Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Read online

  “Why,” whispered Nathaniel, “I could almost swear they were…”

  “Parenchyma,” finished Arnaud. “Or schlerenchyma.” He grinned. “I could never remember which was which.”

  “Schlerenchyma,” grinned Nathaniel back. “The supporting tissues of plants. But that would mean…a plant made of crystals. Of silicon.”

  “It’s only a hypothesis.”

  “And an intriguing one, at that.”

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “Not in my travels, no. But there remains much of the cosmos to explore. It’s hardly worth saying that, if true, this is a plant that has doubtless never grown on this planet before, perhaps not even the inner planets…” He looked at Arnaud, like an expectant teacher before a pupil, and asked “What else do you think?”

  Suddenly, Grant swept his arm across the desk and pitched his assorted detritus across the room.

  “No!” he yelled, bolting up and pacing, tugging on his hair. “I won’t have it, no!”

  “Doctor Grant…”

  “Uncle!” Annabelle, wrenched from her despondent reverie by her uncle’s manic outburst, dashed across to him and grabbed him by the arm. Grant roughly pushed her away and, unsteady on her prosthetic limb, she tumbled into a desk. Arnaud, who was closer, swooped to help while Nathaniel dashed to try and calm the crazed scientist.

  “Doctor Grant, really!”

  “No, Stone, no! I won’t have it, I just won’t have it! Do you hear me! No!” He barged past Nathaniel and stormed to the door, ripping it open and slamming it shut in his wake.

  Arnaud comforted Annabelle, who had settled onto a high stool and was breathing heavily, on the verge of tears.

  “Oh Nathaniel,” she breathed, “I try to put him from my mind, I really do. I could do that yesterday, when grander things were happening, but now…to be confronted with his madness… Pain and discord and danger, whenever he appears in my life. To think he is the only member of my family that remains….”

  Nathaniel took her hands in his, and smiled gently. “Well, that’s not strictly true now, is it?” Annabelle sniffed, and Nathaniel continued. “I believe that yesterday you made a family of your very own.”

  Despite herself, Annabelle looked up and smiled. “Regardless,” she said, “to see Uncle Cyrus so beset by his madness… He’s like a different person, Nathaniel. A person I don’t know any more.”

  Nathaniel nodded, grave. That so disturbing a degeneration could follow such brilliance—was that the inevitable price of genius?

  It was at that point the door creaked open. Three heads whirled around to see the entrants, and when Bedford saw his bride with puffed eyelids and damp cheeks, he rushed across to take her hand. Folkard stepped in calmly behind him.

  “Annabelle,” fussed Bedford, running his hand through her hair, “are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, George, fine,” and Annabelle composed herself. “Please stop fussing.”

  “I take it,” said Folkard gravely, “That Mrs Bedford’s distress is somehow linked to Doctor Grant’s speedy exit?”

  “We saw your uncle make his way down the corridor away from us,” said Bedford to Annabelle. “He was…agitated. We called, but he didn’t respond.”

  “Out of nowhere!” exclaimed Arnaud, throwing his hands in his air. “The man just exploded! Pushed poor Annabelle to one side and rushed from the room.”

  Folkard looked around for somewhere to sit but, judging a lab stool inadequate, remained standing. “Yes,” he said gravely. “I have been informed that the good doctor’s behaviour of late has been…troubling.”

  “To put it mildly,” said Nathaniel. “How on Earth did he come to be working in the Admiralty?”

  “Just turned up one day,” Folkard said. “Mad as a March hare and twice as jumpy. Demanded to be let in, then pretty much locked himself away and wouldn’t speak to anyone. I did try to persuade him to attend yesterday, Annabelle. To no avail. I hope you can forgive me for keeping his presence hidden.”

  Annabelle nodded her forgiveness.

  “His sudden arrival was sinister, to say the least. As are…other developments.” Folkard grimaced.

  Arnaud, Nathaniel and Annabelle stared at Folkard. Folkard looked away, disturbed.

  “We have intercepted certain heliographs. We can’t as yet be sure of their source but they seem to indicate that one of Doctor Grant’s crazed ramblings is correct. There is, indeed, a connection to the Irish Separatist movement.”

