The Shadow in the North (18 page)

"So my brother went home and talked to his wife. There were half a dozen or so like him who were cautious, but the next day they almost all signed up all right. The union tried to argue the case against, but what did they have to offer, compared to the management? And then Sidney heard something from a friend of his at the Workingmen's Literary and Philosophical Institute. There was a story going round that the new management had taken an interest in another business nearby, known as Furness Castings. And they planned to bring the two firms together, and this was to be the great work that would benefit mankind and bring peace and prosperity to the whole world.

"Only my brother Sidney's a pacifist, you see, Miss Lockhart. He doesn't hold with fighting or violence of any kind. He was brought up Chapel, like me, but he took an interest in the Quakers soon after he married. He never actually became a member—^what do they call them—a Friend, and I suppose that's why the managers didn't realize, or else they'd have got rid of him before that.

"Because Furness Castings might sound innocent enough, but what they make is guns. Cannons. Armaments, in a word.

"So he said no, thanks, he wouldn't join; and they paid him off, and he hasn't worked since. I send him a little money every now and then, when I can manage it. And that's about all—except that the two firms are amalgamated now, and it isn't Furness Castings or Walker and Sons, it's North Star Castings. And that's all I know."

Sally felt like clapping her hands. This was the first solid indication of what Bellmann was doing—guns, armaments, cannons . . .

"Mrs. Seddon, you've been a great help," she said. "I can't tell you how usefiil this is. There's one other thing: I don't suppose your brother ever mentioned something called the Hopkinson Self-Regulator?"

She looked doubtful. "If he did, I don't recall," she said. "We never talked much about machinery. . . . What is it?"

"I don't know. It's one of the things I want to find

out about. I wonder—could I go and talk to your brother? What's his address?"

"I'll write it down for you. But... I don't know, Miss LxDckhart, perhaps I shouldn't have told you this. After all, it isn't really my business. ..."

"No one asked you to sign a pledge of secrecy, Mrs. Seddon. And even if they had, I doubt whether it would have been legal. People do that sort of thing only if they're up to no good. I think your brother's reaction was quite right, and I'd like to go up and talk to him about it."

Mrs. Seddon opened the flap of a htde bureau, dipped a pen in ink, and wrote a name and address on a card.

"He's in poor circumstances now," she said, hesitatingly. "I'm well off by comparison. Mr. Seddon's a chief clerk with Howson and Tomkins, the timber merchants, so we're well provided for. And my brother's an older man. . . . What I'm trying to say, I think, is that I came from the same background and I haven't forgotten it. We were poor, but there were always books in the house—and magazines— Household Words and so on. So there was a pride, you see, a respect for learning. I've always had that; it was why I did the Sunday school. And what Sidney'd do without the institute, I don't know. . . . Oh, I'm just jabbering. The plain fact is, I don't like it, Miss Lockhart. Something's wrong up there, and I don't know what it is. Here's the address."

She gave the card to Sally.

"You will be careful, won't you?" she said. "Oh, you know your business, of course you do. I'll write to Sidney and let him know. But I am uneasy, there's no denying it. You won't get him into trouble?"

Sally promised that she wouldn't, and left for Burton Street.

She was diffident about going in, but she didn't pause for long. There was an air of bustle and confusion about the place, where the plasterers were moving out of the new studio and the glaziers hadn't arrived, and Webster was angrily dealing with the foreman from the decorating firm. She found Frederick coming out of the old studio with some exposed plates in his hand.

"Hello," he said neutrally.

"I've been to see Mrs. Seddon," she said in the same tone. "I think I know what North Star Castings does. Are you very busy?"

"Just let me take these to Mr. Potts. Jim's in the kitchen."

She went through the shop and found Jim at the kitchen bench, scowling at an untidy pile of paper and a bottle of ink. He thrust them away when she came in and turned to face her.

"What's up, Sal?" he said.

"I'll tell you in a minute, when Fred comes in. How's your tooth?"

He made a face. "Spoiled me beauty, ain't it?" he said. "It doesn't hurt much, but broken bits keep

working their way out. I'd like another crack at that buggers nose, I don't mind admitting. ..."

"Right, what's it all about, then?" said Frederick, shutting the door behind him.

