6. A Trip to the Country

We departed Paddington at 10:30 am smart, on board the Exeter express. With an eye to our limited finances I had purchased second class tickets; and was-ever my lordship unhappy about it. Despite this hardship our carriage was well appointed, the seats comfortable, well upholstered and for the most part clean. It was rather akin to travelling inside an elaborate antique sideboard, complete with copious wood panelling and a plethora of shuttered nooks and crannies for the storage of belongings. There was about every surface a pervading fragrance of soot.

 We were pulled by The Flying Cornishman, the Great Western Railway's very latest high-traction steam locomotive. The train was far from full, and third class all but empty. The guard confided in me that, unburdened by the mass of humanity, we would attempt to make the run to Bristol in record time. It was, he said, the trains up to London that were packed to the rafters with common folk, intent on sampling in the Capital 'All the joys modern civilization has to offer.'

Just one seemingly inconsequential incident had cast a pall upon proceedings. After purchasing our tickets, whilst returning through the crowds to my lordship and our waiting baggage, I had experienced an uncomfortable prickling of the skin. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise — a sensation I had experienced more times than I'd care to remember, but most often on battlefields, rather than a busy London station. Sharply I spun on my heels. There, across the bobbing heads of commuters, I chanced to spy a familiar face, or so it seemed. Staring back at me, not thirty yards distant, was that most singular young woman I'd encountered at the museum. My line of sight was broken for an instant by the milling throng, but when I looked again she was gone. Brooding, I sought out my master, whom I found draped most languid across our cases, smoking a cheroot. I said nothing of the episode, best not to worry him, but I knew what I'd seen, and I've lived long enough to trust my senses.

As we left the urban sprawl of London behind we began to see signs of change. Grim grey buildings gave way to grimmer greyer farmland. At first it all looked affluent enough, but soon the quality of the architecture took a turn for the woeful. Once beyond Pangbourne it was clear we had entered a very different landscape. We passed over rickety level crossings, where dour-faced yokels gaped at our passing, as if witnessing such a steam-belching leviathan for the first time in their sorry lives.

I was struck again by the crushing poverty endemic to the shires. Perhaps the attraction of urban living, with all its attendant ailments and squalor, was a little easier to understand when reminded of the alternative these wretches had to endure on home soil. The paltry wages; the brutal punishment for minor transgressions; the ever-present threat of summary justice, dished out by the hired thugs of absentee landlords, who saw you as little better than slave labour to be driven until arrival at death's door.

Compared to these calamities a short brutal life in a workhouse didn't seem quite so bad. Missing fingers and mangled limbs were a risk worth running when the alternative was starvation as a tenant farmer out in the sticks. Since the crushing of the Great Reform Bill, the rural labouring class had led a sorry existence, bereft as they were of parliamentary representation. Many eked out pitiful lives in conditions little better than Muscovite serfs, or field hands on some hellish Caribbean plantation. I'd met low caste Hindustanis who'd had more to their name than these poor blighters. At least here there was no risk of mosquitos.

 As the wilds of Wiltshire slipped by I took stock of the defensive arms I'd brought along. With a mind to Professor Burroughs' warnings I'd taken the liberty of packing my lordship's service revolver, plus some shells. All were safely packed away in his suitcase. I also had about my person a particular antique silver-headed walking stick, which had been in the Faversham family for generations. A small catch on the ferrule unlocked the polished ash-wood shaft, which slid away to reveal a slender rapier blade of tempered steel — three foot of razor-sharp persuasion. This time I'd also remembered to bring my cosh. All in all I judged these precautions to be more than sufficient for a few days in the country. How wrong I'd prove to be.

Upon arrival at Exeter a carriage provided by Sir Percy met us at the station steps. Piloted by a scowling fellow, clad in a cape as black as his mood, it was to whisk us on the final leg of our journey, away from what passed (round these parts) for civilization. The journey, along roads of steadily decreasing quality, took a further four hours. I couldn't fail to note the shotgun the driver kept close at hand.

