The Black Crow Conspiracy (4 page)

Inspector Drake stepped forward, meeting Penny’s defiant gaze with a glare.

“Let us have no more of this unseemly behaviour, Miss Tredwell. I appreciate your feelings of family loyalty, but your uncle is accused of a treasonous crime. You must not reveal a word of what you have learned today. Otherwise I will have no choice but to take you into custody as well.”

Leaving this threat hanging in the air, Drake turned and, with a snap of his fingers, pointed the way to the door. Following his command, the two police constables dragged Monty forward again, his howls of protest now turned to wails of despair.

Then from the rear of the office came the sound of a cough. Buttoning up his grey morning coat, Mr Wigram stepped out of the shadows.

“As Mr Flinch’s lawyer, I will, of course, be accompanying him to the police station. If you are going to persist with these outrageous allegations, then I insist that you allow my client the privilege of legal counsel.”

Inspector Drake cast the elderly lawyer an exasperated stare.

“The more the merrier,” he sniffed. He reached inside his pocket to pull out a crumpled envelope, presenting this to Wigram with a thin-lipped smile. “And as a policeman, I expect you to ensure that
The Penny Dreadful
obeys the laws of the land.”

Opening the envelope, Mr Wigram paled as he read the letter inside. As the two police constables pushed Monty out through the front door of the office, Inspector Drake turned to follow them, leaving Wigram standing there alone.

“What is it?” Penelope asked. Leaving her chair, she hurried to her guardian’s side.

With a shake of his head, Wigram thrust the letter into her hands.

“The end,” he replied grimly. “They’re closing the magazine down.”

Penny stared down at the letter in disbelief, recognising the royal seal above the copperplate script.

“They can’t do this,” she cried, indignation shining in her eyes.

From the doorway, the gruff voice of Inspector Drake gave his reply.

“They can and they have,” he growled. “The King’s coronation will take place in five days’ time. If Montgomery Flinch has planned any further treasonous crimes, the public will not learn of them from the pages of his magazine. You shut it down – now!”

With this final warning delivered, Drake marched out of the door. As it slammed shut behind him, Penny could still hear Monty’s anguished cries as the policemen bundled him down the stone steps.

Her guardian clasped her hands in his own.

“You must return home at once, Penelope; there’s nothing more you can do here. I will do
my best to facilitate Mr Maples’ release.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, the lawyer lowered his voice to a whisper.

“There is danger here. Somehow this story of yours has unleashed forces that I do not understand. Please keep yourself safe until my return.”

As he hurried out of the door in pursuit of Inspector Drake, Penny stared down at the letter again. Her mind whirled with unanswered questions, the mystery growing with every second that passed. The Crown Jewels stolen, Monty arrested,
The Penny Dreadful
put out of business by royal decree.

When she looked up again, Alfie’s worried face was staring back at her; the two of them were now alone in the office. There was a long moment of silence before Alfie finally spoke.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

Her guardian’s words of warning echoed at the back of her mind.
There is danger here
. Ignoring this, Penelope set her face in a determined manner, lips pursed as she reached for her parasol that was hanging from the coat stand.

“We find out who has really stolen the Crown Jewels,” she replied, striding briskly towards the door as Alfie hurried to grab his coat. “I think we should start with a spot of sightseeing at the Tower.”

VI

The afternoon sun hung high in the sky, bathing the Tower in a golden light. Its turrets and ramparts glistened like a grey stone forest, the frowning battlements flanked by a series of smaller towers, stretching along the riverbank. Beneath Tower Bridge, the muddy waters of the Thames were churned by paddles and oars, tiny skiffs and pleasure barges eddying in the swell of the steamers seeking a berth at St Katharine Docks.

Penny and Alfie strolled along Tower Wharf, the trees shading the promenade offering them some welcome relief from the heat of the day. Blossom hung from every branch, and petals lay scattered across the cobblestones. It was as if nature itself was trying to compete with the brightly coloured bunting draped between the street lamps. Along the walkway, sightseers mingled with river workers, leisurely gaits and ruddy faces with heads held high replacing the
stooping shoulders and anxious looks that were more usually seen in a London crowd. They were nearing the south-west corner of the castle now, the throngs of people growing thicker as Penny and Alfie approached the entrance to the Tower itself.

“So what are we going to do when we get inside?” Alfie asked, a nervous smile pinching his features. “If we ask to see where the Crown Jewels were stolen, they’ll probably lock us up in the Tower too.”

