Accused

Fiction detailing the ongoing events on the Homeline and numerous parallel Worldlines.

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Fri Jan 29, 2021 7:24 pm

Elizabeth Reynolds looked at the carriage clock on the shelf over what would have been a fireplace, had this bedroom been in a house. It told her that she had been in this room for over three and a half hours.
She smiled. That was time enough for anyone, she felt.
She pulled open the heavy oak cabin door to reveal the back of a uniformed police officer who turned quickly in surprise.
“Miss, please stay in your cabin,” said the young man politely.
He was barely more than a boy, mused Miss Reynolds.
“Go and fetch Lord Guthrie for me,” she said, her eyes bright, her smile warm, lips remaining slightly parted, the tip of her tongue wetting them slowly.
She saw his eyes fix on her mouth, his face flushed.

He wanted to say no, that his orders were to stay guarding the cabin, but he felt that refusing would make her think less of him and he wanted her to think well of him.
“Right away, my lady,” he nodded and hurried off.
Elizabeth gave a satisfied smile and retuned to a sofa within the cabin and waited.

Guthrie didn't knock, he barged into the room looking furious.
“What is it you want, you infuriating woman?” he barked at the seated lady.
Elizabeth rose to her feet before replying.
“I would like to know why you feel compelled to follow me and harass me for a second time today and then detain me for hours on end without so much as an explanation as to why. Is it because you believe me to be linked to this apparent escape of Lord Reynolds or do you find me so alluring that you could not bear for me to leave and return home? I feel your wife would have something to say about that!”
Guthrie ignored the comment.
“I warned you earlier about getting in my way and wasting my time. You are on exceptionally thin ice madam. Your brother's treason is all the reason I need to have you arrested.”
Elizabeth Reynolds shrugged. “Then arrest me my good sir. However, as you know, I was unable to secure my Sebastian's whereabouts, therefore is was unable to communicate with him, ergo, I was unable to make any arrangements for his release, authorised or otherwise. And arresting me will not get you any closer to capturing Sebastian and the political noise I can make, should you do so, will take up much of your valuable time which could be better spent looking for the people who really killed the Queen's great nephew, don't you think?”
Guthrie harrumphed, letting out a huge sigh of annoyance.
“You talk too much, madam. Like you murderous brother.”
He turned to the officer at the door.
“You have your side-arm?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! This woman is to remain here, in silence. If she speaks, arrest her and have her taken to New Gate. If she attempts to leave, shoot her!”

Elizabeth gave an exasperated huff.
“Now you are being ridiculous. My brother is obviously not here and I have somewhere I have to be tomorrow.”
“Sit down!” Guthrie said gruffly, the long day beginning to show.
“Im sorry, but no, Mr Assistant Commissioner, I will not,” Elizabeth said sternly. “I refuse to have your paranoia delay my journey further.” She pushed herself passed the guarding policeman.
“Your firearm!” Guthrie instructed the officer.
The young man flipped the cover off his holster and drew the dark Webley revolver.
“Well, shoot her then!” Guthrie barked.
Elizabeth stopped sensing the sudden danger. She turned to face them.
“Shoot her,” Guthrie bellowed, but it was obvious the man was unlikely to pull the trigger.
With yet another loud huff Guthrie snatched the weapon from the officer's hand.
“Sir?” a voice from the other end of the passage inquired as Hackett arrived to investigate the shouting.
But Hackett's imploring voice was just background noise right now. Guthrie was focussing down the barrel of the Webley handgun, aiming it right at the woman's heart.
His eyes met hers. He wanted to pull the trigger.
“Assistant Commissioner?” Elizabeth Reynolds asked as though wondering whet was keeping him.
He continued to stare at her, at those ice-blue eyes.
He wanted to shoot her. He detested her with an unnatural passion.
“Sir?” Hackett said again from behind his superior.
Guthrie didn't flinch.
A tiny hint of a smile pulled at the corner of Elizabeth's mouth. “This is absurd!” she stated. “Come now, commissioner, admit you don't have the balls for it!”

The retort of the pistol seemed to suck all other sound from the vessel.
Elizabeth Reynolds staggered as though someone had punched her.
She looked at Guthrie, then at her aching chest.
There was a darkening hole in the front of her dress. She took a moment to appreciate how good a shot it had been, absolutely perfect.
She looked back at him, the slight smile still on her lips.
Then as the cabin door beside her was pulled open, she fell backwards onto the plush carpetted deck.
Paige Holt stared down as Sebastian's sister, then looked in horror at Guthrie.
She knelt and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
In absolute disbelief the captain of the Waterwitch declared, “She's dead!”

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Fri Feb 12, 2021 1:22 pm

Reynolds slipped from one shadowy dark alley to the next, putting distance between himself and the manhole where Lord Tebbit was due to emerge at any moment.
He paused after a while, partly to check that he wasn't being followed and partly to catch his breath.
Despite the elixir he had consumed, which had healed his physical wounds, he hadn't eaten in days, his energy reserves were low and he was beginning to feel light-headed.
A loud bang further down the alley made Reynolds tense up. He kept very still, just another dark shape in the cluttered little road way that partitioned the rear of the businesses which face d out to the streets parallel to this ill lit, narrow lane.
He had no idea what these businesses were, except for the one from which the noise had come.
Someone grunted and then Reynolds heard the clink and clang of bottles in a crate being stacked in the alleyway.
Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, a steam stuck or maybe a wagon would turn up and take the crates of empty bottle back to the brewery for cleaning and refilling.
Reynolds crept down the lane avoiding the flotsam and other detritus the lined the edge of the road until he could see the open door.
A man wearing a shirt and waistcoat, with his sleeve rolled up, emerged carrying yet another crate. The smell of stale beer, normally a little off-putting seemed like a scent from heaven.
Then another smell wafted passed. Food. More specifically it smelt like meat pie.
Reynolds' stomach rubbled loudly. Despite his privileged upbringing and station, he really loved meat pie. His involvement with the more illicit side of life had exposed him to the delights of the common man's food and he would often sneak out of his Knightsbridge town house with Sam and find a small pub and enjoy a pie and a pint (or two, or three!) without having to worry about the airs and graces the is title normally forced upon him.
Against his own better judgement he waited for the barmen to disappear inside then crept up to the open door.
A passage led to the back of the bar, but an open door on the right revealed a sizeable kitchen where the enticing aroma was coming from.
Reynolds was inside in a flash, silent as a stalking cat.
Three large range ovens lined one wall in which large pies with golden brown pastry were baking. On top of the ranges more pies were cooling.
They were about twelve inches across, three inches deep, rustic looking. Made with little or no finesse but that made them look even more appetising.
To a man who hadn't eaten in days they looked divine.

