Mr Gunn and Dr Bohemia Page 2

  Sophie was at a loss for words. The truth was, she really wasn’t interested in discussing gardening, or the latest recipes from the Women’s Gazette, or the gossip about one society figure or another. But those subjects, and others just as banal and boring, were all Mrs. Stack and her little ladies’ circle ever seemed to talk about.

  Mrs. Stack was like a mother hen when the other ladies were present. Sophie much preferred the times when she and Mrs. Stack were without other company; then she was just Eleanor, and they could talk more informally. Since Sophie and Connie had moved to London, Eleanor was the only friend Sophie had.

  Of course, she couldn’t say any of this without offending—and Sophie was not the kind to offend. “Nothing’s the matter, Eleanor. I was just wondering whether it might be worth trying one of the other hospitals. For work, I mean.”

  Miss Peacock frowned and looked at Mrs. Benning, who gave a tiny shake of her head, then stiffened when she saw that Sophie had seen the little sign of disfavour.

  “Why on earth would you be thinking of such a thing, dear?” asked Mrs. Stack. “Your husband has a good job, and that leaves you free for your own pursuits.”

  “Unless,” said Miss Peacock, “you are in need of additional income—”

  “Janice!” Mrs. Stack looked at Miss Peacock sharply. “We do not discuss personal matters of such a low nature.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Sophie. “It’s not a matter of income. It’s more to do with helping people.”

  “The less fortunate, you mean? Well, I believe there are any number of soup kitchens—”

  “I was a surgical assistant in Africa, Eleanor. And I did the same job in Bristol, in a hospital. But the London hospitals that I’ve applied to . . . they simply won’t consider taking on a woman for such a position. Even someone with my qualifications.”

  Mrs. Benning put her teacup down. “And quite right, too, dear. Of all things! Of course those Bristol hospitals would allow it. We’re above that sort of thing here in London. You should be grateful, dear. I know if I were to require the services of a surgeon, I shouldn’t be trusting a woman.”

  Mrs. Benning’s face suddenly turned quite red as she realised what she’d just said. Sophie knew that the older woman’s remark should have offended her, but she was past caring what Mother Stack’s brood thought. She would contact more hospitals until she found one that wasn’t so . . . so eighteenth-century about such things. If that meant travelling to the far reaches of the city to work every day, then that was what she would do.

  The silence in the room was broken by a loud click, followed by a mechanical whirring. Sophie glanced over her shoulder at the big brass clock on the mantelpiece as its gears clunked into position. An instant later, it chimed. It was five-thirty, and she knew Connie would be wondering where she was.

  “Goodness!” said Mrs. Stack. “Is that the time already? I should be seeing to Horace’s dinner.”

  Mrs. Stack insisted on using her machine to call for taxis, then escorted her guests to the door, where they each said their good-byes and left.

  As Sophie rode home in her own taxi, the slight lift in her feelings she’d had at the thought of applying to the other hospitals faded as she thought about what Connie would have to say about it. By the time she arrived at home, she was every bit as miserable as she had been before going to meet with Mrs. Stack’s ladies.

  It was almost six and Gunn began to get annoyed. Sophie had mentioned that she’d be going for tea at Eleanor Stack’s house, but she should have been home by that hour. He was hungry and dying for a cup of tea, but more than that, he craved some company. He wanted to tell Sophie about his day.

  He dropped his book onto the side table and got up, intending to use their machine to send a message to Mrs. Stack. At that moment, he heard the front door open, and he stepped out into the hallway.

  Sophie was just closing the front door, and she saw him as she turned. “Hello, dear.”

  Strands of Sophie’s red hair had come loose from her bun as she removed her hat, falling around her shoulders. The softened look it gave her eased his annoyance. She looked tired, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him making his point. He was supposed to be master of his own home, damn it all.

  “Hello to you, too. Where have you been?”

  Sophie looked at him, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “Please don’t start on me, Connie. I’m really not in the mood.”