Penelope shook her head.

“There must be a clue that the police have missed.” She stared up at the imposing keep.“It’s ridiculous to think that a thief could walk through these walls and stroll off with the Crown Jewels tucked in their pocket. This isn’t a story.”

Alfie arched an eyebrow, but seeing the frown on Penny’s face wisely kept his own counsel.

They were nearing the front of the crowd now, dozens of people huddled outside the squat towers that stood guard at the entrance. But beneath the stonework of the royal crest, the huge oak doors were bolted, and on the sign where the entrance prices were posted, a single word was written:

As the milling tourists slowly turned away, Penelope overheard a dapper gentleman as he turned to his companion. “They say it’s closed
for the King’s coronation,” he brayed. “They must all be busy polishing his crown ready for the big day.”

As the lady on his arm laughed coquettishly, Alfie shot Penny a knowing glance.

“Talk about closing the stable door after the horse has bolted,” he muttered.

Beyond the Spur Gate, Penelope could see the Bell and Byward Towers, their impregnable walls silently mocking her with their secrets. Her gaze returned to the locked gates, a lone soldier standing sentry there. There was no way she could slip past him to sneak inside the Tower. Still, if she couldn’t inspect the scene of the crime, perhaps there was another way she could find the answers she was searching for.

She thought back to what Inspector Drake had told them. The detective had mentioned numerous eyewitnesses, but only one by name: the Keeper of the Keys. From her study of the pages of
The Navy & Army Illustrated
magazine, she had learned that the present Keeper of the Keys was one Sergeant Major Thomas Middleton, the Chief Warder of the Tower. It was time to find out if he had really seen the hooded figure of the Black Crow walk through these walls.

“Wait here,” she told Alfie.

Without giving him the chance to reply, Penny set off at a brisk pace, heading directly for the Tower Warder. As she approached, the old
soldier’s gaze stayed fixed firmly ahead, even as the dainty clatter of Penelope’s heels on the cobblestones announced her arrival. She stared up at the grizzled veteran, his dark-blue tunic and trousers edged with scarlet bands and his broad chest covered in medals. Before taking up the duties of a Tower Warder, these soldiers had served the Empire with distinction, a billet at the Tower their just reward on retirement from active service.

Penelope cleared her throat to try to attract the guard’s attention.

“Excuse me, sir,” she began.

From beneath the broad brim of his black velvet hat, the warder looked down at Penelope with a flinty stare.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“I need to speak to the Chief Warder of the Tower,” she replied. “It is a matter of great urgency.”

The yeoman warder shook his head.

“That’s quite out of the question, miss. Sergeant Major Middleton is not on duty at the moment, but if you leave your message with me, I will ensure that it is delivered without delay on his return.”

Thinking fast, Penny crumpled her features into a crestfallen expression.

“But Mother said I was to speak only to Uncle Thomas – I mean Sergeant Major Middleton.
This is a family matter. The doctor doesn’t think Mama will last another night, and she dearly wishes to speak to her eldest brother one last time before she passes over to the other side.”

The warder shifted uncomfortably in his shoes. Rules and regulations were one thing, but he didn’t want to deny a dying woman’s wish. Penelope’s barefaced lie was having the desired effect.

“You cannot come inside, miss,” he said, leaning closer as if he was fearful of being overheard. “No visitors allowed within the bounds of the Tower, by order of the King. But if you want to find Sergeant Major Middleton, you might try your luck at The Anchor Tap.” With a tilt of his head, he nodded towards the river. Penelope followed the direction of his gaze until her eyes alighted upon the Anchor Brewery sitting on the south bank, its high chimney belching a trail of contented smoke into the pale-blue sky.

With a smile of thanks, Penelope turned to leave, pleased that she had managed to hoodwink the warder.

“Be careful, miss,” the guard called out as she began to walk back to where Alfie was waiting. “The Anchor Tap is no place for a young lady like you.”

VII

As she stood on the threshold of the public house, Penelope could see that the old soldier had been telling the truth. Outside the sun was still high in the sky, the summer afternoon slowly idling its way towards evening, but here inside the tavern, darkness reigned. Dark-oak walls framed a cramped public bar, its woodwork stained almost black where it could be glimpsed amidst a press of elbows.