Five minutes later, a hundred yards down the dark lane, Reynolds decided it tasted divine too!
He didn't care that his hands were filthy from the sewers, that he had to eat the pie with his fingers, or even that he ate the chunk that dropped on the floor.
At that moment in time the only thing he believed would have been better would have been a traditional Cornish pasty from the bakery at Sutton Harbour in Plymouth. He and Brocklesby had enjoyed a pasty and a pint or several there too!

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Fri Feb 12, 2021 1:22 pm

Greater London, Capital of the Empire and centre of the universe. It was home to millions from countless cultures, a city that never really slept and never stopped.
For a person who had recently become the World's most wanted man, this was both a curse and a blessing.
In the teeming streets a person could disappear among the crowd, one more among nameless thousands.
But at any moment any one of the faceless throng could recognise him and suddenly there would be nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.
Yet, ironically, at night those same people would congregate in groups, squeezing into small designated areas; pubs, theatres, restaurants, public gardens, late night concerts at the Royal Albert Hall or just sight seeing along the banks of the Thames.
Those out in the small hours and not in those sorts of places were there because they were working, or they were homeless or were, like Reynolds, up to something better done under cover of darkness.
Therefore, his journey across the busy London to Greenwich was swift, his most difficult and dangerous part was crossing the river.
But his clothes were old and grubby and he stank to high heaven. He was unshaven, his face dirty and hair unkempt. A billion miles from the pristine and pampered image Reynolds liked to publically portray. It ensured that anyone who might have been able to recognise him up close naturally gave him a wide berth.
Once at Greenwich he knew he had to follow his instructions.
He could see the Waterwitch moored at the docks and desperately wanted to go aboard and see familiar friendly faces and feel safe. But he knew he mustn't. It was an obvious place for him to go and one of the first places the police would look, if their people were worthy of their office.
So, as he watched the Witch lift into the air, water streaming from her hull, a man-made rainstorm for those below, he turned away and threaded a route through the darkness to Greenwich Underground station, to the door at the far end of the platform.
He pulled it open and came face to face with the barrel of a shotgun.
A huge meaty fist grabbed him and dragged him into the darkness of the tunnel beyond.
“You really didn't want to be coming this way,” a cockney voice from the blackness said.
He was pushed to his knees, disarmed and his hands bound behind his back.
Then something hit the back of his head and he slumped unconscious to the ground.

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Sat Aug 14, 2021 10:18 am

Lord Arthur Guthrie sat on a plush leather chair in the formal reception room of Lady Melody Blythe, the Countess Everton, first female Commissioner of Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police.
The door to the commissioner's office opened and Sir David Short, Deputy Commissioner, stepped out.
Guthrie didn't particularly like Short.
For a start the man lived up to his name at only five feet nine inches tall, well below the requirement for normal entry to the constabulary. It was another reason for Guthrie not to like the man.
Short, the son of a Thames barge-man was a ‘nobody’. He started as a Peeler walking the streets of Whitechapel in his silly hat and with his silly whistle. The man had no right becoming anything more than an errand boy for the Yard, let alone the deputy to the Countess.
And cracking a hard case through dogged determination and what many of the fools under Guthrie called good solid police work?
Well Guthrie himself had done that and no one had said to him, “hey, well done Baron Guthrie, or should we say Prince Guthrie!” No, just got given another horrid case to crack.
And going off to war then coming back with medals of courage? Lots of men had done that!
But the power had seen to it that Short got swept up the line like some mascot for equality.

Short's face was neutral, giving away nothing of his feelings towards Guthrie and hiding any hint of what might be awaiting him within the office.
“Guthrie,” Short said in greeting, deliberately withholding any honorific. “The Commissioner is waiting for you, please go in.”
Ignoring the ignorant little man Guthrie strode into the commissioner's office without bothering to acknowledge his superior.
The commissioner was standing by the window looking out over the rooftops of London.
She was in her fifties but from a distance it was easy to place her twenty years younger. Her skin on her face was smooth and free of blemishes, her hands also, and it was only recently that a few grey hairs had started to show.
In her bodice and drainpipe trousers her ample figure was alluring.
Guthrie cleared his throat before speaking to announce his presence. “Good afternoon, Countess. You wished to see me?”
He didn't give her opportunity to reply however, as he began to report his hunt for the fugitive.”
She turned to him and when she spoke she held on the merest hint of a northern accent.
“Sit,” she commanded. “I'll not have you strutting around my office abusing my ears with yourself important monologue.”
A little perturbed, Guthrie slid into the comfortable leather chair in front of Blythe's desk.
“A good afternoon, you say?” She remained standing, her fierce grey eyes fixed on Guthrie. “I suppose in comparison to the utter disgrace of this morning then, yes, yes it is!”
Guthrie found himself wondering what could have happened to make the normally very rational commissioner so irate.
Then she exploded. “WHAT the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” This time she was the one not giving the other time to respond. “Do you have any idea the shit-storm you have just stirred up?”
Guthrie looked at her blankly.
“No, I thought not. Which ironically is exactly what you did – not fucking think!”
She threw her hands up in dramatic exasperation and turned to the window once more where she stood in silence.
Guthrie remained silent too, feeling the commissioner’s own dialogue wasn’t quite over yet.
Blythe’s shoulders relaxed and she let out a heavy sigh, finally plonking herself into the chair opposite Guthrie.
“Well?” she sked.
Guthrie fidgeted. “Ma’am, I have no frame of reference?”
“Don’t start, Arthur!” Blythe snapped. “The damned woman you killed this morning?”
“She was resisting arrest.”
“And what were you arresting her for? Being a passenger on a ship? Wearing green? Or was it because she was just answering back? Last time I checked neither of those was reason for arresting the sister of a peer of the realm.”
Guthrie balked.
“Peer of the realm? The man’s a bloody criminal! He murdered the Queen’s great nephew for god sake!”
“He is a Viscount! He may have been accused of a murder but at this point in time he’s a member of the peerage and his family enjoys all that that carries with it.”
“She was aiding a known fugitive, her brother!” Guthrie said defensively.
“Only she wasn’t, was she?”
“I believe she was. The whole antic with the Waterwitch was a planned diversion to distract us and give Reynolds time to escape.”
“Well, if that is the case you certainly fell into head long into that trap. I’m disappointed, Arthur, it was a rookie mistake to make and you know it.”
“OH, don’t worry I shall make them all pay dearly for that, mark my words,” he fumed.
“Oh no! You are staying well clear of the Waterwitch and her crew. You’ve done enough damage there already.”
“Ma’am, she was nothing! I cannot fathom why I should be removed from this case because the obnoxious sister of minor noblemen got herself shot while resisting arrest?”
“Enough!” Blythe barked angrily, then allowed herself a moment to calm down before speaking again.
“This is my problem, Arthur. You are normally so thorough, so meticulous in your actions, your investigations. I appreciate Reynolds’ escape left you with little flexibility, but you hadn’t even looked into who all the players were! Yes, Reynolds was a significant piece in the board, well known, even to her Majesty herself. But Sebastian is not the only Reynolds of significance.”
“Miss Elizabeth Reynolds is,” she grimaced and corrected herself. “Was bequeathed to Prince Sverre Magnus, the king of Norway’s grandson.”
Blythe stopped talking, letting that little bit of news sink in.
“You shot and killed the future wife of the heir to Norway’s throne and caused a major international incident.”

