Chapter Seven

The Secret of Phoenix Park

1.

NOT ONLY HAD Annabelle been mistaken about the attacker’s use of firearms, she had also been disastrously wrong about their tactics. She had expected them to fan out a few metres from the train, moving around to take the carriages from both sides. Yet they had stayed as a fairly close-knit group, ploughing on relentlessly towards the engine. Something, she thought, was terribly amiss.

Of course, it was dashed generous of them to stay so close together, as it made them a far larger target. Bert had winged one of the horses with his incongruously-named pistol, sending the rider head first into the sun-baked soil, where he lay still. But the riders were sending up so much dust and were approaching at such a pace that finding and keeping a target proved difficult.

As the attackers yanked back on their horse’s reins, the wave of dust they had brought with them hit the carriage and spilled in through the open window, making Annabelle and Billy gasp for breath. They heard muffled shouts from outside, and with an alarming crack the lock was shot from the carriage door.

“Everybody, quick, backwards,” said George, glancing to check Annabelle’s progress as he made his way to the next carriage down. “We can set up defences, pick ’em off!”

The door was kicked open and a bullet whizzed into the space, making everyone duck instinctively. Bert had already crouched behind a table to cover their retreat, and as the first silhouetted assailant boarded the train he took him down with a deadly shot between the eyes. That would give them pause for thought! George ushered Annabelle and the others through, then took his place in the booth opposite Bert. The two men nodded at each other.

“The others will get everyone out and make sure we’re safe to follow them,” said George. “Annabelle knows what she’s doing.”

“You’re a lucky man,” said Bert, and saying this he narrowed his eyes and raised Elizabeth towards another assailant’s face. In a split second he had taken aim and pulled the trigger.

Momentarily deafened, George wheeled around to see where Bert had shot, and caught a glimpse of one the riders falling from his saddle into the dust. A neat bullet hole sat at the centre of the window.

“I’m doubly blessed,” said George.

“I’ll say,” said Bert, winding his gun’s clockwork mechanism once more. “Shall we see about that retreat?”

They pulled the sliding door behind them just as the invaders had begun to storm the carriage. Annabelle had already set herself up to take the shot through the window in the door. She steadied her Winchester and put a bullet straight through to the first attacker’s forehead. She managed a couple more volleys before the strengthened glass became too criss-crossed with cracks to adequately see through.

“We need to open the door,” she yelled.

“What?” came a voice.

“The door, we need to open it to drive them back!”

Ignatius, not the most graceful of gents at the best of times, lumbered forward as quick as he was able. He threw himself heavily to the ground (George was too polite to mention later that he felt the carriage lurch), bullets thudding into the door from both sides.

“Get ready!” he yelled. They readied their weapons.

Ignatius inserted his fingertips into the minuscule gap between the door and the jamb and, using his considerable strength, flung the door wide open before covering his head with his arms. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Already prepared, George, Annabelle, Bert and the armed train workers unleashed a wicked salvo of gunfire through the gap. Three of their assailants dropped almost instantly, the rest diving for cover or fleeing back out into the desert.

There was a moment of calm after the ferocious volley, the air thick with cordite and the iron smell of blood. The advantage was now on the defender’s side as they trained their weapons straight through the door to the corridor beyond. As soon as one of the pinned-down attackers tried to move they were wisely advised not to try by one of Bert’s pinpoint bullets ricocheting from a nearby surface. The attackers returned fire occasionally, but blindly, unable to find a target without exposing themselves to a shot to the gullet.

“Right,” muttered George, mostly to himself. “What do we do now?”

“Stalemate,” agreed Bert. He ducked nimbly across the aisle and took a quick peek outside. Some of the riders had already fled, and as they spurred their horses into the distance, one of the raiders—who Bert could only assume was their de facto leader—was bawling at them for their return, yelling curses and promises of retribution in a mid-western drawl. Definitely not Indians then…

He rode back to where his compatriots milled around the carriage and began banging on the windows, yelling for them to crawl off their yellow bellies and fight like men. Somewhat affronted by this sleight against her sex, Annabelle quickly leaned from her position and took a pot shot at him through the door, taking the man’s hat clean from his head. The bandit reeled and ducked down on his horse before turning the beast around and spurring it into a gallop from the crime scene.

“Your leader has abandoned you!” called Annabelle into the next carriage. “Surrender is your only option!”

There was a moment of silence, and then came a reply. The reply, strangely enough, was fizzing.

A red cylinder had been tossed through the carriage, landing several inches before the prostate Ignatius and rolling towards his face. The farmhand ceased making peace with his creator and opened one eye experimentally. When he saw the fuse sparking away right in front of him, he genuinely wished he hadn’t.

“Dynamite!” he yelled.

“Technically, I suppose that’s another option,” opined Annabelle coolly.

As soon as the explosive had landed the bandits in the carriage had begun to move, grabbing the bodies of their comrades-in-arms and dragging them back outside.

“Quickly, Ignatius, grab it!” said Bert.

Ignatius hoisted himself up and grabbed the stick of dynamite, tossing it from hand to hand like a hot potato.

“What do I do, what do I do?”

Bert leaned himself back and shot out the window nearest to him. “Throw it, you lunk!” he bawled.

Ignatius pulled his arm back and pitched the dynamite out of the window, throwing it some twenty feet from the train. As he did so, one of the attackers took the opportunity from hauling his deceased companion to ready his six-shooter and take a shot at the big man’s frame. The bullet struck Ignatius in the shoulder with the sound of splintering wood and the big man fell heavily to the floor. Not wasting a moment, George raised his Winchester and fired in the direction of the gunshot, taking down the cowardly bandit with hot lead to the heart.

