The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (48 page)

“If the General knows about it, he will deny it,” she pointed out. “And if he doesn’t know about it, of course he will deny it. Mr Dagliesh will be immensely relieved, and tell us we do not need to worry. All is well.”

He frowned. He was obviously feeling at an acute disadvantage sitting up in the bed, but he did not wish to rise with Brodie standing there. He felt very exposed in his striped nightshirt. There was something about being without trousers which was highly personal.

“Perhaps all
is
well?” he said with a thread of hope. “Surely it is more than possible the design is simply clumsy?”

The perfect answer was on her lips. “Do you imagine Mr Sherlock Holmes would be content with ‘a possibility’, Mr Stockwell?”

He straightened up visibly, forgetting his embarrassment and his doubts.

“I shall meet you at the stables at a quarter past eleven, Miss Brodie,” he said with absolute decision. “We shall take the carriage, as if on an errand, and determine for ourselves the exact nature of this wretched machine. Be prompt. Whatever your duties, see they are completed by then. We must act.”

She smiled back at him approvingly. “Assuredly, Mr Stockwell. We shall prevent disaster … if indeed disaster is planned. Goodnight.”

He clutched the sheet with both hands. “Goodnight, Miss Brodie.”

*

It was a fine day and the ride to the town was swift and pleasant. Outside the exhibition hall were posters proclaiming the official visit of the French Ambassador the following morning. Inside, there were rather more people than there had been yesterday. Brodie and Stockwell were obliged to excuse themselves and pass several groups standing in front of various examples of French ingenuity and design. They heard exclamations of admiration and marvel at a people who could think of such things.

Brodie gritted her teeth, remembering why they were here. The French might be the most inventive race in Europe, but it would be English courage and foresight, English nerve and integrity that saved the Ambassador.

They found the boot polisher, looking more than ever like a bicycle upside down. Brodie was both relieved and offended that there was no one else in front of it, admiring the ingenuity which had thought of such a thing. That was the trouble with the British … they always admired something foreign!

She glanced at Stockwell, looking utterly different this morning: in his pin-striped trousers and dark jacket, his face immaculately shaved, if a little pink, his collar and tie crisp and exactly symmetrical. She thought she saw in his eye a reflection of the pride, and the conviction she herself felt. It was most satisfying.

She turned her attention to the machine. It would not move without the electrical power, and that was to be turned on tomorrow, by the Ambassador; but, the more she looked at it, the more certain she was that the parts would rub against each other with sufficient force to strike a spark. There was only one thing that remained to be done. She leaned forward to touch the redundant piece and feel its texture. Metal … or dynamite? She did not know what dynamite felt like, but she knew steel.

“Don’t touch the exhibits, if you please, Madam!”

It was the voice of the curator, sharp and condescending, as if she had been a small child about to risk breaking some precious ornament. She flushed to the roots of her hair.

Stockwell leaped into the fray with a boldness which surprised even himself.

“Yes, my dear, better not,” he said calmly. He turned away from Brodie as if the order would be sufficient, his word would be obeyed, and engaged the curator in conversation. “Please tell me, sir, something about this remarkable piece of equipment over here.” He all but led the man across the room to the farther side, and a monstrous edifice of wires and pulleys. “I am sure you know how this works, the principle behind it, but I confess I fail to grasp it fully.”

“Ah well, you see …” the curator was flattered by this upstanding gentleman’s interest, and his perception in realizing that a curator was a man of knowledge himself, not merely a watchman who conducted people around. “It’s like this …” He proceeded to explain at length.

“Well?” Stockwell demanded when he and Brodie were back together in a quiet corner.

“You were magnificent,” she said generously, and quite sincerely.

He blushed with pleasure, but kept his face perfectly straight. “Thank you. But I was referring to the redundant piece. Is it metal?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “It is soft to the fingernail, a trifle waxy. I was able to take a flake of it off without difficulty. I believe it is dynamite.”

“Oh … oh dear.” He was caught between the deeper hope that it would not after all be necessary to do anything and the anticipation of being right, and with it the taste for adventure. “I see. Then I am afraid it falls upon us to foil the plan, Miss Brodie. We shall have to act, and I fear it must be immediate. There is no time to lose.”