  “How so?” asked Nathaniel.

  “We’re not sure as yet. All very vague. It will require some digging on ground level, so to speak.” And here Folkard looked pointedly at Nathaniel, before looking away. He crossed to the bench Arnaud had occupied for most of the afternoon and lifted a test tube, held it to the light and peered into it. “Fontaine, Stone… How did your investigations fare?”

  “We’ve made some progress,” answered Arnaud, non-committally.

  “And that progress is…?”

  “We can’t be sure,” said Nathaniel. “The residue seems to be some sort of plant. A plant not known on this planet.”

  “And we’re not even sure of that,” added Arnaud.

  “Is there a way to be sure?” said a voice.

  Everybody wheeled around. Standing nonchalantly by the door was Enderby, once more holding a lit cigarillo.

  “Ah, possibly,” said Arnaud, somewhat stunned. “An old associate… Teacher, I guess you would say. When I studied at the Sorbonne. But it may be difficult.”

  “My job,” purred Enderby, “is dealing with the difficult. Go on.”

  “His name is Garrecreux. Fabrice Garrecreux. A genius when it comes to organic crystallography. As an undergraduate both he and Professor Fournier wanted me to assist each of them with their research. I was flattered at the time, no doubt pompous—though now I realise it was more to do with academic rivalry than my own talents, however substantial they may be. In the end, Garrecreux’s advances were…unwelcome.” Here Arnaud looked down, and didn’t look up. “I chose Professor Fournier, thankfully, and Garrecreux never spoke to me again.”

  “Will he speak to you now?” asked Enderby.

  Arnaud shrugged.

  “The last I heard he had fled France, was living in India. Somewhere near Calcutta, researching the crystalline properties of a hemp plant. Cannabis indica. This was all years ago.”

  “I’ll see what we’ve got on him,” said Enderby, stubbing out his untouched cigar on a worktop. “Pack your safari suit, Doctor Fontaine. And a hat for the heat.”

  “And that’s it?” Nathaniel asked. “You’re packing Arnaud off to India?”

  “And you to Dublin, Professor Stone. Pack a windbreaker. Possibly galoshes.”

  Nathaniel shot a glance at Folkard, his gaze furious.

  “Captain, you can’t…” Folkard looked him straight in the eye.

  “I can, Stone,” he said. “And will. There has been an attack on our soil and on her Sovereign Majesty. And there are calls louder and greater than even the Navy can deny. Is there a problem, might I ask, with you and Doctor Fontaine being separated?”

  Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, his posture still and uncompromising. He scrutinised Folkard for a moment.

  “And if we are, what of you?” he asked.

  “Captain Folkard is required elsewhere,” said Enderby. “Unfortunate, but necessary. Please believe me, Professor Stone. I am more than aware of the dangers you have faced, and overcome, as a group. But when faced with such a pernicious enemy, our only hope is to spread our net wide, and hope to God the gaps are wide enough to catch a kraken.”

  “I cannot help but notice,” said a small, sudden voice, “that I have not been mentioned.” The voice came from Annabelle, and it was pure and pointed. “And neither has my husband.”

  “Well,” grinned Enderby, carelessly lighting another cheroot, “that may be because you have a honeymoon to enjoy. Courtesy of the Crown.”

  Cha
pter Four

  The Spreading Net

  1.

  THEY CALLED IT Dear Old Dirty Dublin Town.

  Nathaniel, for all his travels between the inner planets, had never actually been to Britain’s closest island neighbour. At Enderby’s insistence he was to travel lightly and without ostentation, and so had caught the train from King’s Cross to Liverpool under the watchful eye of one of Enderby’s mute underlings. He had not even been allowed the luxury of first class (an eye opening experience that he instantly resolved to omit from his diary) and was thankful for the small meal of smoked salmon and cheeses he had had his housekeeper prepare. From the Liverpool docks he had boarded the ferry and, after watching England slink into the distance and several minutes staring out to sea, he realised that his sea legs were not so sturdy as his space legs and elected to have a little sit down and drink some weak tea until the whole sorry voyage was over.

  Enderby’s lapdog had returned on the ferry, but not before breaking his silence to quiz Nathaniel on the minutiae of his mission. Rankled by the man’s apparent skepticism concerning both his abilities and his short-term memory, his reply had been terse.

