Call Me Ismay (24 page)

Sgt. Wade had blanched slightly upon learning the identity of his potential suspect. He fully realized he must proceed with great caution and discretion because of the political ramifications, and it was for this reason that the detective had gone forward with his investigation in the role of lone wolf. Wade, well over six feet in height, possessed with a seemingly calm demeanor, was a striking figure of authority with a staid expression and relaxed hazel eyes that never missed the most minute of details. He had monitored the two men from a distance, carefully assembling a case while taking into account Gidley's possible legal rejoinders, but, when he realized they were boarding a train headed for Southampton that April morning, his suspicions were greatly aroused. He had boarded the train at Waterloo Station himself, casting aside a porter's request for ticket presentation with a gruff and efficient “police business” utterance.

Sgt. Wade was carrying handcuffs and a newly issued Webley semi-automatic; the police had just very recently ditched the bulldog revolvers that they had been using in the aftermath of the Siege of Sidney Street, where the authorities had found themselves severely outgunned by a gang of burglars. The weapon was so new to him that he had barely had time for target practice, but the sergeant wasn't so much eager to use his new gun as he was to simply question Gidley. Why had a glove that bore his initials been found so close to the remains of a dead body? Wade was also compelled to find out why the young man had died in such a violent and bizarre fashion. While it was almost certain to most of those close to the investigation that the victim- who had apparently been employed at a London newspaper- had died instantly from a blow to the head administered by a bloodied brick found right next to the glove, no one could determine why or how the victim had what appeared to be three sets of wounds on his neck. The injuries were almost perfectly shaped little punctures, six little round holes that seemed to come from three separate attacks, each of them with the same measure of separation between two distinct wounds. Wade thought they looked so clearly defined they could have been made by a portable electric hand drill, but he realized that a power cord only allowed for very limited portability, and certainly there would have been no way to utilize such a tool in the cemetery. He also knew that- logically- a drill would actually have left a jagged mess on the victim's neck, and these wounds were in their own unique way clean and precise. It was a form of injury that neither he or his colleagues had ever seen.

As the Boat Train roared into the open country, Wade fought the urge to pace the length of the train like a caged panther. This unexpected sojourn to Southampton had to bear some significance, he believed, but he had only a vague idea of what awaited at the end of the line. He'd been able to deduce from some of the chatter on board the train that the main attraction at their destination was called
Titanic
. The only details he could muster from his own experience was that he'd heard back on the streets of London that some shipbuilders in Liverpool had put together some sort of gilded barge that couldn't be expected to stay upright in the water, because it was so large. However, for the most part, the fact that Gidley and presumably Lyons were headed to America was to Wade the most significant siren's call of bad news.

Soft talking could be heard coming from Lyons and Gidley's compartment, although the constant rolling thunder from the train's wheels made it impossible for Wade to determine with certainty what was being said. Growing stiff with tension as the train steamed on, Wade could no longer contain his interest, and was beginning to loiter there far longer than he had intended. Upon hearing what sounded like a latch being released, Wade turned away and began heading slowly, not wanting to appear being rushed, towards the back of the train. A moment passed and the definitive sound of a door sliding open was heard, and after a moment of feeling only the train rocking beneath his feet, Wade suddenly had the unnerving sensation of being watched by someone flood over him. He turned and found himself looking right at Bartholomew Gidley, who was standing about ten feet away, peering outside his compartment.

Gidley's expression was at once contemptuous and mocking, his coal black eyes hurling invisible stones of hatred at Wade. “The White Star Line's copper, are you?” he spat out after a moment of sizing up the sergeant.

“City of London Police, actually,” Wade calmly replied.

“Does your employer make it a habit to have the likes of you harassing its first-class passengers?” Gidley growled.

“I am not employed by the White Star Line, nor would I presume to speak on behalf of the White Star Line. While City of London Police normally patrol Greater London, all of England and Wales falls within our legal jurisdiction, and at our own discretion we  take it upon ourselves to monitor certain individuals if we have reason to believe they might be involved in any suspicious activity.” Sgt. Wade was truly in his element, at once patient in his explanation and yet firm.

Gidley's eyes narrowed, and it was quickly becoming obvious to Sgt. Wade that this man held a certain prejudice when it came to authority. “Good God,” Gidley muttered, “give a miserable empty-headed bunch of young buggers a pistol, uniform and hat, and they'll come to believe that they have the whole of Britain by the pistachios.” Gidley broke into what could only be described as a predatory grin, and Wade heard the voice of whom he supposed was Edward Lyons coming from the compartment.

“Bart Gidley, close the bloody door and draw those curtains immediately!”

“In a moment, Sir,” a malevolently amused Gidley replied, never taking his eyes off the expectant face of the police sergeant. The two men stood facing each other, their gaze unbroken while the train's movements caused their shoulders to sway in rapid motion. Gidley stared at Wade, fixedly. “I suppose if
your
suspicions have been aroused, young man, you would do well to leave Us be and keep them focused on the pickpockets and purse snatchers at the station We left behind this morning, with all the rabble and the mere mortals. You will be misusing your time and undoubtedly your fine detective skills trying to place guilt on Those who don't just
break
the rules if They so choose, but also
make
them.”

“No need for such defensive speech, sir,” Wade replied coolly, not taking Gidley's bait. “But I should like to point out that suspicions don't come about without cause, nor can someone rightfully claim to be not guilty when they are not truly innocent.”

