Call Me Ismay (19 page)

CHAPTER NINE

March 1st, 1912

More than a million British coal miners had gone on strike in recent days, and it was the biggest United Kingdom news story of the year. Train and shipping schedules were likely to be severely disrupted, and across the land there was very real concern that civil unrest might erupt.

Despite the breadth and depth of these events, Kerry Langston and Stanley Johns were nowhere to be found at the offices of the
London Daily Chronicle.
Instead, the two men were forging ahead with purpose down Magdalen Road in Wandsworth. Fortunately for them, the weather had turned mild, so there was no need for anything but light coats, and neither man wore gloves as they walked through the Earlsfield district. They occasionally tugged at their flat caps, although it was more out of nervous energy than seeking warmth.

The sound of their shoes on the sidewalk was the only noise to be heard, except for an occasional stray cycle-car and more than one horse-drawn wagon. W. HILL & SON, ELECTRIC POWER BAKERY, read the canvas on one of them. Not a word had been spoken by either man for several minutes. All that Langston had said to Stanley in order to entice him out of the office was to tell him  they were about to meet, off the record, with a member of Parliament.

Langston was struggling to find the right words in explaining to Stanley what to expect of this meeting. After taking a long drag off of what was his eleventh self-made cigarette of the day, he at last decided to be as clear as possible.

“Stanley, I have brought you along, but this is no regular assignment or some trivial errand, I assure you. It has taken a lot for me to let any information of this sort be released to another man.”

“Oh yes, sir, I expected it to be of great importance. I knew we wouldn't be leaving the lads behind to cover the biggest labor strike the world has ever seen if it wasn't.”

Langston looked over at Stanley as they continued walking. “Again, Stanley, I can assure you- this is a deadly serious issue.”

Stanley's young eyes widened. “Gorblimey!
Deadly
serious? What could possibly be deadly about a member of Parliament, other than being forced to listen to one of their speeches?”

“Not funny,” Langston muttered. “There's talk of social unrest if there's a strike, such as one with the miners. What we are on top of here would make the Siege of Sidney Street look like a holiday.”

Stanley thought for a moment, their steady walk continuing. “Sir... sir, is this is somehow related to the letters?”

“I am afraid it is,” Langston sighed heavily.

“But sir- you specifically warned me off of those letters. You told me it was too dangerous! Has something changed?”

“Not exactly. I believe you will remember that less than a month ago, I left work rather early, and it was on a Wednesday.” Stanley nodded. “When you saw me at the office later that day, you described me- as I recall- appearing 'unwell'?”

“Yes. And I asked if Jacob Marley had paid you a visit the night before.”

“Indeed.” Langston shot his eyes down the road, appearing to look expectantly down the lane. “What I can tell you is that I had finally met the author of all of those letters, and it did not go very well- at least, not as I realized what sort of burden they have to carry.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“More on that later,” Langston replied dismissively, and more than a bit nervously. “In any event, the author of these letters is in close proximity to the member of Parliament we are supposed to be meeting with today. At my insistence, I asked them to arrange a meeting with him under slightly false pretenses.” He looked over at Stanley and gave him a significant look. “The MP believes I have questions about the suffrage movement.”

Stanley gasped slightly. “Edward Lyons! This is about Edward Lyons? Sir, I daresay that it shouldn't be!
Edward Lyons?”
Stanley chuckled, collected his thoughts, then began to take on an uncharacteristically impertinent tone. “Sir- we left the
Chroncicle
this morning
,
which is trying bear the weight
of what might be the most enormous development in domestic politics
in half a century
to talk to
Edward Lyons?
After all the criticism that you have taken for hounding him over all of those silly, stupid suffragettes? Sir, you cannot-”

“Never speak that way in my presence again!” Langston snapped, stopping dead in his tracks. “My pursuit of Edward Lyons has nothing whatsoever to do with his support of women's suffrage, which- incidentally- I happen to agree with, with all of my heart. There are women who have been beaten and raped and subjugated savagely in their pursuit of human rights.” Before continuing, Langston gazed at Stanley through his horn rimmed glasses with an intensity the young man had never seen before.

“My sister, Nancy, had boiling water poured upon her feet by a man who thought- incorrectly and stupidly- that she and other peaceful suffragettes were about to commit an act of arson at his place of business. They were not, but as a result, both of her burned feet eventually became gangrenous and had to be amputated.” Langston let his words hang in the air for a moment. “
Never
speak of the movement in a disparaging tone in my presence again.”

Stanley- who had also stopped walking when Langston suddenly turned on him- felt his already ruddy cheeks brighten once more, and his chin trembled slightly. “I- I apologize, sir. I didn't know. That is simply dreadful. It will never happen again.”

“Please see to it that it doesn't,” Langston muttered, resuming his rapid pace down the cobblestone sidewalk. He allowed several moments to elapse before speaking again.

“Now then,” Langston sighed. “The reasons for talking with Lyons are not limited to his support of women's suffrage. In fact, there are many- not the least of which includes evidence that he may be preparing to evacuate his political office prematurely, long before the elections. Now, although MPs are technically forbidden to resign, he may resort to using a 'legal fiction' to circumvent the rule.” Stanley slowly nodded his head as an indication of gradual understanding. “As our questioning unfolds, I need you to search for any cues, both verbal and nonverbal. I understand he will be bringing along his own extra set of eyes and ears.”