  “I am to meet a man named Charles Cahalleret—known locally as ‘Tally’—in a public house known as The Bleeding Horse, located in St Kevin’s Port on the city’s south side. And yes, before you ask, I have studied the man’s daguerreotype so minutely I couldn’t fail to describe him to his own mother. He has information pertaining to the gentleman who built the bomb, and I am by no means to trust him. After that, your superior has trusted my instincts as to how the investigation should progress and, by Heaven’s eye, man, I’d be grateful if you did the same.”

  Without even a goodbye, the lapdog had left.

  Back on solid ground again, a rather picturesque tram ride brought Nathaniel to Pearse Station, and turning south onto Westland Row he met the city proper.

  Sectarian squabbles aside, Nathaniel had not been sure how he would react to what was ostensibly the Empire’s “Second City”. He had to admit that, despite having arrived in the chilly air of a September afternoon, he was really rather enjoying himself. Popular belief would have had any visitor imagine the city a destitute hive, inflamed by Times editorials and heated talk of Home Rule. And yet, as Nathaniel paced idly down Nassau Street, the grandeur of Trinity College to his right, he felt curiously at home. Georgian architecture abounded, young lovers and smart-dressed gents took their strolls—the whole thing smacked, he thought wryly, of Putney. There was even a game of cricket being played on the college green, overseen by an imposing and rather matronly pavilion.

  One could not deny, however, the squalor that bristled at the city’s edges, in the corners of market squares, taverns and side-streets. Dublin’s population had grown, and with that a need for jobs that fell sorrowfully short. London’s expansion meant a wealth of factories and workhouses which were sadly absent here, and the guttersnipes and destitutes that flitted between the city’s grander occupants—though no stranger to Nathaniel’s eye—seemed all the more dissolute as a result. He saw two women pulling at each other over a shawl, and a small boy wrestle away a man’s pocket-watch before fleeing. But such were the strains of city life, and he instead decided to concentrate on the brightness and curious energy of the place.

  He had memorised his route, took a left down Dawson Street and crossed through St Stephen’s Green. Here, the air seemed even brighter—ethereal, almost—the trees halted in their journey to turn an autumnal brown. Nathaniel drank it in, this unspoilt mirror of a London blackened and choked by Industry’s metal-and-mortar maw. Such was the price of progress, he reasoned.

  He headed south, out of the park. Before long he had reached St Kevin’s Port, and he looked up at the building in which he was to meet his informant and guide.

  The Bleeding Horse was an ugly building, its extended gable and darkened windows looking somehow like a frown. As Nathaniel reached for the big brass handle the door was pushed open and a large man, pock-marked and unsteady on his feet, lurched out. He looked Nathaniel up and down and smirked before tumbling on his way towards the city’s centre. As Nathaniel watched him go, he felt his eyes drawn upwards to the sign that hung on a great steel bar that extended from the building’s front like a warning. The picture showed a great white horse, rearing up, its throat pierced. Its eyes were wide and panicked, a jet of crimson arcing from the wound. Nathaniel made his way into the fug of smoke and fumes of porter, and wondered how Arnaud and the newlyweds were faring.

  2.

  ARNAUD WAS NOT a natural smoker of cigars, but in this environment it was somewhat gauche to be otherwise. Despite himself, he was finding the thick stub of tobacco silkily decadent, no doubt made silkier by the cognac. The great glass sheets of the observation deck stretched around him like a halo, sunlight flecking from steel girders and chandeliers alike. He found, much to his surprise, that he could actually ease back further into the depths of his chair, and he groaned momentarily in delight. God bless her Majesty! Liberté, égalité and fraternité could all go hang. This was living.

  The pleasant tremble of the airship’s engines hummed under his feet, adding to the air of lazy indulgence he was more than happy to encourage, both in himself and the staff on the sidelines. He need only gesture for them to refill his glass, or bring him an amuse-bouche or another fine cigar. He was no longer a simple geologist, and Enderby had insisted that he play the part assigned to him—that of the spoilt son of an exiled marquis who had fled the revolution to the haven of Florence. And Arnaud (or at least, who Arnaud was supposed to be) was in good company. Lords and Ladies took in the day while the landed and the nouveau riche argued over card games, decorated Germans got solidly drunk and relived their past glories with a raucous camaraderie. Arnaud drank it in, all the while drinking cognac.