Gidley blinked for the first time during their exchange, then quickly whirled around, sliding the compartment door shut, but not drawing the curtains. “Mr. Lyons, this man
knows
something. How he came to be in possession of this knowledge, I know not quite yet, but he could make things difficult when We disembark at Southampton- if he doesn't take some sort of action before We get there.”

Lyons, unperturbed, glanced up at him while still clutching the map of Utah- an unusually large Masonic ring glittering on the little finger of his right hand as the sun shone into their compartment. He had been too absorbed in his own thoughts to pay much attention to just what exactly Gidley was up to. By now, he was used to his secretary picking fights at random and was mainly just annoyed with all of the noise. He stared at Gidley and then sighed heavily. “And how are We to address it? This isn't going to be another unpleasant bit of business such as that
hors d'oeuvre
You were allowed to have at the cemetery?”

“Not at all, Sir,” Gidley replied, perversely obedient. “For all You know, I merely... need to use the lavatory, hmmm?”

Lyons thought for a moment, then shrugged. “If it keeps Us on time, may You go about Your bathroom proclivities with discretion- and I do mean,
absolute
cleanliness and discretion.” He turned his attention back to his map.

Sir. Gidley could hardly contain his glee. He reopened the door and stepped back out of the compartment, where Sgt. Wade remained, unmoved.

“Let's have a word, then,” Gidley muttered to Wade. “If it's all the same to you, I should like to partake of a cigar, but it will have to be on another part of this train- where My fumes and our words will not pollute the air. Lead us to the back, will you?”

Sgt. Wage did not flinch. “After
you
, sir.”

Gidley grunted at him and then pushed on, thumping his cane aggressively as they went. To Wade's utter astonishment, Gidley took them on a journey that stretched from one railcar to the next, eventually taking them to the brake van on the hinder end of the train.

“Make way, you lazy sods!” he barked at two drovers who were asleep in the brake van. The men, startled, took quick action on Gidley's order and headed forward. Gidley positioned himself on the open area at the very end of the train, the cool April air swirling about, while Wade cautiously stood in the doorway.

Moments passed as the train rolled along, a short tunnel or two causing a momentary blackout of light, but otherwise it was the lush greenery of the Hampshire Downs that whistled past as the train seemed to gain speed. From a crocodile leather cigar case in his pocket, Gidley produced a Por Larranaga cigar from Cuba and, with deliberation lit it, puffing slowly and letting little tufts of smoke enjoy a brief moment of existence before being evaporated by the rushing air.

The train swayed slightly as it cranked along, forcing Sgt. Wade to bend his knees for balance while Gidley remained immovable, like a steel peg that had been hammered into the ground. After a few moments passed, Gidley slightly lowered his cigar from his mouth and began speaking, never taking his eyes off the rails as they continually accumulated into tiny little lines in the distance.

“Do you believe that Cain was cursed by God for slaying Abel?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Sgt. Wade was befuddled but remained officious.

“Was Cain... cursed by God... for slaying Abel?” Gidley repeated, as if speaking to a dullard.

Wade took a moment to mentally compose his response. “I suppose if we are expected to accept such a notion from what is taught from the pulpit to the faithful, I would believe so, yes.”

“The
pulpit
,” Gidley sneered, as if rolling something sour over his tongue. “Many things are taught from the pulpit, but they are frequently at odds from what is reality. What might have started with Cain may not have been a curse at all, but a gift. A gift that was supposed to have been a punishment from the Almighty, but instead turned like a once-loyal dog biting the leg of its master.” He turned his eyes to the sergeant, clutching his cigar close to his chest. “So much of what the masses believe with heartfelt certainty is completely out of line with what existence actually allows Us to be. Some say that horrible monsters are never to be seen in the light of day, that there are to be clear delineations between light and dark, good and evil, night and day, when the disturbing truth actually lies somewhere in-between.”

Sgt. Wade's tone began to grow terse. “Why the sudden philosophy, Mr. Gidley?”

“I'll have you know, copper, that Our philosophy is anything but sudden. It has been a progression of many years in the making, long before the rails on which We now ride were even laid upon the ground, and in some ways dating back to when this very same ground was cooling down from its molten creation. Your attempts to marginalize it or foist authority upon it are futile, to say the least.” He drew a long, satisfied puff off of his cigar, the train's whistle many cars ahead of them wailing in the distance, and like a cat toying with a mouse Gidley delicately tapped a few ashes from the tip of the cigar.

“Do you suppose they have any of Marconi's wireless equipment on board this train?”

“Come again?” Wade asked warily.

“Wireless equipment, for bored passengers to send little love notes to their families, or perhaps in case of emergency. They say this bucket of bolts that we're headed for in Southampton has some of the most powerful radio equipment in use by anyone, anywhere. It's an amateur fascination of Mine, although it's usually under the auspices of issuing false naval messages or forging distress signals in the interest of collecting a few extra coins.” Sgt. Wade stood sentry, swallowing hard but not responding while Gidley chuckled indulgently.

His eyes still fixed upon the receding horizon, he spoke again. “This has to do with the glove, doesn't it?”

Sgt. Wade's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly, a flash of astonishment flew through his eyes. “I once again beg your pardon, sir?”

“Don't be obtuse. We are men, and I knew it was just a matter of time until someone would come forward with inquiries regarding that damn blasted glove. I realized that in My haste to silence that little bastard, I had almost certainly left it behind.”