“Bartholomew Gidley?” asked Stanley as Langston nodded in the affirmative. “Funny sort of a toad. I never felt at ease whenever I had to drop in or contact Lyons's office- I just never knew where I stood with him, with those beady little eyes.”

Langston allowed himself a small, knowing little laugh. “'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,'” he replied, delivering his Shakespearean quotation with what Stanley silently perceived as a bit too much melodrama. “We must proceed with caution in this business. There are certain exigencies that require it.” Langston lowered his voice. “Now, while I do not presume that we are in any physical danger, I do have certain tools at my disposal, should we find it necessary to use them,” Langston confided, feeling in his coat pockets for the crucifix and vial of holy water, but not pulling them out.

“Tools? Physical danger? Do... do you mean to tell me you're carrying weapons?” Stanley exclaimed.

“No, not weaponry, but certain... tools.” Langston had decided at the last moment to not bring along the pistol, while realizing that he had absolutely no idea of how to properly use the rest of the kit.

“Sir, perhaps I shouldn't have come,” Stanley stated flatly, taking Langston's arm gently and stopping their walk once more. “With all due respect, I have no way of sorting out all of this business that you parse out in small little morsels. The MP from East Surrey, anonymous letters, weapons or tools or whatever you should like to call them, physical danger...
Edward Lyons
, dangerous? A handsome devil, a very fine orator that Lyons is, that's for certain. Bartholomew Gidley? That pudgy, odd little man? He couldn't possibly be dangerous, I mean, he's a bit challenged socially, but I've had more threatening conversations with a deaf mute than with him.”

Langston allowed himself another moment to enjoy Stanley's ramblings, smiling faintly as the young man continued. “Anyroad, to be candid, sir, all I can see Lyons being guilty of is the fact that he is probably just another politician with a reputation as a lady killer.”

Langston leaned in slightly. “You could be more right than you know. He could, in fact, be a killer of ladies- and I am not referring to his actions in a boudoir.”

Stanley's face blanched. “Come now, sir. Murder? You would really accuse a man of murder? Where are the bodies buried- Piccadilly?”

“An interesting choice of rejoinder,” Langston replied. “If I'm not mistaken, Bram Stoker's Count Dracula had a house on Picadilly. Stanley, let's continue on our way...” He continued walking, a somewhat reluctant Stanley tagging along. “Stanley... what if... what if I told you those letters that I have been receiving for so long are no longer anonymous?”

“Indeed?” Stanley's interest returned, the journalist in him coming forth. “Sir, you had not shared that with me. Why hadn't you told me that sooner? I am disappointed that you didn't.”

“Only the most recent letter,” Langston assured him. “I'm a bit loath to reveal much about this source of information, but what I
can
tell you is that it is so much more plain to me now why I couldn't narrow down the list of possible informants.”

“I believe you said that first meeting did not go well.”

Langston winced. “Well, yes, perhaps in a sense it didn't...” His eyes drifted off into the distance, just barely catching a glimpse of the Victorian Gothic towers of St. Andrew's Church. “Suffice it to say, I have plenty of good reason to believe that this source of mine is... impeccable.” Langston cleared his throat. “They were responsible for setting up today's meeting, acting as a sort of courier.”

“And sir, just exactly where is this great meeting of the minds?” Stanley sighed a bit. “We've been sauntering through Wandsworth all morning, passing by several public places that could be used for a meeting.”

“A place where all good meetings should come to an end. Wandsworth Cemetery.”

“A cemetery!” Stanley exclaimed. “Should we keep our distance from the fresh graves, then? Wouldn't want to get pushed in by a physically dangerous MP.”

“I'm delighted that you can constantly make soft jokes of just about any topic of conversation, Stanley,” Langston said, sighing slightly. “I suppose, in my own way, I'm showing Lyons that I can have a sense of humor in choosing where to meet... perhaps not a little appreciation of irony as well.” Langston pulled a pocket watch out of his coat. “We are to meet them at ten o'clock precisely, at the front gate- which, I believe, we are fast approaching.”

Indeed, as the two reporters continued down Magdalen Road, to their right a fence consisting of dark red bricks and shoulder-height wrought iron had started to take shape, creating a barrier between the sidewalk and the cemetery grounds. Stanley noted that several monuments of varying height were starting to become evident, as he craned his curious neck over the fence top for a surreptitious look or two. Weeping willows leaned forward, their branches gently obscuring monuments of polished granite. For several moments, the only sounds to be heard were- once again- the men's shoes hitting the gritty sidewalk, along with the occasional mournful cry of a lone bird.

As Kerry Langston and Stanley Johns approached the gate, which seemed to welcome its visitors with a great curve in the sidewalk, Langston pulled out his pocket watch once more, deducing that they were about three minutes early. Langston stared off into the distance, gently rubbing the case of his watch, deep in thought, while Stanley fidgeted, nervously tugging at his flat cap. Langston knew that he'd brought along his small, tattered, hard-covered diary with a few year's worth of notes concerning Edward Lyons, and as he waited for the MP's arrival, he couldn't bring himself to take it out of his coat.
Just what the bloody hell is going to be my first question for this man?
he thought. Unable to organize his thoughts, he turned away from Stanley for a moment, wishing to not look like a fool. He was terrified that all of his tireless research was going to prove trivial and pointless once he actually had, at long last, the chance to confront Lyons.
And yet, those teeth, those bloody horrible fangs, I actually saw them-