Horizons of Deceit, Book 1 Read online

  “I’m doubly blessed,” said George.

  “I’ll say,” said Bert, winding his gun’s clockwork mechanism once more. “Shall we see about that retreat?”

  They pulled the sliding door behind them just as the invaders had begun to storm the carriage. Annabelle had already set herself up to take the shot through the window in the door. She steadied her Winchester and put a bullet straight through to the first attacker’s forehead. She managed a couple more volleys before the strengthened glass became too criss-crossed with cracks to adequately see through.

  “We need to open the door,” she yelled.

  “What?” came a voice.

  “The door, we need to open it to drive them back!”

  Ignatius, not the most graceful of gents at the best of times, lumbered forward as quick as he was able. He threw himself heavily to the ground (George was too polite to mention later that he felt the carriage lurch), bullets thudding into the door from both sides.

  “Get ready!” he yelled. They readied their weapons.

  Ignatius inserted his fingertips into the minuscule gap between the door and the jamb and, using his considerable strength, flung the door wide open before covering his head with his arms. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer. Already prepared, George, Annabelle, Bert and the armed train workers unleashed a wicked salvo of gunfire through the gap. Three of their assailants dropped almost instantly, the rest diving for cover or fleeing back out into the desert.

  There was a moment of calm after the ferocious volley, the air thick with cordite and the iron smell of blood. The advantage was now on the defender’s side as they trained their weapons straight through the door to the corridor beyond. As soon as one of the pinned-down attackers tried to move they were wisely advised not to try by one of Bert’s pinpoint bullets ricocheting from a nearby surface. The attackers returned fire occasionally, but blindly, unable to find a target without exposing themselves to a shot to the gullet.

  “Right,” muttered George, mostly to himself. “What do we do now?”

  “Stalemate,” agreed Bert. He ducked nimbly across the aisle and took a quick peek outside. Some of the riders had already fled, and as they spurred their horses into the distance, one of the raiders—who Bert could only assume was their de facto leader—was bawling at them for their return, yelling curses and promises of retribution in a mid-western drawl. Definitely not Indians then…

  He rode back to where his compatriots milled around the carriage and began banging on the windows, yelling for them to crawl off their yellow bellies and fight like men. Somewhat affronted by this sleight against her sex, Annabelle quickly leaned from her position and took a pot shot at him through the door, taking the man’s hat clean from his head. The bandit reeled and ducked down on his horse before turning the beast around and spurring it into a gallop from the crime scene.

  “Your leader has abandoned you!” called Annabelle into the next carriage. “Surrender is your only option!”

  There was a moment of silence, and then came a reply. The reply, strangely enough, was fizzing.

  A red cylinder had been tossed through the carriage, landing several inches before the prostate Ignatius and rolling towards his face. The farmhand ceased making peace with his creator and opened one eye experimentally. When he saw the fuse sparking away right in front of him, he genuinely wished he hadn’t.

  “Dynamite!” he yelled.

  “Technically, I suppose that’s another option,” opined Annabelle coolly.

  As soon as the explosive had landed the bandits in the carriage had begun to move, grabbing the bodies of their comrades-in-arms and dragging them back outside.

  “Quickly, Ignatius, grab it!” said Bert.

  Ignatius hoisted himself up and grabbed the stick of dynamite, tossing it from hand to hand like a hot potato.

  “What do I do, what do I do?”

  Bert leaned himself back and shot out the window nearest to him. “Throw it, you lunk!” he bawled.

  Ignatius pulled his arm back and pitched the dynamite out of the window, throwing it some twenty feet from the train. As he did so, one of the attackers took the opportunity from hauling his deceased companion to ready his six-shooter and take a shot at the big man’s frame. The bullet struck Ignatius in the shoulder with the sound of splintering wood and the big man fell heavily to the floor. Not wasting a moment, George raised his Winchester and fired in the direction of the gunshot, taking down the cowardly bandit with hot lead to the heart.

