Lord Albert Guthrie sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to do with all this information. Its all interesting and likely to be used by the man’s despicable barrister as testament to his character however, there is one thing many people, yourself included, seem to overlook. Reynolds was caught red-handed. He was standing over the body.”
McMasters looked away and sighed himself, running fingers through his blond hair.
“Just hypothetically, Albert, say I call cook down here. Before she arrives I stab you in the heart. She gets here and I’m gone but she sees you. She doesn’t scream in horror because you’re a dead body with blood and all but cook butchers our chickens and pigs so blood doesn’t faze her. Alerted by the gunshot your officers charge in. they see cook standing over your corpse. Using your logic she’s on a one way trip to the hangman’s noose and I’m free as a bird, and happy as a pig in shit that the woman I loathe is taking the fall. Does that sound right to you?”
Guthrie winced. The Scotsman’s logic was sound, it put weight to the “what was his motive” argument.
But Lord Guthrie’s purpose here was to find and apprehend a fugitive, not to investigate a murder. There was a definitive demarcation of duty.
“Think about it, man,” McMasters continued pleading Reynolds’ case. “What possible motive would he have? The Viscount put his life on the line many times to protect the queen and country. Why the hell would he openly murder a member of the royal family at a crowded gala inside the heavily guarded St James’ Palace? I mean, Christ man, I knew young Benjamin myself. If I wanted to kill him I can think of half a dozen places I could do it and no one would notice for days. And I could think of an equal number of people I could pay to do it so I wouldn’t have to be anywhere near the scene. Reynolds could more than equal that, so why didn’t he?”
It was a valid question. “Not my concern, old boy. My job is to find the man that held the Foreign Secretary at gunpoint and then escape prison. Lord Reynolds’ guilt over the murder is a matter for the courts now. But his guilt over the escape is irrefutable. The man is a fugitive from justice, plain and simple. So I will ask you, with respect, Sir James, is Lord Reynolds here?”
“No.”
“Of course. He won’t be anywhere that we would know to look. He isn’t that stupid and I’m not a simpleton either. I’m more than aware of how clever and resourceful Reynolds can be. But you didn’t exactly react like a man with nothing to hide.”
“Aye, well now you ken that I do have a lot to hide. And damned good reason to hide it. But this is all I’m hiding here and no, before you ask, I haven’t had contact with him, not for the want of trying mind you, and I have no clue where he is.”
Guthrie gave McMasters a farewell nod as he as he descended the front steps of Doonarry House.
The Scottish laird watched the policeman leave and stepped back inside, the door closing with a heavy thunk.
McTavish and Stewart were waiting at the command post.
“Well?” McTavish asked expectantly.
“Pack it up gentlemen, Reynolds is not here, never was,” Guthrie proclaimed.
“But sir,” Stewart protested. “He resisted an order from the court.”
“Yes! Yes he did, however it turns out he has the correct authority to do so.”
Neither man seemed able to formulate coherent words.
“Keep a small team here to monitor who goes in and out, but send everything else home,” Guthrie instructed.
“You heard the man!” Stewart finally said to the officers in the command post.
Accused
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Re: Accused
It was going to be a long journey back to London so Albert Guthrie wrapped up his business with Stewart and the disgruntled McTavish as quickly as possible and then returned to his zep-car.
The driver, Martin Altringham, was waiting with the ether-drive engine already purring.
Guthrie got in and sat on the comfy leather seat in the back with a sigh.
“Dare I ask, sir?” Altringham said jovially.
“It’s a long way home Martin, I’ll tell you on the way.”
“So home then, sir?”
“Yes.”
Guthrie frowned. “No, Edinburgh. I might as well drop in on mother while I’m up this way.”
“Right you are, sir.”
The gentle purr of the ether-drive increased in pitch until the zep-car lifted gently from the roadside.
It gained altitude slowly, clearing the trees and turning south.
Their route would take them over Doonarry House and Guthrie stared down into the darkness.
It was difficult to make out the shape and extent of the old castle and its grounds in the almost black featureless landscape.
Only a few soft ether lamps marked the castle’s entrance.
Suddenly a red light flashed on the zep-car’s console and a small urgent bell chimed repeatedly.
“Problem?” Guthrie asked.
Altringham was glancing around rapidly searching the air either side and above them.
Something bright streaked passed them at impossible speed.
The flash from the ground was blinding and Guthrie instinctively looked away.
The sound, like a thunder-clap, followed next drawing Guthrie’s attention back to the window.
Below, a fireball rolled up from the ground just in front of the main entrance to the castle.
“What the hell?” Guthrie spat.
A second explosion, this one on the roof, a ball of bright flame almost white in colour, as smaller balls sprayed out from it. It seemed almost as though one of those modern day artists had dropped a cup of white paint onto black canvas and it had spattered in every direction.
Another screeching whistle, followed by another and another and another until the cacophony of screech, boom, screech, boom blended into one and the vista below became an expression of hell itself.
In the middle of the onslaught Guthrie’s driver snapped out of his horrified stupefaction and yelled, “Jesus Christ!” while banking the zep-car away from the maelstrom.
The vehicle erupted in flame at the front as one of the missiles, whatever they were, clipped it. The ether-drive died immediately and the zep-car began a spiral plummet towards Satan’s realm below. In the back of the car Lord Albert Guthrie screamed.
The driver, Martin Altringham, was waiting with the ether-drive engine already purring.
Guthrie got in and sat on the comfy leather seat in the back with a sigh.
“Dare I ask, sir?” Altringham said jovially.
“It’s a long way home Martin, I’ll tell you on the way.”
“So home then, sir?”
“Yes.”
Guthrie frowned. “No, Edinburgh. I might as well drop in on mother while I’m up this way.”
“Right you are, sir.”
The gentle purr of the ether-drive increased in pitch until the zep-car lifted gently from the roadside.
It gained altitude slowly, clearing the trees and turning south.
Their route would take them over Doonarry House and Guthrie stared down into the darkness.
It was difficult to make out the shape and extent of the old castle and its grounds in the almost black featureless landscape.
Only a few soft ether lamps marked the castle’s entrance.
Suddenly a red light flashed on the zep-car’s console and a small urgent bell chimed repeatedly.
“Problem?” Guthrie asked.
Altringham was glancing around rapidly searching the air either side and above them.
Something bright streaked passed them at impossible speed.
The flash from the ground was blinding and Guthrie instinctively looked away.
The sound, like a thunder-clap, followed next drawing Guthrie’s attention back to the window.
Below, a fireball rolled up from the ground just in front of the main entrance to the castle.
“What the hell?” Guthrie spat.
A second explosion, this one on the roof, a ball of bright flame almost white in colour, as smaller balls sprayed out from it. It seemed almost as though one of those modern day artists had dropped a cup of white paint onto black canvas and it had spattered in every direction.
Another screeching whistle, followed by another and another and another until the cacophony of screech, boom, screech, boom blended into one and the vista below became an expression of hell itself.
In the middle of the onslaught Guthrie’s driver snapped out of his horrified stupefaction and yelled, “Jesus Christ!” while banking the zep-car away from the maelstrom.
The vehicle erupted in flame at the front as one of the missiles, whatever they were, clipped it. The ether-drive died immediately and the zep-car began a spiral plummet towards Satan’s realm below. In the back of the car Lord Albert Guthrie screamed.
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Re: Accused
A crackling sound was the first thing Lord Albert Guthrie became aware of, momentarily followed by the smell of hot metal, smoke and something else he couldn’t quite put his hands on.
He only spent a few brief moments contemplating this as his thoughts were suddenly overwritten by a level of pain he’d never experienced before causing him to cry out in agony.
He forced his right eye open, his left wouldn’t respond.
There was fire, close by, it cast its flickering light over the inside of the wrecked zep-car and highlighted the source of the unidentified smell.
He’d never seen a burnt corpse before, never experienced the smell that combined both over-cooked meat and singed hair.
The sight of his driver’s smouldering body forced bile into his throat.
Something grabbed at his shoulder and he flinched, turning a wide frightened eye that way.
“Christ! Sir? Assistant Commissioner Guthrie! Stay still. Help is on its way.” Sergeant McTavish said.
Guthrie slumped into unconsciousness.
He only spent a few brief moments contemplating this as his thoughts were suddenly overwritten by a level of pain he’d never experienced before causing him to cry out in agony.
He forced his right eye open, his left wouldn’t respond.
There was fire, close by, it cast its flickering light over the inside of the wrecked zep-car and highlighted the source of the unidentified smell.
He’d never seen a burnt corpse before, never experienced the smell that combined both over-cooked meat and singed hair.
The sight of his driver’s smouldering body forced bile into his throat.
Something grabbed at his shoulder and he flinched, turning a wide frightened eye that way.
“Christ! Sir? Assistant Commissioner Guthrie! Stay still. Help is on its way.” Sergeant McTavish said.
