Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Read online

Nathaniel was taking solace in this happiness. His clandestine meeting with Folkard had imbued him with such ambivalence, the joy of the day against the sorrow of the world. At present, he was content to stand in the shadows, near the door to the Admiralty courtyard, and take strength in the joy of people other than himself.

  There was a bang behind him, and Nathaniel turned quickly to see Arnaud slam gracelessly into the side of the door. His legs weren’t working particularly well, his eyes were unfocussed and he had a lop-sided, goofy grin on his face. He looked up and spotted Nathaniel, and beamed widely.

  “Why Professor Stone.” He grinned, piling on every ounce of his French charm. “Fancy seeing you here…”

  “Arnaud,” Nathaniel found himself saying, in a voice that wasn’t entirely admonishing. “You’re drunk…”

  “And you, mon toujours, are looking very, very, good…”

  Nathaniel looked up, towards the windows of the grand building, but only for a second. It was a movement he knew would not be noticed by Arnaud, who had come with other things on his mind.

  With remarkable rapidity Arnaud seemed to throw off his alcohol-induced cloak and strode up forcefully to Nathaniel, who, almost unconsciously, pressed his back against the cold stone pillar behind him. Nathaniel swallowed loudly. They were in the dark, away from prying eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, Arnaud’s strong arms wrapped around Nathaniel’s waist. Nathaniel reciprocated, curling his own arms around Arnaud’s broad back and running them up to his neck. Gently, firmly, Arnaud pulled Nathaniel towards him and they began to kiss deeply, their lips exchanging exquisite, tingling touches.

  Arnaud relaxed into the passion, hungry but content, blissful, enjoying the danger and the shame… He let go, began to kiss back, Nathaniel’s playing the same delicate game. The two lovers began that immaculate see-saw of predator and prey, chasing each others’ desires in the moonlight.

  And yet, fatefully and disastrously, their passionate encounter did not go unobserved.

  5.

  FOLKARD, WRACKED WITH guilt over how his duties had so hatefully encroached upon the day, had exiled himself to an upper office in the Admiralty for the remaining hours. He had meant to get some work done, prepare for the meeting the following day, but had in truth spent most of his time gazing from the window in a cloak of self-loathing. It was while he was doing this that he noticed Nathaniel idly watching the revellers, and then Arnaud’s appearance, and everything that subsequently transpired.

  Was he losing his mind, or did he really see Stone glance up to look him straight in the eye, moments before the whole vile spectacle had unfolded?

  Almost instantly any respect he had for the professor and Fontaine dissolved into disgust, into disbelief and loathing. Previously, Stone’s lack of romantic entanglement had seemed natural—these science boys were all the same, more interested in test tubes and tinkering than the fairer sex—and he’d assumed Arnaud was more of a man-about-town, promiscuous perhaps, but not deviant. And yet here it was, laid before him, and the sickness that he felt, the betrayal, the perversion… It permeated his every nerve, sat heavy like lead in his gut. He gritted his teeth, the anger overtaking him, throwing a full tumbler of brandy to shatter into shivers on the opposite wall.

  6.

  FOLKARD SLEPT FITFULLY that night.

  The blankets around him seemed itchy and hot. He threw them off, and sat dolefully on the edge of the bed to think. He suddenly realised he was grinding his teeth and, only with great mental effort, stopped himself from doing so. He was cold. He reached across to the blankets and draped them around his shoulders where he sat.

  Arnaud and Nathaniel’s secret gnawed at him; a sickening, repulsed sensation that would not give him peace. Yet even this turn of events was not the uppermost in his mind, for a far larger and more cosmic fear was searching for him, soothing and teasing in equal measure, an itch that could not be scratched.

  He could see nothing in the dark. Only feelings. Insomnia or brandy on an empty stomach made erratic, organic shapes flash and pulse before his eyes. Only in those shapes he could feel them, hear their voices reaching out to him over the yawning chasm of space… Charlotte, Felicity, both gone, but whispering from The Heart. The Heart of Luna. Closing his eyes, he could see them, more real than his own breathing or the cold of the room around him. He tried to soothe them with his thoughts, telling them, I will return to you, my heart, my darlings.

