We departed Paddington Station at 10:30AM precisely, onboard the Exeter express. With an eye to our limited finances I had purchased for us second class tickets; and was-ever ‘is lordship unhappy about it. Despite this hardship our carriage was well appointed, the seats comfortable, well upholstered and for the most part clean. It was rather akin to travelling inside an elaborate antique side-board, complete with copious wood panelling and a plethora of shuttered nooks and crannies for the storage of our belongings. There was about every surface a pervading fragrance of soot.
We were pulled by The Flying Cornishman, the Great Western Railway’s very latest high-traction steam locomotive. The train was far from full, and third class all but empty. The guard confided in me that, unburdened by the mass of humanity, they would attempt to make the run to Bristol in record time. It was, he said, the trains up to London that were packed to the rafters with common folk, intent on sampling in the Capitol ‘all the joys modern civilization has to offer.’
Just one seemingly inconsequential incident had cast a pall upon proceedings. After purchasing our tickets, whilst returning through the crowds to ‘is lordship and our waiting baggage, I had experienced an uncomfortable prickling of the skin. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise — a sensation I had experienced more times than I’d care to remember, but most often on battlefields, rather than a London railway station. Sharply I spun on my heels. There, across the bobbing heads of commuters, I chanced to spy a familiar face, or so it seemed. Staring back at me, not thirty yards distant, was that most singular young woman I’d encountered at the museum. My line of sight was broken for an instant by the milling throng, but when I looked again she was gone. Brooding I sought out my master, whom I found draped most languid across our cases, smoking a cheroot. I said nothing of the episode, best not to worry ‘is lordship, but I knew what I’d seen, and I’ve lived long enough to trust my senses.
As we left the urban sprawl of London behind we began to see signs of change. Grim grey buildings gave way to grimmer greyer farmland. At first it all looked affluent enough, but soon the quality of the architecture took a turn for the woeful. Once beyond Pangbourne it was clear we had entered a very different landscape. We passed over rickety level crossings, where dower faced yokels stared agape at our passing, as if witnessing such a steam belching leviathan for the first time in their sorry lives.
I was struck again by the crushing poverty endemic to the shires. Perhaps the attraction of urban living, with all its attendant ailments and squalor, was a little easier to understand when reminded of the alternative these wretches had to endure on home soil. The paltry wages; the brutal punishment for minor transgressions; the ever present threat of summary justice, dished out by the hired thugs of absentee landlords, who saw you as little better than slave labour to be driven until arrival at death’s door.
Compared to these calamities a short brutal life in a workhouse didn’t seem quite so bad. Missing fingers and mangled limbs were a risk worth running when the alternative was starvation as a tenant farmer out in the sticks. Since the crushing of the Great Reform Bill the rural labouring class had led a sorry existence, bereft as they were of parliamentary representation. Many eked out pitiful lives in conditions little better than Muscovite serfs, or field hands on some hellish Caribbean plantation. I’d met low caste Hindustanis who’d had more to their name than these poor blighters. At least here there was no risk of mosquitos.
As the wilds of Wiltshire slipped by I took stock of the defensive arms I’d seen fit to bring along. With a mind to Professor Burroughs’ warnings I’d taken the liberty of packing ‘is lordship’s service revolver plus some shells. All were safely packed away in his suitcase. I also had about my person a particular antique silver headed walking stick, which had been in the Faversham family for generations. A small catch on the ferule unlocked the polished ash-wood shaft, which slid away to reveal a slender rapier blade of tempered steel — three foot of razor sharp persuasion. This time I’d also remembered to bring my cosh. All in all I judged these precautions to be more than sufficient for a few days in the country. How wrong I’d prove to be.
Upon arrival at Exeter a carriage provided by Sir Percy met us at the station steps. Piloted by a scowling fellow, clad in a cape as black as his mood, it was to whisk us on the final leg of our journey, away from what passed (round these parts) for civilization. The journey, along roads of steadily decreasing quality, took a further four hours. I couldn’t fail to note the shotgun the driver kept close at hand.