  “Oh? Drinking tea all afternoon with friends is bound to put one in a bad mood, I suppose.”

  “As it happens, it really has; Eleanor’s snooty, stuck-up friends, to be precise. And now I have to make tea and get us something to eat—and I’m really not in the mood to do that, either. So unless you feel like going to the pub for a stale sandwich, I suggest you sit in the parlour and leave me to get on with it.”

  “Why do you bother with those people, if you dislike them so much?”

  “Because they’re Eleanor’s friends, and I don’t know anyone else here. It’s not like Bristol. I wish we’d never left.”

  “I’ve told you a dozen times, Sophie—we’re better off here.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t the honest truth. He was better off here, with a stronger chance of advancing his career with the London newspapers than he could have ever hoped for in Bristol. He’d hoped and believed Sophie would grow to like London, but so far, she hadn’t. As it was, he felt guilty for dragging her there against her wishes.

  But he had no intention of turning back at that late date.

  He followed her as she walked through to the kitchen, where she turned to him. “I’m going to be looking for a job. A proper job, in surgery. You’d better hope I find one, because if I don’t, I’ll be giving some serious thought to going back to Bristol.” Gunn saw her lip tremble. “I’ll do it, too.”

  He knew that she would. Sophie wasn’t one for false promises. He could see that she was upset, and his instinct was to go to her and hold her, comfort her. Instead, he turned and left, of a mind to go to the pub anyway just to make the point.

  He sat down in the parlour, then almost immediately stood again and paced up and down the small room. Half a minute later, he returned to the kitchen. Sophie was at the stove, her back to him and her shoulders stiff.

  “Look . . .” he said. She didn’t move. He persisted. “Why don’t we go out to eat? Then we could go and see a show. Professor Mooncrow’s giving a performance at the Aldwych this evening. We could have dinner and still be there in time.”

  A few seconds passed, then her shoulders slumped. She turned. “I really don’t feel like going anywhere.”

  Gunn stiffened and made to leave the room. He’d tried.

  Sophie caught him by the shoulder. “No, really, Connie. I’m very tired and I’d rather just stay at home tonight.”

  He relaxed. Perhaps the crisis was over. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll help you look for a job. I can use my machine at the office to get you a list of hospitals to try. I’ll even approach some of them myself, if you think it might help.”

  She nodded. “What I said stands. If I can’t find one . . .”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  She turned back the stove, but not quite quickly enough to conceal a hint of a smile. “Supper will be tea and toast. I don’t feel like doing anything more complicated.”

  “Six slices for me, then. With jam; I want strawberry jam.”

  The newspaper lay on the kitchen table in front of Gunn. His report describing the break-in at the workshop in Battersea was on page seven; the front page was dominated by an article by Gallagher about the formation of Lord Salisbury’s Royal Commission, accompanied by a sidebar detailing an interview with Mr. Babbage concerning the weather calculation sequences used by the gentlemen of the Royal Society.

  “You shouldn’t let it upset you so, Connie,” said Sophie as she put down the plates of toast and the cups of tea and took her place at the table.

  “I’m not
upset, I’m bloody angry. I write a good piece about the Battersea break-in, and it might as well end up on the page before the obituaries. Gallagher writes a dry, boring piece about the weather and gets page one.”

  “Hush, dear. Eat your toast,” said Sophie patiently. She’d heard Cornelius’ thoughts on the subject many times. “Gallagher may have got the front page today, but when you work out who’s behind all these workshop robberies, it’ll be your turn.”

  “Oh, he didn’t just get the front page. Look at this.” Gunn opened the paper to page two. “Gallagher’s also been reporting on some bank robberies in the city. He gets page two for the latest one. I get page seven for a similar robbery in the industrial quarter.”

  “Similar?” Sophie frowned. “How similar?”

