#8 stand –alone story
The Life and Crimes of Lockhart and
Doppler
An Illustrated journal of amusement, adventure and instruction
‘A Rotten Borough’
The
first time I laid eyes on Lord Linsey Woolsey he was scrambling from the first
floor window of Mother Claps Molly House. Dressed in a fetching turquoise tea
gown and boa, he slithered and slid to the wet cobbles and, avoiding the young
blue bottle on lookout, as whistles peeped and voices squealed, heels clacked
and wigs flew, he made for the carriage door held open invitingly.
Doppler
and I had been on our way to the Crystal Palace for a concert, when our Hansom
cab had been held up. An accident involving a horse and an electrical tramcar
or something. Watching the Black Maria arrive and coppers spill out had
occupied some time, but when I espied the figure I thought Handel could wait. Throwing
him a blanket and deftly circumventing the questions of another officer our
carriage finally moved on.
“I say,
awfully decent of you to help a chap out.” Gushed the damp face with make-up
smeared about.
We
trotted through the rain soaked London night until eventually arriving at a
four story townhouse in Kensington. Twenty minutes later, we were ensconced in
an elegant, yet cosy study with brandy snifter in hand, Doppler had Crème de
Menthe, a small fire popping and crackling joyously when the door swung open
and in stepped Woolsey, suitably attired in smoking jacket of velvet and
brocade. He flopped into a nearby Howard armchair that had seen better days. I
suppose some would call him handsome, in an unconventional way, his chin was
slightly lengthy and his hair fell straight from crown to collar without a
ripple. Holding a foreign smelling cigarette betwixt two fingers, he gently
rolled brandy in a bowl in his other hand, a lily adorned his buttonhole (rather
excessive, but, it looked right on him).
“…and
so, if we’d had a Particular, all would have been a lot simpler.” He was
saying, “But then along came you two delightful fillies and here we are. I am
indebted to you ladies.”
Doppler
and I spent a few days mooching around the art galleries, salons, music halls
and coffee shops of London Town. Paid a visit to Rosie Lee, who was running our
London branch of Lockhart’s Ladies (a little something I had set up to train
suitable women in the arts of self-defence, Bartitsu and fencing, the Northern
branch was doing very well thank ye). In Holland Park we strolled along in our
newly acquired finery, ladies and gents trotted by on gleaming chestnut mounts,
carriages moved leisurely along allowing the passengers to view and be viewed,
when a sudden cry of alarm went up. We turned and turned about, as did our
fellow perambulators to discern where the sound had come from. Then people were
running in our direction, trees shook, women and men alike screamed.
Doppler and I began making our way against
the flow, never could resist a bit of disorder. A carriage came flying past,
its occupants straining to look behind, the driver lashed his beast as if the
Devil were after him – and then we saw it, and it was horribly familiar– crashing
between the birch saplings was what looked like a giant deep sea diver, eight
feet tall, its left arm levelled going tak-a-tak-a-tak-a-tak
without apparent aim.
We
dropped to the ground as a policeman close by shouted for people to remain
calm, he put his whistle in his mouth and waved his arms at the clunking figure
as if directing traffic. A man ran into him as he dashed forwards looking over
his shoulder, the copper fell hard on his back, the whistle disappearing into
his mouth. He made a wheezy trill as he gasped for air, clawing at his collar
and thrashing like an upturned turtle. We
watched as his face changed from pink to purple and when the mechanised man
continued unawares, Doppler, unexpectedly began a low crawl to the desperate
man, despite my protestations. I followed. Between us we managed to get him sat
upright, Doppler behind him, put her arms about his stomach she pulled tightly
and sharply. Nothing happened, except the constables eyes bulged scarlet
looking like they were about to burst. She tried again, nothing.
“Get
him upright!” I commanded
We
heaved him to his feet, the chirruping, whistling becoming fainter. Doppler
held onto his belt and collar, staggering slightly. And I punched him in the
stomach as hard as I could. A slimy,
silver cylinder shot out of his mouth and he fell to his knees gasping. I
turned to watch the giant man crunch through flower beds and ponds. A couple of
elderly military types had set about it, their decorative blades making little
if any impression;
“Have
at you monster!” bellowed one.
“That’s
it Sir! Let us quell the beast together!” called the second through bristling
tache.
“I
shall quell the beast Sir! You Sir are nothing more than a pop-wallah!”
“Ha!”
ejaculated the moustache, “I Sir have engaged more than ye’self, Sir!” And with
that they began swinging their steel towards one another.
The
metal man was now making the sound of a bicycle wheel when a child puts
‘clackers’ on the spokes. As the left arm lowered, empty, the right raised and
a flame shot forwards, over the heads of the pugnacious ancients. I whipped my
skirts off and began running towards the clumping great ‘monster’. As it strode
forwards I used its own leg as a launching point and propelled myself up the back
of the cool casing. The
last time I had seen one of these things was at the home of one Honourable
William Ridley (deceased), he had an army of them in a storage shed on his
property up in the Borders. I knew vaguely how the thing operated and attempted
to open the access door on the front. As I clung on to tubes and cables around
the shoulder joints with one hand and reached for the release mechanism with
the other, I became aware of Doppler arguing with the old soldiers;
“Damned Frenchie I’ll wager!”
“Spanish
invasion Sir!”
“No,
no, she’s trying to stop it!”
