You just can’t please some people. Julius thought he’d done well, making such prompt use of his earlier purchase. Therefore, he’d hoped for gratitude, but the English were a funny lot, and Ada Lovelace more so than most. It was all rather a puzzle, but not one Frankenstein had leisure to solve. Instead, he took control of the situation with his second pistol.
‘Foxglove,’ he suggested, ‘why don’t you disarm them?’
One constable had recovered enough to look at Frankenstein with loathing.
‘Maybe because we’re not armed?’ the man ventured, with bitter sarcasm.
Julius shrugged. ‘More fool you then. Right, Foxglove, just check he speaks true and then grab our bags. I’ll keep these invaders occupied in the interval.’
He waggled the levelled weapon threateningly. ‘Come, come, gentlemen: I must insist! Hands up or I’ll fire!’
They had good evidence he might mean it. Arms shot aloft.
A flurry of patting proved the enforcers of the Law had indeed ventured out unarmed: innocent of even a truncheon! Julius boggled: how on earth had these people acquired an Empire?
Frankenstein felt the need for haste: any minute now there might be footsteps on the stairs—the first brave explorers investigating the sound of gunfire.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
Foxglove didn’t have words but he had their luggage. His ham-like arms lifted the bags as evidence.
Julius urged Ada out of statue-mode.
‘Come along, my lady.’
To her credit, Ada didn’t hesitate. She didn’t say anything but she didn’t protest either. Her lustrous eyes were finding it hard to leave Julius’ gesticulating gun.
As he passed, Frankenstein pillaged the dead man of any items of use, and likewise scooped up the holed legal document.
‘Some reading for the journey,’ he explained to its former owners. They shrank against the wall, making way according to the stage directions of his weapon.
‘Help yourself to the food,’ Julius suggested as he locked the door after him, imprisoning them—for a while.
‘Murderer!’ came the accusation straightaway, loud and clear through the oak panel. ‘Foul murderer!’
Frankenstein shrugged. It was an alternative term for soldier: not one he preferred, but it did sometimes fit.
Still under the elf-spell of sudden death, Foxglove and Lady Lovelace were waiting for him in the lobby. By the time he rejoined them his pistols was nowhere to be seen and he could bestow greetings upon the innkeeper like any normal guest.
‘But…,’ said Ada at last. ‘But…’
‘It was necessary,’ Julius replied. ‘They would have minced you…’
He let her chew on that technical term, prey to new doubts, whilst he secured transport.
Most conveniently, the black constabulary cab was waiting outside, left in sole charge of an ostler. His tip turned out to be verbal (‘go! Away!’) rather than coinage, backed up a sword-tip. It proved compelling and soon Foxglove was in the driver’s seat. Which was just as well, for the first ‘major outrage’ cries were coming from the inn, some of them out of an open window facing the street. Julius ushered Lady Lovelace into the cab.
‘Let’s try things my way for a while, shall we?’ he suggested, lending his words weight with a stolen catchphrase. ‘Do you think that might be worth a go? Hmmm?’
‘That was a tactical withdrawal,’ Frankenstein informed Lady Lovelace before they entered. ‘Now for a strategic one…’
She was chastened—or maybe in deep calculation—and said nothing. All the same, she went along with him.
After the previous kerfuffle at Baring’s Bank, Ada got the senior clerk straightaway, who had his speech rehearsed. Only this time Julius did the talking—always so more effective than shrieking.
He showed ‘his’ badge of office taken from the shot constable. Once that was accepted he handed over the pistol-punctured document.
‘A candle accident,’ he explained, when the brown rimmed hole was noted. The clerk’s eyebrow slowly descended.
‘As you’ll read, Milady has been taken into custody,’ Julius flowed on in fluid confidence. ‘Illegal revival, as I believe you wisely suspected before. Good man: you shall be commended. His Lordship would not have been pleased if funds had been released. Whereas now it is his strict instruction that a deposit be made.’
The senior clerk had not reached those giddy career heights without owning more than his fair share of caution. Banking depended on it. Therefore, he’d already sent one of his Lazaran accounting staff to check that a police vehicle was indeed parked outside. Which duly confirmed, further talk of deposits, rather than the always suspicion-arising contrary, lowered his shield still more.
The man spread his pale hands as if to receive the funds, or at least further explanation.
Julius delivered.
‘The jewellery, of course,’ he semi-whispered, as if Ada sitting beside him could not hear. ‘Family heirlooms. She’s dripping with them.’
‘Ah…,’ said Senior Clerk. It did fit. He’d heard tales of the fate of illegal Lazarans. Pig food apparently. Certainly, respect for personal property didn’t feature highly in any likely scenario.
Playing the game, Ada reached her even whiter hand to touch her string of pearls and jet necklet.
‘The Lovelace safe deposit box requires a combination,’ said Senior Clerk. ‘The Bank knows part, the client the rest. Will she co-operate?’
It was the fate of the Revived, even if present and listening in, to be spoken of as though not there.
‘Oh, I think so,’ replied Frankenstein. ‘I’ve had a word with her.’ He mimicked use of a whip.
Such lurid assurance clinched matters, in more ways than one. Plainly the man knew nothing outside of his service to Mammon. Those who’d ‘been around’ realised you could whip Lazarans until your arm ignited, without making much impression.
The way to the relevant vault lay through a weariness of gates, corridors and sentinels. Senior Clerk wafted through them all like a magician. Finally, in a little-frequented room of church-like stillness, he lit a lantern.
Locked boxes awaiting owners who might never come lined floor to ceiling. Both Ada and Senior Clerk knew which one to go to.
Concealing his actions behind a hunched shoulder, Senior Clerk twirled the dial three times and ways. Then Lady Lovelace completed the process, acting out the role of good little Lazaran. The door swung open—and Julius swung at Senior Clerk.
As a medical man Frankenstein knew there was a fine line between stunning and brain damage: but a pistol-butt is no precision instrument. He knelt and found the senseless Clerk’s neck pulse to check all was as well as could be expected in the circumstances. A gesture to himself mostly: it was too late to apologise if matters proved otherwise.
Meanwhile, Ada, never slow on the uptake, was taking inventory of the deposit box.
‘Bearer-bonds, high denomination banknotes, cut diamonds, share certificates: all good liquid stuff.’
Then Julius’ accomplice revealed herself to be in the very forefront of fashion. Lady Lovelace hitched up her skirts to show she wore those new-fangled ladies’ drawers. Into the spacious scarlet garment she stuffed stolen riches.
Frankenstein politely turned his back. Having forgot to bring a sack he thoroughly approved of her initiative, yet such shamelessness also unsettled him in ways he preferred not to explore.