Guthrie slumped into unconsciousness.
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Re: Accused
“Detective Sergeant Warner?” one of the specialist accountants called out summoning Agnes over to his desk.
He held up a paper. Deeds to a property, or something of that ilk.
Agnes looked at it. It was nothing out of the ordinary and nothing in particular jumped out at her. The deed title, signed and dated about five years ago. The Magdeline Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue.
“What am I looking for?” she inquired.
“Nothing on there, the document appears legitimate.”
“Okay? So the issue is?”
“It doesn’t exist. There is no Magdeline Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, or anywhere else in London for that matter. And when I checked with the Imperial Land Registry Office, no such deed exists. Additionally, the two other named owners, a JP and a Harry Lacotte also don’t appear on any records. That in itself isn’t unusual, they could be first time investors, but to invest the kind of money they would need for a theatre you would expect the Tax Office to have heard of them, but again no record. They are either false names or they are criminals who avoid paying taxes.”
“Right,” Agnes said, a little unsure. “Can you avoid taxes on a non-existent Theatre?” she questioned.
“That bit is puzzling. It begs a number of questions. Such as, who are they? Do they exist? Why would Lord Reynolds have the deeds for a fictitious property? None of it seems to make any real sense.”
The information was rattling around in Agnes’ brain. With her knowledge of Reynolds’ lesser known activities she wondered of this was connected in some way. She would have to make some inquiries, but she had a suspicion that there may be even more to it than even that, if what she had been reading was to be believed.
On her desk, Reynolds’ desk, she had discovered what appeared to be song lyrics, but not any song she was aware of, not even anything similar. The hand-writing was also very different to Reynolds’. The signature at the bottom had been repeated numerous times as though the owner had been practicing it? Was this Reynolds forging someone else’s signature, or was he practicing so that he could ‘be’ someone else?
But what the hell sort of name was Razreal Sephiroth? If it wasn’t Reynolds, then who the hell was it? Could it be someone involved in the young lords death? So many questions.
The study door opened and a young constable entered.
She didn’t recognise him and guessed he must be from the local force, not one of the ones that came down from London with her team.
She was about to ask what the young man wanted as he had stopped just inside the doorway but one of her accountants, who was stood mere feet from the entrance asked the question first.
It was as though the world suddenly flicked into slow motion for Agnes as she observed the constable take out a revolver from his pocket.
Her heart stopped when he pointed it at the accountant.
She saw the flames erupt from the end of the barrel. Saw the accountant’s face sort of implode.
Time caught up.
The copper quickly changed target, shooting each of the stunned accounts team, one by one.
Agnes was frozen by fear, a proverbial rabbit in the headlights.
The gun pointed in her direction. It was like someone had punched her really hard. She fell down behind the large desk.
The pain arrived a moment after she regained her senses. Her shoulder screamed at her and she cried out.
One of her team was also crying out, a mixture of fear, pain and a cry for help.
Another shot silenced them.
Breathing heavily Agnes forced herself silent, her mind racing. Reynolds!
In his drawer she had found a revolver. She prayed it was loaded.
Yanking the drawer open it crashed out onto the carpet spilling the contents.
The shooter appeared over the top of the desk.
He hadn’t expected to find someone pointing a gun back at him.
Agnes didn’t hesitate.
The policeman fell back and landed on a low table, scattering cups and a tea pot.
Operating on adrenaline, Agnes pulled herself up, crying out again and dropping the gun.
Stumbling, sobbing, hand pressed tightly against the wound in her shoulder, she checked her team. They were all dead.
The shooter was dead too. She wasn’t great with firearms but this time she’d been lucky and put the bullet almost “centre-mass” as she’d once heard it called.
Then came the explosion.
Knocked to her feet, disoriented yet again, Agnes could tell it wasn’t in the room where she was but it was too damned close.
The whole building shook, windows shattered, bookshelves fell, an enormous sheet of plaster dropped from the ceiling as massive cracks appeared.
Agnes screamed.
A roiling fireball filled the corridor and hallway outside the study, flames like the clawed fingers of some other-worldly demon gripped at the door frame, igniting the carpet and the few books that had fallen there.
Ears ringing, coughing from the dust, Agnes stumbled over to the door and avoiding the flames on the carpet she peered out.
Everything in the hall was aflame except the far side of the large entrance foyer; that wasn’t there anymore. The heat was almost unbearable and she pulled back.
The young woman’s mind went into auto-pilot, falling back on what she knew. She didn’t know anything about firefighting, nothing about architecture or building safety, but she did know police work.
Her mind made the connection between the shooter and the explosion, despite the thick fog that seemed to be clouding her thoughts. She realised the need to gather evidence before it was lost in the flames.
Despite the pain she grabbed the body of the shooter by the collar and dragged it towards the French doors near where Reynolds’ desk was.
From outside it was obvious to Agnes that the place was aflame in more than just the lobby area. Before passing out, she made a note that this was a deliberate, targeted attack.
He held up a paper. Deeds to a property, or something of that ilk.
Agnes looked at it. It was nothing out of the ordinary and nothing in particular jumped out at her. The deed title, signed and dated about five years ago. The Magdeline Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue.
“What am I looking for?” she inquired.
“Nothing on there, the document appears legitimate.”
“Okay? So the issue is?”
“It doesn’t exist. There is no Magdeline Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, or anywhere else in London for that matter. And when I checked with the Imperial Land Registry Office, no such deed exists. Additionally, the two other named owners, a JP and a Harry Lacotte also don’t appear on any records. That in itself isn’t unusual, they could be first time investors, but to invest the kind of money they would need for a theatre you would expect the Tax Office to have heard of them, but again no record. They are either false names or they are criminals who avoid paying taxes.”
“Right,” Agnes said, a little unsure. “Can you avoid taxes on a non-existent Theatre?” she questioned.
“That bit is puzzling. It begs a number of questions. Such as, who are they? Do they exist? Why would Lord Reynolds have the deeds for a fictitious property? None of it seems to make any real sense.”
The information was rattling around in Agnes’ brain. With her knowledge of Reynolds’ lesser known activities she wondered of this was connected in some way. She would have to make some inquiries, but she had a suspicion that there may be even more to it than even that, if what she had been reading was to be believed.
On her desk, Reynolds’ desk, she had discovered what appeared to be song lyrics, but not any song she was aware of, not even anything similar. The hand-writing was also very different to Reynolds’. The signature at the bottom had been repeated numerous times as though the owner had been practicing it? Was this Reynolds forging someone else’s signature, or was he practicing so that he could ‘be’ someone else?
But what the hell sort of name was Razreal Sephiroth? If it wasn’t Reynolds, then who the hell was it? Could it be someone involved in the young lords death? So many questions.
The study door opened and a young constable entered.
She didn’t recognise him and guessed he must be from the local force, not one of the ones that came down from London with her team.
She was about to ask what the young man wanted as he had stopped just inside the doorway but one of her accountants, who was stood mere feet from the entrance asked the question first.
It was as though the world suddenly flicked into slow motion for Agnes as she observed the constable take out a revolver from his pocket.
Her heart stopped when he pointed it at the accountant.
She saw the flames erupt from the end of the barrel. Saw the accountant’s face sort of implode.
Time caught up.
The copper quickly changed target, shooting each of the stunned accounts team, one by one.
Agnes was frozen by fear, a proverbial rabbit in the headlights.
The gun pointed in her direction. It was like someone had punched her really hard. She fell down behind the large desk.
The pain arrived a moment after she regained her senses. Her shoulder screamed at her and she cried out.
One of her team was also crying out, a mixture of fear, pain and a cry for help.
Another shot silenced them.
Breathing heavily Agnes forced herself silent, her mind racing. Reynolds!
In his drawer she had found a revolver. She prayed it was loaded.
Yanking the drawer open it crashed out onto the carpet spilling the contents.
The shooter appeared over the top of the desk.
He hadn’t expected to find someone pointing a gun back at him.
Agnes didn’t hesitate.
The policeman fell back and landed on a low table, scattering cups and a tea pot.
Operating on adrenaline, Agnes pulled herself up, crying out again and dropping the gun.
Stumbling, sobbing, hand pressed tightly against the wound in her shoulder, she checked her team. They were all dead.
The shooter was dead too. She wasn’t great with firearms but this time she’d been lucky and put the bullet almost “centre-mass” as she’d once heard it called.
Then came the explosion.
Knocked to her feet, disoriented yet again, Agnes could tell it wasn’t in the room where she was but it was too damned close.
The whole building shook, windows shattered, bookshelves fell, an enormous sheet of plaster dropped from the ceiling as massive cracks appeared.
Agnes screamed.
A roiling fireball filled the corridor and hallway outside the study, flames like the clawed fingers of some other-worldly demon gripped at the door frame, igniting the carpet and the few books that had fallen there.
