And chapter 2
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Late the previous night conditions changed, and on the following dawn the sun rose over a city largely clear of the smog. The papers were full of the murder, lasciviously describing the almost clinical precision of the cuts made to the victim. Some of the more sensational papers were calling the broken gear found next to the body the murderer’s calling card, whilst the more sober ones merely noted that the victim had been wearing a pocket watch, found smashed by their side. The noises that witnesses had heard prior to what was presumed to be the victim screaming, along with some odd track marks, led most of the papers to call it “The Mystery of The Mechanical Murderer”; and caused one very junior police officer much embarrassment as he had referred to it as such in front of a reporter. The pubs and chop shops, coffee rooms and tea shops were full of chatter about it, to the point that one enterprising landlord put a sign out saying his pub was a “murder-talk free area”, and a tea shop asked their baker to make gear shaped scones.
That evening, a group of around a dozen or so young men and women gathered in a cellar below Perceval Street.
“I trust you all noticed that most of the papers paid more attention to the method of the murder and murderer than the victim themselves?” an older man said.
The passion in his voice seemed at odds with his very nondescript appearance. He was the sort of man you could pass in the street without giving him a second glance. But there was nothing random about his ensemble. Everything from his cufflinks to his boot laces had been chosen with extreme care with the sole purpose of fitting in unobtrusively. Some of the younger people in the group wondered if he was double crossing them, too - but as so far no harm had befallen them it seemed unlikely.
“Aye, we did notice that, Jere. Did you really think the rags would pay any notice to the fact a prostitute got killed? And especially one working in that area? There’d need to be a sodding plague of ‘em killed before Fleet Street paid any attention”
“Even so George, it does mean we’re going have to be a lot more careful tonight than otherwise, though”
In a slightly exasperated tone, but one worn easily as if through frequent habit, someone replied “Lefty… our device runs on steam, not clockwork”
“He does have a point, actually, Sarah” a female voice piped up “there are still gears in our thing, and whilst most of them are somewhat larger than the one found by the body, according to the reports, even so…”
“What range d’you reckon you’ll get, Jo?”
“My calculations suggest we might just make Smithfields, possibly further depending on whether the load is loose or tied. We should definitely make Charterhouse.”
“If sticking bills on lamp posts and church doors doesn’t work, which it doesn’t seem to be, I fail to see how this will be any better” George sounded huffy as he spoke.
“We can target a wider area with more pamphlets in a shorter amount of time than by any other method we’ve tried so far. And it has novelty on its side. People won’t expect it to rain down pamphlets.”
“Samuel’s right” a man at the back spoke up “we’ve got the element of surprise and novelty. It will both shock the populace and awe them to see pamphlets raining down. And that, my friends, might convince a few more to read the damned things”
“That’s as maybe, Hugo, but we can’t rely on gimmickry to get our point across. There are people dying out there and we want to throw paper over them like some mockery of a wedding? Why not just fly over and bombard them from a gyrocopter?”
“Which you’ll have had plenty of experience of, George?” a female voice from the back near the door spoke out.
“Yes, well, not all of us can afford to be fly girls like you, Georgina… sorry… Georgyanna… so sorry…. Georgayna”
“Enough the pair of you. You can settle your differences later if you must” Jere glared at them. “Let’s get this thing tested. You all know what to do? Lefty - go on ahead. Jo - give him 15 minutes before we start getting the thing out. Hugo - grab the pamphlets. Sam - if you want to double check your calculations, now’s the time. The rest of you, give either Jo a hand getting the thing out and set up, or help Hugo bundling the pamphlets.”
Lefty was out of the building before Jere had even finished speaking. He strolled down the street, heading towards St James church. Suddenly overcome by panic, he dived into a doorway and checked he had his scope with him. Relieved to find it was still there, Lefty carried on towards the church. Nerves bade him stop and check another four more times in the 5 minute walk. He took a stroll around the church, checking for signs of life, then crept quietly up the stairs to the door and gently let himself in, waiting by the door for a moment. No voices called out, no footsteps echoed. The church was empty. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, counted to five, then opened them again and headed softly, slowly towards the stairs to the bell tower.
Jo headed upstairs and into the gated yard. The coach house was faintly silhouetted by the gas lights, and she made her way across the slabs to the doors. Holding her breath, she eased the doors open, taking care not to make a noise. They had been kept oiled ever since this project started, but she still expected them to scream out as they had done the first time she had opened them. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could make out the hulking outline. Squeezing around behind it, she started the furnace going, and opened the smaller door at the back of the coach house to provide more ventilation.