They
continued to argue about where my allegiance lay whilst I grappled with locks
and pistons, leads and connexions. The front of the huge diver was loosed and
swinging open and shut in rhythm to its steps. I tried pulling the man inside
out by his clothing but he was strapped in firmly and strangely oblivious to my
presence. I decided gravity was going to be my friend.
“Double
time! Move it!”
A
small military contingent was quick marching across the begonias. I began pulling
and leaning alternately.
“Section.
Halt!” screamed the Sergeant, “Left turn!”
A row
of four red uniforms was directly in front about five hundred yards away. I
swung frantically, the giant diver rocked, left foot, right foot.
“There’s
someone on it sarge.”
“Get back in line you ‘orrible little man!”
A
gush of flame spurted out of the mechanical fist, singeing ornate shrubs in the
process as the figure tipped.
“Take
aim!” came the screaming command.
I
leapt off the thing as it began its slow topple sideways.
“FIRE!”
There
was a mixed congregation around the felled giant. Members of the public,
military and police. I was getting some odd looks, standing there in my jacket
and bloomers.
“I
say, that lady has her … unmentionables on show!”
“Cover
yourself madam!”
“Shameful.”
When
I began to explain that I had removed the unwieldy skirt for the purposes of
saving their sorry arses, there were gasps of horror and outrage at my
colourful speech.
“You
people are unbelievable” I began, “A rampaging oddity is brought down and all
you can think about is my attire and language, well next time...”
“What
do you mean, “next time” Ma’am?”
My
upper arm was held. I looked down at the dark blue serge.
“I
think you’d better come with me.” Said the copper.
“A
damned French spy I’ll wager sir!” called one of the old soldiers.
“Why
don’t you…” I began, turning to look menacingly at the old boy.
“That’ll
do ma’am. Now…”
A
thundering of hooves caused the copper to halt and turn. The smart set
scattered as a wildly driven, open-top caleche charged towards us, Doppler sat
up front, reins in hand. She heaved back causing horse and carriage to turn
violently, throwing up clods of grass, tearing through the green and pleasant
lawns of Holland Park. I yanked myself free and leapt for it. On the rear seat
sat an elderly lady.
“Oh
my word. Oh my word.”
She
exclaimed over and over, tossed about the seat as Doppler sped us through the
park onto Holland Park Avenue, up the Bayswater Road and into the Mayfair
district where she slowed down and finally came to a stop. I had my skirts back
on by now and we hopped out, abandoning the lady in her driverless carriage. We
began sauntering along as if we had been doing nought more than taking the air.
In due course, we found ourselves taking cover in a chocolate box theatre
listening to a lecture on Astronomy and its place in the New Mechanised World. The
narrative was influenced strongly by natural theology with moralistic overtones
and religious sentiments. I found my mind drifting to the anomalous
appearance of the giant mechanised soldier, which is how I now thought of the
diving suit person. Later, we had dinner at a mediocre establishment then
headed back to our rooms.
I
came fully awake and alert in the wee hours, sitting bolt upright. Something
the astronomy lecturer had said about certain planets coming into alignment,
phrases like military funding, private philanthropy and moral instruction of man crept to the
fore of my mind. And I remembered the look on the face of the man in the
machine – asleep with his eyes open.
The
following day I returned to the theatre to enquire about the lecturer. It seems
he had moved on. To where, they did not know. Outside, hastily pasted to the
wall, I saw a notice proclaiming; ‘No Landlordism No Monopoly’.
“Have
you seen the papers?” queried Doppler over lunch.
“No,
why?”
“Look
here.” She pointed.
In
amongst the ads for male corsets, violet rays and electric belts for weak men
and weak women was one that was at odds, not an advert as such; ‘ Ladies. Do
you know where your housemaid is tonight?’
“Odd,
I’ll admit. But meaningless really. How can anyone know where their staff go
unless they’re in bed or working?”
Doppler
pointed at the back page of another paper a middling chap was reading.
“But
check that out.”
I
tried to look without appearing to and saw a similar sized box amongst the
cricketing results with the comment; ‘Gentlemen. Do you know what your butler
does on the weekend?”
“So?”
“They’re
the same, except aimed at different gender and their staff. They aren’t ads.
When did you last see a comment like that in the rags? I mean, yes, who cares
what staff get up to, I know I don’t care what Mrs McClivity does in her spare
time, but, if someone was of a suspicious nature, they might suspect it was a
strategy to cause them to question what their staff, their subordinates were up
to.”
I
wasn’t sure how to respond to Doppler’s interpretation of the public notices.
She was a member of the Blue Stocking Society but rarely went to meetings. She
abhorred inequality, yet we had a housekeeper.
“La
piece de resistance.” She flourished the front page.
Park Pandemonium
Automaton Attacks on Sunny Afternoon
The
piece went on to tell how a giant mechanoid went on the rampage in Holland Park
severely injuring several ladies and gents, luckily no-one was killed. Two
veterans of Assaye, one police constable and five of her Majesty’s Royal
Military Dragoons finally brought the mechanical man to a halt, although some
individuals contest that it was a semi-clad female who brought it tumbling
down. Authorities would like to interview the female in question who was
spirited away in a speeding carriage.
“Bloody
Hell!” exclaimed I as I folded the paper onto the nearby seat.
“I
know” replied Doppler, “Do you think we should keep low for a while?”
“Hide!?”