Ears ringing, coughing from the dust, Agnes stumbled over to the door and avoiding the flames on the carpet she peered out.
Everything in the hall was aflame except the far side of the large entrance foyer; that wasn’t there anymore. The heat was almost unbearable and she pulled back.
The young woman’s mind went into auto-pilot, falling back on what she knew. She didn’t know anything about firefighting, nothing about architecture or building safety, but she did know police work.
Her mind made the connection between the shooter and the explosion, despite the thick fog that seemed to be clouding her thoughts. She realised the need to gather evidence before it was lost in the flames.
Despite the pain she grabbed the body of the shooter by the collar and dragged it towards the French doors near where Reynolds’ desk was.
From outside it was obvious to Agnes that the place was aflame in more than just the lobby area. Before passing out, she made a note that this was a deliberate, targeted attack.
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Re: Accused
Whitington-On-Sea was a rather precociously named village perched on the north Devon coast approximately five miles east of Ilfracombe.
Once a busy little port village, supplying tin and copper from the numerous mines dotted along the northern Devon coastline, now it was quiet, a handful of fishing boats operating out of its deep, sheltered harbour.
When the mines dried up and the shipping businesses went elsewhere, the growing village quickly died.
It was now home to about a hundred people, peaceful, a quaint village sporting a sedate way of life.
Locally, that peace was shattered by a loud, long scream. Not the high pitched terrified cry of a woman coming across a dead body, or spotting a mouse scurrying across the scullery floor. This was the angry, frustrated and guttural yell of a man finding out he’d lost everything.
“Calm down,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“Calm down? How in hell am I supposed to be calm when everything I own is being destroyed the people I care about are being imprisoned or attacked?”
Sebastian Reynolds paced about the room, fists clenched.
“What you are supposed to do is not let emotion cloud your thinking. You’re in a hard place and you need to think your way out. No amount of yelling is going to solve it so don’t waste time doing it,” Elizabeth Reynolds advised while fixing Sebastian with her cold grey eyes. “What would your father be saying, right now?” she added.
Reynolds sighed. “The same as you,” he concluded.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said.
Reynolds stopped his pacing and sat in the chair next to the dressing table that was acting as his desk.
Elizabeth had provided a list of businesses, properties and people that had been attacked or destroyed over the past two weeks. All of them had one thing in common; they were all connected to him in one way or another, either owned or part-owned or they were close associates.
“How many dead?”
“Only five. Which is a miracle considering the damage. Four of them were McMasters’ staff. The other was someone who appeared to be sleeping in one of the offices. They haven’t identified them yet.”
“Jesus!” Reynolds sat down on the bed, his head in his hands. “What about this policeman?” Rynolds asked, his voice quieter, calmer, more dangerous.
“Lost a leg, a lung, some serious burn damage, but apparently he is stable in hospital in Glasgow. They haven’t wanted to move him yet. Scotland Yard is pissed off. Blythe blew a gasket and has set half the yard on capturing you.”
“She’s blaming me for that? Why?” he said.
Elizabeth sighed dramatically. “The order for the attack came from von Staffenberg apparently. Yes, I know it’s bullshit but that’s what they have. Von Staff did it on your behest, therefore you attacked their officer.”
“That’s fucking insane logic! Why the fuck would I attck one of the few men in the world I could have one-hundred percent relied on to have my back? And got our mutual friend to do it?”
“You’re the root of all evil at the moment, I suppose!” Elizabeth said sarcastically. “But there is one thing, Agnes Warner, Guthrie’s little sidekick was at Maristow. She subdued one of the men who set fire to it. She’s been tasked with rooting you out, stepping up to lead investigator. She’s thorough, and desperate to find you, but she’s started a discreet line of inquiries trying to link the assaulted businesses together and find who would benefit, why someone would want you dead.”
“Really? The lead investigator has doubts?”
“She does.”
Reynolds leaned on the window sill of his small rented room and looked out over the beach opposite.
Waves rolled in rhythmically. They weren’t very big, maybe eighteen inches, barely enough to break at the beach before rolling back and starting again.
“How do you know all this?” Reynolds asked.
“Ways and means, my dear boy. Didn’t your father tell you never to ask?” Elizabeth teased.
“Mother, you can be infuriating!”
“I can be? And what about you? So much potential and you choose to stay here and not act on it.”
Reynolds frowned, turning back from his window to look at his mother. She was a stunning woman, looking no more than her early twenties. Her apparent lack of age was something that may have caused concern, had she stayed, but she’d returned home to Norway after Sebastian’s father’s death. It had hit her hard and she’d found it difficult to stay despite having four children that she would be abandoning.
Sebastian had never felt that strongly about anyone before, although he imagined it might be similar pains to lose someone you love totally, to what he felt now.
Granted the death of a loved one was difficult to compare with the loss of one’s fortune, but for Reynolds it wasn’t the money. It was the knock-on effect to those that that fortune helped support.
His family, his employees, their families, all thrust into hard times by the loss of work, homes, customers and reputation.
It was the pain of guilt and loss felt on behalf of others that Reynolds though might compare, but could he really put the two side by side?
Reynolds shook off his rhetoric.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
She shook her head disappointed. “Not something I need to tell you, Sebby. You know what to do. I just don’t know why you haven’t done it yet?”
“I’ve been keeping out of it to keep everyone safe,” he defended.
“And remind me how that is going?” Elizabeth quipped.
Reynolds cast a scolding look but she merely cast one back that said, “Really?”
“I’m going to have to do this alone,” Reynolds said solemnly.
Elizabeth didn’t reply.
“I need to keep everyone else out of this.”
“Sebastian, by either your actions or your inaction, everyone you know is involved, one way or another. You don’t have to go it alone. There are people who will stand by you, if you asked them.”
“No!” Reynolds snapped. “I’m not putting anyone else in more danger.”
“You’re being childish. Sam would take a bullet for you, and you know it.”
“Yes, but his wife and child wouldn’t,” Reynolds countered.
He sighed heavily, looked out at the waves again.
“Is Sam safe?”
“He’s hiding, but I know where. Some place not connected to you, before you ask.”
Reynolds nodded, satisfied.
“And you?”
Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Me? I’m lying in a drawer in East Lambeth Mortuary. Don’t think anyone is going to be looking for me there, and if they did they’d be looking for a dead woman. So all in all you needn’t worry about me.”
“The Mortuary?”
“That’s where they put dead bodies, so yes.”
“No, I meant still? Has no one come to collect you?”
“Who? Rebecca wouldn’t, Jonathan is back in Canada, the real Elizabeth is of course laying low in Norway and that leaves you. Not exactly in a position to claim the body of your dear departed ‘sister’, are you? Besides, like I said, I’m safe there. I’ll keep watch until I cannot maintain the link anymore.”
“And after that?”
“And after that, well, you will have to come to me.”
“Mother, you’re a whole other world away. I know ways, of a sort, but to go to you I would first have to have been there before at a bare minimum.”
“You’ll work it out, I’m sure,” Elizabeth said in what Reynolds took as a patronising tone. “Sorry Sebby, this conversation is taxing me. My fuse is burning a little short.”
Again Reynolds let out a sigh, this time laced with sadness. “Alright, mother. You’d best go and recharge. I got this.”
“Good heavens!” Elizabeth said, “What a dreadfully American thing to say. I got this! Awful ruination of Her Majesty’s English!”
Reynolds smiled. “Depart, mother, before I start on how your Norwegian accent kills our language at times.”
She poked her tongue out mockingly and then was gone. More like the sister she pretended to be than a mother.
Reynolds stared at the spot on the edge of the bed where the projected image of his mother had sat.
After a moment he moved to the drawers beside the window and opened the top one. A small harness which held a holster for a pistol and sheathes for two knives was beneath the clothes.
He placed the harness on the bed and rooting around in the back of the drawer found the weapons that fitted that harness. He placed them atop the drawers.
“Right, well, here we go,” he said to an empty room.
Once a busy little port village, supplying tin and copper from the numerous mines dotted along the northern Devon coastline, now it was quiet, a handful of fishing boats operating out of its deep, sheltered harbour.
When the mines dried up and the shipping businesses went elsewhere, the growing village quickly died.
It was now home to about a hundred people, peaceful, a quaint village sporting a sedate way of life.
Locally, that peace was shattered by a loud, long scream. Not the high pitched terrified cry of a woman coming across a dead body, or spotting a mouse scurrying across the scullery floor. This was the angry, frustrated and guttural yell of a man finding out he’d lost everything.
“Calm down,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“Calm down? How in hell am I supposed to be calm when everything I own is being destroyed the people I care about are being imprisoned or attacked?”
Sebastian Reynolds paced about the room, fists clenched.
“What you are supposed to do is not let emotion cloud your thinking. You’re in a hard place and you need to think your way out. No amount of yelling is going to solve it so don’t waste time doing it,” Elizabeth Reynolds advised while fixing Sebastian with her cold grey eyes. “What would your father be saying, right now?” she added.