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Sun Aug 22, 2021 7:14 am

Guthrie was silent, his face blanched pale.
“My Lady, I had no idea. You’re right, I didn’t look into this thoroughly enough, obviously. But you have my word that I shall not make this mistake again. I shall leave no stone unturned, as the saying goes.”
Blythe studied the enthusiastic and, she was well aware, ambitious young man. She also knew the lengths and means Guthrie would employ to further that ambition.
Blythe was prepared to overlook certain abuses of power especially when doing so got the job of policing Greater London’s streets done with a guaranteed result.
Now she was going to have to face the Home Secretary and the Foreign Secretary and possibly the Prime Minister too and explain all this mess and just exactly what she was doing about it.
At this point in time she had two, maybe three, options. First was to cast Guthrie to the wind, let him face the music of his own composing. The second was to stand behind her team, argue that the process was justified and unfortunate outcome a tragic mistake. This would also put Guthrie’s father in her debt, which was always a useful place to have influential people.
The third option, which would also indebt Guthrie’s father to her would be to pick a fall-guy, someone else to take the blame in Guthrie’s stead. It would be easier to explain the Reynolds woman’s death at the hands of a fresh faced constable than a seasoned detective.
It was also the option that left the foulest taste in her mouth, although she recalled once being told that the best medicines often tasted awful.
“For God’s sake, Arthur, this could have ruined your career. The Norwegians are baying for blood. I’m half expecting to hear reports of long-ships beaching in Norfolk or something.”
Guthrie remained stoically silent, although Blythe could tell from his body language that he was utterly deflated. She didn’t mind, sometimes people just needed to be reminded of their position in life. She let him stew for a moment before going on.
“Luckily for you, it seems that Constable Sutherland, was so outraged and distraught at the death of the queen’s nephew that when Miss Reynolds flatly refused to help in the murderer’s apprehension he became overwrought with grief and acted without thought and shot her.”
Guthrie frowned, “Ma’am?”
“That poor young man,” she said wistfully, “channeling a nation’s grief. Of course the whole episode has destroyed him. We will, as is only right, take care of him and his family.”
Blythe eyed Guthrie.
The man was silent, thoughtful. It seemed a shame to do this to that young constable, but…. Bah! Who was he kidding?
It was a win for him. Of course, he’d owe the Commissioner a huge debt, but that was the way of the world.
He nodded grimly. “I do sympathize, ma’am. The poor fellow!”
Blythe stood once more, going to the window. She motioned Guthrie to join her.
They looked out over the early morning mist that still hovered over the city. The office was high enough to offer a view of The Palace of Westminster and Big Ben towering out of the mist. Near that the roof of Westminster Abbey was just about visible and off in the distance the dome of St. Paul’s.
“Beneath that fog,” Blythe said quietly, “is the City of London, Capital of the World. In it sits the greatest monarch the world has ever known and she grieves at the death of her great-nephew. He was special to her, as are all the members of the Royal Family.”
Guthrie gave a somber nod but did not speak.
Blythe continued, “Beneath that fog, lies the person responsible for his murder. You have one instruction, Arthur. I want you to find the person, or persons as I don’t believe they have acted alone in this, I want you to fine those responsible and I want them brought to justice. That is your one goal, no other case matters. Anything else you are working on you will pass on to Short and he will re-assign them.”
Guthrie felt a pang of annoyance but forced it down. “Of course,” he said.
“You made a royal fuck-up yesterday, Arthur. In fact, you haven’t handled this well at all so far and that is rather out of character. I don’t know what your personal grievance with Reynolds is, if there is one then you are to put it aside. I want things done right. No more hiding prisoners or going off half-cocked.”
“Of course, Commissioner. And I apologise for the disappointing performance. I trust that if I sort this out satisfactorily then the previous incident will not affect your offer of the Deputy Commissioner post?”
Blythe frowned at him, her eyes piercing.
“Whatever arrangements you and I had will be honoured, I assure you,” she said after a long pause.
She crossed the office and opened the door, signaling that Guthrie’s presence was no longer required.
He departed swiftly.