I shot “No, it’s those bloody uniforms that have taken the credit. I took the
thing down. Me! I stopped its rampage and what do I get, a big fat accusation
of being a French spy! I should have let it kill them all!”
Doppler
was quiet, she peeped at me over the top of her teacup.
“You
didn’t read the rest.”
I
reclaimed the rag, eyes searching the bottom of the text. A hand written note
had been found on the body of the man operating the mechanism, it stated; the bourgeoisie is unfit any longer to be
the ruling class in society. It seemed to chime with the newspaper notices
about master and servant. As I was outraged at the slight to my heroics, I
couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for the plight of either the bourgeoisie or the
workers – what would I gain from it? Not my problem I reckoned.
But over the
next couple of days there appeared more instances of discontent; mutterings in
bars, Parliament debated back and forth and flyposting in the West End; a
sequinned dancing troupe rose up against their manager and high kicked him into
hospital.
Then
I met Lord Linsey Woolsey again. I was attending a performance at the Dreary
Lane theatre alone, Doppler having decided she had no interest in seeing Mr
Elton in tights affecting some Scottish laird disguised as a Nubian. I bumped
into Woolsey during the interval and we decided to forego the second part and
have drinks in the adjoining restaurant.
“Father’s
being a bore again. Wants me to follow him into politics, get a little ninny of
a wife and produce a brood.”
“And
that’s not the life for you?” I stated more than asked.
“Absolutely
not. Thinks I’m going through a phase or…I say! Look at the haunch on that!”
I
looked across the room to see what he was observing. A very attractive, tall
young man had strolled in with a gaggle of girls and chaps. He was overflowing
with the self confidence that only comes with a huge amounts of dosh. He was
broad of chest and long of limb, he wore the latest fashion and hair brushed
forwards a la Napoleon. The females looked adoringly up at him. He did make
heads turn, he was a magnet for the human eye.
“Splendid.”
I remarked, eyeing his haunch as he moved about the table seating the females.
“You
little tart!” smirked Woolsey,
“Takes
one to know one.” I shot back.
“Not
for you though dearie.” He was almost licking his chops.
“Why
you cheeky young pup!”
I was affronted that he thought I would be,
ahem, too mature, for the colt.
“Are
you insinuating something about my age?!”
“Gosh,
no!” said Woolsey, tearing his eyes away from the man’s buttocks to stare at
me.
“Absolutely
not! What I mean is, he’s not you’re type
if you catch my meaning!”
I
looked back at the fetching figure, his ease with both females and males, the
way he shook out his serviette, how his index finger found the stray curl at
his temple and repositioned it and the swift, fleeting glances he shot at the
waiter and other males in his eye line.
“Give
me a few minutes with that and I’d have him playing blanket hornpipe in no
time.” Whispered Woolsey.
We
eventually exhausted the possibilities with the young dandy and moved on to
other topics. There was little love lost between Woolsey and his father Lord
Richard Russell Woolsey, who had a place in the House of Lords. Lord Richard
was chums with Lord Stanhope Orange who had a vitriolic hatred of the
underclass, calling them ‘feckless’ and ‘unsanitary’, the ‘residuum of
society’. Nice chap.
“Got
a bee in his bonnet about finances draining away to support criminals. Chaps a
flim-flam merchant, nothing but lies and deceit, mind you, Pa’s not much
better. But he’s got a dashed handsome wife. No, not Pa, Orange, his missus is
quite the eyeful, especially when she’s wearing her glass.”
My
ears pricked up.
“Glass?”
queries I like an innocent.
“Aye,
y’know, glass, baubles, diamonds.”
“So
they’re wealthy then?”
“Gods
yes, rich as Croesus. And likes us all to know. Mind you, last time I attended
one of their functions, she nearly blinded me with her display. Disgusting if
you ask me, like a whore with her apple dumplings on show. Old Orange used to
go up North regular like and bring back little trinkets for his rib.”
“Do
you have to go to those things often?” asks I.
“Only
when Orange has some new paper he’s trying to foist on everyone, or Mrs O gets
a new sparkler. He and pa are always trying to set me up with some simpering
maid with nothing between her ears and nothing of interest between her legs.
Now if that fine young fellow over there were to simper at me…”
I had
an idea brewing. But it would mean taking Linsey some way into my confidence.
“Listen
Woolsey. I was wondering if I could get a look at those, baubles.”
“Hmm?
Baubles? Oh, Lady Oranges’, what for? I mean,” and here he looked me up and
down,
“You
don’t strike me as the sort who goes in for diamonds and such like. You ain’t
wearing much jewellery now and it’s evening, but I could find out when she’s
next displaying her wares, sure to be some event she’s attending if you’re that
desperate.”
“I
was hoping for an invite to her home.” I pressed.
Woolsey
shifted in his seat, turning to face me, his brow furrowed slightly. He
narrowed his eyes and leant forwards and in hushed tones asked
conspiratorially;
“What
are you up to Ms Lockhart?”
We
stared at each other for seconds. Lord Linsey Woolsey let his eyes work their
way from the top of my head to my polished boot toe unabashed and undisguised.
“Fascinator
with hat pin?! Jacket and skirt; not the latest style, although very fine
quality. Recently acquired I’d say. Practical, no hoops, stays or bustle. Boots
fine, but not evening wear, unless
your evening involves much walking. De Sade belt with accessory loops. Not a
clutch purse, too large. Double welt pocket on side of skirt, very unusual. Madam, I’d say you’re
either a Sapphic rambler, or…”
“Yes?”