Reynolds sighed. “The same as you,” he concluded.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said.
Reynolds stopped his pacing and sat in the chair next to the dressing table that was acting as his desk.
Elizabeth had provided a list of businesses, properties and people that had been attacked or destroyed over the past two weeks. All of them had one thing in common; they were all connected to him in one way or another, either owned or part-owned or they were close associates.
“How many dead?”
“Only five. Which is a miracle considering the damage. Four of them were McMasters’ staff. The other was someone who appeared to be sleeping in one of the offices. They haven’t identified them yet.”
“Jesus!” Reynolds sat down on the bed, his head in his hands. “What about this policeman?” Rynolds asked, his voice quieter, calmer, more dangerous.
“Lost a leg, a lung, some serious burn damage, but apparently he is stable in hospital in Glasgow. They haven’t wanted to move him yet. Scotland Yard is pissed off. Blythe blew a gasket and has set half the yard on capturing you.”
“She’s blaming me for that? Why?” he said.
Elizabeth sighed dramatically. “The order for the attack came from von Staffenberg apparently. Yes, I know it’s bullshit but that’s what they have. Von Staff did it on your behest, therefore you attacked their officer.”
“That’s fucking insane logic! Why the fuck would I attck one of the few men in the world I could have one-hundred percent relied on to have my back? And got our mutual friend to do it?”
“You’re the root of all evil at the moment, I suppose!” Elizabeth said sarcastically. “But there is one thing, Agnes Warner, Guthrie’s little sidekick was at Maristow. She subdued one of the men who set fire to it. She’s been tasked with rooting you out, stepping up to lead investigator. She’s thorough, and desperate to find you, but she’s started a discreet line of inquiries trying to link the assaulted businesses together and find who would benefit, why someone would want you dead.”
“Really? The lead investigator has doubts?”
“She does.”
Reynolds leaned on the window sill of his small rented room and looked out over the beach opposite.
Waves rolled in rhythmically. They weren’t very big, maybe eighteen inches, barely enough to break at the beach before rolling back and starting again.
“How do you know all this?” Reynolds asked.
“Ways and means, my dear boy. Didn’t your father tell you never to ask?” Elizabeth teased.
“Mother, you can be infuriating!”
“I can be? And what about you? So much potential and you choose to stay here and not act on it.”
Reynolds frowned, turning back from his window to look at his mother. She was a stunning woman, looking no more than her early twenties. Her apparent lack of age was something that may have caused concern, had she stayed, but she’d returned home to Norway after Sebastian’s father’s death. It had hit her hard and she’d found it difficult to stay despite having four children that she would be abandoning.
Sebastian had never felt that strongly about anyone before, although he imagined it might be similar pains to lose someone you love totally, to what he felt now.
Granted the death of a loved one was difficult to compare with the loss of one’s fortune, but for Reynolds it wasn’t the money. It was the knock-on effect to those that that fortune helped support.
His family, his employees, their families, all thrust into hard times by the loss of work, homes, customers and reputation.
It was the pain of guilt and loss felt on behalf of others that Reynolds though might compare, but could he really put the two side by side?
Reynolds shook off his rhetoric.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
She shook her head disappointed. “Not something I need to tell you, Sebby. You know what to do. I just don’t know why you haven’t done it yet?”
“I’ve been keeping out of it to keep everyone safe,” he defended.
“And remind me how that is going?” Elizabeth quipped.
Reynolds cast a scolding look but she merely cast one back that said, “Really?”
“I’m going to have to do this alone,” Reynolds said solemnly.
Elizabeth didn’t reply.
“I need to keep everyone else out of this.”
“Sebastian, by either your actions or your inaction, everyone you know is involved, one way or another. You don’t have to go it alone. There are people who will stand by you, if you asked them.”
“No!” Reynolds snapped. “I’m not putting anyone else in more danger.”
“You’re being childish. Sam would take a bullet for you, and you know it.”
“Yes, but his wife and child wouldn’t,” Reynolds countered.
He sighed heavily, looked out at the waves again.
“Is Sam safe?”
“He’s hiding, but I know where. Some place not connected to you, before you ask.”
Reynolds nodded, satisfied.
“And you?”
Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Me? I’m lying in a drawer in East Lambeth Mortuary. Don’t think anyone is going to be looking for me there, and if they did they’d be looking for a dead woman. So all in all you needn’t worry about me.”
“The Mortuary?”
“That’s where they put dead bodies, so yes.”
“No, I meant still? Has no one come to collect you?”
“Who? Rebecca wouldn’t, Jonathan is back in Canada, the real Elizabeth is of course laying low in Norway and that leaves you. Not exactly in a position to claim the body of your dear departed ‘sister’, are you? Besides, like I said, I’m safe there. I’ll keep watch until I cannot maintain the link anymore.”
“And after that?”
“And after that, well, you will have to come to me.”
“Mother, you’re a whole other world away. I know ways, of a sort, but to go to you I would first have to have been there before at a bare minimum.”
“You’ll work it out, I’m sure,” Elizabeth said in what Reynolds took as a patronising tone. “Sorry Sebby, this conversation is taxing me. My fuse is burning a little short.”
Again Reynolds let out a sigh, this time laced with sadness. “Alright, mother. You’d best go and recharge. I got this.”
“Good heavens!” Elizabeth said, “What a dreadfully American thing to say. I got this! Awful ruination of Her Majesty’s English!”
Reynolds smiled. “Depart, mother, before I start on how your Norwegian accent kills our language at times.”
She poked her tongue out mockingly and then was gone. More like the sister she pretended to be than a mother.
Reynolds stared at the spot on the edge of the bed where the projected image of his mother had sat.
After a moment he moved to the drawers beside the window and opened the top one. A small harness which held a holster for a pistol and sheathes for two knives was beneath the clothes.
He placed the harness on the bed and rooting around in the back of the drawer found the weapons that fitted that harness. He placed them atop the drawers.
“Right, well, here we go,” he said to an empty room.
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Re: Accused
The town was busy, it always was on market day.
Vendors and stalls lined the river’s edge and surrounded the small harbour that sat at the north end of the Dartmouth town centre.
The tide was low and the smell of sewage that normally seeped through this part of the town at low tide was drowned out by the smells of smoke, food, beer and fish. It was mid-morning and the fishing fleet was returning. Most of the smaller boats were already tied up alongside the quay and the river wharfs, the fishermen selling their catch fresh, calling out to passers-by with prices and quantities.
Every now and then one of the many ether generators would emit a loud hiss as a jet of steam was released from the pressure relief valves.
The generators themselves were powering all sorts of things, from freezers that kept the catch fresh, to ovens stacked with baked potatoes to music makers that played music transmitted across the ether.
The whole place was a cacophony of noise and colour.
Young officers from the Royal Naval College strolled through the crowds enjoying their down-time and looking resplendent in their dark dress uniforms. The crowds would respectfully part at their approach and they would draw forth shy glances and high pitched giggles and amorous smiles from young women and girls alike.
The relationship between the college and the town had always been close; however, there was also a general degree of dislike towards them from the town’s younger males.
The young trainee officers at the college tended to come from privileged backgrounds, and were a desirable catch for the townswomen.
For the sailors, however, the women of the town, mostly of a lower social standing were not suitable matches for anything more than their stay at the college.
Many young officers would sweep in and whisk an eligible young daughter off her feet, only to leave the young woman high and dry once they graduated.
Resentment grew among the young men but rarely boiled over into anything more than that.
Rarely.
When three young fresh ensigns strolled through the crowded street, said crowd parted like usual.
But as the trio passed a particular vendor, a fishing vessel was just landing the day’s catch, one of the crew grabbed a crate and turned abruptly.
The crate took one of the young officer’s broadside and knocked him sideways into his companions.
Ice cold water spilled from the crate.
“Bloody hell!” the officer exclaimed loudly.
“Begging your pardon, sirs!” the young crewman said immediately standing still and sporting and embarrassed look.
“Begging my pardon? Begging? I don’t bloody think so! I’m soaked and this uniform is going to smell of fishy water unless it is cleaned right away,” the officer stared at the young fisherman who stared back, unsure how to respond.
“Well, simpleton? Are you going to answer me? This uniform needs washing, now. Are you going to answer me? Or are we going to have to beat it out of you?”
“Excuse me gentlemen,” said a deep voice from behind them. Its owner was a taller, older man, in his mid-thirties by the looks of it. He was dressed simply in his rolled-up sleeves and denim trousers and working boots. This man too carried a crate of ice and fish.
“The boy meant no disrespect. It was a genuine accident. These things happen. Why don’t you three fine looking officers chalk this up to misfortune and be on your way?” the older man said.
“I beg your pardon?” the officer closest said in disbelief.
