Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences (13 page)

“An extremely small island off the coast of Rhode Island, home to just over two hundred souls. A resort community with some fishing activity, nice enough I suppose but not exactly a bustling centre of transatlantic commerce.”

“I see. How best to arrange a visit?” Bernard smiled, though as with most of his smiles the gesture had more in common with an animal baring its teeth than a display of affection. He sensed his sort of work in the near future, and it was the first good news he’d had this whole trip so far. “I suddenly find I’ve a mind to knock on their door and inquire about their business. Don’t you?”

“I do. There’s a ferry that runs to the island daily,” Arthur said. “Should be no difficulty.”

“Excellent. Now, about the device itself–to what end would they incur such massive additional costs, with less expensive alternatives readily available?” Bernard frowned. “That is, secrecy seems the goal, certainly, but that still does not speak to its function. Something to do with telephonics, perhaps?”

“That was my assumption at first,” Arthur said. “But on closer inspection of the device’s design, its primary function is not to gather vibrations, but amplify and
project
them.”

“Project them? As a weapon? Some sort of, I don’t know, aural cannon, perhaps?”

“Possibly,” Arthur allowed, though his tone indicated the contrary. “I didn’t see anything that looked like it might be used for that purpose, but then, I’m not confident I really understand its purpose at all, so I’m afraid I may not be the best expert to consult in this circumstance.”

“Hmm.” Bernard mused for a moment, still turning his spectacles over in his hands. “I have a feeling we know exactly the expert we might consult, but until then, it might be best to focus our efforts elsewhere.” He set aside the documents and journal, and turned back to Arthur to ask, “Your report mentioned a conspiracy behind these actions? These so-called True Sons of Henry?”

“Took a bit of digging to uncover that connection, let me tell you.” He leafed through one of the nearby stacks, took out a thick sheaf of yellowed papers that looked about ready to turn to dust with little more than a hard look. He carefully handed them across to Bernard, who replaced his spectacles and peered down at the neat columns and their shaky, spidery script. “I started with the inventor, Richard Henry, the reason I brought you to New London. Given the expenses involved in this project, I started looking into his family, just to see where the money was coming from. Can you imagine what I found?”

“I’d rather hear it,” Bernard said, trying not to be too harsh but also wary of over-indulging Arthur’s evident excitable streak when it came to research. That was the trouble with archivists. Sometimes they tended to enjoy the digging so much they forgot other people often didn’t share their love of riddles and guesswork.

“Right,” Arthur said, his face reddening. “As far as the funding of this endeavour, I couldn’t find a damn thing. I mean, family money, clearly, but it must be the most conservatively managed fortune I’ve ever seen. Up until this new venture, anyway. What did catch my attention was the fact that the same partners kept showing up in those ventures they did back, so I looked into those names. All with the Henry surname. I deduced it must have been an extended family, but then I discovered these family trees never connected. Now while you may think Henry is a common name like Smith, Jones, or Morris, it is not as unexceptional as one might—”

“Arthur…” Bernard warned.

“Right. Sorry.” With a nod, he continued. “Look at this. Census records from Boston, 1631. Take note of this curious stretch on this page here–see all those men, surname Henry? All approximately the same age? That’s where it started, at least in this country.”

“Not exactly a subtle lot as conspirators go,” Bernard said, decidedly unimpressed. “I remember the rest. This is when you started writing the home office, correct?” He smiled almost despite himself. “As I recall from my departure briefing, you made quite a pest of yourself for some time, asking after those records. No, don’t apologise. It’s a good trait in an investigator, to be sure.”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, clearly pleased at the compliment and recovering a bit of his poise in the process. “As it turns out, this group of young men—all younger sons of old but lesser families in the peerage—met at university and somehow got it in their heads that they could trace common ancestry to a heretofore unknown legitimate son of Henry I. No idea what brought on this delusion—”

Bernard scoffed. “I blame university,” he interjected. “Too much time for idle speculation. Leads to foolishness, particularly in groups.”

“You didn’t attend? Arthur said, looking surprised.

“Oh, I did.” Bernard made a show of inspecting his nails. “I was simply asked to leave not long after matriculating. Some hurt feelings, and a bit of broken furniture. Best for everyone, really.”

“I see.” Arthur coughed politely. “In any event, however silly their notion of their ancestry, it seems the authorities were obliged to investigate after they made public some of their claims about ‘ancient and viable’ claims, and the boys fled to Boston soon after. It doesn’t look like any serious effort was made to track them down, however.”

“‘The wicked man flees though no one pursues,’” Bernard said with a shrug. “It’s a lot more likely these lads heard someone was coming around to put them to the question or, more likely, give them a slap for talking nonsense. They let their imaginations get carried away to the point where the Star Chamber was convening a whole session especially for them. I’ve seen their type before. This lot was just rich enough to make a real go of it.”

“It seems as though they’ve been stewing here ever since,” Arthur said. “When you know what to look for, it’s not terribly difficult to find the connections. They stayed close, and—I must admit—aside from the ridiculous surname business, well, they have certainly kept collars up and brims down, as my father used to say.”

“So it would seem,” Bernard agreed, opting against re-iterating that hiding was simple when no one sought to find you. “First class work, Arthur. You certainly put in your due diligence.”