He
threw up his hands,
“You
ain’t dressed right, is all I know.”
“That
was quite amazing, how you could see what was absent or additional.”
“I
know fashion darling.”
He indicated his own sartorial elegance.
“Now
spill.”
“Well,
you know how you have a hobby?” he
looked momentarily puzzled, then,
“Being
Jemima is not a hobby, let me make
that perfectly clear.”
“Whatever
you call it, I bet your father doesn’t know.”
“Good
Lord no! Old P would disinherit. Probably lose his place at Lords.”
“The
House?”
“No,
cricket my dear, cricket. Crikey. Never be forgiven. Time in jail, all that. I
can’t go to prison, imagine what they’d do to me, with my looks! No, old P
simply hates Mandrakes.”
Woolsey
was suitably alarmed by the prospect of being cut off from his inheritance,
more so than doing time behind bars that I decided it was a good time to put
forward my proposition.
“You
want to lift a Lady Orange necklace? How marvellous!”
Well
that was easy.
So
the plan was; wait for another function or encourage another function at the
house of Lord and Lady Orange. Doppler and I would accompany Linsey with
Doppler posing as prospective wife for Linsey and me, her mother. His father
would be delighted, Lord and Lady Orange would approve and lots of celebrating
would be done, whilst I infiltrated the Lady’s’ boudoir and collection. Later
the engagement would be called off with his fiancé accusing him of philandering
with another women – thus, ensuring he had a ‘manly’ reputation and I got the
jewels! Woolsey was quite delighted with this arrangement;
“Absolutely
tip-top, my dear. Give me a little time to plant the suggestion into fathers
mind regarding an evening at the Orange mansion, oh yes, they have a mansion
for certain parties, on the border of Belgravia don’t ya know. Lady O reckons
she can see the Palace from her bedroom window. Any hoo, he has a paper he has
been working on for some time and I’ll convince him to present it to Orange
before it goes to Parliament.”
We
parted ways after Woolsey insisted on getting roaring drunk, leaving the waiter
a card with an address on it I couldn’t see (probably another Molly House) and
then striding to the table with the party of the handsome young man and
declaring his undying love for him. Then he turned smartly on his heel, chin
high, cane over his shoulder, leaving them gaping after him.
I
made arrangements.
Between us, Doppler and I scouted out the area surrounding Ranelagh
House, residence of Lord and Lady Orange. Estimating journey times from the
mansion to the Chelsea Bridge, and discovered the Chelsea Madhouse in the
process. We contacted the Lockhart Ladies and designed for three members to be
at strategic points on the day; a ‘flower seller’, a ‘Pankhurst promoter’ and a
‘nanny’.
A day
finally arrived. Doppler
had been rehearsing her role as Miss Emma Ayre, daughter of Mr and Mrs
Nathaniel Ayre. Mrs Ayre suffered from arthritis and walked with a silver and
citrine topped cane. Linsey Woolsey
picked us up in a hired cab and we three drove off to Ranelagh House. We
progressed up the drive between impeccable lawns and box hedges, the twinkle of
a river could be seen not too far away. We were dropped at the front door
whilst the cab continued on to make way for the numerous vehicles following.
There were already a fair number inside when we entered.
“May
I take your shawl ma’am?”
An
attendant proffered his arm for my item.
“I
think I’d like to keep it for now young man, feeling a little chill this
evening.”
I squinted through the circular spectacles in
a manner guaranteed to add at least a couple of years. He took Dopplers
travelling coat and Linsey’s topper, gloves and cane, then ushered us onwards
into the ballroom.
“Ah!
Linsey”
A
chunky, mature fellow was bearing down on Linsey, paw outstretched. I recognised
him from the newspapers, Lord Stanhope Orange was loud, over-bearing and
getting on my nerves already. He kept a firm grip on Linsey’s hand, his other
placed on his upper arm whilst barraging him with questions of support in the
next vote off. He finally glanced at Doppler and myself.
“And
who’s this?” He stepped round Linsey to be introduced.
“Lord
Orange, may I present Mrs Nathanial Ayre and her daughter Emma.”
“Good
evening ladies, welcome to my humble abode,” he bellowed, “I don’t believe we
have ever met before?”
He
knew we hadn’t, he was attempting to work out why we were here, and most of
all, were we of any use to him politically.
“Good
evening Lord Orange, I have been an admirer of your views for some time. My
husband, God rest his soul, was more interested in merchandise than politics.”
“Nothing
wrong with the mercantile ma’am, I’m sorry to hear your husband has passed on,
very difficult being a, hum, young widow, I am sure. What was his particular
interest Mrs Ayre?”
“Tea
sir. And please, call me Janet.”
“Tea
eh? What would one do without tea? Keeps the lower orders working and the rest
of us rested, eh?”
“Indeed
Lord Orange.”
I aimed for politeness, but was unable to keep
the chill from my tone.
In an
attempt to break away from us, he looked around and saw someone else he just
had to greet. He made some remarks to Linsey about standing for a seat then
marched across the room to a more wholesome crowd. Lord Richard Russell Woolsey
and Lady Woolsey came to greet their son.
“Darling,
are you eating properly? You don’t look like you’re eating properly.”
“Stop
fussing him woman! You’re always fussing him, that’s what’s wrong with the
boy!”