“Beg all you like,” the man replied, “but you won’t be getting a pardon from me. Now be a good boy and be on your way and take your little friends with you. Don’t escalate this into something you’ll regret.”
The officer glanced over his shoulder at his comrades, absolutely flabbergasted at the audacity.
As he turned back he lashed out, a wide swinging open handed slap that hit the newcomer on the cheek snapping the man’s head to one side.
Slowly Samuel Brockelsby turned his head back to the Dartmouth upstart.
The crate of fish smashed into the boy making him stagger. A fist followed shortly after sending the ensign to the ground.
“You fucker!” Ensign Two snarled launching himself at Brockelsby.
The fight caused the crowd to pull back, people not wanting to get involved yet too morbidly fascinated to take their eyes off the action.
The big ex-Royal Marine had no trouble putting his opponents to the ground but the persistent buggers kept getting back up.
He was holding back, not wanting to do too much damage to the man. The bobbies would turn a blind eye to a good old fashioned bout of fisticuffs, but if he suddenly put any of those officers down then that would be a whole other story.
His trouble was, every time he knocked one down, one of the others would get back up.
It was when Ensign Three got up for a second time that a weapon became involved. The young officer grabbed a small three legged stool discarded by one of the fishermen on the next stall. He smashed it down onto the cobbles tearing off one leg to create a make-shift cosh.
Brockelsby chuckled. “You’ll need more than that, my son!”
“We’ll see!” Ensign Three said back to him and immediately took a swing at Brockelsby.
It was a wild swing, telegraphed ahead and easy for the older man to avoid.
The officer kept whirling the make-shift club around like a man possessed and the ex-marine wondered if this man had paid any attention at all during his combat training.
What Sam Brockelsby wasn’t aware of was that the young officer had paid attention, and not only during combat training but also during tactics. And his tactic right now was distraction.
While the club was swinging back and forth with seemingly no true purpose and no hope of landing a hit one of the other officers was recovering and setting himself up.
Suddenly Sam found himself in a bear hug, deceptively strong arms pinning his.
He tried to break free but found significant resistance.
And that was all Ensign Three needed.
Despite the jeering crowd that encircled the fight there was an audible crack as the leg of the stool connected with Brockelsby’s head.
Brockelsby’s legs buckled and he became a dead weight for Ensign One who had to let him drop.
But Brockelsby was made of tough stuff and his wits soon returned to him. He let out a groan of pain and dragged himself up to his hands and knees, the world spinning and little white lights filling his vision.
Ensign Three closed the distance between them and kicked Brockelsby in the stomach, knocking the wind from the man. He raised the club high, the back of Brockelsby’s head an open and unmissable target.
A loud ‘clack’ sounded above the din as the club was halted mid-swing by a blocking cane.
The ensign glared at the man who intervened. He was tall, his dirty-blond hair shoulder length but neat and clean. He was unshaven but again the thick stubble was tidy.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” the man said calmly. “But of you insist in taking this further I won’t hold back like Mr Brockelsby, here.”
Vendors and stalls lined the river’s edge and surrounded the small harbour that sat at the north end of the Dartmouth town centre.
The tide was low and the smell of sewage that normally seeped through this part of the town at low tide was drowned out by the smells of smoke, food, beer and fish. It was mid-morning and the fishing fleet was returning. Most of the smaller boats were already tied up alongside the quay and the river wharfs, the fishermen selling their catch fresh, calling out to passers-by with prices and quantities.
Every now and then one of the many ether generators would emit a loud hiss as a jet of steam was released from the pressure relief valves.
The generators themselves were powering all sorts of things, from freezers that kept the catch fresh, to ovens stacked with baked potatoes to music makers that played music transmitted across the ether.
The whole place was a cacophony of noise and colour.
Young officers from the Royal Naval College strolled through the crowds enjoying their down-time and looking resplendent in their dark dress uniforms. The crowds would respectfully part at their approach and they would draw forth shy glances and high pitched giggles and amorous smiles from young women and girls alike.
The relationship between the college and the town had always been close; however, there was also a general degree of dislike towards them from the town’s younger males.
The young trainee officers at the college tended to come from privileged backgrounds, and were a desirable catch for the townswomen.
For the sailors, however, the women of the town, mostly of a lower social standing were not suitable matches for anything more than their stay at the college.
Many young officers would sweep in and whisk an eligible young daughter off her feet, only to leave the young woman high and dry once they graduated.
Resentment grew among the young men but rarely boiled over into anything more than that.
Rarely.
When three young fresh ensigns strolled through the crowded street, said crowd parted like usual.
But as the trio passed a particular vendor, a fishing vessel was just landing the day’s catch, one of the crew grabbed a crate and turned abruptly.
The crate took one of the young officer’s broadside and knocked him sideways into his companions.
Ice cold water spilled from the crate.
“Bloody hell!” the officer exclaimed loudly.
“Begging your pardon, sirs!” the young crewman said immediately standing still and sporting and embarrassed look.
“Begging my pardon? Begging? I don’t bloody think so! I’m soaked and this uniform is going to smell of fishy water unless it is cleaned right away,” the officer stared at the young fisherman who stared back, unsure how to respond.
“Well, simpleton? Are you going to answer me? This uniform needs washing, now. Are you going to answer me? Or are we going to have to beat it out of you?”
“Excuse me gentlemen,” said a deep voice from behind them. Its owner was a taller, older man, in his mid-thirties by the looks of it. He was dressed simply in his rolled-up sleeves and denim trousers and working boots. This man too carried a crate of ice and fish.
“The boy meant no disrespect. It was a genuine accident. These things happen. Why don’t you three fine looking officers chalk this up to misfortune and be on your way?” the older man said.
“I beg your pardon?” the officer closest said in disbelief.
“Beg all you like,” the man replied, “but you won’t be getting a pardon from me. Now be a good boy and be on your way and take your little friends with you. Don’t escalate this into something you’ll regret.”
The officer glanced over his shoulder at his comrades, absolutely flabbergasted at the audacity.
As he turned back he lashed out, a wide swinging open handed slap that hit the newcomer on the cheek snapping the man’s head to one side.
Slowly Samuel Brockelsby turned his head back to the Dartmouth upstart.
The crate of fish smashed into the boy making him stagger. A fist followed shortly after sending the ensign to the ground.
“You fucker!” Ensign Two snarled launching himself at Brockelsby.
The fight caused the crowd to pull back, people not wanting to get involved yet too morbidly fascinated to take their eyes off the action.
The big ex-Royal Marine had no trouble putting his opponents to the ground but the persistent buggers kept getting back up.
He was holding back, not wanting to do too much damage to the man. The bobbies would turn a blind eye to a good old fashioned bout of fisticuffs, but if he suddenly put any of those officers down then that would be a whole other story.
His trouble was, every time he knocked one down, one of the others would get back up.
It was when Ensign Three got up for a second time that a weapon became involved. The young officer grabbed a small three legged stool discarded by one of the fishermen on the next stall. He smashed it down onto the cobbles tearing off one leg to create a make-shift cosh.
Brockelsby chuckled. “You’ll need more than that, my son!”
“We’ll see!” Ensign Three said back to him and immediately took a swing at Brockelsby.
It was a wild swing, telegraphed ahead and easy for the older man to avoid.
The officer kept whirling the make-shift club around like a man possessed and the ex-marine wondered if this man had paid any attention at all during his combat training.
What Sam Brockelsby wasn’t aware of was that the young officer had paid attention, and not only during combat training but also during tactics. And his tactic right now was distraction.
While the club was swinging back and forth with seemingly no true purpose and no hope of landing a hit one of the other officers was recovering and setting himself up.
Suddenly Sam found himself in a bear hug, deceptively strong arms pinning his.
He tried to break free but found significant resistance.
And that was all Ensign Three needed.
Despite the jeering crowd that encircled the fight there was an audible crack as the leg of the stool connected with Brockelsby’s head.
Brockelsby’s legs buckled and he became a dead weight for Ensign One who had to let him drop.
But Brockelsby was made of tough stuff and his wits soon returned to him. He let out a groan of pain and dragged himself up to his hands and knees, the world spinning and little white lights filling his vision.
Ensign Three closed the distance between them and kicked Brockelsby in the stomach, knocking the wind from the man. He raised the club high, the back of Brockelsby’s head an open and unmissable target.
A loud ‘clack’ sounded above the din as the club was halted mid-swing by a blocking cane.
The ensign glared at the man who intervened. He was tall, his dirty-blond hair shoulder length but neat and clean. He was unshaven but again the thick stubble was tidy.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” the man said calmly. “But of you insist in taking this further I won’t hold back like Mr Brockelsby, here.”
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Re: Accused
The officer glared at the man, unsure to how to react to the contradiction before him. The newcomer was dressed like a commoner and yet sounded like a gentleman and also carried an expensive looking cane. The man remained motionless, his cane out and holding the officer’s makeshift club in stasis .
