Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Read online

  When George saw her step from the transept ahead of him, only a scoundrel would have admitted seeing the groom stumble momentarily in awe at the first sight of his bride. And yet he did not miss a beat, and neither did she, and as the organ resounded with the bridal march the two met at the centre of the alter together, and took each other’s hands.

  2.

  AT THE RECEPTION, which was held in the Admiralty’s grand ballroom (and grand it was, belonging as it did to the finest Navy of the inner planets), Nathaniel was enduring some ribbing at his expense. Unversed in the matrimonial ceremony he had mostly had to follow the priest’s hissed instructions. His repeated failure to accurately do so had caused Annabelle an unfortunately uncontrollable bout of mirth, and Bedford stepping in to help did not, in fact, help. But when they managed to compose themselves the whole thing went off without a hitch, and the memories of that morning had instantly become cherished. Those same memories were now being regaled, at Nathaniel’s expense, notwithstanding the assistance of champagne.

  “And didn’t you tread on the poor fellow’s foot, at one point?” asked the newly-married Mister Bedford, leaning back into his chair.

  “I don’t think so. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest.”

  “Oh, Nathaniel,” smirked Annabelle. “It was memorable, at least.”

  “Quite.”

  “Don’t pout, Nathaniel. It’s unattractive.” She glanced over at Arnaud, another trusted friend, who was lazily badgering the maître d’ for more champagne.

  The wedding feast had been and gone. Almost by mutual assent each guest had settled into their chair, perhaps surreptitiously unfastened a waistcoat button or two, taking a moment to recover from the day and revel in plenitude.

  This pleasant malaise, however, did not seem to affect Captain Jacob Folkard. He nimbly wound his way towards the group at the top table.

  “Jacob!” hollered Bedford. “Care for some champagne?”

  Folkard might have had a reputation of earned respect and results gained when commanding a vessel, but Nathaniel had come to know him more for his wit and warmth. These endearing qualities were always evident when he gave orders to his crew, though they were hidden—when one came to know him as the wedding party did, these foibles became the key to his character. And so it was that everyone noticed something was amiss when those selfsame virtues were all but absent in Folkard’s face and demeanour on this, the happiest of wedding days.

  “Thank you, George, but no. May I congratulate you once more on a triumphant day? Not without its surprises, but I would expect nothing less from you, Mrs Bedford.”

  “You’re too kind, Captain. Won’t you at least join us?”

  “Not right now. Nathaniel, might I show you something?”

  Nathaniel, mildly drunk and therefore momentarily nonplussed by being the centre of attention once more, drained the last of his champagne and stood, it had to be said, rather unsteadily. “Of course.”

  As Folkard led Nathaniel through the throng of revellers, cutting a swathe between flute chinks and chatter, Nathaniel peered over his shoulder and noticed Bedford, Annabelle and Arnaud exchange an ominous glance.

  3.

  FOLKARD LED NATHANIEL to the atrium, striding ahead, straight-backed. He suddenly veered to the left to push through a door, and Nathaniel found himself half-jogging to keep up as they traversed a corridor lined with pot plants on plaster columns. Before he could even attempt to protest Nathaniel found himself following through a smaller—though no less ornate—atrium, and out into a well-kept, walled garden where he was finally allowed to catch his breath. Folkard was silent as he did so.

  “You made a fine stand-in, Professor,” he said eventually. “It was a joy to see you up there. I feel your brother would have been proud of you.”

  “Yes, well,” muttered Nathaniel, appreciating the sentiment, reminded of his and Folkard’s previous antagonism over Edwin’s death. It was good that both men had finally been able to bury the hatchet over that unfortunate event. “You weren’t the only one to find it amusing.”

  “I meant that sincerely, Nathaniel. It was just all so…fitting.”

  “Unlike your friend in black.”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, Stone. But it was—and remains—necessary.” Folkard crossed to a small gate beyond the rose garden and placed his hands on the top. He seemed to grimace, and Nathaniel looked down to see his knuckles go white as ice.