“Evening
to you too father.”
Linsey
gave his mother a peck on the cheek.
“Mother,
Father, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
And
here he turned to take Dopplers hand. She smiled demurely, gave a little curtsy
and proffered her lace gloved hand. Lady Woolsey beamed as she took it in both
of hers, and looking from Doppler to her son she chirruped;
“Oh
Linsey! At last. And such a pretty little thing.”
“’Bout
time I should say!” his father huffed, then took Dopplers hand and kissed it.
“Delighted
to meet you Miss Ayre. I hope you can put some backbone into my son, had my
doubts, but, well, all behind us.”
“Hmm.”
Said Linsey, “All behind us, as you
say.”
His
father flashed him a look, harrumphed and asked Miss Ayre about her family, at
which point I stepped forwards and gave him the spiel of successful tea
merchant, sudden death, moneyed widow and daughter and so forth. When Linsey
said he wanted to tell them something important, Lady Woolsey pinked and
clapped her hands in anticipation.
“Ma,
Pa. I wish to take the hand of Miss Ayre in marriage, yes, I have asked her
mother’s permission and she is agreed. She is, as you realise, financially
secure and will prove to be a delightful companion, I’m sure you’d agree.”
Lord
and Lady Woolsey were very much agreed to their son marrying Miss Emma Ayre and
made an informal announcement. The assembled throng raised their glasses and
gushed praise. As music began to play and dancing was encouraged, a slim figure
made its way toward the couple, dressed in dark jacket and pants with
silver-grey waistcoat and cravat. He didn’t so much walk as glide, slid between
the guests, his eyes fixed firmly on Linsey.
“Good
evening Woolsey,” His smile was not a friendly one.
“Nelson.”
Linsey looked uncomfortable, but held his ground.
“Aren’t
you going to introduce me?” he purred.
“Mrs
Ayre, Emma, allow me to introduce, Lord Nelson Orange.”
The
young Lord paid me barely any heed – just as I liked it – instead, he took
Dopplers hand and kissed it whilst maintaining eye contact. She played her part
beautifully, fluttering her lashes, a coy little Miss not used to the attention
of one, let alone two gentlemen.
“Charmed,
I’m sure. May I have this dance?” then as a quiet snide to Linsey, “I thought
you danced at the other end of the ballroom.”
And
before waiting for her reply, he had whisked her into the middle of the floor.
Linsey reached for a glass of champagne and began eyeing the room.
“You
twit!” I hissed, “She’s your fiancé remember? You should be bothered. Stop
looking at the waiters arse, really Woolsey!”
“Oh.
Yes. Ahem.”
He
made a suitably cuckolded face. Some of the guests looked at Lord Nelson Orange
dancing with Lord Woolsey’s fiancé with shock or embarrassment on his behalf.
I
left them to it…
The
hallway off the ballroom had small clusters of ladies and gentlemen simpering
and massaging each other’s egos. An opening showed a large room with tables
laid for a buffet, servants moved swiftly, arranging, placing, pouring and
polishing. Two man sized Chinese vases stood either side of the foot of the
grand staircase – Chin Qing dynasty I’d say. There was a wide passageway leading
alongside the staircase, kitchen at the farthest end I guessed. Halfway along a
well-oiled humming revealed itself to be a lift, descending. I hovered about,
rummaging in my reticule. The ornate cage door slid open revealing an elderly
lady in a wheelchair. She was able, by a small lever on the handle of the
chair, to move the conveyance herself. It whirred forwards, puffing short
bursts of steam behind her, almost colliding with my shins.
“I do
apologise.” She quavered.
Her
watery eyes were dim as she peered at me. As I pretended to release my skirts
from her wheels, I made a quick, simple adjustment to the wire that I saw leading
from the armrest to beneath the seat. Then she pootled on, for a few feet then
ground to a halt. She pressed and pulled, then hit the switch becoming agitated.
I offered my services to wheel her about, she greeting the guests and I was
ignored. The Duchess, Lord Stanhope Orange’s mother was easily tired,
especially when persuaded to imbibe three flutes of champagne. Did she want to
go to the ballroom to see her son? No! See enough of the swine day to day. Did
she want to see her grandson? Definitely not! Little shit! I was warming to
her. I wheeled her to a place we could talk and by
engaging her in reminiscences of her life before Ranelagh House, gained her
confidence. A small snifter of some of Doppler’s concoction made her sleepy yet
garrulous. And so I offered to wheel her to her room.
I
took the elevator and the drowsy Lady down to the next level. She had revealed
to me that there were a number of rooms below the house, including her son’s
study where the “stupid man” kept “that silly woman’s precious stones”. Using
the chair bound Duchess as my cover, I discovered a second kitchen, full of
sweating, red faced staff. Beyond this were the servant’s quarters. The
elevator took us to another level lower where we wandered through a large
private gallery, a wine cellar and finally, the study. Lady Orange had made
weak protestations initially, but seemed to have dozed off. Leaving her in the
passage, I knelt before the heavy oak door and began to poke about.
“I
say. That’s a private room.” She began.
“Have
some more lubricant grandma.”