Twilight was fast descending when we climbed out of the shadow of a boggy valley and came in sight of Tiverton Hall, a crumbling gothic carbuncle which looked destined to collapse in a strongish breeze. Prior to our travels I had taken the opportunity to read up on the area. The estate backed onto a rolling tract of hill country; mile upon mile of bleak moor, peppered only by isolated villages, lonely farms, foreboding prisons and lunatic asylums. To date the Tiverton’s attempts at stimulating tourism had proved largely unsuccessful.
Sir Percy himself met us on the steps of his mansion, in a state of some agitation. He seemed most keen to get us inside as quickly as possible, and kept darting glances out to the moorland thereabouts, and up at the sky, where a queer milky radiance peeked slyly through racing cloud. A break in the overcast at last revealed the source — mayhap it was some trick of the country air, but the moon looked, not so much full, as pregnant and ready to drop. Once safely indoors our reception committee reconvened in a thickly tapestried hall, at the foot of a grand stair.
Sir Percy strived to put on a brave face. ‘I’m sorry to say that several of the other guests have been forced to cancel at short notice. Damned shame.’
The guvnor waxed perplexed. ‘Oh dear, why ever for?’
Sir Percy looked sheepish. ‘Recently we’ve experienced a few . . . local difficulties. Regrettable accidents of a most singular kind — the sort of mishap all too common in the country.’
Understanding dawned on the guvnor. ‘Oh, the murders, you mean? How many have cancelled?’
Our host fell silent for a time. ‘All of them; cowards and poltroons to a man. But nothing concrete has been proven!’ Sir Percy hastened to present his hired help. ‘Apologies for the rather truncated welcome — we are, as you can see, a little short staffed. This is Smithers, my long serving butler.’
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We were introduced to man so aged I feared he must have escaped from one of Sir Percy’s collection of sarcophagi. Smithers looked like he must have been serving the Tivertons since before our host was a small boy. Something else immediately struck me as odd about this paltry workforce — who, too a man and woman, seemed as jumpy as a sack-full of frogs. A good many of them appeared to be armed — blunderbusses and flintlocks of an antique variety proliferated, but also pitchforks and makeshift clubs. One footman had a sharpened stick. Not even Mr Alex could fail to notice.
‘Tell me, sir. Do you fear an uprising from your local crofters to such a degree that you equip your hirelings such? I’ve seen many a county militia less well armed.’
Sir Percy seemed coy on the matter. ‘Trust me, sir, tis but a . . . temporary precaution. My good lady wife made the arrangements before she departed with our daughters. She’s holed-up with relatives over Yeovil way.’
His lordship didn’t try to hide his disappointment. ‘Oh, I was hoping to meet them — maybe another day. Tell me, how are your investigations into the book proceeding?’
I was reminded of that hefty wedge of notes Sir Percy had brought to the museum, almost as weighty as the manuscript itself.
Again our host demurred. ‘Er, mixed results, you could say. The tome itself is safely locked away in my library, ready for the lecture this evening. But I must confess, I’ve left my extensive papers on the item back in London. My memory is not what I it was of late. Not to worry though, as I can talk off-cuff on the subject for hours.’
‘Oh, thank goodness’, lied the guvnor, without a hint of sarcasm.
For the first time Sir Percy sounded embarrassed. ‘I should warn you my wife has retained the services of a private investigator to help with the local trouble — a gent of some renown. You may know him — a near neighbour of yours from Baker Street.’
Mr Alex looked blank. ‘Can’t say that I do. Though I don’t concern myself with the doings of freelance plod. We’ll keep an eye out for the fellow. What does he look like?’
‘Can’t miss the chap — insufferably superior manner, cape, dear-stalker, smokes like a chimney sweep’s urchin. Forever accompanied by his tiresome assistant — can’t abide either one of ‘em. Spend most of their time walking the moors, much good that it does.’
Mr Alex held up a hand. ‘Forgive me sir, but what is that infernal racket?’
I had been wondering the same thing myself. From somewhere nearby came a periodic banging of a furious kind, as if some mighty beast were restrained behind a stout door, and wanted out. If you listened carefully (and I for one rather wished I hadn’t) there was also a muffled growling of a variety to chill the blood.