Wiping a pint glass with the hem of her pinafore, a sour-faced barmaid was serving a gaggle of burly dockworkers, their crude attempts to coax a smile rousing the pub with their laughter. In the corner of the bar, an old soldier banged out a regimental tune on an upright piano, a young woman in a low-cut French dress perched on his lap. As the soldier reached the chorus, she joined in with his singing, her tuneless screech causing Penny to wince in discomfort. The revels seemed more suited to a Friday night free-and-easy than
a sunny Tuesday afternoon.

As the tavern door closed behind Penelope, she became uncomfortably aware of the gazes now turned in her direction. With Alfie standing protectively by her side, she felt eyes crawling over every inch of her outfit, inspecting the finery of its embroidery and the shine of her shoes. It was clear by the sneers that this wasn’t a place where she was welcome.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”Alfie murmured.

Penny held her head high. With Monty for the moment keeping his counsel behind the bars of New Scotland Yard, it was time for her to find the man who might hold the key to his freedom. Surveying the bar, she couldn’t see any sign of a face that matched the portrait of Sergeant Major Middleton she had seen in the pages of
The Navy & Army Illustrated
magazine. But, to the left of the bar, she spied an open door.

“We have to find the Keeper of the Keys,” she replied, linking her arm with Alfie’s. “Let’s try this way.”

The two of them negotiated their way past the bar, ignoring the muttered comments from the men propped up there. Through the door, she could see further rooms stretching back into the pub; these snug dens were populated by those drinkers who wanted to conduct their business away from prying eyes. And there, at a table in
the corner, she saw the figure of a man sitting staring into the bottom of a half-empty glass. Penelope recognised his long bushy beard from the portrait she had seen. Sergeant Major Thomas Middleton – the Chief Warder of the Tower of London and the Keeper of the Keys. Beneath an army greatcoat, the old soldier’s shoulders were hunched, his face turned away from the dull light spilling in from the smoked-glass windows.

“That’s him,” she murmured, nudging Alfie as they stepped inside the warren-like room. The other tables in the snug were filled with numerous rough-looking coves: coal-whippers, stave porters, lumpers and labourers. Calloused hands cradled glasses as the men cast them both suspicious glances. With low mutters following their every step, Penny led the way to Middleton’s table, the floorboards beneath her feet sticky with spilled drinks and other dubious stains.

As Alfie fidgeted nervously by her side, Penelope took this opportunity to take a closer look at the Chief Warder. Middleton’s head was still bowed, his gaze seemingly fixed to the bottom of his glass. His army portrait had shown a distinguished-looking man, his long beard silvered with age, but the hunched figure in front of her seemed somehow broken. He appeared unaware of their presence, the huddle of empty glasses littering the small table a measure of how long he had been here.

Endeavouring to gain his attention, Penelope cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, Sergeant Major Middleton?”

The old soldier lifted his head, staring up at her with flint-grey eyes. His face was ghastly pale, his expression haggard and drawn as if nursing some unspeakable suffering. Penelope had seen this expression before, recognising the distant stare from the faces of the soldiers her father had served with in British India. The men who had fought in the North-West Frontier Uprising, seen women and children dragged from their beds and murdered by the marauding tribesmen. It was the face of a man who had seen too much.

Penelope frowned, unnerved by the soldier’s silence. According to his regimental record, Sergeant Major Middleton hadn’t seen active service for more than a decade. His comfortable billet at the Tower of London was a far cry from his days fighting in the Indian Mutiny. A ghost who walked through walls, that’s what Drake said the Keeper of the Keys had seen, but how could that be? She had to find out exactly what Middleton had witnessed. Penny glanced down again at the empty glasses.
In vino veritas
, she prayed.

“Do I know you, miss?” The sudden sound of Middleton’s voice made Penny’s heart skip a beat. His quavering tone seemed strained, as if he was in pain. “I have come here to find some
peace, not be lectured about scripture and the merits of temperance.”

Penny stared back at him in confusion before the realisation slowly dawned. Middleton must have mistaken her for a member of the British Women’s Temperance Association: the do-gooders who visited taverns encouraging drinkers to seek salvation in the arms of the Lord and mend their ways at last.

“No, sir, you are mistaken,” Penelope began and then paused to try to gather her thoughts. What exactly was she going to tell him? She could hardly say that she had heard he had seen a ghost steal the Crown Jewels. She thought back to what she had learned from the Chief Warder’s regimental record: tours of duty in India, Afghanistan and the Nile; Middleton had even served on the North-West Frontier, just like her father…

Unbidden, the image of her father’s face crept into her mind, his dark whiskers neatly trimmed in the military style. She could picture him in his officer’s uniform, his arm draped around her mother’s elegant shoulders as the regimental photographer captured their portrait. She recalled the yellowish tint of the telegram that brought her news of their deaths, her father and mother both murdered in the bloody North-West Frontier Uprising. Her heart ached, the pain of her loss undimmed by the passing of the years.