“One of us must relent, sir,” the newcomer said. “But if I am first then I must assume that you desire to continue hostilities and I will react accordingly.”
To emphasise his point the man increased the pressure of his cane upon the club.
Eventually the Ensign spoke. “This is Queen’s business, make way and back off,” he called like a Sergeant of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.
“Oh dear!” the man sighed heavily, lowering his cane.
The officer held the club steady, pointing at the man. “Step away,” he commanded as the other two ensigns flanked him.
The tip was only a few inches from the man’s face. The man smiled at its owner.
“Bell end!” he said.
Suddenly the man was to one side of the trio, his cane cracking down blindingly fast onto Ensign three’s wrist.
Ensign three screamed in pain and dropped the club withdrawing the injured appendage and cradling it close.
Like a classic dervish the man whirled around the other two ensigns the cane striking knees on both and bringing them howling to the floor clutching at their legs in agony
Again the man whirled around them and struck Ensign two across the back of the head putting him out cold.
Three realised the man had his back to him so he ignored his broken wrist and reached with his good hand for the fallen club.
He swung it round to where the man was standing, only he wasn’t there anymore.
A kick to the back of the knee made his leg buckle, then the cane was across his throat, cutting off his air but the assailant had him leaning to his left so that in order to resist the strangulation the ensign had to support himself on his left arm, putting the club out of action. With the club out of action the ensign’s resistance was futile. He blacked out with the man whispering in a most ungentlemanly tone his ear, “Nighty night, ya prick!”
The man turned on Ensign one, withdrawing a long blade from the cane in one swift fluid movement.
The blade swept in blindingly fast and stopped just as it pressed against the naval officer’s cheek.
He jerked the blade back slicing into the flesh just deep enough that it would heal but leave a scar.
“Ow!” he yelped, recoiling.
“Something to remind you what humility looks like,” the newcomer said, “Now, run along back to barracks.”
He emphasised the instruction with a jab of his blade in the direction of the Naval Base.
“GO!” he barked.
The young ensign, hand clasped to his cheek, glanced at his companions then back at the blade. He scrambled to his feet and ran off in the direction of the Officer Training School.
Finally the commoner-gentleman turned o, the man whom the officers had first fought.
Samuel Brocklesby was sitting looking up at his saviour. He was grinning.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asked.
The man put the blade away and held out his hand to help his friend to his feet.
“We’d best clear off,” he said, his words punctuated by the sounds of distant whistles, the peelers finally responding to the fracas.
“Right you are, my lord,” Brocklesby coughed surprised at how pleased he was to say those words, and allowed Lord Sebastian Reynolds to lead him away.
“One of us must relent, sir,” the newcomer said. “But if I am first then I must assume that you desire to continue hostilities and I will react accordingly.”
To emphasise his point the man increased the pressure of his cane upon the club.
Eventually the Ensign spoke. “This is Queen’s business, make way and back off,” he called like a Sergeant of the Guard at Buckingham Palace.
“Oh dear!” the man sighed heavily, lowering his cane.
The officer held the club steady, pointing at the man. “Step away,” he commanded as the other two ensigns flanked him.
The tip was only a few inches from the man’s face. The man smiled at its owner.
“Bell end!” he said.
Suddenly the man was to one side of the trio, his cane cracking down blindingly fast onto Ensign three’s wrist.
Ensign three screamed in pain and dropped the club withdrawing the injured appendage and cradling it close.
Like a classic dervish the man whirled around the other two ensigns the cane striking knees on both and bringing them howling to the floor clutching at their legs in agony
Again the man whirled around them and struck Ensign two across the back of the head putting him out cold.
Three realised the man had his back to him so he ignored his broken wrist and reached with his good hand for the fallen club.
He swung it round to where the man was standing, only he wasn’t there anymore.
A kick to the back of the knee made his leg buckle, then the cane was across his throat, cutting off his air but the assailant had him leaning to his left so that in order to resist the strangulation the ensign had to support himself on his left arm, putting the club out of action. With the club out of action the ensign’s resistance was futile. He blacked out with the man whispering in a most ungentlemanly tone his ear, “Nighty night, ya prick!”
The man turned on Ensign one, withdrawing a long blade from the cane in one swift fluid movement.
The blade swept in blindingly fast and stopped just as it pressed against the naval officer’s cheek.
He jerked the blade back slicing into the flesh just deep enough that it would heal but leave a scar.
“Ow!” he yelped, recoiling.
“Something to remind you what humility looks like,” the newcomer said, “Now, run along back to barracks.”
He emphasised the instruction with a jab of his blade in the direction of the Naval Base.
“GO!” he barked.
The young ensign, hand clasped to his cheek, glanced at his companions then back at the blade. He scrambled to his feet and ran off in the direction of the Officer Training School.
Finally the commoner-gentleman turned o, the man whom the officers had first fought.
Samuel Brocklesby was sitting looking up at his saviour. He was grinning.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asked.
The man put the blade away and held out his hand to help his friend to his feet.
“We’d best clear off,” he said, his words punctuated by the sounds of distant whistles, the peelers finally responding to the fracas.
“Right you are, my lord,” Brocklesby coughed surprised at how pleased he was to say those words, and allowed Lord Sebastian Reynolds to lead him away.
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Re: Accused
"Bloody hell!" the zep-car pilot cursed as he adjusted the filter on his ether-goggles.
As the zep-car swept over the Thames en route to New Scotland Yard the thick fog that classically clung to the sluggish river was the cause of the pilot's profanity.
On the back seat his passenger looked up from the file she was reading and peered at the pilot over her glasses.
"Everything alright, Harris?" the woman asked.
"Yes, commissioner, it's this damned pea soup. Just makes flying that much harder, but we'll be fine. I'll take it easy," the pilot replied without taking his eyes off the route ahead.
"Hmmm," the commissioner said with only a hint of annoyance. "Very well, I'll call ahead and tell them I may be delayed. And Harris?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
Try not to kill us before we get there, there's a good chap!"
Harris chuckled. "Yes, ma'am, I'll try not to."
As the zep-car swept over the Thames en route to New Scotland Yard the thick fog that classically clung to the sluggish river was the cause of the pilot's profanity.
On the back seat his passenger looked up from the file she was reading and peered at the pilot over her glasses.
"Everything alright, Harris?" the woman asked.
"Yes, commissioner, it's this damned pea soup. Just makes flying that much harder, but we'll be fine. I'll take it easy," the pilot replied without taking his eyes off the route ahead.
"Hmmm," the commissioner said with only a hint of annoyance. "Very well, I'll call ahead and tell them I may be delayed. And Harris?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
Try not to kill us before we get there, there's a good chap!"
Harris chuckled. "Yes, ma'am, I'll try not to."
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Re: Accused
The building of New Scotland Yard, despite being almost eighty years old looked uncomfortably modern, nestled amongst the other buildings on the banks of the Thames, who counted their lifespan in terms of centuries.
Separated from the river by the cobbled street of Victoria Embankment, the cubic, brick built Headquarters of Scotland Yard and the Greater Metropolitan Police Force was a place not easily missed.
However, on this occasion, Harris had done a splendid job of doing just that, but had remarkably managed to land the zep-car on the rooftop landing pad anyway.
Lady Melody Blythe alighted from the rear of the car, descended the steps and entered the roof top foyer.
There was no one sitting at the desk today which didn't surprise her, considering.
She swept through a long corridor to the end where her office was to be found, deposited her coat and hat, and collected a thin file folder from an oak cabinet.
She didn't go to her desk, but rather exitted the room, walked purposefully back down the corridor to a door half way down.
Without knocking, she entered.
The room was large, airy, with windows along the opposite wall that on a clear day would offer views up river to Westminster Bridge and Parliament.
This time she was not alone. Several people were sat along the sides of a large conference table that occupied the centre of the meeting room. She knew them all, of course, each one being a subordinate in some capacity or other.
It did amuse her that all these powerful men had to answer to her.
There was a certain social irony that she and many other women had to deal with every day. And that was that the men who held positions of authority in this country could happily serve a queen, sacrificing themselves like martyrs if need be, but they found it almost unpalatable to have a woman above them in the pecking order. Not that any of these men would say anything to her face.
"Thank you all for coming in on a bank holiday," she said as she took her seat at the head of the table.
"I won't beat around the bush, gentlemen. The Prime Minister is not a happy man this morning. He has been fielding ether-calls all weekend from prominent businessmen, city officials, and even from the Bank of England. These spate of attacks on business properties and members of the gentry have several members of the cabinet worried."
"Some are even saying this could be a preemptive strike against our economy prior to an all out declaration of war."
Blythe let the significance of that last part sink in before continuing.
"The PM has called an emergency COBRA meeting for four o'clock this afternoon. I don't want to walk into that meeting with nothing to say. Give me something to say."