  Chapter Three

  Rendezvous at the Admiralty

  1.

  AS WAS TO BE wholly expected, Mister Enderby was already in the room by the time Folkard and Nathaniel arrived. Laid out on the table in front of him was a calico sheet onto which had been arranged charred and twisted relics of metal and glass.

  “Where is Doctor Fontaine?”

  “En route, and rather the worse for wear,” said Folkard bitterly, removing his cap and hanging it on the hat-stand. “There was talk of a champagne fountain, as well as other…distractions. My apologies.”

  “Quite. I see no reason not to proceed,” said Enderby stiffly.

  Nathaniel looked across to Folkard. The naval man stared back coldly.

  Nathaniel was nonplussed by Folkard’s odd behaviour. It was almost as if Folkard couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. He shrugged it off, and when Nathaniel bent down to examine the remnants laid out on the table, any irritation he felt over the spy’s brusque attitude or Folkard’s rudeness instantly dissipated. If Enderby lacked manners, he could be forgiven for bringing Nathaniel so intriguing a collection. The pieces laid on the sheet ranged in size from an almost complete side of casing roughly five inches long to tiny cogs and brass coils no more than a centimetre in circumference. There were also chunks of thick glass, the inner curve of which was covered in a gritty powder, almost like a pale green sand.

  “Fascinating,” muttered Nathaniel, removing a pair of ornate, multi-lensed pince-nez which he quickly adjusted and balanced on his nose, peering ever closer at the fragments.

  “Our chaps have already given it the once over, of course,” sniffed Enderby.

  “Do you have a copy of their findings?” asked Folkard in a clipped tone, and Enderby removed a sheaf of parchments from a black leather carpet bag and passed them across. Folkard flicked idly though the first couple of pages.

  “All ancient Greek to me, I’m afraid. Stone, you’ll have to look.”

  “Yes yes,” muttered Nathaniel, distracted. “One moment.” He removed a pencil from his pocket and began to prod at a piece of glass. “This substance,” he said. “The silica. What did your chaps make of that?”

  “Possibly some form of copper residue, they thought. Right kind of colour.”

  “Hmm.” Nathaniel rubbed his finger on the inside of one of the glass pieces and rubbed the grit between his fingers before sniffing it experimentally. He recoiled.

  “I’m not sure I agree. May I remove some of it for study?”

  “So long as some of it remains for our chaps.”

  Satisfied (at least for the moment) Nathaniel folded his glasses up and replaced them in his case. He took the papers from Folkard and began to pace as his eyes flicked through the figures and sketches at a remarkable speed.

  “Your…‘chaps’,” he said to Enderby as he paced, “none of them are horologists, I take it?”

  “Clockmakers, you mean? What difference would that make?” asked Enderby shortly, before adding, “Professor Stone.”

  “Nothing in terms of function, but a lot in terms of artistry. I notice in these notes that none of your,” (and here he cleared his throat) “chaps seemed to notice the single most interesting thing about these remains.”

  “And that is?” asked Enderby archly.

  “The design.”

  “If I could refer you to the third page of the document, Professor Stone, the design is described as operating at a level above the usual backstreet competence, with a higher than usual explosive yield and several mechanisms inserted to prevent tampering, diffusion
or lateral transport of said device.”

  “Very good,” said Nathaniel, looking up from the papers. “That was word-for-word. But I’m not talking about the prosaic mechanisms of the device’s function, Mister. Enderby. I’m talking about aesthetics.”

  “Aesthetics?” asked Folkard, engaging with Nathaniel for the first time. “Do you mean to say…?”

  “That this device was not built by someone blind to beauty, yes.”

  At Nathaniel’s beckoning, the three men gathered around the table. He pointed out the largest surviving piece of the bomb’s casing, which was etched with an ornate, curling wave pattern from end to end. “Of course, it could just be that the blackguard that built it used some scrap metal with the design already on it. But then I noticed something more interesting.” Using a pair of tweezers he had removed from the inside of his frock coat, Nathaniel picked up one of the gears from the cloth—about half an inch round, and remarkably intact—and gestured around the circumference with his little finger.