Sir Percy seemed unbothered. ‘We’ve had to restrain several of our house-staff in the cellars. They seem quite overcome with a strange affliction the doctors cannot cure. Nothing to worry about. Dinner is at eight. Smithers here will escort you to your rooms’
At a pace which would have bored a snail we were shown up the grand sweeping staircase and along a gloomy landing to our quarters. Artefacts from a great many ancient cultures decorated every nook and cranny. I’d hazard a guess there was barely a graven idol or shard of broken pottery left in the entire Middle East, such was the extent of our host’s collection. Our room was a similarly gloomy affair. Dark teak panelling lined every surface. I hastened to unpack and lay-out the master’s clothes, ready for the evening’s entertainment.
While I was doing so I chanced to glance out a led-paned window. Positioned at the rear of the house or room overlooked the overgrown formal gardens and a pathway to the stables. Upon this track loitered a figure, whose furtive manner immediately caught my attention. It seemed to be a chamber maid, though her oversized uniform miss-suited her slender frame. She carried on her back a haversack that struck me as singularly out of place. In the deepening twilight I could make out no feature of her face, yet on marking her lithe gait I experienced a familiar tingle down my spine. I watched her for a moment, as she dawdled outside the stables, for an oblivious groom to depart, before quietly slipping inside. A few moments later she re-emerged from the shadows, sans knapsack, straightened her uniform as best she could, and hastened towards the kitchens.
I decided that I should quickly discover the nature of the clandestine items this mysterious young lady had hid. Making my excuses to ‘is lordship, who was full-fuss over the waxing of his moustache, I hastened to the stables.
On my journey there I couldn’t fail but notice the banging from the cellar had intensified to a fresh volume and ferocity. It sounded for all the work like some tribe of head-hunters were psyching themselves up to go a-roaming on their war-path. As I listened aghast the growling mutated into a howling. It was an effort to focus on the job at hand.
Arriving at the stable I endeavoured to place myself in the mind of this peculiar reverse burglar — where in these environs would one hide such a surreptitious package? I checked all the obvious spots to no avail — there were mounds of straw and riding tack lockers aplenty. The horses seemed skittish, and rolled their eyes at my labours. I was about to give in when I spotted a slightly disturbed area on the sawdust strewn floor, nothing more than a differing pattern in its spread. Sure enough my boot soon revealed a small trapdoor, covering a hitching ring. Within this enclosure I found a haversack the twin of the one I’d seen carried hither. The cache had been hidden by someone who knew what they were doing. I quickly proceeded to inspect its contents.
There was beef jerky and bottled water, as one might pack for a hike or short camping expedition, but also extensive medical supplies — bandages, antiseptic ointment, pills and the like. Underneath these was a clipped bundle of receipts, for sundry items, as one might keep to claim back on expenses. Bottom of the pile was a bill-of-sale for a recent stay at a cheap Whitechapel flop house, checking out today. The room had been let to a Miss Wanda Sevastopol. I didn’t need that famed detective to reach the only conclusion possible — the stasher of this bag had followed us here from London, and ‘Miss Sevastopol’ was making ready to leave Sir Percy’s mansion in a hurry — maybe along with some other, more valuable loot. A certain book, for example.
But that was not all the sack contained. Strangest of all were the profusion of small yet weighty cardboard boxes decorated with the motif of a spitting snake. Several were empty, but I opened one of those still intact to see what was inside. Each was a package of ammunition, twenty rounds apiece. I removed one of the shells to marvel at its construction; it was of a most advanced design, intended for some weapon the like of which I could nary imagine. Printed on the box beneath the branding were the words; Cobra Venom .338 magnum, caseless hollow point, Jones Corporation Armaments Division, Pembrey Arsenal.
Gentle reader, I must inform you that no such establishment exists. This plot was thickening like yesterday’s turnip soup.
I swiftly conclude that this had gone far enough. My intention was to remove this damning evidence, locate the suspicious young lady — never mind the danger — and question her as to the nature of her motives. How hard could it be? There was a platoons worth of armed house-staff who I was sure I could press into service to this end. I repacked the bag, slung it on my back and hurried to the door. That was when a disquieting thought struck me; in my haste I had departed our rooms unarmed — a schoolboy error I prayed would not prove fatal.
That was when all hell broke loose.