She went through what Mrs. Seddon had told her. When she finished, Jim gave a long whistle.

"So that's what he's up to!" he said. "Guns on railway carriages ..."

"I'm not sure," said Sally. "Walker and Sons made locomotives, not carriages. And this Hopkinson Self-Regulator sounds as if it's got something to do with steam. One of us will have to go up there and find out. I've got Mr. Paton's address." She looked at Frederick. "Could you..."

He said nothing for a moment, and then, "Yes, I suppose I could. But why me? I'd have thought you'd be the best person to go, since you made the first contact. Besides, you know a lot more about guns than I do."

She flushed. "I'm not so good at talking to people," she said. "There'd be a lot of. . . well, detecting. Talking to people and finding things out. You're good at that, and I'm not. You're the best. It's got to be you."

There was another meaning in those words; she hoped her eyes were expressing it too. Her cheeks were hot, but she faced him directly and saw him nod. He looked up at the clock.

"Half past ten," he said. "Jim, could you pass me the Bradshaw?"

Bradshaw's Railway Guide informed him that there

would be a train leaving King's Cross in a little over half an hour. While Jim went to call a cab and Frederick threw some things into a bag, Sally scribbled a quick summary of what Mrs. Seddon had told her and added Mr. Patons address. Then her pencil paused, but before she could add anything else Frederick came back with his cloak and hat. She folded the paper and gave it to him.

"What's today? Thursday? I'll have a scout around, see what else I can find out. Be back on Saturday, I expect. Good-bye."

That was all he said.

"Mr. Blaine's going mad in there," said Jim when he came back. "I think I'll give him a hand with his orders. I got nothing else to do. I was going to see Nellie Budd later on—fancy coming? See whether she's come round, poor old gal?"

"I'm going to the patent library," Sally told him. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. Whatever this Hopkinson thing is, there'll be a patent for it."

"You really think it's got something to do with North Star? Well, I suppose it cropped up in Nellie Budds trance.... Here, I've just had a thought. Miss Meredith—I know she's a needlewoman, but she can manage clerical stuff all right. And at a guess she'll be feeling like a useless burden and blaming herself for everything and not wanting to be in the way and generally making everyone miserable—no, all right, I take it back, that ain't fair. But she could do Mr. Blaine's stuff, couldn't

she? Kill two birds with one stone. Stop the old boy from going off his nut and help her feel she's doing something useful. What about it?"

For answer she went and kissed him.

"Well, that's better than a whisticaster in the rattlers," he said.

"A whatr

"A smack in the gob. Good idea, then, is it? I'll go and see her before I go to the hospital. Take her mind off Mackinnon—maybe."

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The rail connections were excellent; it wasn't much past six o'clock when Frederick booked into the Railway Hotel at Barrow, and only a little later when he found the address Sally had written down. He knocked at the door of the little terraced house and looked around at the rest of the street. It was hard to tell what it would be like in daylight; he had the impression of respectability just a shade away from poverty. Every door knocker shone in the gaslight, every doorstep was scrubbed—but in the very next street, sewage flowed down the open gutter.

The door was opened by an anxious-looking woman in her fifties.

"Mrs. Paton?" said Frederick, taking off his hat. "Is Mr. Paton in—Mr. Sidney Paton?"

"Yes, he is," she said. "Is it. . . It s not from the landlord, is it?"

"No, no," said Frederick. "My names Garland. A colleague of mine was talking to your sister-in-law, Mrs. Seddon, and she happened to mention Mr. Paton's

name. I came up here in the hope that I might be able to talk to him."

She let him in, still anxious, and led him through to the little kitchen, where her husband was mending a pair of boots. He stood up to shake hands—a small, slight man with a heavy mustache and the same anxiety in his tyts as his wife had.

"I'd ask you into the parlor, Mr. Garland," he said, "but there's no fire. And, anyway, most of the furniture's had to go. Some of it we've had since our wedding day. . . . What can I do for you?"

"I won't beat about the bush, Mr. Paton," said Frederick. "I want your help, and I'll pay for it. Here's five pounds to start with."

Mrs. Paton gave a faint exclamation and sat down. Mr. Paton wonderingly took the note Frederick handed him, but put it on the table.

