisses: hasty kisses by area steps, or longer ones in the darkness behind the scenes in a theater or in the seclusion of a bower in the old Cremorne Gardens before they closed.

But that was nothing like this. Never mind the social gulf between them: she the daughter of an earl, he die son of a cabdriver and a laundrywoman; even if they'd been able to meet in a social way, he'd still have wanted to treat her differendy, because i/^^was utterly different. Every little movement she'd made that day in the winter garden, every curl of her rich hair, every shade of warm color in her cheek, the memory of her sweet breath on his face as she leaned close to whisper—it was all infi-

nitely precious; and he didn't know what in the world le could do about it.

Except watch. And in his watching heel learned that she was in the habit of driving out in the afternoon; and at a guess, she came to the park. But it was a good yuess. It was the obvious place to go. And as a carriage ::ame past Jim's tree he looked up from the leaf he was fhredding and found himself gazing into her face.

She was driving past in a pretty little victoria. The top-hatted coachman stared straight ahead as he held Jie whip at the correct arrogant angle. She was leaning jack lisdessly, but when she saw Jim she sat up at once uid made as if to speak, putting out her hand—and iien the carriage swept past and she was hidden from dght by the hood.

Jim was on his feet at once and running a step or two ifter it, helplessly. But then he saw the coachman inline his head and lean back a little, as if to hear some-Jiing, and the carriage slowed down.

He closed his eyes. It was thirty yards away; he heard lie clop of hooves come to a stop, and a sentence or wo in her voice to the coachman, and then the carriage noved away.

She was waiting for him under the trees. She had on in astrakhan coat and was carrying a muff of the same naterial; a hat trimmed with dark green ribbon sat high n the crown of her head. She was perfect. Jim found limself moving toward her without knowing how or

why or what was happening; and he found his hands reaching out, and saw hers responding, all without thinking; and then in a confusion of recollection and awakening they remembered who they were and stood in an awkward silence.

Jim took off his cap. That's what you did, he thought, to ladies.

"I told the coachman I wanted to walk," she said.

She was as nervous as he was. ^ "Neat litde carriage," he said.

She nodded. "You've hurt your mouth," she began, and then looked away and blushed.

As if they'd agreed on it, they began walking slowly along under the trees.

"D'you always come out alone?" he said.

"You mean without a chaperon? I used to have a governess, but she was dismissed. My father hasn't very much money. Or used not to have. Oh, I don't know what to do. ..."

She sounded like a young child—shy and trusting and wary—and her extraordinary beauty had something unformed about it too. It was as if she didn't know what to do with it, as if she'd just been put into the world.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Look," he said gently, "we found out about Mackin-non.

She stopped and closed her eyes. "Does he know?" jhe whispered.

"Bellmann? Yes. Hes hunting him down. He nearly ot him the other night—that s where I lost my tooth, fou can't have expected to keep it secret, after all. Your ather knows, doesn't he?"

She nodded. They walked on slowly.

"What can I do?" she said. "I feel like a prisoner. Like omeone sentenced to ... to death, almost. There's lothing I can do to escape. It's like a nightmare."