Suddenly, the train was rocked by the explosion of the dynamite. All the windows were blown in simultaneously and the carriage rocked perilously for a moment. The defenders were all thrown to their feet, with George landing heavily on the injured Ignatius. The big man did not react to the impact, and George noticed sadly that his face had gone grey and the wound was bleeding profusely into the fine, first-class carpets.

2.

ONE UNIVERSITY BAR, discovered Arnaud, was very much like another the world over.

In fact, Arnaud was becoming increasingly more stunned by the manner in which certain areas of Calcutta resembled Europe. As well as the clean splendour of White Town, the university building itself wouldn’t have been out of place in the streets of Marylebone or Munich. It was an ornately uniform building, its front decorated with arches on each of its three levels and a large, cuboidal portico supporting two large pillars at the entranceway. The whole building seemed solid and safe, yet somehow stern—not surprising from a building composed of so many right angles, and hardly inappropriate for a seat of higher learning.

They had made their way into the interior, which Arnaud found blissfully cool. Impeccably dressed students, mostly Indian but with a good mix of Caucasian faces, filtered silently through the hallways, carrying books or huddling together momentarily to pass the time of day. Signs written in Bengali and English pointed them to the back of the building, where the bar was located.

Arnaud felt pleasantly nostalgic to be back on a campus, even if it was on the pretence of finding an academic he had no real desire to see. The nooks and crannies of the bar were filled with students smoking, drinking tea and arguing loudly over their chosen subjects. Arnaud noticed with some pleasure that, more often than not, these arguments were conducted in a volume more conducive to elaborating the intelligence of the speaker, rather than getting the point across. That definitely took him back….

“Where do we start?” he asked Coyne.

Coyne shrugged.

“I’m just child minding, you’re the university sort. You sort it out.”

Arnaud could feel his patience running thin.

“Yes,” he said, controlling his temper, “but it was your idea to come here in the first place. I’d have thought you’d have more to offer than just getting me to ‘sort it out.’”

“Well, you thought wrong. Where would you start?”

“The geology department, perhaps?”

“Not my fault if you didn’t think of that sooner.”

Arnaud gritted his teeth and headed to the bar, where a helpful and smartly-dressed Hindu offered them tea, then gave them directions to the geology department.

3.

NATHANIEL HAD ASSUMED, perhaps naively, that Tally was to conduct his business quickly, maybe shunt Nathaniel off to a nearby park or even leave him waiting outside. He did not expect to be part and parcel of the deception.

Tally and he had walked about halfway up to the town centre, with Tally either doffing his cap and waving a cheery hello at his acquaintances or hastily grabbing Nathaniel’s arm and pushing him across the street to avoid someone. Whether the person Tally would greet or dodge was arbitrary—it ran from guttersnipes through to businessmen, from decidedly rough-looking characters to elegant ladies in their dotage. Tally was clearly a well-known man about town, and Nathaniel wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a good or a bad thing. He was gently leaning towards bad.

They had walked several feet up George Street before Tally had hooked Nathaniel’s arm once more and pulled him into a professional-looking office building set slightly back from the main road.

“Stand at the back,” said Tally. “Don’t say anything, and look stern.” Nathaniel then found himself being winked at.

Without even a by-your-leave Tally had pushed into the building and headed straight for a door on the ground floor. He didn’t knock or present himself, just breezed into the office as if he owned the place and sat down in the chair opposite the room’s occupant—a balding, sweaty, harried-looking man in a waistcoat and watch chain, sat before a precarious pile of papers. Mustering all the sternness he was capable of in the circumstances, Nathaniel sidled in and stood at the back of the room, his arms crossed.

“This here’s Mister Walsh,” said Tally, gesturing behind him. “From the Galway branch.”

The harried-looking man behind the desk sputtered and looked up at Nathaniel, almost knocking over his ink pot in the process.

“I didn’t think,” he said nervously, shuffling his papers, “that is, I never imagined, Mister Walsh…”

“Shush, shush now, Cormac. Can I call you Cormac, Cormac?”

The man looked up nervously to Nathaniel. Not knowing what else to do, Nathaniel nodded at him. Cormac transferred his nod to Tally, who beamed.

“See, there we are!” he said. “All good and friendly. Y’see now, Cormac, I told you I’d have it sorted an’ now everything’s nice and easy and above board. So there’s nothing stopping you sorting me out now, is there?”

Cormac, who had begun sweating profusely and tugging at his collar, nodded. “Of course, of course. There’s still a few papers to get through, stamps to, ah, stamp. That kind of thing. I’ll be with you presently.” Slicking his hair back with the sweat from his brow, Cormac rose clumsily and headed to the door. As he passed Nathaniel he looked at him beseechingly, half in terror, half in awe.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered. “I never meant, I mean…” Nathaniel eyed him stoically. “I’ll go and get the papers,” finished Cormac weakly, closing the door gently behind him.

Nathaniel waited a moment.

“And what was all that about?” he exploded.

“Ah, relax. You did grand.”

“I’m not asking for a critique of my performance, Tally, I’m asking what the hell you’ve just got me embroiled in!”

“Nothing serious, nothing illegal. Technically, anyhow. These pencil-pushers just need a nudge every now and again, just to get ’em to see through the red tape. See? Yer man Cormac’ll be back in a jiffy with the papers, then it’s a quick stop by the National Library to see a fella who owes me ten bob and we’re golden. A trip to the park awaits.”

4.