  Suddenly, the train was rocked by the explosion of the dynamite. All the windows were blown in simultaneously and the carriage rocked perilously for a moment. The defenders were all thrown to their feet, with George landing heavily on the injured Ignatius. The big man did not react to the impact, and George noticed sadly that his face had gone grey and the wound was bleeding profusely into the fine, first-class carpets.

  2.

  ONE UNIVERSITY BAR, discovered Arnaud, was very much like another the world over.

  In fact, Arnaud was becoming increasingly more stunned by the manner in which certain areas of Calcutta resembled Europe. As well as the clean splendour of White Town, the university building itself wouldn’t have been out of place in the streets of Marylebone or Munich. It was an ornately uniform building, its front decorated with arches on each of its three levels and a large, cuboidal portico supporting two large pillars at the entranceway. The whole building seemed solid and safe, yet somehow stern—not surprising from a building composed of so many right angles, and hardly inappropriate for a seat of higher learning.

  They had made their way into the interior, which Arnaud found blissfully cool. Impeccably dressed students, mostly Indian but with a good mix of Caucasian faces, filtered silently through the hallways, carrying books or huddling together momentarily to pass the time of day. Signs written in Bengali and English pointed them to the back of the building, where the bar was located.

  Arnaud felt pleasantly nostalgic to be back on a campus, even if it was on the pretence of finding an academic he had no real desire to see. The nooks and crannies of the bar were filled with students smoking, drinking tea and arguing loudly over their chosen subjects. Arnaud noticed with some pleasure that, more often than not, these arguments were conducted in a volume more conducive to elaborating the intelligence of the speaker, rather than getting the point across. That definitely took him back….

  “Where do we start?” he asked Coyne.

  Coyne shrugged.

  “I’m just child minding, you’re the university sort. You sort it out.”

  Arnaud could feel his patience running thin.

  “Yes,” he said, controlling his temper, “but it was your idea to come here in the first place. I’d have thought you’d have more to offer than just getting me to ‘sort it out.’”

  “Well, you thought wrong. Where would you start?”

  “The geology department, perhaps?”

  “Not my fault if you didn’t think of that sooner.”

  Arnaud gritted his teeth and headed to the bar, where a helpful and smartly-dressed Hindu offered them tea, then gave them directions to the geology department.

  3.

  NATHANIEL HAD ASSUMED, perhaps naively, that Tally was to conduct his business quickly, maybe shunt Nathaniel off to a nearby park or even leave him waiting outside. He did not expect to be part and parcel of the deception.

  Tally and he had walked about halfway up to the town centre, with Tally either doffing his cap and waving a cheery hello at his acquaintances or hastily grabbing Nathaniel’s arm and pushing him across the street to avoid someone. Whether the person Tally would greet or dodge was arbitrary—it ran from guttersnipes through to businessmen, from decidedly rough-looking characters to elegant ladies in their dotage. Tally was clearly a well-known man about town, and Nathaniel wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a good or a bad thing. He was gently leaning towards bad.

  They had walked several feet up George Street before Ta
lly had hooked Nathaniel’s arm once more and pulled him into a professional-looking office building set slightly back from the main road.

  “Stand at the back,” said Tally. “Don’t say anything, and look stern.” Nathaniel then found himself being winked at.

  Without even a by-your-leave Tally had pushed into the building and headed straight for a door on the ground floor. He didn’t knock or present himself, just breezed into the office as if he owned the place and sat down in the chair opposite the room’s occupant—a balding, sweaty, harried-looking man in a waistcoat and watch chain, sat before a precarious pile of papers. Mustering all the sternness he was capable of in the circumstances, Nathaniel sidled in and stood at the back of the room, his arms crossed.

  “This here’s Mister Walsh,” said Tally, gesturing behind him. “From the Galway branch.”

  The harried-looking man behind the desk sputtered and looked up at Nathaniel, almost knocking over his ink pot in the process.

  “I didn’t think,” he said nervously, shuffling his papers, “that is, I never imagined, Mister Walsh…”

  “Shush, shush now, Cormac. Can I call you Cormac, Cormac?”