  “Captain? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry to have to do this. Today of all days… But you must understand, it had to be you. You’re the least involved.”

  “Captain, please. You’re talking in riddles.”

  Nathaniel searched for Folkard’s eyes, which were darting and restless. The captain, over the course of their adventures, had demonstrated peculiar mental and telepathic talents. These were inexorably tied to Luna, and the brooding alien relic known as the Heart that ran through the moon’s very belly—the relic that had caused the madness of Annabelle’s uncle, Cyrus Grant, and the grotesque deformation of the insane Russian scientist Vladimir Tereshkov. Madness and the moon, even in this enlightened age, seemed to remain cosy bedfellows.

  “It falls to me, Nathaniel,” he said slowly, “to destroy this day.”

  “Now steady on…”

  “Listen. Keep your peace and be quiet, man! Just listen.”

  And so, stunned, Nathaniel listened.

  “I don’t hear anything,” he said, unconsciously lowering his voice to whisper.

  Folkard hissed. “Precisely…” Having said that, he stood bolt upright and began to pace, his volume returning to normal and startling Nathaniel. “And yet,” he continued. “It is such a bright September day in a choice and, many say, a pleasant part of town.”

  Nathaniel listened again, and his face fell.

  “Where’s the sound of lovers?” asked Folkard. “Or mothers with their children and fathers with their sons? Commerce. Trade. Noise. Where is it?” Shocked by the shout, Nathaniel heard it: Nothing. London at a deathly, unnatural standstill. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “There has been an attack on sovereign soil and an attempt on the life of Her Majesty,” Folkard said flatly. “Perhaps we should go inside.”

  Chapter Two

  Introducing Mister Enderby

  1.

  THE SCENT IN the room was one of ageless grace. The soft musk of panel oak, cognac and polished leather mixed together against a backdrop of book-lined walls and pearled gaslights. The very seat of the Empire. It was in rooms such as this that the fates of worlds beyond Earth were dictated.

  “Brandy?”

  Nathaniel watched as Folkard crossed to a large mahogany globe, the reach of England’s arm marked out in pastel pink across the continents. Folkard split the world in half with a creak, revealing decanters and crystal glasses, and began to pour himself a drink. Nathaniel silently declined Folkard’s offer, and the Captain gestured for him to sit. Folkard sat opposite him, brandy cupped in his hands but untouched.

  “This morning,” he began, “the body of a police officer, one Constable Jeremiah Graves, was discovered snagged on a girder near Blackfriars Bridge. He hadn’t returned from his beat the previous night, but no-one thought much of that. Fellow was apparently a bit of a drinker. More than once the morning watch had picked him up, uniform and all. But it turns out it wasn’t the drink that got him.”

  Nathaniel swallowed dryly.

  “We originally paid the death no heed. Why would we? Early morning, another corpse. Thought the poor wretch was three sheets to the wind, tumbled into the river and caved his own head in. But when the bomb went off we discovered its location was right on his route, and drowned men tend to have more water in their lungs.” It was only then that Folkard took a sip of his brandy, and a minute one at that.

  “And you said,” Nathaniel asked, “Her Majesty?”

  “Today is the anniversary of the Sacrifice at Bous, and Her
Majesty was scheduled to attend a short service at St Paul’s followed by laying a wreath at the memorial. Ecumenical red tape—or just a slow sermon—delayed Her Majesty. But were she on time there is doubt, Stone, but on God’s good Earth she would have been killed.”

  “And Her Majesty?”

  “Is shaken, but otherwise unharmed.”

  It was not Folkard who made this declaration. The voice came from behind Nathaniel—precisely behind him—and so he whipped around to engage the man who had uttered it.

  He had seen this man before, whispering in Folkard’s ear, and later, chewing on a canapé and watching from the ballroom’s corners. And yet when he had walked in to this room, there had been no trace. Nathaniel doubted he would have been far from Folkard’s side today, and suddenly he knew he was faced with a man who only allowed himself to be seen when he wished it.