She agreed wholeheartedly, but how to act was another thing altogether.

“Let us take a dish of tea, and consider the matter,” Stockwell said firmly, touching her elbow to guide her towards the doorway, and at least temporary escape.

As soon as tea was brought to them, and poured, they addressed the subject.

“We have already discussed the possibility of informing the authorities,” Stockwell stated. He glanced at the tray of small savoury sandwiches on the table, but did not touch them. “The only course open to us is to disarm the machine. We shall have to do it so that no one observes either our work, or its result. Therefore we must replace the dynamite with something that looks exactly like it.”

“I see,” Brodie nodded and sipped her tea, which was delicious, but still rather hot. “Have you any ideas as to how we should accomplish that?”

“I have an excellent pocket knife!” he replied with a slight frown. “I think I should have relatively little trouble in removing the dynamite. I believe it will cut without too much difficulty. I could also use the blade as a screwdriver, should one be necessary. However, I have not yet hit upon any idea of what we should put in place of that which we remove.”

Brodie thought hard for several moments. She took one of the sandwiches and bit into it. It was very fresh and really most pleasant. She took another sip of tea. Then the idea came to her.

“Bread!” she said rather more loudly than she intended.

“I beg your pardon?” Stockwell looked totally nonplussed.

“Bread,” she replied more moderately. “Fresh bread, very fresh indeed, may be moulded into shapes and made hard, if you compress it. I have seen beads made of it. After all, it is in essence only flour and water paste. We still have to paint it black, of course, but that should not prove too difficult. Then we may put it in place of the dynamite, and we will have accomplished our task.”

“Excellent, Miss Brodie!” Stockwell said enthusiastically. “That will do most excellently well. But of course it is only a part of our task …”

“I realize making the exchange will not be easy,” Brodie agreed. “In fact it may require all our ingenuity to succeed. The curator is not impressed with me as it is. He will not allow me near the machine again, I fear.”

“Don’t worry, I shall accomplish the exchange,” he assured her. “If you will distract the curator’s attention. But that is not what I meant. We cannot claim our task is completed until we know who placed the dynamite in the machine.” He shook his head a little. “On considering the problem, it seems clear to me that it can only have been either the General himself or Harrison. I have weighed the issue in my mind since you brought it to my attention, and I believe that the General has no reason for such a thing, and would bring about his own ruin, since he will naturally be blamed. Whereas Harrison appears to dislike the French, and may have some deeper cause for his feelings than we know. He has far less to lose, socially and professionally speaking. And he would be able to disappear after the event, take the next train up to London, and never be seen again. We know nothing of him, whereas we know everything of the General. Mr Dagliesh has had his acquaintance on and off for thirty years.”

“I am sure you are right,” Brodie nodded. “But as you point out, it remains to prove it – after we have removed the dynamite. I shall purchase some fresh bread at the bakery across the street. Can you obtain some black paint and a brush without returning to the house?”

“I am sure I can. Where shall we meet to do the work? It must be discreet.”

Brodie thought hard, and no answer came to her.

“I have it!” Stockwell said with pleasure. “There is a public bath-house on the corner of Bedford Street. It has private changing places for both ladies and gentlemen. If you use the rooms for ladies, you can make the bread the requisite size. Do you know what that is?”

“I do. It is two inches less than the distance from my wrist to my elbow, and as thick as my thumb.”

“Bravo! Then we shall begin. I think I may say ‘the game’s afoot’. Come, Miss Brodie. Let us advance to battle.”

*

But distracting the attention of the curator was less easy than they had supposed. They returned some considerable time later, the long, black stick of bread, paint just dry, concealed up Stockwell’s sleeve. The curator regarded them with displeasure. Had it been anything but the utmost urgency, Brodie would have left and gone home. But that would be cowardice under fire, and Brodie had never been a coward. England’s honour was at stake.

“Now, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell said gently, and perhaps with a touch of new respect in his tone. “Charge!”