After he left Blythe went next door to Short’s office.
She knocked and entered without waiting for Short’s answer.
“David?”
“Yes, Boss?” Short inquired familiarly.
“Did you make a deal with Guthrie when you gave him the Reynolds case?”
Short shook his head. “No. Should I have?”
Blythe didn’t answer. She closed the door and stared silently at the stairwell where Guthrie had recently departed.
“Right,” she said aloud, frowning once more.

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Tue Dec 21, 2021 11:17 am

It was the voices that he became aware of first.
They weren’t loud, just a whispered conversation, one angry voice and one defensive.
He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying at first but then the voices were joined by another.
At this time he couldn’t see, there was a hood or something, which smelled rather unpleasant, over his head.
His hands were still bound.
“What are you two arguing about?” the third voice, a female, asked.
“It’s this guy,” said the angry one. “He’s the bloody toff they arrested for killing Lord What’s-his-name, you know, the Queen’s great nephew or whatever he was. Everyone’s going to be looking for him.”
“And?” the woman asked.
“And,” said the defensive guy, “He’s who Harry Carter asked us to look out for We’re supposed to take him to Harry.”
“We’re supposed to do what’s best for us, Johnny boy!” said angry. “This guy’s going to be wanted by the peelers, that’s got to be worth a few quid, don’t ya think?”
“Malcolm, are you suggesting we turn him in for a reward and ignore what Harry has asked us to do?” the woman asked.
Reynolds could hear the interest in her voice.
“Not you as well, Gill? Harry may have started out in the sewers like us but these days he kind of a big deal, you know? So when Harry does something for us and says we owe him a favour are we really going to say fack him when he calls it in? ‘Cos that sounds like what Malcom is suggesting!”
“It ain’t like that Johnny. The way I see it, Harry asked us to look out for this guy and take him to him if we found him. Well, as far as Johnny needs to know, we ain’t seen the fucker! So all we need to do is quietly hand this toff bastard back to the other toff bastards so they can swing ‘im an’ we’ll have enough dough to get fat on,” Malcolm explained.
“Come on guys, This is Harry asking us for a favour. How many times has he done good for us?”
Reynolds had been quietly listening, remaining still where he lay on the cold hard floor but one of his legs was going numb beneath him and he had to move it.
That movement brought their attention.
“Sorry John,” Gill said, “but Malcolm is right. Turning him in for the reward is far too lucrative to be ignored. Besides, how do we know Harry isn’t going to do that same and pocket the cash himself?”
Reynolds heard her approach and felt the hood being lifted. This wasn’t a first for him, he’d expected the sudden bright light to hurt his eyes but it wasn’t and didn’t.
Instead of daylight they were in a dark chamber, lit only by a couple of oil lamps. There were no decorations, only a small square table and a couple of chairs and the plain brick walls, no windows. Reynolds assumed the door must be behind him.
They were still underground, Reynolds realized, still in the sewers and tunnels beneath London.
He saw the woman, unremarkable but not unattractive, her hair could have been brown, or red, the orange glow of the lamps made it indistinct.
She peered at him and glanced back at the other two, one tall and bearded the other short and stocky with a handlebar moustache.
“are you sure? You know this is him? I mean, look at the guy. He don’t exactly look like no toff!” Jill said obviously unconvinced of Reynolds’ provenance.
Reynolds said nothing, merely stared at her. He understood her reticence; after all as he was he didn’t portray the consensual image of a member of the gentry. He was dirty, unshaven, his hair unkempt and matted with filth, his clothes were not dissimilar to those worn by Jill and her companions in that they were old, frayed and slightly ill fitting.
It amused Reynolds slightly that the class system was so ingrained into the public’s collective subconscious that people still expect members of the gentry to look clean, well presented and exuding a station far above the common man. He didn’t expect that these people had had much of an education which could explain their lack of imagination is revealing that any man, from any station in life would look like he did after escaping prison through the sewers. Unless, Reynolds considered, they didn’t know that. So these were just pawns, minions being used by Harry Carter. They were on the outside of whatever circle von Staffenberg had formed to facilitate his rescue. This meant that they were now taking a big risk in going against the plan. Something he could use later? All Reynolds knew at the moment was that he needed to get free of them. He also knew that whatever hurried plan had been concocted had holes in it. If these people were prepared to risk Carter’s wrath then others too might be willing to sacrifice him on the altar of their own personal gain.
Malcolm, the shorter man, shrugged. “Look, Jill, he came through that door at about the right time that Harry said he would. No one uses that door, it’s normally locked. I figured only someone who knew it was there would have gone to it and only someone who knew it would be unlocked would bother to try getting through it.”
“That’s a big assumption,” Jill said before turning to face their dirty bound prisoner.
“What’s your name?”
“Jimmy,” Reynolds replied, his voice hoarse and bearing a west-country accent. “Jimmy Ambrose.”
“Jimmy Ambrose? Who the hell is that?”
Reynolds gave her a quizzical look. “It’s me?” he said with obvious disbelief at her inane question.
“Don’t believe ya,” she responded.
Reynolds shrugged at her. “Well I don’t know who you think I am, but it’s God’s honest truth that my name is James Ambrose.
“These two think you are some toff!” she countered.
“Not just some toff, Jill,” Malcolm said. “This is the prince-killer!”
Jill whistled and pretended to be impressed. “Prince-killer? This sack of shit? Can’t be, Mal. The prince-killer is a Lord. This guy don’t look like no lord I ever saw.
She span around extravagantly to face her companions, her coat tails twirling.
Reynolds didn’t miss the move, didn’t miss what was under the coat.
He moved his hands, currently tied behind his back and was glad that whoever had tied them wasn’t overly competent.
He was about to make a move when Jill whirled around a second time, only now she held the knife Reynolds had spotted in her hand.
“You looking to get your hands on this?” she asked. “I saw that you saw.”
She waved the blade steadily in front of his face.
It wasn’t a fancy knife, single cutting edge with a sharp point. The blade itself was dull, showing signs of rust. Not what one would class as a wicked blade, Reynolds mused, but he wouldn’t want to be cut by it, Reynolds guessed that any wound would blacken in hours from the filth on that weapon.
“What is it, Ambrose, if that’s your name? You think you got the minerals for that? I could take your eyes out pal.
Reynolds laughed aloud.
“What’s so funny?” Malcolm said.
“You lot are blood hilarious!” Reynolds replied.
“How so?”
Reynolds could tell that Malcolm was prepping to do something unfriendly. He’d put too much innocent inquisitiveness into his question when so far his tone had been aggressive.
There were many things that Reynolds freely admitted to being no expert in but speaking to and reading people were not on that list.
“Well it seems to me that you guys are fucked,” Reynolds said.
Malcolm shrugged, “How so?” he said again his tone menacing.
“You’re talking about cutting me up, which is not a good plan if I’m this toff you seem to think I am. The other toffs won’t like you cutting one of their own. They’re happy to do the cutting themselves but a bunch of sewer rats like you, uh-uh! No way you lot won’t swing for that. So you can hand me over to the peelers. But what if I’m not this Reynolds guy? The yard won’t be happy with you wasting their time. They’ll think you were trying to stiff them and they won’t let you get away with that, they can’t. It would tell every other two-farthing operation in town that they can try it on with the yard. So they’ll come down on you like the proverbial ton of bricks. You do either of those two options and Carter will be looking to take some sort of action against you for not holding up you end of whatever bargain you had.”
“Only option I see is you hand me across to Carter, but then you have another set of issues. See, if I’m not Reynolds, then Carter will probably be annoyed but no harm done, you delivered the guy you thought you were meant to, just as you were supposed to, but if I am Reynolds then what possible motive would I have for not telling him all about your scheme to screw him over?”
“Either way, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. So like I said, you’re fucked!”