I
said, pushing a hip flask into her fragile hands. As she took greedy gulps I
popped the lock and wheeled her in. Turning on the electric light, I made a
visual sweep of the room; huge desk (was he compensating for something?), white
marble fireplace with an armchair either side, glass fronted cabinets filled
with books and papers, black lacquer and ormolu commode, seventeenth century
French mantel clock, hideous family scenes by some obscure little scribbler and
a Turkistan rug that almost covered the whole floor. The tea-leaf in me could
see plenty of potentials here, but I wanted the big money in small, manageable
pieces. After searching for some minutes
my eye found an inconsistency in the fire mantle, a dirty, smudged section
where a finger might leave its mark over time. I depressed the carving and a
narrow panel slid open nearby. Hastening in, I discovered the masters’ real study.
The
walls were adorned with etchings of nubile ladies in various provocative poses,
I peered up close to one, crikey! (I made a mental note of one or two
attitudes!) There was a small desk in here its drawers and cupboard on the
underside elaborately locked. This was the safe. I assumed that his Lordship would carry the
key on his person so set about them with my lock-picks. But eventually I had
all his drawers loosed –as it were – I scooped out leather rolls, pouches and
jewellery boxes. There were diamond necklaces, rings of sapphire, ruby and
emerald. Seed pearls in white gold settings and a tiara of turquoise and silver.
Loose pearls, uncut sapphires and more to boot. I eagerly and meticulously
pocketed everything, then turned my attention to the small cupboard secreted
beneath the desk. Inside were private papers, rifling quickly through I
discovered a selection that did more than pique my interest, these too I took.
Then
relocking everything I returned to the outer study where the Duchess was gently
hiccoughing through an alcohol and drug infused slumber. Together we made our
way back out into the corridors of the underground quarters. Staff seeing us
assumed that because I was with the old dear then everything was above board. I
took her to the upper floor, deposited her in a likely corridor and headed back
to the party.
Doppler
and Linsey hastened to me immediately.
“Well?”
asked Linsey.
“Done,
and done.” Replied I, smiling at a passing gent and companion.
We
spent a short while socialising, sipping champagne and being introduced to more
tediously dull political types. I could see Nelson Orange sliding amongst the
guests; smiling, oiling the wheels of politics, smarming his way through the
ranks of power. I decided it was time for me to take my leave and asked a
footman to bring the carriage round.
I
stood on the drive smoking a cigarette, taking in the cool evening air and
disparaging the stiflingly formal gardens. A sound behind made me turn. Lord
Nelson Orange stood about five feet away. I looked at what he held;
“An
1860 Tesla ray gun with delayed action paralysis release bullets, explosive
heads an added option – why is it pointed at me?”
“You
know, at first I wasn’t sure what it was about you that drew my attention, then
I realised it was exactly that, you’re designed not to draw attention. Very
subtle, playing the slightly dull mother-in-law to be and melting into the
background. But how many mothers would leave their daughter in the company of
strangers?”
Damn!
I thought.
“Then
when I looked for you again at the buffet, poof,” he made a motion with his
free hand, “You were gone. And grandmamma left in the corridor? Tut, tut.”
“Lord
Nelson,” I continued with the ploy, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
“And
there’s another thing, your accent, doesn’t quite fit, no breeding you see, one
can always spot a lack of breeding.”
“I
beg your pardon?!”
“Very
good ma’am, keep at it.” He lowered his chin and gave me a chilly smirk.
“Nelson!
What the deuce!?”
Over
his shoulder I could see Linsey approaching, Nelson didn’t move, he kept his
eyes firmly glued to me.
“Oh,
the prospective son-in-law, this should be interesting. I suppose you’re
oblivious to all this Linsey.”
“All
what man, dammit stop pointing that weapon at Mrs Ayre.”
“Mrs Ayre, as you call her, is a common
thief my lovely young Molly, oh yes, I know what you are Linsey, I make it my
business to know about those who mix in our circle, and once a mandrake, always
a mandrake, no, don’t bother to deny
it, it’s obvious to all except your own mother who so dearly wants for her son to be normal.”
“You
rotter, I ought to box your ears!”
And
here, Nelson made a strange noise that I realised was him laughing,
“Run
along now like a good fellow.”
“How
bloody dare you!”
Linsey
stepped in front of Nelson, putting himself between the weapon and me. And
blocking both mine and Nelsons view of each other. He placed his hands on the
ray gun,
“Now
let’s all calm down and discuss this like lady and gents. I’m sure there has
been some sort of misunderstanding, eh, Mrs Ayre?”
He
glanced over his shoulder and made motions with his eyes. I began to move away
slowly,
“Stop
right there Mrs Ayre!”
Nelson
turned to match my direction. Linsey stepped aside, calmly lit a cigarette and
relaxed, smiling. I legged it. Nelson pulled the trigger and the gun went –
fzzzt. I heard it flung after me with a yell of outrage,
“Linsey!
I shall kill you myself one of these days.”
“Oh,
I doubt that very much darling” he yawned.
And
then the shouting were lost behind me as I ran through the gardens and to the
road. At the corner of the Ranelagh estate I gave my first package to the
flower girl there, she secreted it beneath the lavender and strolled on. I
could hear the distant calls that could only mean Nelson had given chase. I
needed to get across Chelsea Bridge where transport awaited me. I strolled
along Cardigan Place, trying not to draw attention but losing time, I turned into
Lower Drawers Street and sped up hearing calls. A carriage came pelting along with
Nelsons head thrust out the window,
“This
way!”
