Chapter Four

The Spreading Net

1.

THEY CALLED IT Dear Old Dirty Dublin Town.

Nathaniel, for all his travels between the inner planets, had never actually been to Britain’s closest island neighbour. At Enderby’s insistence he was to travel lightly and without ostentation, and so had caught the train from King’s Cross to Liverpool under the watchful eye of one of Enderby’s mute underlings. He had not even been allowed the luxury of first class (an eye opening experience that he instantly resolved to omit from his diary) and was thankful for the small meal of smoked salmon and cheeses he had had his housekeeper prepare. From the Liverpool docks he had boarded the ferry and, after watching England slink into the distance and several minutes staring out to sea, he realised that his sea legs were not so sturdy as his space legs and elected to have a little sit down and drink some weak tea until the whole sorry voyage was over.

Enderby’s lapdog had returned on the ferry, but not before breaking his silence to quiz Nathaniel on the minutiae of his mission. Rankled by the man’s apparent skepticism concerning both his abilities and his short-term memory, his reply had been terse.

“I am to meet a man named Charles Cahalleret—known locally as ‘Tally’—in a public house known as The Bleeding Horse, located in St Kevin’s Port on the city’s south side. And yes, before you ask, I have studied the man’s daguerreotype so minutely I couldn’t fail to describe him to his own mother. He has information pertaining to the gentleman who built the bomb, and I am by no means to trust him. After that, your superior has trusted my instincts as to how the investigation should progress and, by Heaven’s eye, man, I’d be grateful if you did the same.”

Without even a goodbye, the lapdog had left.

Back on solid ground again, a rather picturesque tram ride brought Nathaniel to Pearse Station, and turning south onto Westland Row he met the city proper.

Sectarian squabbles aside, Nathaniel had not been sure how he would react to what was ostensibly the Empire’s “Second City”. He had to admit that, despite having arrived in the chilly air of a September afternoon, he was really rather enjoying himself. Popular belief would have had any visitor imagine the city a destitute hive, inflamed by Times editorials and heated talk of Home Rule. And yet, as Nathaniel paced idly down Nassau Street, the grandeur of Trinity College to his right, he felt curiously at home. Georgian architecture abounded, young lovers and smart-dressed gents took their strolls—the whole thing smacked, he thought wryly, of Putney. There was even a game of cricket being played on the college green, overseen by an imposing and rather matronly pavilion.

One could not deny, however, the squalor that bristled at the city’s edges, in the corners of market squares, taverns and side-streets. Dublin’s population had grown, and with that a need for jobs that fell sorrowfully short. London’s expansion meant a wealth of factories and workhouses which were sadly absent here, and the guttersnipes and destitutes that flitted between the city’s grander occupants—though no stranger to Nathaniel’s eye—seemed all the more dissolute as a result. He saw two women pulling at each other over a shawl, and a small boy wrestle away a man’s pocket-watch before fleeing. But such were the strains of city life, and he instead decided to concentrate on the brightness and curious energy of the place.

He had memorised his route, took a left down Dawson Street and crossed through St Stephen’s Green. Here, the air seemed even brighter—ethereal, almost—the trees halted in their journey to turn an autumnal brown. Nathaniel drank it in, this unspoilt mirror of a London blackened and choked by Industry’s metal-and-mortar maw. Such was the price of progress, he reasoned.

He headed south, out of the park. Before long he had reached St Kevin’s Port, and he looked up at the building in which he was to meet his informant and guide.

The Bleeding Horse was an ugly building, its extended gable and darkened windows looking somehow like a frown. As Nathaniel reached for the big brass handle the door was pushed open and a large man, pock-marked and unsteady on his feet, lurched out. He looked Nathaniel up and down and smirked before tumbling on his way towards the city’s centre. As Nathaniel watched him go, he felt his eyes drawn upwards to the sign that hung on a great steel bar that extended from the building’s front like a warning. The picture showed a great white horse, rearing up, its throat pierced. Its eyes were wide and panicked, a jet of crimson arcing from the wound. Nathaniel made his way into the fug of smoke and fumes of porter, and wondered how Arnaud and the newlyweds were faring.

2.

ARNAUD WAS NOT a natural smoker of cigars, but in this environment it was somewhat gauche to be otherwise. Despite himself, he was finding the thick stub of tobacco silkily decadent, no doubt made silkier by the cognac. The great glass sheets of the observation deck stretched around him like a halo, sunlight flecking from steel girders and chandeliers alike. He found, much to his surprise, that he could actually ease back further into the depths of his chair, and he groaned momentarily in delight. God bless her Majesty! Liberté, égalité and fraternité could all go hang. This was living.