She gulped and sailed forward. There were only four other people in the room: a gentleman and two ladies, and of course the curator.

“How wonderful to see you again!” she said loudly, staring at one of the ladies, an elderly person in a shade of purple she should never have worn. “You look so well! I am delighted to see you so recovered.”

The women stared at her in perplexity.

“And your great uncle,” Brodie went on even more loudly. Now the others were staring at her also. “Is he recovered from that appalling affair in Devon? What a perfectly dreadful woman, and so much younger than he.”

The woman now looked at her in considerable alarm, and clutched at the hand of the gentleman next to her.

“I don’t know you!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t have a great uncle in Devon, or anywhere else!”

“I’m not surprised you should disown him,” Brodie said in a tone of great sympathy, but still as loudly as she could, as if she thought the woman in purple might be deaf, and shouting would make the meaning plainer. “But older men can be so easily beguiled, don’t you think?”

Two more people had entered the room from one of the other halls, but they paid no attention to Stockwell or the exhibits. They focused entirely upon Brodie and the scene of acute embarrassment being played out in the centre of the floor. The curator dithered from one foot to the other in uncertainty as to what to do; whether to intervene in what was obviously a very private matter, or to pretend he had not even heard. Sometimes the latter was the only way to treat such a matter with kindness.

The woman in purple was still staring at Brodie as if she were an apparition risen out of the floor.

“Of course she was very attractive,” Brodie resumed relentlessly. Stockwell could not be finished yet. She must buy him time. “In an extraordinary sort of way. I’ve never seen so much hair! Have you? And such a colour, my dear! Like tomato soup!”

“I don’t know you!” the woman repeated desperately, waving her hands in the air. “I have no great uncles at all!”

“Really!” The man beside her came to her rescue at last. “I must protest, Mrs Er … I mean …” He glared at Brodie. “Lady Dora has already explained to you, as kindly as possible, that you have made a mistake. Please accept that and do not pursue the matter.”

“Oh!” Brodie let out a shriek of dismay. “Lady Dora? Are you sure?” Lady Dora was very pink in the face, a most unbecoming colour.

“Of course I’m sure!” she shrieked.

“I do apologize,” Brodie shouted back, still on the assumption Lady Dora was hard of hearing. “I mistook you for Mrs. Marshfield, who looks so like you, in a certain light, of course, when wearing just the right shade of … what would you say? Plum? Claret? I really should remember my spectacles. They make such a difference, don’t you think? I am quite mortified. Whatever can I do?” She asked it not rhetorically, but as if she expected and required a reply.

Lady Dora looked not a whit comforted. She stared at Brodie with loathing. “Please don’t distress yourself,” she said icily. “Now that the issued is settled, there is no offence, I assure you.”

“You are too generous,” Brodie exclaimed. Where on earth was Stockwell. Had he finished yet? She dared not glance around in case she drew anyone else’s attention to him. What on earth was there left for him to do? “I feel quite ill with confusion that I should have made such an error.” She rolled her eyes as if she were about to faint.

“Water!” Lady Dora’s companion said loudly.

The other woman moved forward to offer assistance, still looking sideways at Lady Dora as if she half-believed Brodie’s tale of the uncle. There was something of a smile about her lips.

“For heaven’s sake fetch some water, man!” Lady Dora’s companion commanded the curator, who at last moved to obey. With much assistance, Brodie was led to a seat and plied with water, a fan, smelling salts, and good advice. It was a full five minutes before she could bring herself to leave. She staggered out into the fresh air and was overwhelmed with relief to see Stockwell looking triumphant, and pretending not to know her, as the curator let go of her arm, and suggested very forcefully that she did not return.

“The atmosphere is not good for you, Madam,” he said, between thin lips. “I think for your health, you should refrain from such enclosed spaces. Good day.”

*

The following morning Pamela and Freddie went with Bertie and Violet Welch-Smith to see the formal opening of the exhibition. Both men were very excited about it, and Pamela felt she had to balance Violet’s disinterest by feigning an enthusiasm herself. They were accompanied by Harrison, a just reward for his many hours of work in helping to construct the General’s machine, and for his care and maintenance of it.