I
nipped into a narrow roadway that would be too difficult for the transport to
navigate, ducked into a doorway and removed my skirts, beneath I had on
trousers, and began running. I cut through a bakers knocking floury buns and
assistants left and right, then found myself against a high wall. I began
scrambling up and over. Dropping down the other side I viewed a huge expanse of
green lawn. A stately building stood in the middle distance. Here and there were
pale clad figures wandering in pairs or standing gazing at nothing. It was the
Chelsea Madhouse.
A
clatter of hooves and shouts of “Whoa!” on the other side of the wall started
me off again. I ran to the nearest figure. A woman dressed completely in white,
with a wan face, golden curls and wide eyes, stared in building fear as I ran.
“Help
me!” I cried when near enough, “Help me, they are after me!”
Her
eyes darted to what I saw was the main entrance where three or four men were
striding purposefully through, shoving the gates and gatekeeper roughly aside.
She looked at me with her huge, frightened eyes;
“Would
thine husband cause thee to be incarcerated?”
Her
voice was hushed and gravelly as if unaccustomed to speech.
“What?
Oh, yes! He wishes me to be incarcerated. Please, help me, hide me.”
She
dutifully pointed to a boathouse a small distance away. I took off for it.
Almost the second I reached it, I heard screaming. I peeked cautiously through
the wooden slats of the structure and saw the woman in white, arm outstretched,
finger pointing towards the male intruders. She was shrieking as loud as her
poor lungs would allow. Like a tipped domino, other patients began wailing,
howling, and some pointing as warders rushed from all parts of the gardens and
building to see what had so upset their patients.
Nelson
was apprehended by a burly man in white uniform. After a very brief and angry
exchange, the burly man grasped Nelson and flung him to the floor. Nelson
shrieked in fury. Soon there was a pitched battle with staff and inmates
shouting or fighting with Nelson and his companions. I charged out of the
boathouse in the opposite direction.
Before
Chelsea Bridge, I gave my second package to the nanny wheeling her perambulator
on her way home from a brisk walk with her charge. I crossed the river and
found the follower of Emmeline Pankhurst with a small crowd of women listening
to the right to vote speech she had prepared. Offering her my support and cash,
I deposited the third package with her then headed off to the waiting carriage.
I directed the driver to my lodgings. Finally home I heaved a sigh of
relief. Then studied the remaining package. The letters and papers.
It
seems that Lord Orange had connections with William Ridley (see #4 Howay the
Lads) up in the Border country and had been a major backer for Ridleys
mechanical army. He had also been the instigator of the posters, leaflets and
newspaper ads that related to working class discontent. The mechanical soldier
in the park had been ‘contained’ by Orange’s men, they were studying it with
the intention of making more for public protection – of course he owned it, but
its origins would be placed elsewhere. Orange was planting a false seed in the minds
of the public, primarily the middle and upper class public and his fellow
politicians; that the underclass was rising up against them, that there would
be extreme violence and that it should be quashed as swiftly and firmly as
possible. He was proposing a mechanical army to keep the disorderly in order.
He was proposing an immediate closure of the ‘dens’ and ‘dives’ that were
habitually used by them. He was proposing ‘fumigation’ of the Rookeries. He was
proposing the ‘discontinuation of persons who were of least use to society,
ergo; the lunatics, the indigent, the deficient and disenfranchised.’
He
wanted class genocide.
Doppler
did not return home that night. The following day I contacted Linsey and discovered
she was still at Ranelagh House – Nelson was holding her hostage. Linsey
arranged to meet Nelson at the Royal Albert Hall to discuss her release.
The
Hall was closed to the public this night. Special dispensation given to the son
of Lord Orange, Member of Parliament, generous donator and of course, member of
the Board of Directors. I snuck in early by the back door and installed myself
in one of the seats. Half an hour later I heard movement and cursing, Doppler
as she was led up the aisle by a thug following Nelson Orange.
“Will
you stop squeezing my arm!” she snapped. At least she was still alright.
Nelson
strode to the front of the stage then lithely hopped up and spreading his arms,
cane in one hand, surveyed his world. He indicated for his henchman to bring
Doppler up too.
““All
the world's a stage”, Miss Ayre. “And
all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their
entrances,” we shall have to see who exits tonight shall we not?”
A
door closed.
“Ah,
Lord Linsey Woolsey, our Titania.”
Here
he gave a dramatic, flourishing bow, a curl of jet black hair falling onto his
forehead. He caught Woolsey’s eye before straightening.
“Then
you shall be cast as Iago, my lovely lout.” Woolsey cast back. “Let Miss Ayre
go and we can speak like civilised persons.”
“I
rather fancy that I shall keep her, unless that is, the jewels are returned.”
And
he faced the auditorium,
“Can
you hear that Mrs Ayre? I know you’re here somewhere, don’t believe me fool
enough to think you would not attend your daughter’s fate – if she even is your
daughter.”
I did
not respond. I was sunk deep into the velvet shadows of the loggia box closest
to the action, stage right.
“Bogan,
the persuader if you please.”
The
thug produced a simple service revolver and placed the muzzle against the side
of Dopplers head. She scowled sideways at him. Ah, thought I, how precious. He
hasn’t got a clue.
“Take
that gun away from my fiancé!” cried Linsey.
Nelson
made his strange laugh.
“My,
my, you are a diamond Linsey, in fact, you’re a Queen of Diamonds.” Then with
deadly seriousness, “Don’t play me for a fool.”