  The man looked up nervously to Nathaniel. Not knowing what else to do, Nathaniel nodded at him. Cormac transferred his nod to Tally, who beamed.

  “See, there we are!” he said. “All good and friendly. Y’see now, Cormac, I told you I’d have it sorted an’ now everything’s nice and easy and above board. So there’s nothing stopping you sorting me out now, is there?”

  Cormac, who had begun sweating profusely and tugging at his collar, nodded. “Of course, of course. There’s still a few papers to get through, stamps to, ah, stamp. That kind of thing. I’ll be with you presently.” Slicking his hair back with the sweat from his brow, Cormac rose clumsily and headed to the door. As he passed Nathaniel he looked at him beseechingly, half in terror, half in awe.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered. “I never meant, I mean…” Nathaniel eyed him stoically. “I’ll go and get the papers,” finished Cormac weakly, closing the door gently behind him.

  Nathaniel waited a moment.

  “And what was all that about?” he exploded.

  “Ah, relax. You did grand.”

  “I’m not asking for a critique of my performance, Tally, I’m asking what the hell you’ve just got me embroiled in!”

  “Nothing serious, nothing illegal. Technically, anyhow. These pencil-pushers just need a nudge every now and again, just to get ’em to see through the red tape. See? Yer man Cormac’ll be back in a jiffy with the papers, then it’s a quick stop by the National Library to see a fella who owes me ten bob and we’re golden. A trip to the park awaits.”

  4.

  IGNATIUS, IT TURNED out, was bleeding fairly badly but only from a flesh wound. A local sawbones had been enlisted from the petrified passengers in the rear carriages. He looked Ignatius up and down, diagnosed the bullet had grazed his shoulder blade, and set to work patching up the farmhand with a torn-up shirt. Pleased that the man who had proved himself so worthy was going to be all right, Annabelle and the others got down to investigating the body of the attacker George had managed to fell at the last moment, along with that of his fellow ne’er-do-well.

  It was like something out of a school play, or a children’s book. These men—they were clearly American, or Caucasian, at least—looked like they’d found their Indian costumes in a dressing-up box. Blankets or hessian sacks had been cut up to make ponchos and rough chaps. Moth-eaten bits of leather or shoelaces had been tied around arms or linked together to make tassels. Feathers from seagulls and ravens were tied onto headbands made of old bandage. Dried mud had been used to simulate war paint.

  “It’s ridiculous,” fumed Annabelle. Her relationship with the indigenous American Indians was a complicated one, of that there was no doubt, but this was just plain insulting. “How on Earth could anyone believe that these were genuine Indians?”

  “Maybe we were never meant to get such a close look at them,” said George. “If they’re a bandit gang it makes sense. Attack a wagon from afar, maybe convince whoever you’re attacking to drop any valuables and flee… Survivors might report an Indian attack, and any marshals sent out wouldn’t be looking for brigands. Just Indians.”

  “But why attack the train?” pondered Annabelle.

  “Desperation?” offered George. It was hardly a convincing argument, but at present nobody had any better ideas.

  Bert had got down on one knee and was going through the pockets of the two fallen men for clues. He came away with a few rounds of ammunition and a bowie knife, but no real leads.

  George turned to Billy.

  “Has there been an increase in Indian attacks recently? Anything like that?”

  Billy frowned. “Not really, sir. Been much the same as ever. Although…”

  “Although what?” asked Annabelle quickly.

  “Though there’s been no attacks, there’s been…rumours, I guess. Sightings.”

  “What kind of rumours?”

  “And what kind of sightings?” added George.

  Billy looked down and fiddled with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t give much credence to ghost stories, sir…”

  “Well,” said George, trying to calm the man, who was pale and clearly suffering from some sort of delayed shock after the incursion, “we do. Trust me, Billy, we’ve seen it all, and you’re not in some tavern you’re going to get laughed out of. Come on. Take a seat.” He gently took Billy by the arm and set him down on the nearest bench. Billy breathed heavily, composing himself, and looked to George.