To her left sat William Shawbridge, the Detective Chief Inspector recently assigned to take over from Guthrie. He noticed Blythe's gaze was fixed upon him.
He gave a little nervous cough to clear his throat before speaking.
"Lady Blythe, after recent events I am still trying to piece together what is left of Guthrie's investigation. It's a shambles."
Blythe huffed. "Just tell me what you know, starting with how your predecessor is, what happened there and work on from that point."
"Sorry Countess," Shawbridge said. "Albert Guthrie's condition remains critical, he has suffered severe burns and has already had one leg amputated with the very real possibility that he will lose more limbs, but he is too weak to operate on at the moment."
"As to he came to be in this condition? Guthrie was contacted by a counterpart in Scotland. Local police had visited the home of Laird Sir James McMasters in their ongoing search for the fugitive, Sebastian Reynolds.
When McMasters refused to admit the police, offering considerable resistance, Guthrie had ample reason to believe that Reynolds might well be holed up there. However, for reasons we are still trying to ascertain, Guthrie entered the Laird's home alone and called off the search, or rather seige, as it had become. My team is still trying to find out exactly why? Very soon after Guthrie called off the search a local defence battery received orders from Colonel Von Staffenberg, a senior Special Operations officer, to fire upon a target within Scotland itself. The orders bore all the authority needed and so the artillerymen didn't question them. During that attack on Laird McMaster's castle, the ancient building was destroyed and Albert was unfortunate enough to become collateral damage."
Countess Blythe say through several more accounts of attacks on various businesses and properties, including the homes of several peers. But her thoughts continued to linger on the most devastating attack that would have required an extreme amount of planning and political pull to have pulled off. She was Deputy Commissioner when London was attacked by rogue automatons. Colonel Von Staffenberg and Lord Reynolds were both instrumental in bringing the attacks to an end and both were good friends. Why would the colonel then order an attack on a place where his friend might be?
Her attention was drawn back as Shawbridge gave an account of the razing of Maristow. Again it was a partial telling of events as noone who was witness to the attack was present at this meeting.
"Thank you, Bill. Such a shame about Maristow, lovely building, and Rebecca Reynolds who held permanent residence there is a very lovely young woman. I take it she is alright?”
"She is fine, all of the immediate Reynolds family remain under house arrest at the Knightsbridge residence. And as for Miss Rebecca being a lovely woman, I cannot comment as I have not had the pleasure."
"Thank you, and talking of young women, how is Sergeant Warner? Were her injuries extensive too?" Blythe asked.
"Er, no, your Ladyship. Miss Warner received a gunshot wound but it is not life threatening."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it. May I ask why she is not here to offer her opinion on the investigation and the events at Maristow?"
Shawbridge looked uncomfortable and glanced down the table to Superintendent Hepburn.
Blythe raised an eyebrow, "Problem, gentlemen?" she probed.
"Well, m'lady," Hepburn began causing Blythe to tense at the potential hogwash about to permeate the room.
"The whole investigation into Lord Reynolds' escape and his subsequent evasion of capture has been handled rather poorly. There was next to no paperwork filed, processes were bypassed and huge mistakes made that led to both Reynolds' continued liberty and to the loss of police life. The level of incompetence with which the case has been handled this far must be investigated and the officers responsible must be held to account."
Blythe noticed the Hepburn looked rather pleased with his own self-importance.
"And what does that have to do with Agnes?" The Countess inquired, barely able to contain her annoyance.
As Commissioner of Scotland Yard she, of course, knew exactly what each of these people were and what they did. The Department of Conduct was not Blythe's favourite part of the organisation.
"Warner has been relieved of duty, m'lady."
Her suspicions confirmed. "Relieved of duty? But she is capable of debriefing me directly?"
"Well, as Detective Chief Inspector Shawbridge has taken over then he will of course, be keeping you up to date with events."
"That is unfortunate as I have questions that the sergeant could have answered directly." Blythe's tone conveyed her disappointment.
Separated from the river by the cobbled street of Victoria Embankment, the cubic, brick built Headquarters of Scotland Yard and the Greater Metropolitan Police Force was a place not easily missed.
However, on this occasion, Harris had done a splendid job of doing just that, but had remarkably managed to land the zep-car on the rooftop landing pad anyway.
Lady Melody Blythe alighted from the rear of the car, descended the steps and entered the roof top foyer.
There was no one sitting at the desk today which didn't surprise her, considering.
She swept through a long corridor to the end where her office was to be found, deposited her coat and hat, and collected a thin file folder from an oak cabinet.
She didn't go to her desk, but rather exitted the room, walked purposefully back down the corridor to a door half way down.
Without knocking, she entered.
The room was large, airy, with windows along the opposite wall that on a clear day would offer views up river to Westminster Bridge and Parliament.
This time she was not alone. Several people were sat along the sides of a large conference table that occupied the centre of the meeting room. She knew them all, of course, each one being a subordinate in some capacity or other.
It did amuse her that all these powerful men had to answer to her.
There was a certain social irony that she and many other women had to deal with every day. And that was that the men who held positions of authority in this country could happily serve a queen, sacrificing themselves like martyrs if need be, but they found it almost unpalatable to have a woman above them in the pecking order. Not that any of these men would say anything to her face.
"Thank you all for coming in on a bank holiday," she said as she took her seat at the head of the table.
"I won't beat around the bush, gentlemen. The Prime Minister is not a happy man this morning. He has been fielding ether-calls all weekend from prominent businessmen, city officials, and even from the Bank of England. These spate of attacks on business properties and members of the gentry have several members of the cabinet worried."
"Some are even saying this could be a preemptive strike against our economy prior to an all out declaration of war."
Blythe let the significance of that last part sink in before continuing.
"The PM has called an emergency COBRA meeting for four o'clock this afternoon. I don't want to walk into that meeting with nothing to say. Give me something to say."
To her left sat William Shawbridge, the Detective Chief Inspector recently assigned to take over from Guthrie. He noticed Blythe's gaze was fixed upon him.
He gave a little nervous cough to clear his throat before speaking.
"Lady Blythe, after recent events I am still trying to piece together what is left of Guthrie's investigation. It's a shambles."
Blythe huffed. "Just tell me what you know, starting with how your predecessor is, what happened there and work on from that point."
"Sorry Countess," Shawbridge said. "Albert Guthrie's condition remains critical, he has suffered severe burns and has already had one leg amputated with the very real possibility that he will lose more limbs, but he is too weak to operate on at the moment."
"As to he came to be in this condition? Guthrie was contacted by a counterpart in Scotland. Local police had visited the home of Laird Sir James McMasters in their ongoing search for the fugitive, Sebastian Reynolds.
When McMasters refused to admit the police, offering considerable resistance, Guthrie had ample reason to believe that Reynolds might well be holed up there. However, for reasons we are still trying to ascertain, Guthrie entered the Laird's home alone and called off the search, or rather seige, as it had become. My team is still trying to find out exactly why? Very soon after Guthrie called off the search a local defence battery received orders from Colonel Von Staffenberg, a senior Special Operations officer, to fire upon a target within Scotland itself. The orders bore all the authority needed and so the artillerymen didn't question them. During that attack on Laird McMaster's castle, the ancient building was destroyed and Albert was unfortunate enough to become collateral damage."
Countess Blythe say through several more accounts of attacks on various businesses and properties, including the homes of several peers. But her thoughts continued to linger on the most devastating attack that would have required an extreme amount of planning and political pull to have pulled off. She was Deputy Commissioner when London was attacked by rogue automatons. Colonel Von Staffenberg and Lord Reynolds were both instrumental in bringing the attacks to an end and both were good friends. Why would the colonel then order an attack on a place where his friend might be?
Her attention was drawn back as Shawbridge gave an account of the razing of Maristow. Again it was a partial telling of events as noone who was witness to the attack was present at this meeting.
"Thank you, Bill. Such a shame about Maristow, lovely building, and Rebecca Reynolds who held permanent residence there is a very lovely young woman. I take it she is alright?”
"She is fine, all of the immediate Reynolds family remain under house arrest at the Knightsbridge residence. And as for Miss Rebecca being a lovely woman, I cannot comment as I have not had the pleasure."
"Thank you, and talking of young women, how is Sergeant Warner? Were her injuries extensive too?" Blythe asked.
"Er, no, your Ladyship. Miss Warner received a gunshot wound but it is not life threatening."
"Good, I'm glad to hear it. May I ask why she is not here to offer her opinion on the investigation and the events at Maristow?"
Shawbridge looked uncomfortable and glanced down the table to Superintendent Hepburn.
Blythe raised an eyebrow, "Problem, gentlemen?" she probed.
"Well, m'lady," Hepburn began causing Blythe to tense at the potential hogwash about to permeate the room.