IGNATIUS, IT TURNED out, was bleeding fairly badly but only from a flesh wound. A local sawbones had been enlisted from the petrified passengers in the rear carriages. He looked Ignatius up and down, diagnosed the bullet had grazed his shoulder blade, and set to work patching up the farmhand with a torn-up shirt. Pleased that the man who had proved himself so worthy was going to be all right, Annabelle and the others got down to investigating the body of the attacker George had managed to fell at the last moment, along with that of his fellow ne’er-do-well.

It was like something out of a school play, or a children’s book. These men—they were clearly American, or Caucasian, at least—looked like they’d found their Indian costumes in a dressing-up box. Blankets or hessian sacks had been cut up to make ponchos and rough chaps. Moth-eaten bits of leather or shoelaces had been tied around arms or linked together to make tassels. Feathers from seagulls and ravens were tied onto headbands made of old bandage. Dried mud had been used to simulate war paint.

“It’s ridiculous,” fumed Annabelle. Her relationship with the indigenous American Indians was a complicated one, of that there was no doubt, but this was just plain insulting. “How on Earth could anyone believe that these were genuine Indians?”

“Maybe we were never meant to get such a close look at them,” said George. “If they’re a bandit gang it makes sense. Attack a wagon from afar, maybe convince whoever you’re attacking to drop any valuables and flee… Survivors might report an Indian attack, and any marshals sent out wouldn’t be looking for brigands. Just Indians.”

“But why attack the train?” pondered Annabelle.

“Desperation?” offered George. It was hardly a convincing argument, but at present nobody had any better ideas.

Bert had got down on one knee and was going through the pockets of the two fallen men for clues. He came away with a few rounds of ammunition and a bowie knife, but no real leads.

George turned to Billy.

“Has there been an increase in Indian attacks recently? Anything like that?”

Billy frowned. “Not really, sir. Been much the same as ever. Although…”

“Although what?” asked Annabelle quickly.

“Though there’s been no attacks, there’s been…rumours, I guess. Sightings.”

“What kind of rumours?”

“And what kind of sightings?” added George.

Billy looked down and fiddled with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t give much credence to ghost stories, sir…”

“Well,” said George, trying to calm the man, who was pale and clearly suffering from some sort of delayed shock after the incursion, “we do. Trust me, Billy, we’ve seen it all, and you’re not in some tavern you’re going to get laughed out of. Come on. Take a seat.” He gently took Billy by the arm and set him down on the nearest bench. Billy breathed heavily, composing himself, and looked to George.

“Sorry sir,” he gasped. “I always thought that when it really got down it, I’d be a bit more use in a fight. But when it’s there, right in front of you, and when some Injun is trying to take your life an’ alls I could think of was my darlin’ Babette back at home…”

“You did fine, Billy,” soothed Annabelle, kneeling next to him. “And you’ll see Babette soon enough. But this is important. What have you heard?”

“Mostly rumblings,” said Billy after a deep breath. “Prospectors coming back into town, the odd rancher who’s been out on the plains. Say there’s been a lot of activity roundabouts Greenore Gulch, though no-one in their right mind would have any business there. Tried to mine for silver there back in ’64, only it got abandoned, and there ain’t been much talk of it since.”

“How so?” asked George.

“Well originally, sometime in the spring of ’65, they say the miners were chased off by Injuns who reckoned it was a cursed place, warning the white man off. Now normally I’d just put that down to a savage’s mumbo-jumbo, only my Uncle Tobias spent a bit of time working there. He says the further they dug down, the more strange things started happenin’. Began, he says, with this itchin’ in your head. This crazy feelin’ you couldn’t scratch. Some of ’em even used to say that the ore in the walls used to vibrate somethin’ ungodly, and the seams used to glow bright green in the moonlight. Sent a couple of men stark raving mad, so they say.”

George and Annabelle shared a glance. This all sounded worryingly familiar. “And how about now?” asked George carefully. “What’s happening up there at the moment?”

“Well this it,” said Billy, looking up at him helplessly. “No-one’s quite sure. They say they’ve seen all sorts up there—Injuns, miners, soldiers, the lot. There’s even been talks of skirmishing, gunfire and explosions. One old cowpoke says he even felt the earth move, and green lights blazin’ up the sky like ball lightning. Only I don’t pay him no heed as he’s halfway blind and fully pickled on moonshine.”

“Well, any information is useful.”

“But there’s been no attacks on other trains?” asked Annabelle.

“Not that I know of, miss.”

“So what’s so special about this one?”

Annabelle, George and Bert looked at each other.

“Quite,” said George.

“Bert,” said Annabelle, “did anybody else know of our plans to come out here? Anyone in the Admiralty, or your Bureau?”

Bert shrugged.

“I couldn’t tell you, ma’am. Certainly Mister Enderby and the other few agents sent off with your friends. We were all briefed on that. Captain Folkard knew, of course, and your uncle. It’s highly unlikely many people knew. A half dozen, at most.”

“So if we were targeted, then…” interjected George. He seemed reluctant to finish his sentence.

“It scarcely bears thinking about,” agreed Annabelle.

This sombre and troubling realisation caused the three of them to ponder for a moment. Annabelle, lost in thought, found herself glancing at Billy who, if it were possible, seemed to have gone an even whiter shade of pale. She initially feared he may be having some sort of cardiac seizure and was about to call for the doctor again, but his eyes were wide as cue balls and he pointed to the windows behind Annabelle.

“I…I…Injuns!” he stammered.

“I told you Billy, they weren’t…”

But Bert and George were following Billy’s gaze, and out of the windows, staring through at them into the wrecked carriage, were four very genuine Indian braves dressed in their full regalia.

5.

HAVING TRAMPED UP countless flights of stairs and through corridors ripe with the scent of learning, past lecture halls and professor’s office from which drifted the sounds of mathematics and history in languages exotic and familiar, Arnaud and Coyne found themselves in the reception area of the University of Calcutta’s Geology Department.