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Wed Jan 12, 2022 9:00 pm

Malcolm was quiet, just looked over to Jill for some sort of confirmation.
Jill was still there with the knife and Reynolds met her gaze.
“Malcolm,” Jill said, “get us someone who knows what the toff looks like.”
Malcolm nodded, “Yeah!”
He walked out of the chamber.
Johnny glanced at Jill, called her name.
“What?” she was obviously annoyed.
“C’mon, this isn’t how we do things. We don’t turn our backs on our own for the Man.”
“But this isn’t one of our own.”
“Maybe not, but Harry is. And Harry asked us to look out for this guy.”
“And ten thousand pounds reward says we turn our back on whoever we want when we got that kind of cash.”
“Ten thousand?” Johnny was taken aback. “Wow! That’s a lot!”
“Yes, it is.”
“For this guy?”
Jill shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what they offered for old Limehouse Lil, the killer prostitute. Turned out she was the daughter of some Lord or other who couldn’t get enough thrills the way ordinary people do. Guessing they’ll be offering more or less the same for this guy.”
“So you don’t know if they have even put a price on Reynolds?” Reynolds asked.
She looked at him blankly.
“So you’re willing to take all this extra risk for possibly no money at all? Classic!”
“I’m prepared to do this for a shit-load of money,” she spat at him. “I’m not stupid. I’ll make sure you’re who we think you are. I’ll make sure you’re worth the effort.”
“If you’re not,” she added brandishing the rusted knife, “I’ll stick this in your eyes.”
She was giving Reynolds some sort of pained smile. He believed that she truly thought the smile to be evil, intimidating, ruthless or some variation on that theme.
He just thought the smile looked dumb. Dumb enough not to have noticed two very important things.
One, that Reynolds had slipped his bond.
Two, that someone had left a claw hammer propped up against the far leg of the table.
“How serendipitous!” Reynolds said aloud.
Jill scowled at him. “That’s luck ain’t it? What’s lucky about me sticking you with this?”
Reynolds beamed at her. Jill found herself liking it.
“Well,” the Baron Roborough began as though telling a tale, “You see, luck plays many roles in my life and yours. But it has two sides and therefore it is not always good luck, is it? I mean, having you stick that in my eye would be bad luck for me. Having your man Malcolm waiting for me at the door instead of just dear old Johnny; bad luck! But I’m not alone on the bad luck front for today am I?”
“How’d ya figure that?
“Well, I’m glad you asked. You’re right, or rather, Malcolm is right about who I am, except for the prince-killer bit, of course. And I see why you might view the opportunity to hand me in to the authorities for a handsome reward as fortuitous. But what brings bad luck to you this day is the fact that Lord Reynolds, the Baron of Roborough, millionaire socialite has another side to his life. You see, I sometimes go by the name of James Ambrose, Jimmy.”
“So?”
“Jimmy Ambrose is an exceptional thief, master of locks and bindings, and a murderous bastard.”
It seemed to take a while for his words to sink in, as though they were passing through treacle before they became clear.
“Wait, you ARE Reynolds?” Jill asked.
Pity to have comprehended only that part.
Quicker than Jill could react Reynolds rolled backwards towards the table, snatching up the hammer.
Reynolds had seen fights like this before – the defender stands there brandishing his newly acquired weapon. That just gives their opponent time to prepare, to assess the defenders competence.
Well, hammer-wielding was not one of his strong points but there was no way he was going to let on.
As soon as he’d picked the tool up he launched it full force at Jill.
It caught her perfectly, the head striking her cheek just below her left eye.
Jill yelped in pain, instinctively dropping the knife as her hands went up to her face.
Now a knife, that was something Reynolds could use with a high degree of competence.
Reynolds darted forward, grabbed the weapon and the tool and turned back to Jill who was holding one hand to her face and the other was supporting her, stopping her from curling up on the ground in pain.
Holdeing the blade steady the point unwavering just a few inches from Jill’s face, reynolds turned his head to look at the man.
“Johnny, Isn’t it?” he asked.
Johnny nodded dumbly.
“Come over here and help your friend.”
Cautiously the man approached and Reynilds backed away to give him space.
“Jill!” Johnny said putting a steadying hand on her shoulder.

