Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Page 5

  “Oh Annabelle, I know…” Bedford understood the conflict Annabelle must have felt deep within herself. Knowing her pain so intimately, he knew there was little he could offer to truly ease her mind. Arizona was the state of her birth, her home—and yet also the place in which she was captured and incarcerated for two years by the indigenous Indians. It was an experience that had made her the woman she was, and the woman he loved, but also one which had deeply affected her, and left scars and terrible memories far beneath the surface of her skin. Even he was not aware of all the traumatic events that must have transpired—he was not even sure Annabelle recalled the worst of them, and for a woman as strong as she, this must surely indicate some horrific ordeals indeed.

  Annabelle looked him in the eye, took his hand. “George, we could be sleeping in a back-alley slum, cabbage leafs and cardboard for our bed, and we would still have each other. And I would be happy if you were at my side. But I fear it will never be the case. I fear we will never have the chance to live happily as a married couple. It’s not the fault of either of us, of course, but the callings of a world that may well never leave us in peace until we’re dead. Had you thought of that?”

  Of course he had. In fact, the very same thought had not been far from his mind since Enderby had proposed their surprise excursion. His allegiance to the Navy was one thing, but this was quite another! Yes, Enderby may well have had the safety of her Majesty (and, logically extending from that, the realm) at heart. Bedford had no qualms about that allegiance, and was proud of the fact he shared it—and yet, and yet…he could not shake the fact that he was being taken advantage of, that his good nature and fortitude was being exploited by people whose motives remained worryingly opaque. He had his loyalties—fealty to the Navy, to Crown and Country—but his love for Annabelle and his marriage vows put her above all other pledges, and he desperately wanted to prove this to her.

  “Mister Boon!” he called forcefully. The door opened and Mister Boon’s face—thin, cautious, with a grossly receding hairline—popped between the gap beside the jamb.

  “Yes, Commander Bedford?”

  “Ah, so you are aware of my rank, then, sir?”

  The man furrowed his brows.

  “I am, sir.”

  “Well then kindly look around you, Mister Boon. Do these look like a commander’s quarters? And what’s more, do they look like the quarters of a commander on his honeymoon?”

  “They do not, sir.”

  “So glad you agree. See to it, eh, Boon?”

  Mister Boon smiled wanly, but there was a certain warmth there. “With pleasure, sir,” he said.

  4.

  EYES FOLLOWED NATHANIEL as he traversed the room. Some were hazed by drink, others were suspiciously sharp. Everyone, it seemed, had noticed him. This may not have been due to Nathaniel merely being an outsider. The inside of the pub, which pretty much resembled a large, hollow cube, was crammed with low, skulking tables and darkened nooks along the edges. A solid wooden staircase climbed the left hand side of the room, inviting drinkers up to a mezzanine that looked down on the main floor. Behind the bar, other rooms and corridors branched off into the darkness. Tally could be anywhere, and in order to make sure Nathaniel did not miss his man he found himself scrutinising every single face, and it was clear that his interest was unwelcome. He had already noticed the barman’s gaze follow him relentlessly, whether the man was idly polishing glasses or pouring a customer their dark, black pint.

  Nathaniel suddenly found himself shoulder-barged by a passing drinker, and as he wheeled around, babbling a quick apology, he found the man had already taken offence.

  “Why, there y’are, ya gobshite!” he growled, and suddenly Nathaniel felt two arms like iron girders wrap around his waist and yank him down. To the general cheers of the crowd the lout grasped Nathaniel in a headlock and yanked the helplessly protesting professor back outside. As the air of the outdoors hit him he struggled, was nudged around by his assailant and brought upright. Nathaniel raised his fists to defend himself, pistol-keen and ready to duck a punch, but instead found himself looking into the face of a rather familiar man, smiling and brushing off Nathaniel’s lapels.

  “Now here’s a piece of advice for you, Professor Stone. If you find yerself walking into an Irish inn, as a Britisher you do one thing. You look at the walls. If you see our fair Isle’s declaration of independence posted up there in English, get out while your legs still can. If you see it written in Irish, well, that just means they just haven’t decided how they’re gonna kill you yet.”