A young British girl, maybe seventeen years of age, sat behind the desk at reception looking resolutely bored. Her face lit up when Arnaud and his companion entered, chiefly because they were giving her something to do that didn’t involve a student waxing cock-and-bull on why their essays were late.

“Hullo!” she beamed, sitting upright to look more professional. She wore thin-rimmed spectacles, her hair was up in a bun and she had a chipper, upper-class accent that smacked of a childhood in the home counties. “Welcome to the Geology Department. How may I help you today?”

“Well,” said Arnaud, and the girl’s interest noticeably peaked when she caught his French accent, “we were wondering if we could talk to someone regarding the whereabouts of one of the teachers here.”

“Of course, monsieur,” she said, doubtless feeling very cosmopolitan. “Which of our esteemed professors can I help you locate?”

“We’re looking for Doctor Garrecreux,” said Arnaud cheerfully. “Doctor Fabrice Garrecreux.”

The girl’s face fell.

“Well,” she said, pursing her lips. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Give me a moment, if you would. I’m afraid this is a matter I’ve been instructed to bring straight to the Vice-Chancellor.”

6.

ARNAUD AND COYNE had waited patiently in the ante-room adjoining the reception, pointedly not talking to each other and studying portraits on the walls and the pot plant in the corner. About twenty minutes passed, then the young girl popped her head around the corner and cleared her throat.

“Gentlemen,” she said, somewhat more formally than before, “Vice-Chancellor Bannerjee will see you now.”

She led them efficiently and silently through the department and up a flight of stairs at the end, heading to the administrative heart of the college. Typewriters clacked behind closed doors, punctuated by the shunt of filing cabinet drawers being pushed into place. The wooden walls and air of quiet decorum could have come from any of the colleges in Oxford or Cambridge, though the bright light through the windows offered more illumination than had been seen in those dusty corridors for many, many years. The girl led them to a large set of double doors and curtseyed gently.

“He’s expecting you,” she said. “Go on in.”

Sir Gurudas Banerjee held the distinction of being the first Indian Vice-Chancellor of Calcutta University, and had inauspiciously begun his post by having to deal with a scandal in the geology department that was not of his making, the details of which Arnaud was about to learn.

His office, like much of the university, was a seamless integration of British institutionalism and Indian exoticism. It had wood-panelled walls that eschewed the rectangles of Imperial design, instead choosing curls and onion-shaped domes. A classically large bookcase stood against one wall, an Indian rug covered the floor and a tea set sat before a green leather Chesterfield to the left of where Arnaud and Coyne entered. Vice-Chancellor Banerjee smiled at them warmly. He was a thick-set man, authoritative but welcoming, dressed in a turban atop a morning suit that had the collar open to accommodate the heat.

“Gentlemen,” he smiled, “please take a seat. Can I offer you any refreshment?”

Arnaud and Coyne politely declined, and Vice-Chancellor Banerjee relaxed back in his chair as his guests sat before him.

“Let us dispense with any formality,” he said. “Miss Warrington informed me you have asked after Doctor Garrecreux.”

Arnaud looked at Coyne, unsure as to whether he or the agent should take the initiative. Coyne’s dismissive, feline look told the young Frenchman he was on his own; it was almost as if the spy found the whole mission to be a dull chore.

“That’s true, Vice-Chancellor. We are.”

“And why, might I ask, are you looking?”

“We were hoping to count on his expertise. Did you hear of the bomb attack in London recently?”

“There’s very little of British business that does not get reported here, sooner or later,” sighed the Vice-Chancellor. “And so we heard of it. A terrible affair.”

“Bon. And so we have been sent by Her Majesty’s Admiralty to investigate any possible leads that may lead to the perpetrators, and we believe Dr Garrecreux may be able to assist us with the identification of certain…”

“Please,” said Gurudas, “I am sympathetic to your goals, but am not sure how I can help you achieve them. Doctor Garrecreux is gone, Mister…?”

“Fontaine,” said Arnaud, “Doctor Arnaud Fontaine.”

“Doctor Fontaine,” said the Vice-Chancellor, leaning forward, “while we are more than aware of the Empire’s business on these shores, perhaps the scandals of Her Majesty’s outposts do not reach London. If they did, surely you would have heard of Dr Garrecreux’s…in the words of your countrymen, faux-pas.”

Arnaud shifted in his seat. Coyne gazed away, still bored. The Vice-Chancellor waved away their discomfort.

“Politics is something one must face as the head of a university, Doctor Fontaine. It is nothing new. The pressures of dealing with such issues are manifold in India, on a local and global scale. This,” he cleared his throat, “faux-pas of Doctor Garrecreux was something far less pressing than other difficulties my country may be facing, but was nevertheless an issue I could have done without, both personally and professionally.”

“Of course,” nodded Arnaud, feeling like a chided schoolboy.

“Good.” Having got this out of his system, Vice-Chancellor Banerjee seemed to relax, satisfied he had made his point. It was almost as if he blamed Arnaud for his ersatz teacher’s behaviour on account of their shared heritage.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he continued, carefully. “I have the utmost respect for Her Majesty’s Navy. I have heard tales of the ruthlessness with which the Mutiny was suppressed; the last thing I wish is for such a power to be brought to bear on Calcutta. You have seen, I take it, Black town?”

“I have,” answered Arnaud.

“Then you have seen what the Navy’s guns could do to such a settlement—the people there are barely protected from the weather, let alone cannon fire. And yet I fear, Doctor Fontaine, that Black Town is an area you may have to get more familiar with, should you wish to find Garrecreux.”