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Fri Feb 04, 2022 8:35 am

“Get off me,” Jill growled, the words slurred by pain and her damaged face. She shrugged Johnny’s hand away and glared angrily at Reynolds.
“All I got to do is yell and there’ll be twenty people in here. You think you can take on twenty of us?”
Reynolds considered that for a moment, slightly lowering the blade. Twenty was a lot of people, however…
“You know, I think you’d have shouted for them already if you thought it would work. So I’m guessing we’re some way away from your compatriots. But you’re right, of course, twenty would be too many. I’m terribly sorry but I can’t have that happening,” Reynolds said.
His blade lowered further, his whole body seeming to deflate. Then he sprang forward, a wild maniac.
The rusty blade entered her throat just above her larynx and thrust upwards into her skull. Reynolds didn’t wait to see the look of shock on her face.
But he did see it on Johnny’s though and a little bit of him felt pity for the man who had tried to help him. Only a little bit though as the massive streak of self-preservation that ran through his core overrode any thought of mercy he might have held.
The claw hammer swung in fast, the deep meaty sound of it striking Johnny’s temple. Johnny went down hard and didn’t move.
Reynolds felt Jill’s weight finally as her legs buckled beneath the already dead body.
The knife was stuck so he left it there.
He searched through their pockets and scrounged almost a pound in loose change but most importantly a revolver with a dozen spare rounds.
His search was brief, apparently he had at least another twenty people to get through, hopefully to avoid but if he had to do some more killing then he would. Morally it niggled at his conscience as he would essentially be murdering anyone he encountered if things turned violent.
Reynolds had gained the impression that the rest of this gang had no idea what was happening, or even who he was.
Almost every great family, every peer and every prominent and successful industrialist that wielded power held some secret close to their hearts.
For the senior members of the Reynolds family that secret was that they were thieves and spies, but they were definitely not assassins and murderers.
So avoid was his preference, try to talk his way out second and all out bloody murder was his last-ditch option.
Beyond the red brick chamber was gloom and darkness, all friends to a man whose skills lay in procuring things without paying for them or without the current owner’s consent, so he felt confident that he would be able to go with the former plan.

Creeping from shadow to shadow Reynolds made his way through a short series of tunnels , chambers off to either side. Some occupied, some not. He counted less than the stated twenty but there was no way he could say he’d seen everyone. Then came to an open door and heard a familiar voice.
Malcolm was in there talking to someone else.
“We’re heading out to Greenwich Station,” he was saying.
“Greenwich Station? Why? Where are we going?”
“Not the rail station, you idiot! We’re going to the peelers.”
“We’re what? Why the hell would we go to them?”
Malcolm leaned in close, a conspiratorial whisper
“Cos we captured the Prince-Killer and we’re going to exchange him for a cart load of cash.”
The other man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Whoa!”
“Yes I know, but there’s some confusion so we need to be careful. Not announcing this until we’re sure it’s him.”
“Yeah, right, good shout! But why are we in the storeroom?”
“Cos I’m looking for a nice coat. We need to look respectable and business-like if the pigs are going to take us seriously.”
Reynolds stepped into the doorway, pistol raised. “Oh, I wouldn’t bother! They wouldn’t be taking you seriously even if you wore a crown!”
Malcolm’s look of surprise was classic.
Reynolds put his finger to his lips. “Shhh!”
He had the new guy tie Malcolm up and gag him, then he tied the stranger up. He could see and hear an angry Malcolm complaining and cursing behind the gag. Leaning close to him Reynolds spoke in a quiet voice. “If you think I’m this Reynolds fellow then you’ll believe I’ve already killed Royalty. What makes you think I’d worry about killing a piece is shit like you? So be a good chap and stop your whining! Besides, I’m sure that your mate here would rather not spend the next who knows how long lying next to a corpse.”
Malcolm went very still, his shoulders visibly deflating in the dim lantern light.
Reynolds stepped over him and cast his eye over the store room contents. A veritable clothing store it seemed.

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Sun Feb 27, 2022 6:59 am

The door opened onto a brightly lit morning, stinging Reynolds’ eyes almost as much as the smoke in the tunnels had.
He didn’t complain, the stench out here alongside the Thames was far better than what he had just left behind.
Having essentially escaped from his captors Reynolds had decided that a distraction was needed to keep the rest of the gang off his heels. He’d set fire to the store room after dragging the two tied men out into the tunnel. He knew they’d be found soon enough once they noticed the smoke.
He was now sporting some clean but worn clothes, including a frock coat that would have been decent maybe fifteen years ago. It was topped with a newsboy cap more associated with the working man than with the gentry.
He walked out onto the main street.
As he’d suspected he was still on Greenwich. In fact from here he could look down the river and could see the Waterwitch moored in the distance.
He hoped Captain Holt and the crew would be alright.
Leaning back against an ether-powered street lamp savored the view, the long ugly hull half submerged in the murky waters of the Thames.
It would be so easy to wander down there and board the ship and get the hell out of Britain. But he’d be involving the rest of the crew in this situation further and they just needed to get on with their lives without his interference, at least until he’d sorted this mess out.
This ‘mess’, he pondered, how quickly his life had taken a rather unsavory turn.
He imagined that by now most of his businesses and his personal assets were likely to have been seized or at the very least had their finances frozen.
Thankfully there were a number of co-owners or silent partners for many of them, which meant the police couldn’t just shut them down entirely. And that was good news for Reynolds as each and every one of those co-owners and partners were him. He set up numerous holding companies under different identities, just in case. It would be a while before anyone investigating the companies realised that the so called executives were fake.

For quite some time he stood there, watching folks walk by, watching the zep-cars drifting through the air, the horseless steam wagons hissing and clunking passed him with the faster ether-cars weaving in between them.
People passed him, mostly without a second glance, some regarded him with nothing more than mere passing interest and there were others still, those with an elevated sense of self preservation that noticed him but went out of their way to avoid getting too close or to make eye contact. To them there was something innately feral and threatening about the man standing on the street corner, brooding.


After some time Reynolds let out a sigh and popped his cap back on his head. He’d spent a long period making up his mind as to what he should do next. He considered returning to his former life as the eminent peer, retreating to a place where the police couldn’t easily get to him but that would leave him exposed, open and make him look just as guilty as if he stayed on the run. So it was better for His Lordship to disappear for a while. Likewise, Jimmy Ambrose would also have to drop off the grid.
Not many people knew about Reynolds’ alter-ego but there were a few and he didn’t know if any of those would choose not to keep that connection to themselves.
It was a simple choice when it came down to it, as all things considered it wasn’t really a choice at all.
If he was going to stand a chance of discovering who the real murderer had been and thus clearing his name then he was going to have to get help, but the burning question on his mind was, who?

