The Chief moistened the tip of the quill with black ink, and signed the bottom of the parchment. “What is your name?”
“Jake Terrington, sir.”
The quill scratched as he copied down the name. “Can you write?”
“No sir.”
“Make your mark here then.”
Clever Terrington, thought William. Another lie, and an easy way of refuting admission if The Brotherhood’s plans went wrong. He watched as Terrington took the quill and scratched an “X.”
The Chief waved the parchment to dry the ink, and then pointed at his signature. “My name is next to your mark; it reads George Hamilton Gordon, Fourth Earl of Aberdeen. I am the Prime Minister of this country.” He refolded the parchment. “This pass will grant you access to me, day or night. Do not lose it.” He handed it to Terrington. “By giving you this, I expect your absolute loyalty and discretion. Help us, and you will help your Master. Remember, traitors hang.”
“Sir.”
“There will be a substantial reward if you succeed. You might be a very rich man. Right, you can go now. Doctor, unlock the door.”
Terrington tucked the pass into his britches pocket. William caught his glance as he turned to go, but his servant’s impassive face told him nothing. Those hooded eyes shielded secrets that stayed hidden.
The Chief wagged his finger at his departing back. “And remember, no tricks.”
Hood unlocked the door, and held it open just enough for Terrington to squeeze through. “Foul this up.” He drew his hand slowly across his throat. Then he pushed him out, slammed the door, and locked it again.
The Chief shuffled through his papers. “Watch him Buffrey.”
The Judge waddled over to the window.
“These William,” The Chief held up a roll of parchments tied with blue ribbon. “Are requisition forms for your steel foundries.”
William grunted with shock. Pain turned to anger, and he reared up onto his knees. “What?”
“You are a traitor William Hunt,” The Chief declared. “Her Majesty’s Government reserves the right to confiscate an individual’s assets that are thought necessary for the safeguarding of the Empire in times of crisis. We are at war with Russia, and there is every indication that you have been conniving with the enemy to the detriment of your country’s security. Therefore I have confiscated your factories as you are no longer fit to oversee them. It is all perfectly legal. Buffrey and I have signed everything.” He threw the parchments onto the desk.
William heaved air into his throbbing chest. They couldn’t do this. It would ruin him. The pain in his back struck like hammer blows. He gripped hold of the chair, and stood.
“This is theft,” he panted. “You have no proof against me. I do not recognise your authority.” He swept the sheets of parchment onto the floor.
“I think the fake diamond was proof enough don’t you?” The Chief retrieved the scattered documents.
“Try and be a little more grateful William,” Hood growled. “I’d have taken your property, and thrown you in the gutter.”
“There he goes,” called Buffrey.
The Chief grabbed William’s arm and dragged him to the window. Every step stabbed pain through his body. Terrington appeared on the steps beneath them.
“Do you see him?” The Chief’s warm breath swept across his neck. “Do you? He’ll unmask the truth, because he’s working for The Brotherhood now.”
William snorted with derision, and The Chief’s tightening grip burned his arm.
The two guards barred Terrington’s way. The younger one levelled his musket, and the bayonet gleamed in the sun.
Terrington reached into his pocket and pulled out the pass. He thrust it at the old soldier with such force that he recoiled. The young soldier jabbed his bayonet at Terrington’s chest.
The Chief rapped loudly on the window. The soldiers glanced up, and the young one lowered his musket. They parted to let Terrington through.
Buffrey shook his head. “That’s the last we’ll see of him.”
“I don’t know,” replied The Chief. “He’s very loyal to Master.”
“Too loyal,” Hood agreed. “He’ll be back, sneaking around after we’ve gone.”
“Yes I was thinking the same thing.” The Chief steered William towards the door. “Hood, take him to Bedlam.”
William resisted, but his bruised body was no match against The Chief’s strength. He attempted one last feeble effort. “I want my lawyer.”
“Plenty of lawyers in Bedlam.” Hood unlocked the study door.
“All as loony as you,” sniggered Buffrey.
They pushed him down the stairs and bundled him into the waiting carriage. He looked for Terrington, but didn’t see him.
Chapter Twenty Four
Isobel sat huddled in the darkest corner of The Cheshire Cheese Public House on Fleet Street, in London. An open copy of The Times newspaper covered the table. She sipped the tankard of ale Gregor had bought her before he left. She grimaced at the bitter taste. She would have preferred something sweeter, but Gregor, wise to the ways of public houses, insisted on ale, as it drew less attention.
There were few customers at ten o clock in the morning, mostly old men who leant into their drinks and paid her no notice.
Gregor had promised to return within the hour; he had to see “his people,” he said, but he couldn’t take her with him until they asked to see her.
She scanned the stories in the International News section of The Times. The word “Russian,” appeared in a column, and she began to read.
“Troops Find Thousands Massacred At Sinope.” The article reported a Russian naval attack on a convoy of transport boats loaded with supplies for the Turkish army. The Russian warships sank the transports, and then bombarded the port in a terrible act of aggression.
The British Navy, alarmed by the strength of Russian firepower, sailed to the port and found a scene of “utter devastation.” Britain had immediately suspended diplomatic relations with Russia. War was inevitable. The article concluded with a patriotic call to “Chain the Russian Bear.” “Britannia Rules the Waves,” yelled the final line in big black print.
The pub door banged open and a gang of labourers filed in, shouting with raucous laughter. They dropped their picks and shovels in a heap on the floor, where they landed with a clattering rattle.
Isobel lowered her head, and slid the tankard closer to cover her face. The men lounged around the wooden counter. They blocked her view, but hid her too, behind their wall of bodies. It was safer to stay put in her dark corner.
She turned the pages. Articles and reports filled the columns with arguments for and against the Russian occupation of the Holy Lands. “Tsar Rescues Orthodox Christians From The Clutches Of Islam.” “Persecuted Christians Praise Nicholas 1st for Their Salvation.” “Russia Noses In On The Straits Of Constantinople.” “Tsar’s Bluff Hides Mediterranean Interests.” “Russian Troops Mass on Turkey’s Borders.” ”Sick Man of Europe’s Final Convulsions.” At the bottom of one column was a satirical drawing of an old man wearing a turban, being sliced up by a bear wielding a carving knife. Underneath that, a drawing in pencil, of British troops on a frigate, and the caption: “The Pride Of Britain Stands Firm Against The Empire’s Enemies As Our Brave Boys Sail For Sevastobol.”
Loud laughter erupted from the bar. Isobel positioned the tankard directly in front of her face.
One of the workmen jumped up and down with violent leaps, and then kicked like a bare knuckle fighter to demonstrate to his mates the treatment he would inflict on a Russian. He ground his heel into the wooden boards, and clouds of sawdust scattered under his assault.