  Nathaniel rubbed his throat and got his breath back. “And which,” he asked, gasping, “is the case in there?”

  “Neither,” smiled the man, extending a hand. “But that’s hardly the point now, is it? Tally Cahalleret at your service.”

  He was much as he had looked in the picture. A hardened man, clearly, albeit a handsome one. In his early thirties, he had jet-black hair, blue eyes, strong jaw line, and was somewhat shorter than Nathaniel had imagined him to be. He wore a waistcoat and open collar and a wide, flat beige cap was balanced diagonally over his head.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Cahalleret.”

  “Tally, please. Mister Cahalleret was my arse of a father. Sorry about the roughhousing. It’s just I had to get ya out of there before one of them boys heard ya talkin’, or worse, tapped ya for a drink.”

  “It’s quite alright.”

  “Right so. And speaking of drinks, Professor Stone, can I indulge ya? I believe we have some business to discuss.” He opened the door for Nathaniel. “After you.”

  “But…”

  “Ah, don’t be soft, man. I’ll tell ’em ya paid what ya owed me and that’s what we’re drinking on. C’mon now. Don’t be shy, but keep your gob shut. At least ’til we’re in private.”

  Following shortly after Nathaniel, Tally yelled to the crowd “He’s alright, fellers!” and waved at the barman. “Stephen,” he said, “rack a couple up and bring ’em through. We’ll be in the snug.”

  Chapter Five

  The Empire’s Second Cities

  1.

  IT WAS WITH the greatest of sorrows that Arnaud packed his suitcase as the airship prepared to dock. Childish it may have been, but he resented being deprived of the lifestyle into which he had grown so accustomed—over two days, at least. For the rest of the first day he had got solidly blotto on cognac, and then was invited by a certain Lady Hawkston for an evening reception and lunch. In a cramped and second-class cabin she had introduced her daughter Cecily (mentioned many times but not yet seen) as if she were the Duchess of Dubai. Cecily had clearly scrubbed up for the occasion. He had had to concentrate hard in order to not fall over, and in all honesty, had felt more attraction for the Skreelan of Venus.

  Then followed lunch in the ballroom, along with wine. Arnaud didn’t remember much after that, and awoke feeling like the Devil’s own cleaver had been brought down hard between his eyeballs. He had stayed in bed until 4pm, and after bathing for another hour and feeling sorry for himself, he threw on some clothes and staggered off to find something to eat. There was no sign of the fellow, Ashpan, or whatever the devil’s name was, the devil take him. An early evening buffet had begun and, using his clout as a potential dauphin, he persuaded the chef to knock up some kedgeree, and sent for a brandy. As he was snaffling the spicy rice, eggs and haddock Lady Hawkston passed by, and turned her nose up. Of poor Cecily there was no sign.

  It was only after he’d stuffed himself with the kedgeree, followed by English muffins and three cups of coffee, that Arnaud had begun to feel even marginally human again. Feeling sedated and sleepy, he elected to spend the rest of the day gazing from a porthole and snoozing, only to find the black-clad man waiting back in his cabin, reading a paper with his legs resting on Arnaud’s bed. He uncrossed his legs and put the paper down.

  “Feeling better, are we, dauphin?” he asked.

  To cut a long story short, it turned out the bugger
’s name was Coyne and he was dead set against letting Arnaud stay on the ship to Bombay.

  “We’ll be docking south of Calcutta within the hour, Arnaud,” he said, bored, as he passed Arnaud another shirt to pack. “You’ve had your fun, and now we’ve got work to do.”

  Arnaud was still mildly hung-over. He packed shirts and prayed for somewhere close to the landing pad where he could sleep. He could already feel the heat of the Indian sun beating at his temples through the window.

  2.

  THE HEAT WAS also bothering Annabelle and George. Annabelle felt momentarily flushed, and lifted her fan. But not because of the temperature, no—the pleasant Arizona breeze rushing through the train’s open windows kept her cool—but because she was curious to see what would happen if she dropped it.