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Re: Accused

Post by Keeper » Thu Mar 17, 2022 9:26 pm

The night was dark, raining just enough to be worthy of the title but not a downpour, cold enough with the wind to force a larger coat, or in the case of the coachmen larger waxed cloaks, but not cold enough to turn the rain to snow.
The carriage bucked and rocked over the rough track not used by the modern ether-powered vehicles that couldn’t handle such rugged terrain.
Two horses pulled the carriage, the ether powered lamps lighting up the trail ahead as best as they could in the weather.
Not too distant now they could see the lights of the coaching inn that was their destination and where both coachmen were looking forward to the warm fires and the comfortable beds.
As the carriage approached, two figures hunched against the weather pulled open the huge doors enclosing the coaching inn’s remise.
Before the carriage had pulled to a halt the passenger door opened. A tall man with greying hair and a dark frock coat alighted.
He carried a top hat in his hand which he placed on his head as he approached the door to the inn’s door and barged in unceremoniously.
Inside the place was like a classic country pub, bare stone walls, beams on the ceiling, a fire roaring and the reassuring smell of beer and smoke.
The bar was along the wall to the man’s right. A bar-keep was doing what all bar-keeps did while not busy; wiping glasses.
“Evening, sir,” the mutton-chopped man said in a deep voice that dripped with a Yorkshire accent. “You may leave you hat and coat on the rack there. They’ll be safe as houses. Is there anything I can get you?”
The tall man glanced at the rack. Several coats and hats hung there yet the bar room was empty except for a large Afghan Hound hogging the fireplace and snoring deeply.
He shrugged off his coat to reveal a smart suit which the bar-keep noticed must be very expensive. He placed that and his hat on a hook.
“Aye, I’ll have a whiskey. You have single malt?” he asked in a Scottish accent.
“That we do sir. Ordered in special.” He reached under the bar and revealed a bottle of The Macallan Lalique, uncorked the top and poured a hefty measure into a glass.
The Scotsman paused. That bottle had to be near a thousand guineas and was probably the most expensive thing here, including eh inn itself.
The barkeep saw his look and said, “On the house, sir!”
After taking a large and appreciative gulp the Scotsman asked, “Is the Colonel here yet?”
“He is, sir. Whom may I say is asking?”
“Laird Sir James McMasters.”
“Right you are Sir James, I’ll let him know you have arrived. The barkeep stepped through a door behind him and was gone.
A few moments later another door opened, this one to the left of the fireplace.
A giant figure stood there almost filling the doorway. His shoulders were huge, a barrel chest, fists like shovels. The head looked oddly too small for the rest of his frame but that might have been due to his hair being slicked back tight to his scalp and his enormous wing-commander moustache that mad the proportions seem out.
“Sir James!” the man bellowed in greeting. “So glad you could make it.”
“Colonel von Staffenberg! What in the blue blazes made you choose this godforsaken place for a meeting?” McMasters said dourly. “No offence!” he added in the barkeep’s direction.
“Come on in, you miserable Jock bastard!” von Staffenberg said jovially.
McMasters followed the huge colonel into the adjoining room.
This was much smaller than the other but the décor was the same. Another fire, smaller than the main room’s of course, shed heat into the room so that it was almost stifling in comparison.
There were other people here besides the colonel.
McMasters recognized them all but there was only one he hadn’t met in person until now.
He smiled. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen.”
Captain Paige Hilt stood and etiquette-be-damned hugged the big Scotsman. “Lovely to see you again, James,” she said.
“And you Captain Holt. How’s my boat?” he asked, referring to the Waterwitch.
“You built her, Sebastian bought her yet neither of you seem capable of grasping the simplest fact that she is my boat!” Holt laughed. “Never-the-less, my boat is fine, thank you for asking!”
McMasters turned again. “Lady Magnos. It has been a while.”
Magnos said nothing but raised her wine glass in greeting.
He went around the room shaking hands with Doctor Chase, The Foreign Secretary Lord Tebbitt and Sam Brocklesby, the Viscount Reynold’s erstwhile batman.
Finally he came to the man he did not know.
This one wore a shirt and braces, sleeves rolled up. His hair was cut very short. “Good evening, sir. I have not had the pleasure.”
The man’s handshake was firm and solid.
McMasters could see the man’s muscular forearm and knew there must be one hell of a physique under that shirt. Therefore this was a working man, the rough callouses on his palm backing up that theory.
“Harry Carter,” the man said in a thick London accent making it sound like “Arry Car-er.”
“Ahh, that makes sense,” McMasters said as he eased himself into a padded chair.
“Right,” he said after a moment facing the colonel once more, “So like I said just the now, I dinnae ken why you dragged us all to this back end of nowhere place?”
Von Staffenberg rolled his eyes. “Alright you belligerent old fart, keep your hair on. I summoned you here of all places because I can’t be seen talking to some of you. Right now I have to be seen siding with the crown and that means viewing Sebastian as public enemy number one. I figured this place is far enough off the beaten track that it would be incredulous for someone in a position of authority or rank that might have an interest in Lord Reynolds to accidentally stumble upon us. And of course, this place is owned by Robert Burrow.”
Von Staffenberg noticed several confused expressions.
“Sorry,” Paige Holt eventually said, “Are we supposed to know who this Mr Burrow is?”
Sam Brocklesby chuckled aloud. “I think we should! Robert Burrow or Rob Burrow, Burrow also being the American pronunciation of borough so Rob Borough or Roborough. This place belongs to the Viscount! How the hell did I not know about this?”
Von Staffenberg looked apologetic. “Sorry, Sam. Sebastian set this place up for me off the books. I told him I needed a safe house that wasn’t connected to me or any other official department. One of those very rare times when Seb kept things close to his chest even from you.”
“Well, isn’t Sebastian full of surprises,” Lady Magnos said with a little amusement in her voice. “You mentioned that you should view Lord Reynolds as an enemy, at least publically. That is all well and good, Colonel, yet right at this precise moment we cannot view Lord Reynolds at all. Does anyone have a clue where in hell he is?”