“Told ya,” muttered Coyne.

Both Arnaud and the vice-chancellor ignored him.

“Any information you could give me regarding his whereabouts would leave me sorely in your debt, Vice-Chancellor.”

“I’ll tell you what I know, of course, along with any other information I have that may help you navigate Black Town safely. But I would ask you, with all due respect, that you keep the scandalous nature of Garrecreux’s behaviour to yourself. This is a respected place of learning, and I do not want my tenure at its helm to be tarnished any further by that irascible, weak-willed blackguard.”

“Of course not,” said Arnaud, once more feeling he was somehow being blamed by implication. The vice-chancellor narrowed his eyes and studied Arnaud’s face for a moment, and Arnaud knew that any gesture of uncertainty, even the slightest indication that he was not being wholly sincere, would have caused Arnaud and Coyne to leave none the wiser of Garrecreux’s current location.

After a moment, it seemed Arnaud had passed the test.

“Very well,” nodded the vice-chancellor. “I will tell you. As so often happens, the cause of Fabrice Garrecreux’s fall into infamy was a woman. You will not be surprised to learn that she was young, beautiful… And dangerous.”

7.

PHOENIX PARK COULD be found just west of the centre of Dublin, an expansive green space north of the Liffey that provided Dubliners young and old, rich and poor, with respite from the chaos of the city. Despite having quickly and efficiently reclaimed his debt from his acquaintance at the Library (the details of which Nathaniel was spared, much to his relief), Tally had refused to pay for a cab and insisted on walking the mile or so from Temple Bar. The sky had turned ashen as the afternoon had aged, a cold wind blowing in from the bays on the east. Not having eaten since breakfast, Nathaniel found his mood becoming ever more tetchy, not helped by Tally cheerfully reminding him every few minutes he was ten bob up.

“I don’t care if you’re rich beyond the dreams of Solomon,” grumbled Nathaniel, after the fifth time Tally’s suspiciously-gained wealth was mentioned. “Are we nearly there yet?”

“Ah, quit your gabbin’, and be grateful the Zoological Gardens are on the side of the park closest to us.”

Nathaniel had endured many perils and unenviable situations during his adventures, but none had yet had the ability to irritate him quite as much as the combination of an empty belly and a chipper Irishman. Eyes peeled for somewhere he could at least grab himself a snack, he trudged on.

When they reached the park, they walked up through the people’s garden, a delightful evocation of current horticultural fashion, which now seemed mournful due to the cold and the fading light. Dublin’s denizens were scampering back to hearths and home-cooked food, almost as if they were primordially aware of the heinous feats of villainy that the area would be subjected to that very night… And, in fact, had already and violently begun.

Tally strode up to the entrance lodge, a small cottage building with a thatched roof, as proud as you like and as happy as a clam. He greeted the porter who stood in the building like an old friend, but the man’s reaction was such as to make it clear that he didn’t know Tally from Adam, and nor did he wish to.

“Hullo, my good man,” began Tally’s charm offensive. “I was wondering if we might not take a quick squint round, take in the beasts in the dying light, so to speak.”

“Well you can wonder otherwise, and sling yer hook into the bargain. Nobody in tonight. That’s what they told me, and that’s what’s happening.”

“Ah, we’ve still got an hour or two of good light left. Maybe more if the clouds blow over. We’re paying customers.”

“Are your ears blocked, sonny, or do I need ta box ’em open?”

“Now now, no need for that, my man. Truth is I got a nephew works in there, feeding the ferrets and that. Simon, his name is. And young Simon, y’see, his Ma’s awful sick with the gout, an’…”

“Young Simon, you say?” said the porter, stiffening up.

“Aye, that’s him. Simon Sheen.”

“Well if that’s the case his Ma’s got more to worry about than her gout. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but yer nephew had an accident, not more an’ an hour ago. Seems as if he went and dropped himself in with the lions. Poor bugger didn’t stand a chance.”

“Simon? You’re telling me Young Simon’s dead?”

“Well, what’s left of him ain’t movin’ around so much, so I’d guess so.”

“Well I gotta get in there man, I’m family!”

“That’s as maybe, but the constabulary were pretty firm in tellin’ us there’s no use having all an’ sundry gawkin’ at bloodstains. I’m sorry for yer loss, fella, I really am. But it ain’t gonna happen tonight.”

8.

TALLY WAS SITTING with his head on his hands on the kerbstone. He and Nathaniel had walked away quietly, Tally clearly shaken, and had taken up residence in a darkened stretch of Chapelizod Road, where the Irishman had stopped and sat to gather his thoughts.

“I wasn’t even really his uncle,” he said, mostly to himself. “I was just knocking off his ma….”

Nathaniel wasn’t sure what to say. He genuinely felt for Tally, whose mood of gregarious energy had been replaced by one of sorrow and deep despondence. Once or twice he thought to reach forward to comfort the man, but Tally’s blank-eyed stare across to the other side of the road seemed to indicate that any solace Nathaniel might have offered would have gone at least unheeded, at worst returned with anger. Nathaniel was left in a state of disturbed contemplation. This turn of events was worrying indeed, and the fact that Tally’s contact at the zoo had met such an ignominious end was a coincidence he was sure had grave and dangerous connotations. It was clear that Tally was thinking the same.

“It’s not right, is it?”

“I’m sorry?” said Nathaniel, drawn suddenly from his mulling.

“The fact that Young Simon noticed all that, with the ground shakin’ and him asking questions… That you and I were only talkin’ about it last night, and then he meets his end? Just like that?” Tally’s quiet anger had been replaced by resolution, and the fog of mourning had parted to reveal a need for answers in his heart…and retribution in his eyes.

