“I read somewhere, sir, that they were blasting a new railway tunnel on the underground railway at Liverpool Street Station. Perhaps one of the workers there might be able to supply you with some dynamite and instructions as to how to use it, if discreetly bribed.”
“Good man, Becket.”
Harry, disguised in clothes purchased at a second-hand clothes store, made his way late in the afternoon to Liverpool Street Station. He located the site of the new tunnel, located the gate where the workers would come out and waited patiently. At seven o’clock, dirty, weary men began to file out. Leaning against a hoarding, Harry studied their faces. He at last picked out a man older than the rest. His face was crisscrossed with broken veins and his nose was bulbous, all the signs of a heavy drinker. He followed him as he walked from the station, keeping a steady pace behind him. He was feeling decidedly weary as he trudged along, his bad leg aching, wondering if the man lived at the ends of the earth, but his quarry finally opened the doors of a pub in Limehouse and walked in. Harry gave it a few minutes and then walked in as well.
The air was full of the smell of pipe smoke and cheap cigarette smoke. The smoke lay in wreaths across the dingy pub, which was lit by flickering gas lamps.
The smell of unwashed bodies struck him like a blow in the face. He went to the bar and ordered a pint of porter and looked around. The man he was chasing was carrying a full pint to a corner table. Harry picked up his drink, walked over and sat down.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“What about?” The man took a pull at his beer. “Who are you?” he growled. An evil-looking prostitute with sagging breasts and black teeth leaned against Harry’s shoulder. “Fancy a good time, guv?”
“Shove off,” said Harry.
♦
He waited until she had gone.
“My name’s Bill Sykes,” said Harry.
“Bin reading Dickens, “ave you?” sneered his companion.
Harry cursed himself. He should have guessed that a dipsomaniac, like many of his kind, would turn out to have come down in the world.
“My mother did,” said Harry. “Your name?”
“Pat Brian.”
“Mr. Brian, I have an offer for you. How would you like to earn two hundred guineas?”
“Garn.”
“The truth.”
“What d’ye want for it?”
“A quantity of dynamite, enough to blow up, say, a bridge and a building, and instructions on how to do it.”
“How did you know I was a blaster? Come on. Who’s bin talking?”
“No one. Lucky guess.” I am a rank amateur, thought Harry. He could have turned out just to be one of the labourers.
“Two hundred guineas. What’s it for?”
“The two hundred guineas are for you to supply the material and instructions, keep your mouth shut and not ask questions.”
“Two hundred guineas!” Pat stared into his beer and then took a long pull. “I could quit. I could get back to Ireland. Buy a bit o’ land, I could.”
“When could you get the stuff?”
Pat finished his drink. “Come along o’ me. Going back to Liverpool Street.”
“Have you a key to the site?”
“Don’t need one, guv. Know a way in. How do I know you’ll pay?”
Harry slid a wash-leather bag out of his pocket and passed it over. “Look in there. Under the table.”
Pat fumbled with the bag under the table. His eyes widened. He stuffed the bag in his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he jeered. “You’d best walk out of here. One shout from me that you’re the perlice, and they’ll murder you.”
Harry sighed. He fished in his other pocket and then said levelly, “I now have a pistol pointed at your private parts under the table. Give me back the gold or I’ll blow your manhood off.”
Pat ducked his head under the table and then straightened up. He shrugged. “Worth a try. Can’t blame me, now can you, guv?”
“Get to your feet and walk to the door. I will follow. You now know too much, so if you attempt to run away, I will shoot you.”
“You’re going to force me to get the stuff for nothink,” wailed Pat, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and Cockney. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I have no luck at all, at all.”
“You’ll get your money. Now, walk!”
♦
“That person is here again,” complained Rose.
“If you mean Captain Cathcart, yes,” growled her father. “And speaking of persons, why hasn’t that Daisy creature been sent packing?”
“I am teaching her to read and write, Pa. When she has mastered both, she will find a good position, possibly as a clerk, in London. I would like a typewriter.”
There were two reasons why the earl finally capitulated and gave in to his daughter’s demands. Rose kept busy with her protegee was less likely to get into trouble, and a typewriter was considered to be a woman’s machine and was designed with scrolls of gold on black to give the machine the feminine touch.
Rose went immediately to find the earl’s secretary, Matthew Jarvis, to instruct him to order a typewriter and have it delivered as soon as possible. Matthew nodded and said he would attend to the matter immediately. Matthew was a chubby man whose clothes always seemed too tight for him. He had a round red face, a heavy moustache, and little brown eyes.
Daisy had been regaling Rose with stories of her sometimes quite horrific childhood in the East End of London. Rose had begun to wonder about people in the household, realizing they had lives and thoughts of which she had hitherto known nothing.
“Are you happy here, Mr. Jarvis?” Rose asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“You have worked for my father for five years now Do you sometimes find the job a little tedious?”
Matthew looked shocked. “Not in the slightest, my lady.”
“Your family, do you visit them?”
“Yes, my lady. If you will excuse me, I will continue with my work. I will now be able to telephone to order the typewriter, my lord having recently had that very useful instrument installed.”
“Very good. Oh, Mr. Jarvis?”
“My lady?”
“I believe Captain Cathcart is with us, but so far I have not seen him. Where is he?”
“To my knowledge, he is working in a downstairs room in the east wing.”
“At what?”
“I am afraid I could not say.”
Curiosity sent Rose on a search of the east wing. It had been added on to the main Tudor building in the days of Queen Anne. It was usually where the guests were housed when the earl and countess held a party.
She found the captain in a little-used room at the end of a corridor on the ground floor.
“Don’t you ever knock?” he asked angrily, when she walked in on him.
“You forget. This is my home. I have no need to knock. I see you have a quantity of sticks of dynamite. Are you going to blow up the king?”
“No, I am going to create a couple of explosions. I have already written several anonymous letters to the newspapers warning them of a Bolshevik plot against the king.”
“The Bolsheviks do not advocate terrorism. It was in their manifesto.”
“Didn’t stop them killing Tsar Alexander the Second.”
“That was the last century. That was the Nihilists. The Bolsheviks have eschewed terrorism in their new manifesto.”
“Well, according to me, they haven’t. Now, if there is nothing else…”
“Just one thing. You should wear gloves.”
“I did not know there was a drawing-room etiquette to deal with dynamite.”
“You must be careful of sweating.”
“My dear goose, I am as cool as cucumber sandwiches.”
“I didn’t mean you. I mean the dynamite. Sweating is a problem with nitro-glycerine material. If it gets absorbed through your skin, you will get a nitro-glycerine headache.”