  “A cog, I’m sure you will agree, that could be found in any broken watch throughout the Empire. Only look here, around the rim. Any industrially produced cog would be rougher in cast, but this is exquisite workmanship—polished, refined. I’ll wager it was hand-made. The same goes for many other of these pieces, gentleman. We are dealing with a sociopath who takes an uncommon amount of pride in his work.”

  “And what about the residue?” asked Folkard.

  “I’d need to get a sample to my lab. Arnaud may be of no small assistance there.”

  And speaking of the French devil, he appeared. Despite the gravity of the situation, Arnaud’s eyes were puffy and red and his face seemed to sag around his dewlap. More hirsute than usual and with his collar undone, he walked with a stoop and groaned with every step.

  “Good night, Arnaud?” commented Folkard, his voice chilled. Without answering, Arnaud flopped into a chair and put his head in his hands. Smirking, Nathaniel crossed to the drinks cabinet and fetched a soda siphon to help alleviate the young geologist’s suffering.

  After Arnaud, entered Bedford and Annabelle. The latter looked radiant, and the former had a spring in his step that had never, Nathaniel noted, been noticeable before.

  “Mrs Bedford,” smiled Enderby icily. “I did not think you would be attending us this morning.”

  “That,” said Annabelle brightly, “is because you did not invite me. However, I decided not to let that one small detail prevent me from accompanying my husband. After all, why should you boys have all the fun, eh?”

  “I can assure you, Mister Enderby,” said Folkard, watching as Nathaniel passed Arnaud a glass of seltzer, “that Mrs Bedford is as useful an asset as any here, and probably far more so than Doctor Fontaine, given his current state.”

  “C’est des conneries,” muttered Arnaud, sipping and grimacing. “This isn’t brandy…”

  2.

  NATHANIEL HAD INITIALLY wished to use his own finely-calibrated equipment to continue the investigation, but Enderby would hear none of it. Expanding, as it was, from a grand and rather stuffy seat of military leadership into a substantial interplanetary power, the Admiralty was forever adapting and adding to its myriad corridors and anterooms. Many of these additions had been scientific in nature, with both the Crown and the Navy keen to maintain their technological superiority over the rest of the world. Therefore, Nathaniel and the rest of the party were led through the labyrinthine building to a wing that smelled of ozone and sulphur. Wooden walls had given way to white tiling, the clack of typewriters replaced by the hum and groan of steam and engines.

  Having begged a brandy, Arnaud was suitably recovered and was being informed of events by Bedford. Enderby strode ahead, with Nathaniel, Folkard and Annabelle maintaining a discreet distance behind him. He reached a door, spun around on his heels, and waited for the rest of the group to catch up with him.

  “Mrs Bedford,” said Enderby. “I’m afraid this is where your journey today must end.”

  “Now look here,” scowled Annabelle, “as Captain Folkard so rightfully pointed out, I’ve done my fair share of adventuring across the inner planets, and if you think I’m about to turn back after everything I’ve been through…”

  Enderby’s face, usually so stoic, seemed to soften as he looked at Annabelle’s resolution. It seemed he knew something she did not. “Mrs Bedford, please understand that your capabilities are not, nor will they ever be, in question. My reticence to allow you further is rather more…delicate in nature.”

  “And which issue,” hissed Annabelle, “is the most pressing this time? That I am a woman, that I am a cripple, or that I am a foreigner?”

  “Alas, Mrs Bedford, it is none of the above.”

  Enderby’s callous and condescending manner pushed Annabelle over the edge. Before Bedford could even dare to reach forward to hook her arm, she had barged past Enderby and swept through into the door beyond with a swish of her skirts.

  To find herself staring into the eyes of her uncle, the volatile genius known as Cyrus Grant. She was taken aback, stopped and stared at her shoes, while her uncle looked down, away from her, gripping the edge of a workbench tightly. The others followed Annabelle in, with Enderby entering last. Faces fell, discomfort and unease were prevalent in the air. Enderby cut through the mire of discontent with typical sang froid.

  “I did say, Mrs Bedford, it was delicate.” As he picked a mote of fluff from his lapel, he was the only one who moved.

  Moments passed.

  Annabelle gritted her teeth.

  “Where were you, uncle?” she hissed.