“I must be honest with you, Tally,” said Nathaniel, easing himself to sit beside his friend. “I’ve found that in these matters there is no such thing as chance, no arbitrary occurrences… These people I was sent here to stand against, to fight… They have no mercy, no remorse, no respect for the lives of young or old, or for families….” He looked Tally straight in the face, and the Irishman’s eyes had turned as hard as old bones. “The plots that I have encountered, the greed, the violence, it goes far beyond any petty squabbles our respective countries may have. They are but trifling when compared with the evil men may do to harness the powers opened up to humanity when we discovered how to fly between the void. I know this may seem harsh, but there is far more at stake at the moment than the freedom of Ireland, or the life of your poor, departed nephew.”

“Oh, I know that well enough,” said Tally. There was steel in his voice. “And that’s it though, isn’t it? Simon, he was a, he was…” And Tally began to laugh, recalling him. “He was pretty feckin’ useless, truth be told. His ma used to badger me to get him along on a few of me jaunts, y’know? Get him to earn a bit more coin, have him as a bit more than the man who tosses grain in the cages. But I knew he couldn’t hack it an’ I knew he was happy where he was. Harmless to boot. An’ these bastards still think it fit to take his life.”

“These are the men,” said Nathaniel quietly, “that must be fought.”

“Then fight ’em I shall,” said Tally. “And a lion’s claws will be like God’s grace compared to what I’ll do when I get my hands on ’em.”

At that sentiment Nathaniel found himself smiling.

9.

TALLY SEEMED RENEWED and, rather worryingly, imbued with a vengeance. Nathaniel knew that those at their angriest were prone to make the greatest mistakes, and while he appreciated how Tally’s zeal may help them, he was also concerned that it might prove to be their undoing.

They had returned the way they had come and were skirting back around the walls of the park. As soon as they had found a sufficiently darkened and quiet section of the wall, Tally hoisted himself up and was offering Nathaniel a hand in order to haul him after him. After a short scuffle accompanied by only the mildest of swearing from Tally, they were both over the brink and into the darkened park. The night was still and cold, illuminated by a frozen and unfeeling moon. The grass seemed crisp beneath their feet, the trees still in the black and breezeless air. Tally, it seemed, was in his element. He slinked around, quickly and half-crouched, with an almost instinctive ability to stay unseen in the shadows. Such was his ability to lose himself in the dark he had to backtrack once or twice to show Nathaniel the way after losing him, and quickly the pair made their way towards the silent stillness of the zoo.

As a child, Nathaniel had been fascinated by exotic beasts, and had spent as much time in London Zoo studying them first-hand as he had poring over them in books and magazines. Nevertheless, he knew his timorous childhood self would have felt somewhat differently having encountered the zoo at night—this was a place of terror. Growls emanated from cages, permeated by the padding of clawed feet more suited to the dust of the African plains. Birds with beaks as long as their bodies would shriek suddenly, the clatter of their black wings filling the air and dying again just as suddenly. Though Tally seemed impervious to these shocks to the senses, Nathaniel felt the need to steel himself against such savage noises. Even a Russian could be reasoned with; the same was not true of a tiger. And yet, if his fears proved true concerning the fate of Tally’s nephew, he was genuinely unsure which killer he would choose to face.

He almost cried out when he bumped into Tally, who had stopped and crouched in the darkness before him.

“Good grief,” he hissed. “You’re like a ghost.”

“Aye, well, when you’ve been about as much as I have, Professor, you know when it pays to keep yourself hidden. Quick question.”

“Go on.”

“Now we’re here, what the feck do we do next?”

It was a good point. Nathaniel had been too concerned with stealth to give much thought to a plan, but now that they had stopped he devoted his mind to thinking about the situation logically and practically.

“If we’re going on the assumption that your nephew was murdered, we must also assume that his observations were correct—that there is, indeed, something rotten under the grounds of the zoo that out enemies will kill to keep secret. So we need somewhere that is deeper than the rest of the park, but close… Now, you mentioned earlier these two men. The English, the bomb-maker, he seems happy to kill from afar, with fire and cowardice. But the other one, well… I think he’s more of the ‘hands-on’ of the two, regardless of what his hands are actually made of. And if he draws the eye, their base of operation must be close to the lion’s enclosure in order that this big fellow is seen as little as possible. Any ideas?”

“Not just an idea,” said Tally, who seemed to have regained some of his previous joie-de-vivre, “but a good one to boot. C’mon.”

Shortly they found themselves outside a darkened, circular building made of thick, solid stone. Though built in an older style, the freshness of the mortar and the cleanliness of the bricks was apparent to Nathaniel even in the sombre lunar light.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, chiding himself. “You said as much yourself. This must be the area that was closed off before….”

“Aye.” Tally grinned. “That it was. And you can smell the lions from here.” He delved into his pocket and brought out a small pen-knife and a lockpick. “Give me a jiffy,” he murmured, before getting to work on a lock that Nathaniel could barely see in the gloom, let alone attempt to open.

Shortly, and with a muttered swear-word of triumph, the lock clicked heavily and the door squeaked open just an inch on its hinges.

“I do wonder about your past, Tally,” observed Nathaniel.

“Bugger the past,” said Tally. “Just appreciate I’m a professional in the present.” Unable to argue with the logic, Nathaniel followed him inside.

10.

THEY FOUND THEMSELVES in a large, doughnut-shaped atrium that arced away to the left and right. The air was humid and still. Lining the walls were glass-fronted exhibition cabinets filled with various earthly environments—the fronds of ferns, thick branches leaning diagonally between them, shallow green pools and patches of desert sand. In the dim light that glowed within them, the animal eyes of reptiles and rodents would flash momentarily before fleeing into the shadows.