“You really think so?” Arthur said. “I actually put in a request to join the Research and Development division not too long ago, see if I can’t do some field testing. I’ve a knack for mechanical improvisation, and I’ve been working on a couple of gadgets—”

“Arthur. One matter at a time, yes?”

Arthur bowed his head, but added, “I wish I wasn’t still left with quite so many questions. Why have they been present at six of the last eight significant landslides and avalanches in New England in the past four years? What’s the connection?”

“Precisely what headquarters felt worth investigating, combined with your exhaustive reports and their own bizarre family history, of course,” Bernard said, standing and doing his best to stretch a bit. Stiff muscles were of little use to anyone, him most of all. “Don’t be too hard on yourself—you’ve done brilliant work, but you can’t be expected to do it all.”

“So what do we do now?” Arthur asked, also rising.

“Why, dinner of course. Somewhere with a decent menu, if there is such a place in New London?” Bernard could hardly contain another predatory grin, which he hoped Arthur took in its intended spirit of good humour. Despite the miserable voyage, the deplorable manners of the Americans, and the overall stifling lack of importance that pervaded this shadow of a country, he had still come to work. And that he truly adored. “In the morning, we head to Block Island and see this Richard Henry. I’m quite confident he’ll be happy to answer our remaining questions.”

“He will?” Arthur asked, a bit dubious but clearly not eager to contradict him.

“He will,” Bernard concurred, taking up his cane with a flourish. “As it happens, I am excellent at asking questions. A very
specific
kind.”

Dinner was pleasant enough, though as the meal went on Arthur noticed a rather sour expression crossed Bernard’s face whenever he wasn’t expressly guarding it, as though everything in front of was simply failing to meet his expectations. Nevertheless he was a capable enough conversationalist, and before turning in the agent even regaled Arthur with a few redacted but engaging tales of pursuing malefactors through the streets of London. Truth be told, it was still difficult to get a read on the Englishman—it was plain he was not fond of America, but the next morning as the time came closer to depart for the island, the agent became more and more excited.

He also seemed easily distracted, glancing out the window often, both during dinner and afterwards on returning to the field office.

Foul weather delayed their departure, causing Bernard to pace like a dog following a stranger on the other side of a fence. By that time the ferry arrived on Block Island, however, the last of the rain had retreated and the afternoon sun was at its peak, nearly taking the edge off the chill in the air, save for the breeze still coming off the water. Asking directions in the tiny harbour town proved easier than expected, though the walk took them out of town and down a road that was little more than packed earth and lonely stands of trees by the seaside.

Richard Henry’s house stood by itself at bend in the road on a little bluff overlooking a narrow strip of beach, with the dark blue expanse of the ocean beyond. A small dock jutted out into the sea, a rowboat tethered to the solitary post. The house itself was a simple affair done on the slightly grander scale that money tends to lend things, weathered white paint with dark trim and surrounded by a low stone wall with a disproportionately large iron gate, currently standing slightly ajar. Bernard approached the gate without hesitation, peering through curiously, though Arthur hung back.

“Something wrong?” Bernard asked.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Arthur said.

“Oh, absolutely,” Bernard replied airily. “They’re expecting us.”

“How is that possible?” Arthur said with a start. Suddenly the house seemed far more sinister.

“A gentleman was shadowing us last night. He showed potential, but he needed a bit more coaching on remaining in shadows when close to streetlamps and open windows. His bowler brim was the tell. I suspect he might have been at the train station as well.” He pushed open the gate and gestured for Arthur to follow. “Shall we?”

“Right into a trap?” Arthur tried to keep the squeak out of his voice.

“Sometimes the best way,” Bernard said. His smile was back, as wolfish as ever and not at all comforting in context. Together the two men crossed a small courtyard and stopped at the heavy wooden door. Bernard raised his cane and rapped at it twice, a pair of robust knocks that must have sounded like thunder inside the house. A bell sounded somewhere within, and through the frosted glass panel next to the door proper Arthur could see a shape coming toward them. There was the sound of a heavy bolt sliding back, and then it happened. Quickly.

In fact, Arthur had never seen anything happen so fast in his life.

When the door opened, Arthur had no sooner opened his mouth to speak to the elderly gentleman in the servant’s livery than Bernard shouldered the young researcher aside, sending him sprawling in the shrubs next to the door. Light glinted off the silver ball atop Bernard’s cane as it flashed down in a tight arc, striking the servant’s wrist in mid-draw. A revolver the doorman was sliding from his jacket clattered against the stones of the stoop. Bernard was already moving in behind his strike, grabbing the man’s injured wrist with his left hand and pulling forward while pivoting his body so that the man collided with him right at the hip. The servant yelped as he was hip-tossed and went sprawling, landing on his back with a heavy thud. Bernard knelt down, following the man to the ground, and administered a single, savage punch to the man’s temple that left him limp.

“My-My God!” Arthur stammered, struggling with the shrubbery as he clumsily regained his feet. “Did you—”

“No,” Bernard said simply. He rose to his feet and took off his spectacles with a casual gesture. He looked as if he was going to place them in his coat pocket, then seemed to think better of it and offered them to Arthur instead. “Mind holding these? I’d hate to have them broken. Step lively, there’s a fellow. Likely to be another one or two of those about before we can meet our mysterious Mr Henry.”

“Certainly,” Arthur mumbled, feeling a little numb, taking the spectacles and hurrying after Bernard. The agent had turned on his heel and started off into the house like a man out for a brisk constitutional.