  “Sorry sir,” he gasped. “I always thought that when it really got down it, I’d be a bit more use in a fight. But when it’s there, right in front of you, and when some Injun is trying to take your life an’ alls I could think of was my darlin’ Babette back at home…”

  “You did fine, Billy,” soothed Annabelle, kneeling next to him. “And you’ll see Babette soon enough. But this is important. What have you heard?”

  “Mostly rumblings,” said Billy after a deep breath. “Prospectors coming back into town, the odd rancher who’s been out on the plains. Say there’s been a lot of activity roundabouts Greenore Gulch, though no-one in their right mind would have any business there. Tried to mine for silver there back in ’64, only it got abandoned, and there ain’t been much talk of it since.”

  “How so?” asked George.

  “Well originally, sometime in the spring of ’65, they say the miners were chased off by Injuns who reckoned it was a cursed place, warning the white man off. Now normally I’d just put that down to a savage’s mumbo-jumbo, only my Uncle Tobias spent a bit of time working there. He says the further they dug down, the more strange things started happenin’. Began, he says, with this itchin’ in your head. This crazy feelin’ you couldn’t scratch. Some of ’em even used to say that the ore in the walls used to vibrate somethin’ ungodly, and the seams used to glow bright green in the moonlight. Sent a couple of men stark raving mad, so they say.”

  George and Annabelle shared a glance. This all sounded worryingly familiar. “And how about now?” asked George carefully. “What’s happening up there at the moment?”

  “Well this it,” said Billy, looking up at him helplessly. “No-one’s quite sure. They say they’ve seen all sorts up there—Injuns, miners, soldiers, the lot. There’s even been talks of skirmishing, gunfire and explosions. One old cowpoke says he even felt the earth move, and green lights blazin’ up the sky like ball lightning. Only I don’t pay him no heed as he’s halfway blind and fully pickled on moonshine.”

  “Well, any information is useful.”

  “But there’s been no attacks on other trains?” asked Annabelle.

  “Not that I know of, miss.”

  “So what’s so special about this one?”

  Annabelle, George and Bert looked at each other.

  “Quite,” said George.

  “Bert,” said Annabelle,
“did anybody else know of our plans to come out here? Anyone in the Admiralty, or your Bureau?”

  Bert shrugged.

  “I couldn’t tell you, ma’am. Certainly Mister Enderby and the other few agents sent off with your friends. We were all briefed on that. Captain Folkard knew, of course, and your uncle. It’s highly unlikely many people knew. A half dozen, at most.”

  “So if we were targeted, then…” interjected George. He seemed reluctant to finish his sentence.

  “It scarcely bears thinking about,” agreed Annabelle.

  This sombre and troubling realisation caused the three of them to ponder for a moment. Annabelle, lost in thought, found herself glancing at Billy who, if it were possible, seemed to have gone an even whiter shade of pale. She initially feared he may be having some sort of cardiac seizure and was about to call for the doctor again, but his eyes were wide as cue balls and he pointed to the windows behind Annabelle.

  “I…I…Injuns!” he stammered.

  “I told you Billy, they weren’t…”

  But Bert and George were following Billy’s gaze, and out of the windows, staring through at them into the wrecked carriage, were four very genuine Indian braves dressed in their full regalia.

  5.

  HAVING TRAMPED UP countless flights of stairs and through corridors ripe with the scent of learning, past lecture halls and professor’s office from which drifted the sounds of mathematics and history in languages exotic and familiar, Arnaud and Coyne found themselves in the reception area of the University of Calcutta’s Geology Department.

  A young British girl, maybe seventeen years of age, sat behind the desk at reception looking resolutely bored. Her face lit up when Arnaud and his companion entered, chiefly because they were giving her something to do that didn’t involve a student waxing cock-and-bull on why their essays were late.

  “Hullo!” she beamed, sitting upright to look more professional. She wore thin-rimmed spectacles, her hair was up in a bun and she had a chipper, upper-class accent that smacked of a childhood in the home counties. “Welcome to the Geology Department. How may I help you today?”