“Let’s take a look around,” whispered Nathaniel.

They began to move along the curving corridor. Nathaniel’s eyes scanned each exhibit minutely, ever alert for something out of place. Tally would occasionally cup his hands against the glass to take a curious peek at the exotic beasts rustling around within, but more often than not was unable to see what was inside. Nathaniel frowned. As far as he could tell, everything seemed to be in order—this was just a normal zoo, made marginally spooky by the silence and the dark. Yet he couldn’t shake the keenness of his instincts, which told him that this must be where they needed to be.

“There must be some sort of chamber behind this inner ring,” he muttered, aping Tally and cupping his fingers against the glass to see if there was a hatch on the back wall. A large bearded lizard blinked lazily back at him. “Some sort of access point, perhaps to feed the animals and clean the cages. Hello…what’s this?”

After stepping back from the dragon’s gaze his eyes fell upon an exhibit distinctly different from the rest. It was set inside the inner wall, directly opposite and facing away from the door through which they had entered. He strode up to it purposefully, Tally close behind him.

“Something caught your eye, Professor?”

“Indeed, something has…”

What had piqued Nathaniel’s interest was a free-standing exhibit that purported to show the flora and fauna of Mars. It looked as if it belonged more in a museum than a zoo—a crude diorama of the bleak Martian landscape, with two statues of Martians made from resin standing in its centre. The figures, Nathaniel noted, were rough and inaccurate, as if their sculptor had only the most basic sketches from which to craft their likeness. Seemingly based on the more civilised Canal Martians, their long, elfin features were out of proportion, with eyes that were far too wide and too many fingers on each hand. They were also incongruously dressed in a patchwork of skin and fur, more redolent of cavemen than the actual baroque styles the Canal Martians commonly wore.

“Bit of a rum pair,” observed Tally.

“Quite,” rejoined Nathaniel, “and they’re not the only thing that’s rum here….”

Nathaniel quickly unhooked the maroon velvet rope that served as a barrier to curious hands and restless children, and carefully stepped around the resin figures to the back wall. A pale red Martian sky had been painted there, and Nathaniel started running his hands up and down the wall to gauge if there was some sort of break that could act as a doorway. He quickly found a crack and, tracing it with his fingers, discovered the distinct outline of a door. He tried pushing it, pulling it and even sliding it to one side—all to no avail.

“There must be some sort of switch,” he said to Tally, exasperated. “Have a look around, see if you can see anything.”

Tally got to work on the left of the scene while Nathaniel looked down to his right. Clearly, at this point, the model maker either knew something Nathaniel didn’t or was just letting his imagination run free, for he had built a couple of plants into the ground that resembled nothing Nathaniel had ever seen on Martian soil. They resembled a kind of thistle with a corkscrew-shaped stem from which vicious looking spikes emanated, each being about four inches long, the plants themselves a couple of feet high. These fantasy plants were a pale green colour, looked almost translucent, and were topped with a large black bloom like a sunflower. Nathaniel knelt down to examine them. The thorns, he noticed, were razor sharp.

“Curious…,” he muttered, experimentally prodding and withdrawing his finger quickly. He looked at the base of the plant closest to him, and noticed something odd. Where the bottom of the stem curled into the ground there seemed to be some sort of recess, a break in the otherwise unbroken floor in the exact shape of a circle. It was totally unnoticeable unless you were looking, and was surrounded by a plethora of the angry-looking spikes.

Careful so as not to pierce his skin, Nathaniel edged his hand inside the curling stem and pushed down firmly on the button.

There was a loud clunk and the sound of groaning, and he looked up to see the outline of the door had swung backwards a fraction.

“Bingo,” he breathed. He quickly extricated his hand and stood, and with Tally looking on he gave the door a gentle push. It eased open smoothly on well-oiled hinges. There was nothing but darkness beyond.

“After you,” said Tally cheerfully. Nathaniel frowned at him.

11.

THEY FOUND A couple of lanterns in a cupboard on the wall just inside the door and, having lit them with a couple of matches provided by Tally, took in their surroundings. Nathaniel’s previous assumption had been correct—they were in a circular room at the centre of the ring. A spiral staircase built from wood jutted from the walls surrounding a dark, empty hole at the centre. There were no handrails, and the stairs creaked ominously as they began their descent down the well.

Their journey was a long and careful one, each step tested carefully before Nathaniel, who was leading, would trust his weight to it. They were, he estimated, perhaps two hundred feet down before the stairs stopped at an unevenly-hewed stone floor. A tunnel roughly cut from the bare rock yawned before them.

“Someone’s been busy,” remarked Nathaniel.

“What is this?” asked Tally. “Some sort of mine?”

“I’d guess so. The Russians do seem overly keen on digging, I’ve found. It’s either that or some sort of…escape route? But why?”

“Only one way to find out,” said Tally. He gestured like a valet for Nathaniel to take the lead once more. Ducking his head, Nathaniel entered the tunnel. He had not gone far before the roof began to open out and a soft light from ahead allowed them to abandon their lanterns. They proceeded with the utmost caution, but the closer they got to the source of the light, the more apparent it became that this mine—or whatever it was—was deserted. There was no sound of any sort, not the thrum of machinery or the barked instructions of soldiers, which prompted Nathaniel to wonder why the lights had been left on….