Twilight was fast descending when we climbed out of the shadow of a boggy valley and came in sight of Tiverton Hall, a crumbling gothic carbuncle which looked destined to collapse in a strongish breeze. Prior to our travels I had taken the opportunity to read up on the area. The estate backed onto a rolling tract of hill country; mile upon mile of bleak moor, despoiled only by isolated villages, lonely farms, forbidding prisons and lunatic asylums. To date, the Tivertons attempts at stimulating tourism had proved unsuccessful.

Sir Percy himself met us on the steps of his mansion, in a state of some distress. He seemed keen to get us inside as quickly as possible, and kept darting glances out to the darkening moor. And up at the sky, where a queer milky radiance peeked slyly through the racing cloud. A break in the overcast revealed the light's source — mayhap it was some trick of the country air but the moon looked, not so much full, as pregnant and ready to drop. Once safely indoors our reception committee reconvened in a thickly tapestried hall, at the foot of a grand stair.

Sir Percy at least strove to put on a brave face. 'I'm sorry to say that several other guests have been forced to cancel at short notice —damned shame.'

The guvnor waxed perplexed. 'Oh dear, whyever for?'

Sir Percy looked sheepish. 'Recently, we've experienced a few . . . local difficulties. Regrettable accidents, of a most singular kind — the sort of mishap all too common in the country.'

Understanding dawned on the guvnor. 'Oh, the murders, you mean. How many guests have cancelled?'

Our host fell silent for a time. 'All of them; cowards and poltroons to a man. Craven, when nothing concrete has been proven. Little better than Frenchies!'

Sir Percy then hastened to present his hired help. 'Apologies for the rather truncated welcome — we are, as you can see, a little short staffed. This is Smithers, my long serving butler.'

We were introduced to a man so aged I feared he must have escaped one of Sir Percy's sarcophagi. Smithers looked like he must have served the Tivertons since before our host was a small boy. Something else immediately struck me as odd about this paltry workforce — who, to a man and woman, seemed as jumpy as a sack full of frogs. A good many appeared armed — blunderbusses and flintlocks of an antique variety proliferated, but also pitchforks and makeshift clubs. One footman had a sharpened stick. Not even Master Alex could fail to notice.

'Tell me, sir. Do you fear an uprising from your local crofters to such a degree that you equip your hirelings such? I've seen many a county militia less well armed.'

Sir Percy seemed coy on the matter. 'Trust me, sir, tis but a temporary precaution. My good lady wife made the arrangements, before departing with our daughters. She's holed-up with relatives over Yeovil way.'

His lordship didn't try to hide his disappointment. 'Oh, I was hoping to meet them — maybe another day. Tell me, how proceed your investigations into the Nameless Book?'

I was reminded of the wedge of notes Sir Percy hefted to the museum, almost as weighty as the codex itself.

Again, our host demurred. 'Er, mixed results, you could say. The manuscript itself is safely locked away in my library, ready for my lecture. But I must confess, I've left my files back in London. My memory is not what it used to be. But not to worry, I can speak off-cuff on the subject for hours — you won't miss out.'

'Oh, thank goodness for that,' lied the guvnor, with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

For the first time, Sir Percy sounded embarrassed. 'I should warn you, my wife has retained the services of a private investigator to help with the local trouble — a gent of some renown. You may know him — a near neighbour of yours from Baker Street.'

Master Alex looked blank. 'Can't say I do. Though I don't concern myself with the doings of freelance plod. We'll keep an eye out for the fellow. What does he look like?'

'Can't miss the chap — insufferably superior manner, cape, deerstalker, smokes like a chimney sweep's urchin. Forever accompanied by his tiresome assistant — can't abide either one of em. Spend most of their time walking the moors, much good it does em.'

Master Alex held up a hand. 'Forgive me sir, but what is that infernal racket?'

I had been wondering the same thing myself. From somewhere nearby came a furious banging; as if some mighty beast were restrained behind a stout door, and badly wanted out. If you listened carefully (and I for one would rather not) there came also a muffled growling, of a variety to chill the blood.