  “This,” said Folkard, “is Mister Enderby.”

  Enderby was not a tall man. Folkard and Nathaniel would have easily towered over him, and yet he had a moulded, triangular frame—not stocky, but lithe. He was dressed in plain, neat black, his hands clasped in front of him. He had an almond-shaped face with whiskers and shoulder-length hair that kinked around his ears; you could not guess his age. He might have been a haggard twenty-two or a youthful fifty-five, and when Nathaniel looked back he inadvertently met his gaze. He found a still gaze that neither challenged nor invited an inch.

  “Charmed,” said Nathaniel.

  “Mister Enderby,” said Folkard, as Enderby crossed to stand behind him, “is charged with the safety and security of Her Majesty’s person, although I do not think he will be overly troubled if I inform you his duties extend rather more broadly than that.”

  Enderby smiled, and nodded.

  “Hence his presence here today. And I want to take this opportunity now, before events drag us further into turmoil, to say that I am truly sorry to have to do this.”

  “But, Captain, it’s…”

  “It’s the wedding of your ward and a very great friend of mine. And yet, once more, I find the perfidious attempts of our enemies and the politics of alien worlds has wounded the memories of this day, and it falls to me to administer the coup de grace.”

  Folkard was losing his faith in this world. He knew it and Nathaniel knew it. It had begun as 1889 has come to a close, and it continued apace whenever he returned to Earth. Folkard sighed and drank his drink, no doubt wishing he was far away… Far away in the caves of Luna, perhaps. It seemed, to Nathaniel, that sometimes the good captain’s only affinity lay with the Heart and the memory of his wife and daughter.

  “Because the only people,” Folkard continued, “that do not know of this attack are the bride and groom. George and dear Miss Annabelle. And it has fallen upon me to tell them.”

  Folkard put his head in his hands. Enderby, proud as you like, reached forward and took Folkard’s glass. He padded over to the drink cabinet, refreshed Folkard’s brandy, and returned. Folkard took the glass while Enderby removed and lit a small cheroot from a silver case.

  “We were lucky enough to find fragments,” he said. “Enough to go on. Given the right…expertise?”

  “I’m sorry, Nathaniel,” muttered Folkard.

  It was such a rare occurrence for Folkard to use Nathaniel’s given name. The depth of his guilt over this was obviously huge. But why Folkard should take the blame was beyond Nathaniel. He looked up to Enderby’s eyes, intermittently obscured by smoke as the man breathed out. “Can we not at least give them the rest of the day?” he asked.

  “We could,” observed Enderby coolly, “but your presence is still requested.”

  “Hell’s teeth, man. I won’t be shanghaied like this.”

  “It’s a matter of national security, Professor Stone.”

  So much for being considered dead, Nathaniel thought. Only when it serves the government’s agenda.

  “And you are giving me no choice but to choose patriotism over friendship?”

  “Unfortunately so.”

  “Which is why,” Folkard breathed, “It must be me that tells them.”

  A silence fell upon the room. Enderby removed the cigarillo from his lips and held it loosely between his fingers, unmoving. Folkard made a move to get up before thinking better of it, and Nathaniel simply stared at his clasped hands.

  “No,” he said, finally.

  “I’m sorry?” said Enderby.

  “No. I will not abandon my friends on the happiest day of their lives in order to thrust myself once more into a world of danger and death. We have all, all of us, seen too much of both, and if we are not allowed respite on a day such as today, then it is a world I wash my hands of.”

  “Nathaniel, please…”

  “No, Captain. No. You know this is the right thing to do.”

  Folkard looked up to Enderby, who stared back impassively. He leaned forward and stepped between the two men, extinguishing his cheroot on a gilt ashtray that sat on the low table before them. It was not even partially smoked.

  “These things, we find, have only a small window of opportunity to pursue.”

  “You have fragments,” said Nathaniel, bluntly. “Are they to dissolve before tomorrow? And if, sir, you are in pursuit, how are we to assist with that? Bodily? Shall we strap on our galoshes and go tramping through the banks of the Thames for clues?”