Shortly, the tunnel opened out into a larger cavern. Compared to some of the Russian cave systems and mining operations Nathaniel had seen on Luna, this one was decidedly modest. It was only a couple of hundred feet across and roughly dome-shaped, with a rough ledge carved around the circumference half-way up the wall. Wooden props and staircases were dotted around haphazardly, and the mouths of several lesser tunnels opened ominously into darkness on both levels. Hemp ropes and rusted pulleys hung from the ceiling, deathly still. It was the centre of the cave that proved the most intriguing. A mineshaft had been dug into the floor and, now convinced that whoever had dug it had absconded, Nathaniel jogged up to peer into the dark. He had expected the hole to yawn sickeningly into the depths, but found the shaft was not as deep as he had thought—he could easily see the ground, which was littered with abandoned chunks of machinery, pickaxes and cables that fed the spectral lights. A large tarpaulin sheet covered something in the centre of the pit, and was Nathaniel mistaken, or did he detect a faint green pulsing from underneath it…?

“Whoever they were they must have known the location of what they were digging for to a high degree of accuracy. This is far more efficient than you’d expect….”

“Well that’s just dandy,” said Tally. “Shame the same thing can’t be said about us. We’re no closer to knowing a damn thing.”

“Not the point, Tally. Not the point. What’s important is that we’re finding out. Otherwise, what’s the point of being here?”

“Exactly the question I was asking meself….”

Nathaniel noticed a ladder leaned up against the lip of the pit. “Chin up, Tally!” he said, clapping the Irishman on the shoulder. “Onwards and downwards….”

Relieved that the ladder was at least sturdily constructed, Nathaniel began his descent into the hole. Tally followed him down.

After dusting himself off primly, Nathaniel surveyed the scene.

“It looks like all the answers will be discovered under that tarpaulin,” he noted, and strode across to the wax-covered cloth. It had been tied down firmly at the corners onto pegs that had been drilled into the floor, but there was enough give at the sides to allow Nathaniel a quick peek underneath. He had not been mistaken—he found himself looking at a sheer green wall, crystalline in nature and glowing faintly.

“Remarkable! Tally, have you still got that penknife?”

“No, I left it behind on account of its terrible weight. Of course I’ve bloody got it.”

“Well then don’t be facetious and hand it here.”

Tally did as he was instructed. Nathaniel scratched at the pale, translucent material, hoping to carve off a chunk—but the penknife barely made a scratch.

“Whatever it is, it’s tough,” he remarked, before using the penknife to cut away at the rope that held one corner of the tarpaulin down. He quickly sawed through, and lifted up the corner to reveal a small section of the crystals more fully. They spiked and branched from a central root, looking almost organic in nature. Nathaniel gripped one of the outcroppings firmly, a hexagonal chunk roughly six inches long that tapered into a deadly-looking point. He gave it a yank, and felt it give; put all his weight against it and his shoe against the side before tugging with all his might. With a delicate snap, the piece came away in his hand and he fell backwards into the grit.

“Laterally,” he said, as Tally helped him up, “it’s firm as a diamond, but it’s far more brittle on the horizontal plane. As if it’s composed of some sort of tubing….” His mind began to whirr with possibilities. “Here, Tally, help me undo the rest of these ropes. I need to get a good look at the formation as a whole.”

Tally got to work unfastening the knot at the other corner with his fingers while Nathaniel cut away at another. They both finished their task simultaneously and, catching Tally’s eye and nodding, Nathaniel whipped the tarpaulin up and away with a whoosh of air. His heart fell when he saw what he had revealed.

“Oh dear,” he muttered, swallowing loudly. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

“I’m thinkin’ you weren’t expecting to find that,” noted Tally, his mouth dry.

“If I’d had my wits about me, Tally, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I should have expected to find!”

The crystal growth had been revealed in all its glory. The main trunk was about two feet high, from which smaller gems branched like fronds of lightning. The top of this trunk had been sheared away like a felled tree. Attached to this plateau was a device whose construction Nathaniel instantly recognised, even though previously he had only seen it in shards and blackened pieces.

With a sinking feeling deep in his abdomen he realised how much bigger this version looked than the one he had examined in the bowels of the Admiralty….

The mechanism and construction of the bomb were almost identical to how Nathaniel had imagined them, as he’d carefully pieced the machine together in his mind. The body was built up of copper, beautifully crafted with intricate fractal patterns and polished to a gleaming shine. A clockwork mechanism jutted from the main section, ticking ominously and surrounded with a glass dome, and Nathaniel felt almost breathless when confronted with the sheer ingenuity and elegant perfection of this device of death. He noted the steel tubing strapped to one side, calibrated, he deduced quickly, to prevent the housing from being moved even a fraction of an inch. Yet there was a distinct difference in this far more terrifying version…. Before, where a glass tube had held the crystalline powder, wires ran from the heart of the infernal contraption and were embedded solidly in the depths of the crystal’s root.

“We need to get out of here,” said Nathaniel. “We need to get out of here as quickly as possible!” Any thoughts of immediate escape for Tally and Nathaniel were curtailed by a sound far more ominous than the soft ticking of the bomb. From the ledge above them came the sound of a slow hand clap, and a nasal voice in clipped, upper-class tones purred.

“Well congratulations, Professor Stone. I knew you’d get there in the end.”

Tally and Nathaniel’s gaze shot upwards. The pit was not so deep that they could not fully see an impish figure sitting with his legs dangling into the hole. He wore immaculate green tweed, a shallow-brimmed hat with a small brown feather in the band and was smoking a cigarette from a long ivory holder gripped tightly between his teeth. Next to him stood a giant of a man, perhaps seven feet tall and nearly half as wide, dressed in a huge, double-breasted greatcoat. He wore welding goggles over his eyes and a black bowler hat, and his hands…his hands were surrounded by a dull brass framework, their hinges and sprockets drilled into the very flesh itself.

“Emphasis on the word end,” said the smaller man, grinning like Mephistopheles.