"I don't deny that five pounds would be a blessing," he said slowly, "but I'll need to know the sort of help you want before I accept it, Mr. Garland. Oh, please sit down."

Mrs. Paton, recovered from her surprise, stood up to take Frederick's coat and hat. Frederick sat where Mr. Paton indicated, in the armchair on the other side of the fire. He looked around: plates and cups gleamed on a dresser in the warm lamplight, damp tea towels hung over a line, a stout ginger cat dozed on the hearth, and a pair of spectacles rested on a copy of Emma beside the cobbler's last where Mr. Paton's boot was being resoled.

Mr. Paton saw where Frederick was looking, and sat down opposite him.

"Plenty of time for reading these days," he said. "I've worked my way through Dickens and Thackeray and Walter Scott, and Im on Jane Austen now. Blow me if she's not the best of the lot. Well, Mr. Garland. How can I help?"

Frederick, liking the man at once, decided to tell him everything. The recital took some time, during which Mrs. Paton made some tea and put out a plate of biscuits.

"So what I need to know," he said finally, "is just what's going on at North Star Castings. Now, if you decide you can't tell me, or if you feel you shouldn't because of this secrecy business, I'll understand. But I've told you all the background, so you can see why I want to know and what's at stake. What d'you say?"

Mr. Paton nodded. "That sounds fair to me. And I must say, I've never heard a tale like this before. . . . What do you say, my dear?"

His wife, seated at the table, had listened wide-eyed as Frederick spoke.

"You tell him," she said. "You tell him as much as you like. You don't owe that firm a thing."

"Good," said Mr. Paton. "That's what I think. Right, Mr. Garland.. . ."

During the next twenty minutes Frederick learned all that had happened to the railway works since Bell-mann had taken them over. They were now called the

Transport Division of North Star Castings, Limited; the other half—the armaments firm that used to be known as Furness Castings—^was now called the Research Division, a fact about which Mr. Paton was quietly bitter.

"They're very clever, these men, whoever they are," he said, settling back into his wooden armchair and accepting the attentions of the cat, which had jumped up into his lap. "Research Division. Sounds harmless, doesn't it? Well, research means one thing to you and me, and quite another to North Star Castings, Limited. Murder and bloodshed division, more like. But that wouldn't look so good on the factory gates, would it?"

"Why these two firms, though?" said Frederick. "What have they got in common?"

"I'll tell you what the talk is, Mr. Garland. It's supposed to be a secret, but word gets around. ... I hear a certain amount at the Institute. I can't really afford the subscription these days, but my sister's been very good....

"Anyway, the word is that North Star Castings is developing a new kind of gun. It's got some polite name, of course—it's called the Hopkinson Self-Regulating Device, or some such—but the name that gets whispered around here is the Steam Gun."

Frederick sat up and took out his pocketbook. He found the scrap of paper on which Jim had written down the words that Nellie Budd had spoken in her trance. He smoothed it out and handed it to Mr. Paton,

who reached for his glasses and tilted the paper to the lamplight to read it.

"It isn't Hopkinsony but they're not to know. . . . The Regulator. . . North Star!. . . a mist all full of fire — steamy and it's packed with death, packed in pipes — steampipes — under the North Star . . /' he read aloud. Then he put the paper down. "Well, if this isn't the strangest thing I ever heard. . . . Now, look, Mr. Garland, I don't know the first thing about guns, I'm glad to say. And as for this Hopkinson thing, well, I can't help you at all—but I can take you to a man who could. Whether he will or not I can't promise. But Henry Waterman's a decent sort of feller, and I know for a fact that he's not happy about what he's helping to make. He was one of those who thought hard before signing on. I think he's wishing now he hadn't done it. He's a Unitarian, Henry; a man of conscience, you might say."

Twenty minutes later Mr. Paton took Frederick into a plain-fronted house that bore a painted sign proclaiming it to be the Workingmen's Literary and Philosophical Institute.

"We've got a fine library here, Mr. Garland," he said. "We have a debate on the second Tuesday of every month and courses of lectures when we can raise a subscription for them. . . . Look, there's Henry Waterman now. Come along and I'll introduce you."