Sir Percy seemed unbothered by this cacophony. 'We've had to restrain several of our house-staff in the cellars. They seem quite overcome with a strange affliction no doctor can cure. Nothing to worry about. Dinner is at eight. Smithers here will escort you to your rooms.'

At a pace which would have bored a snail, we were shown up the sweeping staircase and along a gloomy landing to our quarters. Artefacts plundered from a great many ancient cultures decorated every nook and cranny. I'd hazard there was barely a graven idol or shard of pottery left in the entire Middle East, such was the extent of our host's collection. Our room was a similarly gloomy affair. Dark teak panelling lined every surface. I hastened to unpack and lay out the master's clothes, ready for the evening's entertainment.

While I did so, I chanced to glance out a lead-paned window. Positioned at the rear of the house, our room overlooked the overgrown formal gardens and a pathway to the stables. Upon this track loitered a figure whose furtive manner immediately caught my attention. It seemed to be a chambermaid, though her oversized uniform mis-suited her slender form. She carried on her back a haversack, which also struck me as singularly out of place. In the deepening twilight I could make out no feature of her face, yet on marking her lithe gait I experienced a familiar tingle down my spine. I watched her for a moment, as she dawdled outside the stables, waiting for an oblivious groom to depart. The girl quietly slipped inside. A moment later she re-emerged, sans knapsack, to straighten her uniform and hasten towards the kitchen.

Most peculiar. I decided to quickly discover the nature of the clandestine items this mysterious young lady had hidden. There was plenty of time before events kicked off. Making my excuses to my lordship, who was full-fuss over the waxing of his moustache, I hastened to the stables.

On my journey I couldn't fail but notice the banging from the cellar had intensified. It sounded for all the world like some tribe of head-hunters were psyching themselves up to venture out on the war-path. As I listened aghast, the growling mutated into a howl. I found it an effort to focus on the job at hand.

Arriving at the stable I endeavoured to place myself in the mind of a reverse burglar — where would one hide a surreptitious package? I checked all the obvious spots, to no avail — there were nooks and crannies aplenty. The horses seemed skittish, rolling their eyes at my proddings and pokings. I was about to give up when I spotted a disturbed patch of sawdust on the floor. Sure enough, my boot revealed a small trapdoor beneath, covering a hitching ring. Within this enclosure I found a haversack, the twin of the one I'd seen the girl carrying. The cache had been hidden by someone who knew what they were doing. I quickly inspected the contents.

There were strips of beef jerky and flasked water, as one might pack for a hike or camping expedition, but also extensive medical supplies — bandages, antiseptic ointment, peculiar pills and the like. Underneath these was a clipped bundle of receipts, for sundry items, as one might keep to claim back expenses. Bottom of this pile was a bill-of-sale for a stay at a cheap Whitechapel flop-house, bearing today's date. The room had been let to a 'Miss Wanda Sevastopol'. I didn't need any famed detective to reach the only conclusion — the stasher of this bag had followed us here from London, and 'Miss Sevastopol' was making ready to leave Sir Percy's mansion in a hurry — maybe along with some other, more valuable loot. A certain ancient book, for example.

But that was not all the sack contained. Strangest of all were the small, weighty cardboard boxes, each decorated with the motif of a spitting snake. Several were empty, but I opened one still intact to see what was inside. They were packs of ammunition, twenty rounds apiece. I removed one of the shells to marvel at its construction; it was of a most advanced design, intended for some weapon the like of which I could nary imagine. Printed on the box were the words:

Cobra Venom .338 magnum, caseless hollow point.

Jones Corporation Armaments Division,

Pembrey Arsenal.

Gentle reader, I must inform you that no such establishment exists. The plot was thickening like yesterday's turnip soup.

I swiftly concluded that this had gone far enough. My intention was to remove this damning evidence, locate the suspicious young lady — never mind the danger — and question her, as to the nature of her intentions. How hard could it be? There was a platoon of armed house-staff, who I was sure I could press into service to assist me. I repacked the bag, slung it on my back and hurried to the door. That was when a disquieting thought struck me: in my haste, I had departed our rooms unarmed — a schoolboy error I prayed would not trip me.

That was when all hell broke loose.

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