The room was quiet.
“Well, I know where he bloody well isn’t,” Paige said sternly.
“Aye!” McMasters said turning to Harry Carter. “So the plane was to get him to you and you get him to us. What happened?”
Carter shrugged and glared at the Scotsman as though he was accusing him of something.
Von Staffenberg gave a little cough to break the sudden tension.
“Right, I think it would be best if we said what we do know.”
McMasters continued to stare at Carter. “I have, Colonel, I know what was supposed to happen and I now it didn’t.”
“James! That’s not helpful, however we can work through the course of events. So, my man in New Gate met with Sebastian and gave him some of his, erm, remedy solution and explained the plan. Lord Tebbitt initiated the escape plan and the two made it out of the sewers safety. I take it, my lord, that you explained to Seb what we needed him to do?”
Norman Tebbitt frowned at him. “Of course.”
“Good, so the plan was for him to get to Harry,” von Staffenberg nodded at Paige Holt to carry on the story.
“Well, as we had arranged, Elizabeth Reynolds made a dramatic and over-the-top journey to join us at a suitable time. As we guessed it didn’t take long for the police to jump to conclusions and track us as the Witch left London. All their attention was on us giving Seb time to get clear and get to you,” Paige slid her gaze to Harry.
Harry leaned back defensively. “Your man never got to me.”
“Well where did he get to? What about this gang you had waiting?” Paige spat.
Harry snarled, leaning forward. “You want to say what’s on your mind?
“Harry,” von Staffenberg interrupted before Paige could say something undiplomatic. “What arrangements did you have in place?”
Harry Carter shifted in his seat and watched the flames dancing on the logs on the fireplace.
“He was supposed to get to Greenwich tube station, like Lord Tebbitt told him to. Some associates of mine were waiting to take him through the tunnels to my place. There he was to be handed over to the bargeman for transport up river to meet Brocklesby. As you all know none of that actually happened.”
“Who were these associates?” von Staffenberg asked.
“Just another small time gang. The tunnel at Greenwich is their turf and they owed me a favour. And no, they didn’t know who they were waiting for. So unless he told ‘em who he was then they wouldn’t know.”
“You said he didn’t get to them,” Paige pointed out.
“No, I didn’t. I said none of my plan happened. Him getting to Greenwich was the colonel’s plan, not mine. Thing is can’t tell you what happened ‘cos their place caught fire and part of the tunnels they use collapsed. Oddly enough two of the gang died from being stabbed or battered to death. Those that are left of them aren’t sayin’ nothin.”
“Well make then” Paige said to which Carter said nothing but stared hard at the young woman.
“I think I should say something here,” Sam said calmly and waited until he saw he had everyone’s attention.
“You all seem to be labouring under the illusion that Lord Reynolds would just go along with your plan. That he would follow your directions blindly without deviation is folly.”
McMasters laughed aloud. “Aye lad, you’re right about that!”
Sam nodded. “Might I be so bold as to suggest, as none of us actually know anything truly useful, other than the fact that Lord Reynolds escaped New Gate, that we return to our lives and keep our ears to the ground, as the saying goes?”
“But we have to find him!” Paige Holt said imploringly.
“Viscount Reynolds’ man is right,” Lady Magnos said smoothly. “We must wait. While Reynolds is not in custody we must believe that he is resourceful and astute enough to manage without us. If he decides he wants to make contact, I’m sure he will. Until that point we are but a group of his associates gathered in one place, albeit a discreet place, and potentially drawing attention to ourselves.
“Very well,” the colonel said punctuating it with a loud sigh. “You are of course quite right, m’lady. However there must be something we can do in the mean-time?”
“There is!” said Paige Holt abruptly. “We all know there is no way Sebastian would have murdered the young Duke Willoughby but the police seem convinced that he did and are rushing everything. I mean they wouldn’t even tell us where he was being kept. The whole thing stinks and it is obvious that he is being set up, what we don’t know is why and by whom?”
There was silence around the room.
Sam Brocklesby finally spoke. “Someone who is prepared to kill someone of Royal blood has to have one hell of a grudge!”
“Indeed,” McMasters mused. “We should perhaps start looking at likely candidates?”
Magnos answered. “I believe we are about to begin airing Viscount Reynolds’ dirty linen. There those here who perhaps don’t need to be privy to the remainder of this discussion?” She glanced pointedly at Harry Carter.
Colonel von Staffenberg took the hint. “Yes, indeed. Thank you for your assistance, Harry, but I believe we have taken enough of your time”
Harry Carter frowned. “That’s it? Couldn’t you lot just have asked me this in London? Why drag me all the way up here to the middle of nowhere to ask me some dumb questions and then pack me on my way?”
“You have a burning desire to lend further assistance?” Brocklesby asked.
Carter shrugged. “I guess you’re right, I don’t need to be digging myself in deeper I suppose.”
He pushed himself up and put on his coat. “Ladies, Gentlemen, I wish you all well and hope that you are successful in your endeavours to aid Lord Reynolds. Just a warning though, you had better hope you are all right about him. This could bring you a whole train load of trouble if anyone was to find out you were involved in his escape.”
“Who’s going to tell?” Sam Brocklesby asked.
“I’m just saying,” Carter smiled at him.
Paige Holt stood abruptly. “Well you’d better hope no one does. You have a lot to lose too.”
Carter laughed. “You think? Not aware of anything I may have done to aid his Lordship’s escape? Good evening ladies, gentlemen.”
“You fucking…” Paige blurted but Sam’s gentle hand on her arm made her cut her words. She stood there trembling slightly in her rage and glared at the East London gangster.
As Carter walked to the door Colonel von Staffenberg arose from his chair. “Will you stay the night, Harry, or will you return to London?”
Carter paused in thought for a brief moment. “I’ll go home,” he replied.
Von Staffenberg nodded briskly. I’ll fetch a coach for you,” he said and exited the room after Carter.
Lady Magnos stood a moment later. “Please excuse me. All this sudden unpleasantness is rather unsettling. I need air.”

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