  Grant couldn’t look her in the eye, waved a vague circle with his left hand and turned away. “The bombing,” he said, his back to her. “Matter of national security. Have to show them which side you’re on.”

  “My wedding,” she begged. And with his back to her he waved her off again, like an idle farmhand would bat away a fly.

  “Doctor Grant has been assisting us,” purred Enderby. “He seems to believe there’s a link between yesterday’s bombing and an Irish…connection we have. And if you follow the fuse the match was lit in Russia.”

  “Russian dogs,” muttered Grant, hugging himself.

  Enderby caught Nathaniel’s eye.

  “We were wondering, Professor Stone,” he said sadly. “If you could carry on where the good doctor left off. His notes are in the left-hand pile.”

  Nathaniel glanced at the left-hand pile, and saw more the beginnings of a small campfire than scientific rigour. “It’ll… take some time,” he murmured.

  “Then perhaps it may be advisable for you to start afresh, Professor.” Both Nathaniel and Enderby looked at Grant, who was pacing in a small circle and muttering to himself. For a second, Nathaniel caught a glimpse of his old friend’s face—a face quite unlike the man he had known, with wild, roving eyes, a sallow, jaundiced complexion and tufted, wrangled hair. Grant looked away almost instantly.

  3.

  WHILE NATHANIEL TRIED to make head from tail of Grant’s notes—a mishmash of formulas, esoteric sketches and snatches of wild, improbable conspiracy theories concerning the moon and a Russian incursion—Arnaud busied himself with the mysterious green residue found within the bomb. He had set up a workstation opposite Nathaniel and was gazing into an ornate brass microscope. Next to him whirred a powerful clockwork centrifuge while a test tube rack held various brightly-coloured acids and solvents to his left. Once in a while, the two would look up and catch each other’s eye, and more than once Nathaniel found himself gazing at the Frenchman’s cheeky grin. Yet Nathaniel could only muster a wan grin in return. The notes over which he pored were not written by a man of sound mind. Often, numbers would transmute into letters, while formulas mutated into nonsensical, paranoid rants and back again, often employing strange, arcane symbols that were not the written language of any earthly tribe. Whatever Grant had gleaned from his studies of the charred remains of the explosive device, no light would be shed by thes
e madcap scribblings. It was like they were written by two different people holding the same pen.

  Grant had remained in the lab after Folkard, Enderby and Bedford had left to discuss events in a room of the Admiralty more conducive to such discussions. As far as he could tell, the erstwhile doctor was now sat at a bench on the other side of the room, his back to everybody else. A collection of seemingly unconnected fragments of machinery was sat on the desk before him, and as he arranged these in patterns and piles he muttered to himself and, more worryingly, giggled occasionally.

  Annabelle had declined Bedford’s offer to retire to a more comfortable environment, and elected to stay in the laboratory with her uncle. As yet she had not dared to approach him. She merely sat and gazed across at the old man’s back, her face flitting uncertainly between disdain and concern. She did not even seem to acknowledge that Nathaniel and Arnaud were there.

  “Nathaniel, if you please.”

  Without lifting his gaze from the microscope, Arnaud beckoned for Nathaniel to join him. Relieved to abandon the perturbing papers, he crossed to Arnaud’s side. “Have a look,” Arnaud said.

  Nathaniel peered into the eyepiece. It was much as he has suspected—definitely crystalline in nature, with some of the larger chunks hexagonal in shape. They were a curiously pale green, the colour of desiccated grassland, and yet flecks of a darker emerald shade pitted the insides of the crystals.

  “Curious impurities,” he murmured.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “And the composition? Could it be some sort of copper derivative?”

  “No, I don’t think so. As far as I can tell, it seems to be silicate in nature. Silicate and… Organic.”

  Nathaniel bolted up. “Organic?”

  “Oui. And here,” Arnaud gently removed the slide and carefully slid another into the stage clips. “Look at this.” He twisted the lens around to increase the magnification fivefold.

  Nathaniel looked again. Another, larger crystal greeted him, and here the impurities were far more defined. While some remained as flakes and grains, others looked like snapped pieces of hollow tubing, running parallel to the crystal’s grain.