Samuel stood next to the analytical engine, a sheet covered in tiny, cramped writing - mostly equations and other calculations. There was one he wasn’t completely certain about, but at the worst it would mean the bulk of the pamphlets would land just past Smithfields. In the room next door, he could hear everyone gathering the pamphlets into a bundle and loosely tying them. He had even calculated that - the bundle had to split apart, but not too soon otherwise it would only be them who were covered in them.
Lefty ascended the stairs as swiftly as he could manage without making a noise. About two thirds of the way up his foot slipped, and he was sure his heartbeat was echoing off the walls. He paused to regain his composure, and carried on upwards, more carefully. Once up, he made his way to where he knew one of the windows opened. He trained his scope on the yard where the pamphlets would be launched from, then traced an imaginary arc to Smithfields. Lefty settled back, keeping the scope trained on the yard. He was ready.
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A steam boat moved upriver. There was not much traffic on the Thames at this time of night, but the river was never completely empty. A small group sat bunched together under a canopy on the deck, talking in a low murmur. They had asked the boatman to steer a course as close to the centre of the river as possible, not wanting to be spotted by casual observers on either bank. Amongst the group were a well known politician, a journalist who specialised in biting satire and gossip, and a member of the aristocracy. An industrialist and a philanthropist made up the remainder of the more recognisable people in the party.
The boatman was a little annoyed with the party. They were clearly professional conspirators as they had paid him extra to ensure he didn’t eavesdrop on them, but not enough extra to make him suspicious or curious enough to do so anyway. He far preferred nervous novices - they over-paid and he could make a nice sideline in either blackmail or selling information. Had he actually been able to hear them right now, he would have wondered why they had bothered paying him off at all, or suspected they were talking in code. The talk at that moment was revolving around arranging a flower show for the following summer, both to raise money for good causes and promote their own various interests.
As they approached Blackfriars Bridge one of their number got up, and walked towards the rear of the boat. Shortly after, a loud splash was heard just to the side of the boat, followed by a startled scream. A few seconds of chaos ensued, in which they discovered no-one from the boat was missing. The journalist noticed something bobbing in the water, spreading out and sinking slowly. A net was procured before the object had sunk completely out of view, and after a couple of attempts it was fished out and dumped on the deck. There was silence for a moment as they realised they had fished out a bundle of pamphlets from the river. Then the journalist tore into the bundle, found one in the middle that was still dry, and began reading.
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The noise coming from Perceval Street alerted Lefty that launch was imminent. He could just about see the steam with his naked eyes, and with the scope he could see the rest of the group loading the bundle onto the trebuchet, which had now been wheeled out into the yard. He couldn’t see Sam, then realised he would still be with the analytical engine. There was a moment’s stillness, and then the bundle of pamphlets launched skywards. Lefty followed its progress through the sky, noticing that the bundle didn’t start to disperse at about the point planned. He watched it soar past Smithfields, and lost sight of it as it dipped behind some buildings. He did some calculations as he raced down the stairs, and worked out that the bundle had probably landed in the river. If the bundle had come undone when planned, that would have been a tremendous spread of pamphlets. He ran back to Perceval Street and rejoined the others. As he came through the gates, the others bombarded him with questions whilst he panted, trying to get his breath back.
“Who tied the bundle together?” he gasped
George and Georgiana glared at each other.
“It was too tight. It went soaring over Smithfields, still intact. I think it might have landed in the river!”
Jere looked at Georgiana and George. “You two will have to work your differences out one way or another. Those pamphlets could have been spread over a wide area by now. Instead they’re educating the fish.”
“I don’t get why a privileged little girl wants to get her hands dirty for a cause she has absolutely no experience with, and comes in flouncing around and showing off all her little gizmos and gadgets trying to impress us with what she has and all the things she can do for us and ease her middle class guilty conscience” George had gone beet red as he talked, getting louder and quicker until he both looked and sounded like he might explode.
Georgiana stood there watching with a faint hint of a smile. The rest were stunned into silence and inaction. George noticed the smile and in a flash was in front of her, fist raised. In the second or so it took everyone to realise what was going on, George found himself flat on his back, with Georgiana looking down over him.
“Don’t make assumptions about me. And please, don’t threaten me again. I’ve had to learn to deal with that kind of behaviour, and my reactions are rather instinctive these days. I’m here because I want to do more to fight injustice. I’m here because I have already done my time doing so solo and want to help make a bigger impact. I’m not showing off - these gizmos and gadgets can be usefully pressed into service for the cause. And finally,” and she paused for a fraction of a second, smiling wryly, “I am most definitely not middle class” As she spoke the last sentence, her normal accent seemed to slip slightly, letting a slight hint of a Northumbrian accent in.