The pleasant tremble of the airship’s engines hummed under his feet, adding to the air of lazy indulgence he was more than happy to encourage, both in himself and the staff on the sidelines. He need only gesture for them to refill his glass, or bring him an amuse-bouche or another fine cigar. He was no longer a simple geologist, and Enderby had insisted that he play the part assigned to him—that of the spoilt son of an exiled marquis who had fled the revolution to the haven of Florence. And Arnaud (or at least, who Arnaud was supposed to be) was in good company. Lords and Ladies took in the day while the landed and the nouveau riche argued over card games, decorated Germans got solidly drunk and relived their past glories with a raucous camaraderie. Arnaud drank it in, all the while drinking cognac.

As he placed his glass back down, a black-clad arm swooped down and picked it up. He looked up into the face of the man Enderby had sent along with him. What was his name again? Ashford, or Ashforth, something like that. Pleasant enough, somewhat mild and milky-eyed, and as Arnaud had adopted the role of the nobility, so this milquetoast had adopted the role of the serf and servant. It was only keeping in character, Arnaud thought hazily, that he could not remember the fellow’s name.

“Bon, Ashton,” he said, waving lazily. “Encore.” Ever the professional, the servant of her Majesty’s secretest of services bowed and left to bring him more booze and nibbles.

Arnaud had noticed the gazes of ladies with their débutante daughters drawn his way. He would often catch their eyes and smile, smirking as mothers pulled their daughters aside to instruct them in the next steps of snagging old French money. He would not give them any truck, of course. But the game and the surroundings would provide him an amusing distraction, he decided, as the airship chugged its inexorable way towards the Indian subcontinent.

It was mostly the British on board the dirigible. Factory owners were expanding their businesses and career soldiers sailed to make their names in hot, uncertain climes. The vagaries of Empire business and the flirting of socially mobile schoolgirls didn’t trouble him much right now, and besides, he had plenty of time to sober up before the ship reached port. Keeping up appearances, especially in these lavish surroundings, never felt so good. He had two days more to enjoy it.

“I hear,” said an excitable matron unsubtly to his left, “that he’s technically a dauphin…”

Arnaud took his drink from his uncomplaining valet and waved him away, smiling. He could get used to this, and wondered idly how his friends were getting on.

3.

“THIS IS NOT how I imagined my honeymoon progressing, George.”

She was furious, and, having been married for the best of two days, the only thing Bedford truly wanted was to make his bride, well…slightly less furious. This was proving somewhat difficult thanks to circumstances that were frustratingly beyond his control. He was becoming used to married life.

Firstly there had been the problems with the luggage. Enderby—or at the very least, somebody in his employ—had been tasked with bringing it to the aerodrome for their departure. But their cases and Annabelle’s grand selection of hats had somehow failed to materialise.

“It’s never easy, is it?” she grumbled, stepping up to board the airship Pall Mall with a swoosh that was, to Bedford at least, dismissive.

In all fairness, Enderby had been apologetic. He was clearly unused to such hiccoughs and was duly penitent, a welcome crack in his otherwise standoffish demeanour. “I guess we’ll have them sent along,” he muttered, avoiding Annabelle’s poison gaze. “All we wanted was for you to enjoy a trip that would prove memorable. Speaking of which, may I introduce Mister Boon? Bertrand Boon. He’ll be joining you for the journey.” And Enderby extended his arm to introduce a black-clad man.

“Really, George,” Annabelle fumed as they’d closed the door on their cabin. “It’s not too much to ask, is it? A little romance and a change of clothes,” and here she raised her voice unnaturally, angling her head towards the cabin door, “and privacy!”

There was the soft clearing of a throat from beyond the wooden portal. Having served on so many ships—both on the seas and in the void between worlds—Bedford had to admit that their accommodation was, to put it mildly, somewhat basic. It was spartanly decorated, all straight lines and a chest for their non-existent luggage, maybe five feet by eight. But what had really been the icing on the cake was the bunk beds.

“I’ll talk to the steward,” he said. “Mister Boon must have some sway, as do I. After all it’s a British ship, and I’ve more than a few shillings in my pocket. We’ll sort something out, my dearest.”

“I am not your dearest,” growled Annabelle. “I’m your wife.” Bedford thought it best to back off. He did so, unsure of what to do next. Annabelle sighed.

“I’m sorry. It’s not the surroundings, it’s the situation. Do you not think something…untoward in all this? That we’re provided with a vacation, all,” she glanced around the room, frowning, “expenses seen to, and to add insult to injury they’ve packed us off to Arizona. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m not looking forward to returning, it’s just…” She sighed.

“Oh Annabelle, I know…” Bedford understood the conflict Annabelle must have felt deep within herself. Knowing her pain so intimately, he knew there was little he could offer to truly ease her mind. Arizona was the state of her birth, her home—and yet also the place in which she was captured and incarcerated for two years by the indigenous Indians. It was an experience that had made her the woman she was, and the woman he loved, but also one which had deeply affected her, and left scars and terrible memories far beneath the surface of her skin. Even he was not aware of all the traumatic events that must have transpired—he was not even sure Annabelle recalled the worst of them, and for a woman as strong as she, this must surely indicate some horrific ordeals indeed.