  George was sitting next to her. In order, he maintained, to get into the proper holiday spirit, he would put away his usual histories and biographies and read something a bit different. Unfortunately, this flash of literary derring-do had only occurred to George after they boarded the airship (having thankfully been relocated to a comfortable double room with a nice view. It turned out, incidentally, that the luggage had been in this room all along). He had insisted on scouring the nearest dead-end town and didn’t leave until he ended up procuring several penny dreadfuls and Volume II of Don Quixote. Have discovered Don Quixote to be written in the original Spanish, he was now attempting to enjoy some lurid tale, which, inasmuch as Annabelle could work out, was mostly about soldiers shooting things. He was absorbed, and Annabelle was bored.

  And so she raised her fan. This was a test for him.

  Affecting a touch of the vapours she tilted her head back and let out a little sigh, then nonchalantly dropped the paper fan. She kept her head back, waiting for George to acknowledge her feigned distress. He did not, and kept his nose in the book. She cleared her throat. He turned a page. She cleared her throat again.

  “George,” she hissed.

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve dropped my fan, George.”

  George looked up, then down at Annabelle’s feet.

  He beamed. “Oh, so you have!” He picked it up and dropped it in her lap, and then got back to his book. “I’ll just finish this chapter.”

  Annabelle crossed her arms and harrumphed. At least Mister Boon had left them alone for the present, reasoning, she assumed, that he thought there wasn’t much she could get up to on a speeding train. Her eyes fell on the seven or so other cheap novellas George had acquired at such great cost. There was one about an adventure on Venus (full of factual errors on even the briefest glance), an historical one about previous generations of soldiers shooting things in Africa, and another historical one that caught her eye…. The Lusty Knight, it was called. She picked it up, and the frontpiece showed a rough illustration of a wench with a cavernous bosom being swooned upon by a shining, softly handsome knight. Medieval drapes and stone walls swam, badly inked, in the background. Flicking through, she noticed Chapter IV (subtitled ‘A Passionate Encounter’) was by far the longest in a fairly short book, and Annabelle decided she might as well sit and have a read too.

  3.

  MEANWHILE, AT THE Admiralty, Folkard and Enderby were hardly so pleasantly diverted. They were packing for a trip of their own. Yet they would not experience the pleasure of a first-class cruise, nor the manic squalor of Calcutta’s slums and the danger that waited therein. They would not feel the Arizona winds on their faces nor the warm embrace of a Dublin pub, because for them, the destination was far bleaker.

  Folkard was calm. As he packed thick clothes, bully beef and ammunition into his rucksack he gripped each item tightly. The Heart was in his head, his lost ones were singing, and tonight would be a full moon in a clear sky. Enderby watched him, nervously.

  4.

  MISTER BOON HAD returned and, much to Annabelle’s delight, had brought a covered tray of breakfast with him. George had dozed off and was snoring while Annabelle had immersed herself in a rather racy tale that (on more than one occasion) had caused her to pause and look up to George. Her radiant knight, drooling onto a paperback. He was still asleep when Boon had lifted the platter to reveal poached eggs, toast, grilled kidneys and bacon, coffee, tea and the morning paper. George became instantly awake.

  “Little bit of home, Commander,” said Boon. “My treat. It’s your honeymoon after all.”

  It was easy to see. George was touched. Boon nodded, pleased, and turned on his heels.

  “Bertrand, is it?” asked George.

  “Well, Mister Boon, professionally. But in all honesty, I prefer Bert.”

  “Well, Bert, that’s… That’s incredibly generous of you!”

  “Thank you, Bert,” added Annabelle.

  “Thing is, sir. I know how it is.” It seemed as if he’d relaxed a bit, his natural South London accent coming though. “This job, all that. They cart you off without a by-your-leave and half the time you don’t even know where you’re going, let alone what you’re supposed to do when you get there. But they told me all about your wedding, so I felt I had to. Missed seeing my first born, see. Thanks to the job. Anyway, not my place. I just wanted to make it feel like a special occasion for you.”

  “Bert, please,” insisted George. “There’s more than enough for the carriage, let alone us two. Won’t you join us?”