  “I’m not without sympathy, Professor Stone. But there are greater things afoot than wedlock and revelry.”

  “Not today there isn’t.”

  Silence.

  “I think you have your answer, Mister Enderby,” said Folkard.

  Having said this, he drained his brandy and stood, a weight having seemingly lifted. “In the course of the day I will inform Commander Bedford of events. I see no reason for Mrs Bedford to find out, though doubtless she will before long. We will convene at the Admiralty, say, nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning?”

  “Seven,” said Enderby. “Sharp. Doctor Arnaud Fontaine must also be there. Commander Bedford may attend, if he wishes. We believe his experiences may be of use.”

  “Very well. Stone?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “You have made your choice, Professor, and bought yourself the day. Be grateful,” Enderby purred.

  And yet Nathaniel felt anything but grateful.

  2.

  THEY RETURNED TO the ballroom to the find the guests reinvigorated. The detritus of fine dining had been cleared and people were milling in the grandiose hall in which entertainment, in the form of a full orchestra and dancing, would be enjoyed. Upon his return to the throng, Nathaniel could suddenly sense that something was afoot. Movements were quick, and panicky—a ringing laugh was stifled unnecessarily quickly, high-ranking elderly man formed in groups to tut and shake their heads.

  And in the centre of it all were Bedford and Annabelle, standing by the cake and chatting idly to relatives and guests. Blithe and blissfully ignorant, thought Nathaniel. Let them have their day. He nimbly pinched another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

  Folkard appeared, and drew Bedford to one side.

  3.

  LATER, IN THE bridal suite, George and Annabelle gazed into each other’s eyes.

  “Mrs Bedford,” twinkled George.

  “Husband?” replied Annabelle. They smiled.

  “Despite everything,” she sighed, flopping exhausted onto the bed, “it really was a rather glorious day.”

  “It was never going to be normal though, was it?” said George, flopping beside her. He put his arm around her shoulder and she nuzzled closer to him, rubbing her nose against his neck.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  This was their time, their first time, together and at peace as a married couple. Each enjoyed the other’s presence, the gentle tingle of a touched fingertip and the closeness and heat of each other.

  “A bomb though,” said George. “An attack. I can barely credit it.”

 
“In a world such as ours, dear George, these things happen all the time. It’s just that on this occasion, it has happened to us.”

  “For our wedding day to be remembered as that, though…”

  “Is but nothing,” intercut Annabelle. “Do you not think we will also remember Nathaniel’s endearing attempts to give me away? Or the priest who had to limp for the rest of the afternoon? Or Arnaud’s champagne fountain, and the mess that that idea caused? This was our day.” They looked at each other, shoulder to shoulder on the bed.

  “And though the worlds may turn and events run riot, this is still the day that we were wed. My darling George. My husband. Let the power-mongers blow themselves to pieces today. And if the day itself was not perfect, what matter? We have the rest of our lives to make it so.”

  George, though a gentleman, could not restrain himself. He leaned over and cupped Annabelle’s cheek with his palm. Though this kiss was gentle it was a kiss more forceful and sexual than either had ever experienced before.

  After a moment, George stopped.

  “Annabelle,” he breathed. “I have never been…”

  “Shh,” soothed Annabelle. “The day was taken, but the night is ours.”

  4.

  THE PARTY HAD continued later than anyone could have reasonably expected. It was almost as if some unconscious drive had pushed the guests to enjoy themselves as much as was possible in the time that remained that night; they all knew, deep down, that with the bomb attack they would wake the following morning in a world that may well have irrevocably changed.

  It had, in fact, gone on so long that as the guests filtered out much decorum had been abandoned. They was loud laughter and flirting, promises of dinner dates made and stolen, hard breathed-kisses. Even Bedford’s two maiden aunts, both in their sixties and pillars of the community, had somehow managed to procure a cucumber from the kitchens (nobody dared to ask how) and were waving it around and cackling in the courtyard with an infectious, carefree joie de vivre.