  As he placed his glass back down, a black-clad arm swooped down and picked it up. He looked up into the face of the man Enderby had sent along with him. What was his name again? Ashford, or Ashforth, something like that. Pleasant enough, somewhat mild and milky-eyed, and as Arnaud had adopted the role of the nobility, so this milquetoast had adopted the role of the serf and servant. It was only keeping in character, Arnaud thought hazily, that he could not remember the fellow’s name.

  “Bon, Ashton,” he said, waving lazily. “Encore.” Ever the professional, the servant of her Majesty’s secretest of services bowed and left to bring him more booze and nibbles.

  Arnaud had noticed the gazes of ladies with their débutante daughters drawn his way. He would often catch their eyes and smile, smirking as mothers pulled their daughters aside to instruct them in the next steps of snagging old French money. He would not give them any truck, of course. But the game and the surroundings would provide him an amusing distraction, he decided, as the airship chugged its inexorable way towards the Indian subcontinent.

  It was mostly the British on board the dirigible. Factory owners were expanding their businesses and career soldiers sailed to make their names in hot, uncertain climes. The vagaries of Empire business and the flirting of socially mobile schoolgirls didn’t trouble him much right now, and besides, he had plenty of time to sober up before the ship reached port. Keeping up appearances, especially in these lavish surroundings, never felt so good. He had two days more to enjoy it.

  “I hear,” said an excitable matron unsubtly to his left, “that he’s technically a dauphin…”

  Arnaud took his drink from his uncomplaining valet and waved him away, smiling. He could get used to this, and wondered idly how his friends were getting on.

  3.

  “THIS IS NOT how I imagined my honeymoon progressing, George.”

  She was furious, and, having been married for the best of two days, the only thing Bedford truly wanted was to make his bride, well…slightly less furious. This was proving somewhat difficult thanks to circumstances that were frustratingly beyond his control. He was becoming used to married life.

  Firstly there
had been the problems with the luggage. Enderby—or at the very least, somebody in his employ—had been tasked with bringing it to the aerodrome for their departure. But their cases and Annabelle’s grand selection of hats had somehow failed to materialise.

  “It’s never easy, is it?” she grumbled, stepping up to board the airship Pall Mall with a swoosh that was, to Bedford at least, dismissive.

  In all fairness, Enderby had been apologetic. He was clearly unused to such hiccoughs and was duly penitent, a welcome crack in his otherwise standoffish demeanour. “I guess we’ll have them sent along,” he muttered, avoiding Annabelle’s poison gaze. “All we wanted was for you to enjoy a trip that would prove memorable. Speaking of which, may I introduce Mister Boon? Bertrand Boon. He’ll be joining you for the journey.” And Enderby extended his arm to introduce a black-clad man.

  “Really, George,” Annabelle fumed as they’d closed the door on their cabin. “It’s not too much to ask, is it? A little romance and a change of clothes,” and here she raised her voice unnaturally, angling her head towards the cabin door, “and privacy!”

  There was the soft clearing of a throat from beyond the wooden portal. Having served on so many ships—both on the seas and in the void between worlds—Bedford had to admit that their accommodation was, to put it mildly, somewhat basic. It was spartanly decorated, all straight lines and a chest for their non-existent luggage, maybe five feet by eight. But what had really been the icing on the cake was the bunk beds.

  “I’ll talk to the steward,” he said. “Mister Boon must have some sway, as do I. After all it’s a British ship, and I’ve more than a few shillings in my pocket. We’ll sort something out, my dearest.”

  “I am not your dearest,” growled Annabelle. “I’m your wife.” Bedford thought it best to back off. He did so, unsure of what to do next. Annabelle sighed.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not the surroundings, it’s the situation. Do you not think something…untoward in all this? That we’re provided with a vacation, all,” she glanced around the room, frowning, “expenses seen to, and to add insult to injury they’ve packed us off to Arizona. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m not looking forward to returning, it’s just…” She sighed.