I lay
my arm across the velvet balcony before me, the small crossbow rested on top.
Gently I inserted a short bolt.
Linsey
began to move towards the stage,
“Stay
exactly where you are Linsey, as you see, Bogans weapon is a simple one, though
not to be trifled with, once bitten and all that.”
“I
wouldn’t think of touching Bogan’s weapon darling,” quipped Linsey, “not my
type y’see.”
I
lowered my eye to the sight, adjusting my chin.
“No,
I prefer something more, stylish, more tasteful
shall we say.” Continued Linsey.
I
could clearly see the three figures on the stage. I placed my finger on the
smooth curve of the trigger.
Nelson
had a sneer of disgust on his face. Linsey lit a cigar and leant nonchalantly
on his cane, he drew in deeply and blew his smoke up at Nelson. I pulled the
trigger. I
watched as if all had slowed down to less than half speed; Linsey, chin up,
lips pursed as if blowing a kiss up to Nelson who scowled down at him, Bogan in
his flat cap watching the exchange with boredom and Doppler, frowning, lips
tight looking outwards towards the darkness of the theatre seating.
The
bolt hit home. Ploughing through skin and bone and brain, leaving a mere inch
protruding from the oblivious forehead. The figure fell and time rushed back. I
stood up folding and pocketing the crossbow. Nelson turned as a flat cap rolled
past him and off the edge of the stage.
“About
bloody time.” Cursed
Doppler, bending to retrieve the pistol.
Linsey climbed up onto the stage
only to come face to face with the steel that Nelson had swiftly drawn from his
cane. He held the sword before him and the stick part behind and slightly out.
He looked like he had martial training.
“Drop
it!” commanded Doppler
“We
have papers you might be interested in.” Linsey said at the same time.
“Listen
to him Nelson,” I called, making my way down to the stalls
then the stage. He flickered his eyes about, trying to contain us all.
“Give
us the girl and the jewels and you can go free.” I said moving closer.
A
look of incredulity on his face, Nelson scoffed,
“Go
free?! I am free madam and you will
return my mother’s jewels or I shall run this sad excuse for a man through,”
looking pointedly at Linsey, who merely raised an eyebrow. “And you dare not
shoot me, imagine how it would look in the morning papers; prominent Lords son
shot by floozy parading as a Mandrakes fiancé, whilst her apparent mother
shoots and kills his footman. Madam, you are already for the hangman’s noose.
How can you set me free?”
And
so I told him; all about his fathers’ attempts to create a specious atmosphere
of trepidation against the underclass. I showed him the papers I had found. I
told him I was no blackmailer and had no interest in becoming one, I also
denied having taken the family jewels. However, Linsey said he had no such qualms
as regards blackmail. He would retain the papers in safekeeping and keep quiet,
so long as Nelson walked from here right now. Nelson was shaking, I could see his whole body
trembling, though not with fear as I initially supposed, he was filled with
rage. He stepped towards Linsey thrusting at him with his sword. Linsey to my
surprise neatly blocked the steel with his cane then parried the stick as it
whipped round towards his head with speed, he side-stepped a second attack of
the stick but then halted mid stride, mouth open,
“No!”
Who
had cried out? I ran towards the two men. Nelsons thin steel was through
Linsey’s side and out the back. Doppler cocked the revolver and as she pulled
the trigger I lunged on top of Nelson, knocking him to the floor, pulling
Linsey with us. She fired, the shot missing.
“Lockhart?”
Doppler shouted.
“We
can’t kill him!”
“Why?”
“We
can’t.” I looked into his smirking face, “We just can’t.”
I
pulled the loosed sword from Linsey and made to check him. I indicated for
Doppler to help him. Nelson began righting himself, I spun swiftly and punched
him in the face,
“That’s
for Linsey!”
Nelson
sat back down, I punched him again,
“That’s
for your Grandmother!”
Nelson
looked startled and confused, I punched him again,
“That’s
for the poor bastard in Holland Park.”
Nelson
didn’t understand, I punched him again,
“And
that’s for you, you little shit!”
I
grabbed him by both lapels,
“Your
father was planning to wipe out half the population of London, he paid
thousands, if not millions to some guy to build that machine that was in
Holland Park and many more besides. Your father is a warmonger, a liar and a
viperous traitor to all that makes this country great, worst of all, he is a
Tory! You and your family will be ruined sir, if we reveal what is written in
these letters, you shall lose your home, your status, your wealth –everything!
You, shall, have, nothing! And when the people of the streets find out who you
are, they will tear you limb from limb until Nelson Orange is no more than a
stain on the pavement!”
I
threw him away from me, panting heavily. His face had taken on a sickly pallor
as I ranted, now the slackness began to disappear as he regained his composure.
Slowly, he stood. He picked up his swordstick and cane, replacing one inside
the other. He brushed himself down, ran his hands through his hair and
collected himself.
“Fine.
I shall not speak of this. I know not what happened to the jewels.”
I
nodded. Doppler looked up from where she knelt besides Linsey, hand pressed
over an improvised dressing. Nelson dropped down off the stage and walked up
the aisle into the shadows, but before he reached the end he turned and speaking
through a fat lip warned,
“I
shall forgo the theft, I shall be silent about the fake engagement, I will
forget what my father has done, but I will never forgive this violation of my
person, and I will never, never, Ms
Lockhart, forget your name.”
The
End…