Annabelle looked him in the eye, took his hand. “George, we could be sleeping in a back-alley slum, cabbage leafs and cardboard for our bed, and we would still have each other. And I would be happy if you were at my side. But I fear it will never be the case. I fear we will never have the chance to live happily as a married couple. It’s not the fault of either of us, of course, but the callings of a world that may well never leave us in peace until we’re dead. Had you thought of that?”

Of course he had. In fact, the very same thought had not been far from his mind since Enderby had proposed their surprise excursion. His allegiance to the Navy was one thing, but this was quite another! Yes, Enderby may well have had the safety of her Majesty (and, logically extending from that, the realm) at heart. Bedford had no qualms about that allegiance, and was proud of the fact he shared it—and yet, and yet…he could not shake the fact that he was being taken advantage of, that his good nature and fortitude was being exploited by people whose motives remained worryingly opaque. He had his loyalties—fealty to the Navy, to Crown and Country—but his love for Annabelle and his marriage vows put her above all other pledges, and he desperately wanted to prove this to her.

“Mister Boon!” he called forcefully. The door opened and Mister Boon’s face—thin, cautious, with a grossly receding hairline—popped between the gap beside the jamb.

“Yes, Commander Bedford?”

“Ah, so you are aware of my rank, then, sir?”

The man furrowed his brows.

“I am, sir.”

“Well then kindly look around you, Mister Boon. Do these look like a commander’s quarters? And what’s more, do they look like the quarters of a commander on his honeymoon?”

“They do not, sir.”

“So glad you agree. See to it, eh, Boon?”

Mister Boon smiled wanly, but there was a certain warmth there. “With pleasure, sir,” he said.

4.

EYES FOLLOWED NATHANIEL as he traversed the room. Some were hazed by drink, others were suspiciously sharp. Everyone, it seemed, had noticed him. This may not have been due to Nathaniel merely being an outsider. The inside of the pub, which pretty much resembled a large, hollow cube, was crammed with low, skulking tables and darkened nooks along the edges. A solid wooden staircase climbed the left hand side of the room, inviting drinkers up to a mezzanine that looked down on the main floor. Behind the bar, other rooms and corridors branched off into the darkness. Tally could be anywhere, and in order to make sure Nathaniel did not miss his man he found himself scrutinising every single face, and it was clear that his interest was unwelcome. He had already noticed the barman’s gaze follow him relentlessly, whether the man was idly polishing glasses or pouring a customer their dark, black pint.

Nathaniel suddenly found himself shoulder-barged by a passing drinker, and as he wheeled around, babbling a quick apology, he found the man had already taken offence.

“Why, there y’are, ya gobshite!” he growled, and suddenly Nathaniel felt two arms like iron girders wrap around his waist and yank him down. To the general cheers of the crowd the lout grasped Nathaniel in a headlock and yanked the helplessly protesting professor back outside. As the air of the outdoors hit him he struggled, was nudged around by his assailant and brought upright. Nathaniel raised his fists to defend himself, pistol-keen and ready to duck a punch, but instead found himself looking into the face of a rather familiar man, smiling and brushing off Nathaniel’s lapels.

“Now here’s a piece of advice for you, Professor Stone. If you find yerself walking into an Irish inn, as a Britisher you do one thing. You look at the walls. If you see our fair Isle’s declaration of independence posted up there in English, get out while your legs still can. If you see it written in Irish, well, that just means they just haven’t decided how they’re gonna kill you yet.”

Nathaniel rubbed his throat and got his breath back. “And which,” he asked, gasping, “is the case in there?”

“Neither,” smiled the man, extending a hand. “But that’s hardly the point now, is it? Tally Cahalleret at your service.”

He was much as he had looked in the picture. A hardened man, clearly, albeit a handsome one. In his early thirties, he had jet-black hair, blue eyes, strong jaw line, and was somewhat shorter than Nathaniel had imagined him to be. He wore a waistcoat and open collar and a wide, flat beige cap was balanced diagonally over his head.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Cahalleret.”

“Tally, please. Mister Cahalleret was my arse of a father. Sorry about the roughhousing. It’s just I had to get ya out of there before one of them boys heard ya talkin’, or worse, tapped ya for a drink.”

“It’s quite alright.”

“Right so. And speaking of drinks, Professor Stone, can I indulge ya? I believe we have some business to discuss.” He opened the door for Nathaniel. “After you.”

“But…”

“Ah, don’t be soft, man. I’ll tell ’em ya paid what ya owed me and that’s what we’re drinking on. C’mon now. Don’t be shy, but keep your gob shut. At least ’til we’re in private.”

Following shortly after Nathaniel, Tally yelled to the crowd “He’s alright, fellers!” and waved at the barman. “Stephen,” he said, “rack a couple up and bring ’em through. We’ll be in the snug.”