"The whole investigation into Lord Reynolds' escape and his subsequent evasion of capture has been handled rather poorly. There was next to no paperwork filed, processes were bypassed and huge mistakes made that led to both Reynolds' continued liberty and to the loss of police life. The level of incompetence with which the case has been handled this far must be investigated and the officers responsible must be held to account."
Blythe noticed the Hepburn looked rather pleased with his own self-importance.
"And what does that have to do with Agnes?" The Countess inquired, barely able to contain her annoyance.
As Commissioner of Scotland Yard she, of course, knew exactly what each of these people were and what they did. The Department of Conduct was not Blythe's favourite part of the organisation.
"Warner has been relieved of duty, m'lady."
Her suspicions confirmed. "Relieved of duty? But she is capable of debriefing me directly?"
"Well, as Detective Chief Inspector Shawbridge has taken over then he will of course, be keeping you up to date with events."
"That is unfortunate as I have questions that the sergeant could have answered directly." Blythe's tone conveyed her disappointment.
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Re: Accused
“Well, we have Warner detained here, on the premises. I could have her brought up?”
“Detained?” Blythe almost spat out the word.
“Yes! Extreme negligence leading to the deaths of several officers is a serious charge.”
“Warner wasn’t the senior officer,” Blythe pointed out.
“No, Ma’am, but Sir Guthrie is a prominent member of society, a senior officer here and of course his injuries mean we cannot enact a timely arrest and reach a conviction before the next quarter. Whereas Sergeant Warner is, well, lower born. I mean let’s face it, not really sergeant material there is it? A young black woman of all things! Ha!” he chuckled.
Blythe’s face was blank but there was murder in her eyes.
“Good god man! Get her here, now!” she bellowed.
Hepburn jumped up immediately. “Ma’am!” he said churlishly.
Blythe watched him go and stood up herself, all the other men standing as she did so.
“Stay seated gentlemen!” she said as she walked to the window and looked out at the featureless sheet of grey that his the rest of London from view.
“Gordon? What is your view, criminal activity or orchestrated attack on our infrastructure?”
Gordon Jackson, Head of Organised Crime Division looked over the top of his wire rim glasses at the back of the Commissioner.”
“We’ve nothing solid either way. We have arrested two people in connection with the arson attack on the Magdalene Theatre. Apparently several people died in the fire including the daughter of a minor criminal who was more than eager to shop the culprits. We are questioning them vigorously and already have the name of a minor lieutenant in the Venerated Rex gang, who operate out of Slough. That investigation is ongoing. We haven’t found any link between the Magdalene fire and the other attacks, but there have been too many for it to be coincidence.”
Blythe nodded and returned to her seat.
“Reynolds,” she stated. “He is the link, I’m sure. He has been for all the rest too. I need each of your departments looking into every aspect of this. Reynolds may be a fugitive, and is a high priority, but he isn’t the one destroying and attacking these businesses. Whoever is, needs to be found.”
At that point Hepburn returned.
“I am having the prisoner brought up now, Lady Blythe,” he announced proudly.
Blythe had to force herself to relax her right hand that was threatening to snap her pen in half.
It took only a few minutes for Warner to be brought up and Blythe had seen no reason to engage in further talk, leaving most of the gathered men in awkward silence. All except Deputy Commissioner Short, who sat at the opposite end of the table with an amused smile. He knew exactly what the men in this room thought about having a woman in charge, and knew that Blythe was fully aware of it. And he loved how she played them!
Warner was led in by two uniformed officers. She looked dishevelled, tired, her face showed signs of stress and pain. But moreover, she looked like a prisoner. Shiny steel cuffs adorned her wrists.
Blythe could see a few of the others in the room look uncomfortable at the sight, but their professional stance prevented them from saying anything. She, on the other hand, had no such qualms.
She glared at Hepburn but kept her voice quiet and steady. “Why id Detective Sergeant Warner in handcuffs?”
“She is under arrest, Lady Blythe, on suspicion of manslaughter through gross negligence.”
Blythe suddenly bolted out of her chair and moved quickly to Warner, catching the young woman’s arm just as she began to topple.
“Seat!” Blythe demanded and one was pulled out for the prisoner.
“Thank you,” Agnes said, obviously exhausted.
“Get her some water and somebody get those bloody cuffs off her!” Shawbrdge barked.
“Commissioner!” Hepburn protested, but Blythe merely nodded at one of the uniformed officers who immediately produced a set of keys.
It took a few more minutes for Agnes to recover her wits.
“Let us continue,” Countess Blythe instructed as she returned to her seat.
“Detective,” she directed her questioning towards Agnes. “You and Assistant Commissioner Guthrie were the leads on the investigation into tracking down Lord Reynolds and sustained injuries during the arson attack on Maristow House. Would you say that the attack was directly linked to your search for the Viscount?”
Agnes glanced apprehensively towards the assembled senior officers.
“Be candid, Agnes. I’m their boss, if they don’t like what I’m asking or even what your answer is then that is just tough. In fact, anyone not prepared to hear what this courageous and capable young woman has to say had best get their things and depart this meeting.
“Detained?” Blythe almost spat out the word.
“Yes! Extreme negligence leading to the deaths of several officers is a serious charge.”
“Warner wasn’t the senior officer,” Blythe pointed out.
“No, Ma’am, but Sir Guthrie is a prominent member of society, a senior officer here and of course his injuries mean we cannot enact a timely arrest and reach a conviction before the next quarter. Whereas Sergeant Warner is, well, lower born. I mean let’s face it, not really sergeant material there is it? A young black woman of all things! Ha!” he chuckled.
Blythe’s face was blank but there was murder in her eyes.
“Good god man! Get her here, now!” she bellowed.
Hepburn jumped up immediately. “Ma’am!” he said churlishly.
Blythe watched him go and stood up herself, all the other men standing as she did so.
“Stay seated gentlemen!” she said as she walked to the window and looked out at the featureless sheet of grey that his the rest of London from view.
“Gordon? What is your view, criminal activity or orchestrated attack on our infrastructure?”
Gordon Jackson, Head of Organised Crime Division looked over the top of his wire rim glasses at the back of the Commissioner.”
“We’ve nothing solid either way. We have arrested two people in connection with the arson attack on the Magdalene Theatre. Apparently several people died in the fire including the daughter of a minor criminal who was more than eager to shop the culprits. We are questioning them vigorously and already have the name of a minor lieutenant in the Venerated Rex gang, who operate out of Slough. That investigation is ongoing. We haven’t found any link between the Magdalene fire and the other attacks, but there have been too many for it to be coincidence.”
Blythe nodded and returned to her seat.
“Reynolds,” she stated. “He is the link, I’m sure. He has been for all the rest too. I need each of your departments looking into every aspect of this. Reynolds may be a fugitive, and is a high priority, but he isn’t the one destroying and attacking these businesses. Whoever is, needs to be found.”
At that point Hepburn returned.
“I am having the prisoner brought up now, Lady Blythe,” he announced proudly.
Blythe had to force herself to relax her right hand that was threatening to snap her pen in half.
It took only a few minutes for Warner to be brought up and Blythe had seen no reason to engage in further talk, leaving most of the gathered men in awkward silence. All except Deputy Commissioner Short, who sat at the opposite end of the table with an amused smile. He knew exactly what the men in this room thought about having a woman in charge, and knew that Blythe was fully aware of it. And he loved how she played them!
Warner was led in by two uniformed officers. She looked dishevelled, tired, her face showed signs of stress and pain. But moreover, she looked like a prisoner. Shiny steel cuffs adorned her wrists.
Blythe could see a few of the others in the room look uncomfortable at the sight, but their professional stance prevented them from saying anything. She, on the other hand, had no such qualms.
She glared at Hepburn but kept her voice quiet and steady. “Why id Detective Sergeant Warner in handcuffs?”
“She is under arrest, Lady Blythe, on suspicion of manslaughter through gross negligence.”
Blythe suddenly bolted out of her chair and moved quickly to Warner, catching the young woman’s arm just as she began to topple.
“Seat!” Blythe demanded and one was pulled out for the prisoner.
“Thank you,” Agnes said, obviously exhausted.
“Get her some water and somebody get those bloody cuffs off her!” Shawbrdge barked.
“Commissioner!” Hepburn protested, but Blythe merely nodded at one of the uniformed officers who immediately produced a set of keys.
It took a few more minutes for Agnes to recover her wits.
“Let us continue,” Countess Blythe instructed as she returned to her seat.
“Detective,” she directed her questioning towards Agnes. “You and Assistant Commissioner Guthrie were the leads on the investigation into tracking down Lord Reynolds and sustained injuries during the arson attack on Maristow House. Would you say that the attack was directly linked to your search for the Viscount?”
Agnes glanced apprehensively towards the assembled senior officers.
“Be candid, Agnes. I’m their boss, if they don’t like what I’m asking or even what your answer is then that is just tough. In fact, anyone not prepared to hear what this courageous and capable young woman has to say had best get their things and depart this meeting.