  A light glimmered in Gunn’s mind. He read Gallagher’s article quickly, then went to the pile of older newspapers that Sophie kept as fire-lighters and shuffled through the stack to find a particular issue from the week before. He quickly located one of Gallagher’s earlier stories. The walls of both banks had been broken in by a powerful force—just like the workshops.

  “Very similar,” he said, excited. “Too similar to be a coincidence, I think. Banks and workshops are being broken into in the same way, on the same nights. I’ll look into that the moment I get back to the office, but I’m convinced there’s a connection here. You’re a wonder, Sophie.”

  “Do you think Gallagher may have noticed?”

  “Ha! Gallagher wouldn’t waste his time reading my stories, I’m sure.”

  “And of course, you don’t read his stories, but for much more high-minded reasons.”

  “Now, now. I don’t read his stories because his writing sets my teeth on edge. Here he’s written two stories about almost identical crimes with not a single mention of the fact of those commonalities. He gets a story, he writes it down, he moves on to the next story. He’s not a reporter. If I could think of a way to make my typing machine stamp out a story from a few basic notes, the result would be indistinguishable from Gallagher’s writing.”

  “What about Mr. Maynard? Do you think he’ll see the connection?”

  Gunn frowned slightly in thought. “There, I can’t be so sure. He’s a busy man. He doesn’t get time to read every word we write. But he’s far from stupid. If he’s read the stories, I’m sure he’s worked it out. On the other hand, if he’d noticed I’m sure he would have said something.”

  “You should tell him anyway.”

  Gunn thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I should. But not yet.”

  Sophie looked at him quizzically.

  “I need to make sure of the facts first.” His face clouded as another thought occurred to him. “Possibly not even then. If I know Maynard, and I draw attention to the connection between my stories and Gallagher’s, he just might give everything to Gallagher. I can’t take that chance.”

  “So what will you do?”

  Gunn thought for a long minute while eating before he replied. “I’ll have to do it without letting Maynard or Gallagher find out what I’m up to. Check the facts, find out who’s behind it all, and write the story. Once it’s written, there’ll be nothing left for Gallagher to do. Maynard will have to publish, with my name on the by-line.”

  “On the front page.”

  “Yes, indeed. On the front page.” He finished his supper. “I’ll be leaving early in the morning.”

  “Again,” said Sophie with a sigh and a slight smile.

  There were three policemen guarding the hole in the wall of the bank in Lombard Street when Gunn arrived. Nearby, two workmen sorted out tools and mixed mortar to repair the damage—work the previous day’s heavy rain had prevented.

  The street was hazy with a light fog. The engines of the Weather Office had predicted light showers in the afternoon and evening, so he had slipped into a raincoat and brought along a black umbrella.

  He approached one of the policemen, who eyed him suspiciously. “Cornelius Gunn with the Tribune.” He held out his press card. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “You’re a bit slow out the gate, aren’t you?” the copper said as he examined Gunn’s credentials. “All the other papers had their people here yesterday.”

  “I’m just following up.” He gestured in the direction of the broken wall. “I’d like to take a closer look, if I may. It’ll only take a minute.”

  The policeman looked Gunn up and down. “I’ll have to escort you.”

  The guard led the way to the breach in the wall—the same size as the one he’d seen at Robinson’s workshop the day before. As he’d done there, Gunn picked up several of the fallen bricks, studying the ones immediately adjacent to the jagged hole. There were no marks to indicate that sledges or picks had been used—no unusual marks of any kind, in fact—just as Gunn had found at the workshop.

  He stepped through the hole and into the strong room beyond. The room had been cleared of furniture and debris. Gunn turned to look at the wall from the inside. A layer of steel plate three quarters of an inch thick, intended to protect the room from exactly that kind of assault, had been torn, peeled inward like the skin of an orange.

  Gunn could see scratches and gouges at the ripped edges of the plate, as if someone had used a chisel—half a dozen chisels, in fact—in a frenzied attack, although Gunn suspected that such tools had very little to do with it. He hesitated to think of the raw power required to tear a steel plate as if it were no more than a thick sheet of paper.