  “I’d love to, sir. Really would. But I’ve gotta have a quick recce of the rest of the train. Couple other of our fellows aboard, see. Pays to crack the whip. ’Fraid I couldn’t get you The Times, sir. Just a fairly local thing, but it’s got a crossword, at least. Enjoy your breakfast.” And with that, he was gone.

  “He’s a boon indeed,” said George, rubbing his hands together and ogling the food before him. “I wonder if I should give him a tip?”

  “Don’t be asinine, George,” said Annabelle and, feeling she had just uttered a line worthy of one of Mister Dickens’ heroines, she picked up a piece of buttered toast and nibbled at the edge. George poured himself a cup of tea and tucked into the meat with gusto.

  5.

  AFTER THEY WERE both sated, George got back to his boy’s own novella and left Annabelle to her own devices. She was tired of her own paperback, the passionate encounter of Chapter IV having been and gone, and so instead decided to riffle through The Blackwater Ledger, the newspaper Boon had so thoughtfully provided. She found the news she read there oddly comforting. It seemed the west had changed little—there were the same old announcements of births and deaths, the opening of a new railroad or the closure of a spent silver mine. Murders and their perpetrators, acts of faith and villainy, tiny type cramped between adverts for horses, brand new ventures and snake oil. And then one headline caught her eye.

  Prospectors Spared Indian Savagery! The Reason: Innocence?

  Two prospectors, to whose request of anonymity we have graciously conceded, have today returned to Blackwater after a frightful ordeal in the desert—involving Indians! The pair, who had been informed of possible deposits of gold to the west of Horton’s Pass, set out and rode perhaps ten to fifteen miles beyond where they had intended. Lost, thirsty and disorientated, one prospector claims they were set upon by a starving mountain lion, while the other insists it was nothing more than an ill-tempered fox. Irrespective of these minor details, one of the pioneers found himself with a sorely twisted ankle, unable to walk or even move. Thanks to a spot of squirrel hunting and previously packed supplies, the duo managed to survive the night, with the uninjured of the two intending to set back to the nearest town at first light—perhaps four days’ ride away.

  And yet! His journey was not to be! He awoke in the silky dusk light to find his friend had been rolled away from him, towards the dying embers of the fire, and that in the stygian gloom he could just make out a hulking figure…leant over the prostrate form of his companion!

  Instantly, the prospector tells us, he was alert and had drawn his pistol. The figure had simply raised a great hand akin to that of a bear and w
aved him off. It was then that the prospector noticed a young girl, perhaps eight or nine years old, standing behind the man, holding out a sheaf of herbs. The old man was chewing on the herbs and rubbing the resulting, foul-smelling mixture on his companion’s ankle, and binding it with strips of cloth and leather.

  In what was described as “Excellent English”, the Indian advised the pair to ride to our fair town of Blackwater, far closer than the original destination and, in the opinion of this humble reporter, a far more desirable one. He advised the injured man that he could ride after a day’s rest, so long as he rode side-saddle and kept the weight off the bound leg. With that, the Indian and his young accomplice took three tins of beans and two roasted squirrels, and departed into the night. The following day, the prospectors began their journey to our town, where they sought out our fair publication forthwith, in order that their story might be told.

  Could these two men have survived an encounter with the famed Apache outlaw Geronimo? This reporter thinks not. If they had encountered that misanthropic beast of the wilds they would surely have been scalped alive. And yet, perhaps it was the presence of that innocent, the young girl of the tribe, that tempered the savage heart. Even though it is not uncommon for a squaw to be married and bear children at such a shockingly young age, perhaps this Wild Man retains some semblance of humanity, and chose to spare the girl the sight of such unconscionable bloodshed.

  It was clear to Annabelle that this was the kind of disreputable journal that sold itself primarily on hyperbole and populist cant; it was all gossip and ill-informed conjecture, nothing more. She tossed the paper angrily aside.

  6.

  TWO DAYS PREVIOUSLY, in the lounge of The Bleeding Horse, Nathaniel was directed to a booth at the back of the lounge, one of several, all numbered, with doors that could close the occupants snugly in. This room sat at the very rump of the pub, down a short flight of stairs and possibly underground. There were no other tables on the floor and, save the dimmed ruckus from the main bar, the room was silent.