  Gunn walked around the empty room, inspecting the walls and floor as well as he could in the little available light. His shoe scuffed something, and he looked down at a gouge in the metal plate covering the floor—a deep scratch, a foot long, with raised burrs at the edges, had caught the sole of his shoe. Just like Robinson’s workshop.

  Gunn stepped back out through the hole and into the street. “What was taken?” he asked the policeman.

  “Several strongboxes containing cash. About ten thousand pounds, they say.”

  Gunn whistled. He thanked the policeman and left for the Tribune’s office.

  Sophie thought Eleanor Stack was much nicer when she didn’t have her awful friends with her. The little coffee shop Eleanor had recommended was clean, pleasant, and not expensive—not at all good enough for the likes of Mrs. Benning and Miss Peacock. Sophie had no doubt that nothing less than Mivart’s at Claridge’s Hotel would have satisfied their sophisticated tastes.

  “Almost done, dear? We should be going if we’re to find a good spot,” said Eleanor.

  Sophie drained the last drop of the excellent coffee and nodded, picking up her handbag and following Eleanor out of the door. They chatted as they walked in the direction of Leicester Square, which was no more than five minutes distant.

  A platform stood near the middle, with two long tables running atop the front edge. A portable lectern stood in the narrow gap between the tables. A few dozen people milled around on the cobbled pavement in front of the platform, and a small group of men with notepads stood nearby, pointedly ignoring each other—newspaper people, Sophie knew. She wondered which of them was from Connie’s paper.

  She noticed a constable walking slowly along the pavement by the theatre on the far side of the square. Then she spied a second policeman standing behind the platform, and a third rocking on his heels in a shop doorway to her left. She suddenly felt a little apprehensive. Were they expecting trouble?

  “Good,” said Eleanor, oblivious to the police presence, “they haven’t started yet. Let’s get nice and close, shall we? I’ve been dying to hear what His Lordship has to say.”

  “As have I,” said Sophie. They moved into the crowd, finding a gap twenty feet from the platform. A moment later, the clang of a bell in some nearby tower signalled eleven o’clock. “He should be starting at any moment.”

  On cue, a tall, handsome, smiling man of about sixty strode to the lectern. He wore a frock coat and a top hat, his brown hair greying at the temples
. Sophie recognised Lord Salisbury from the engravings that she’d seen in the papers. Half a dozen men and women followed His Lordship up onto the platform. His entourage, no doubt.

  The small audience applauded. Other people in the square moved closer to see what was happening.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of London,”—he turned to the group of journalists—“gentlemen of the press and wire. I am here today to tell you about the wonderful progress the Royal Commission has made in just three days since its formation.

  “As every citizen is aware, the incredible progress of our industrial revolution has brought wealth and improved standards of living to everyone in our great empire—but at a cost. Soot and smoke from the burning of coal have caused unnaturally heavy rains and flooding. Sulphurous gases have turned that rain to an acid that eats away the buildings, kills the grass and trees, and poisons our rivers, killing the fish that so many depend on for food.

  “This cannot go on. The learned people of the Royal Society are unanimous in this. They say if we continue in this way, in twenty years, the Thames will be dead. Our parks and farmland will be desert. Our buildings will be beyond repair.

  “And so a consensus has been reached, and with it comes a plan to put things right before it is too late. New equipment is being designed as I speak to you here today, to remove the soot and smoke and sulphur from the factory chimneys. The government has already agreed in principle to provide factory owners with grants to pay for the installation of this equipment—”

  A man’s angry voice came from the crowd to Sophie’s right. “Who’s going to pay for it all, then?”

  “Not me,” said someone behind her.

  “Let ‘im finish!”

  “The factory owners made this mess—they should pay to clean it up!”

  Angry voices rose all around her, and people jostled each other, pushing back and forth as arguments broke out. On the platform, Lord Salisbury held his hands out to calm the crowd. His lips moved, but Sophie couldn’t hear him over the raised voices.