“Then what is your business here?” the old soldier demanded, his trembling fingers clinging to his pint glass as if seeking sanctuary there. “Can you not leave me in peace?”

Penny racked her mind, desperately seeking an answer that would make Sergeant Major Middleton take her into his trust. Apart from his military medals,
The Penny Dreadful
was all she had left of her father now. If finding out exactly what Middleton had seen could somehow help her save the magazine, then she was prepared to say almost anything – even lie if that would bring her closer to the truth.

Suddenly in her mind, Penny heard the echo of her father’s voice. She could picture him sitting in the chair next to her bed, soft shadows falling across his face as he read to her from the book of poetry in his hand, so different from the tales of mystery and adventure that they usually shared.

“
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, but a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight
.”

In her father’s words, Penelope suddenly realised how she might gain Middleton’s trust: a lie wrapped in the truth. There was one thing that Sergeant Major Middleton and her father both shared…

“My father said I should find you, sir,” she said, primly seating herself on one of the vacant chairs at the table. “He was under your command on
the North-West Frontier. He told me you were the truest officer he ever had the privilege of serving with.”

As Alfie joined them at the table, Middleton’s stare softened a little, this mention of an old army comrade taking his thoughts back to simpler times.

“The Gordon Highlanders,” he murmured. “Finest men I have ever known.”

His gaze focused on Penelope again.

“What did you say your father’s name was, miss?”

“Tredwell,” Penny replied, her eyes glistening in the gloom of the snug. “His name was Lieutenant Archibald Tredwell.”

As the old soldier scratched at his prodigious beard, trying to place the name through an alcoholic fug, Penelope fought back her own tears. Since her parents’ funeral all those years ago, Penny hadn’t allowed herself to grieve. Instead she had poured out her misery into the pages of
The Penny Dreadful
. Now she had to make sure that her father’s magazine lived on in tribute to his memory.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall a Lieutenant Tredwell,” Middleton finally replied, the words half slurred into the depths of his glass as he took a final swig. “Tell your father that he must have mistaken me for another man.”

Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, Penny
slowly shook her head.

“I can’t do that, sir,” she said, her voice cracking a little. “My father has been dead for the past five years.”

A baffled look stole across the old soldier’s features.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he began, bowing his head in sympathy. “But how then could your father have told you to find me?”

On the wall of the snug, a tattered poster gave Penelope her answer.

“I’ve seen her, sir,” Penelope replied, gesturing over Middleton’s shoulder to the poster behind
him. “Miss Palladino – the medium. She told me that my father had a message for me – a message from the other side.” Penny stumbled over her words, her mind spinning the lie almost as quickly as she could speak it. “He told me that I needed to seek out Sergeant Major Middleton, the man who tried to save his life back at the Malakand Pass. He said that he owed you a debt of thanks and I now had to help you in your hour of need.”

Beneath his silvering thatch of hair, Middleton’s brow furrowed with anxious thought.

“My hour of need,” he murmured. “What exactly do you mean?”

Penelope fixed him with a sympathetic stare.

“He said you were haunted by a ghost, sir – a ghost who could walk through walls.”

The blood drained from Middleton’s face, his deathly-pale features crumpling in horror.

“My God,” he breathed. “You know about the spectre who stole the Crown Jewels.”

His eyes darted past Penelope’s face, casting a furtive glance around the room as if fearful of who might have overheard him. Then the old solider gestured for Penny to come closer, leaning forward himself until the distance between them was only a matter of inches.

Penelope wrinkled her nose as she smelled the stale stench of ale on his breath, but as Middleton began to speak again, his voice a low whisper, all thoughts of this disappeared as she listened to
him recount what had happened on that fateful night.

“It was the night of the tenth of May, an ordinary night just like any other, as I carried out my duties at the Tower. The gates were locked, as they always are, at eight minutes to eleven. First the Middle and the Byward Towers, then as I walked across the cobbles beneath the Bloody Tower I caught my first glimpse of him. At first I thought he was just a waif and stray who had somehow got lost in the Tower, but then when I stepped forward to challenge him, I saw his face beneath his scarf…”

Middleton’s voice trailed into silence, his eyes glazing over as he relived that terrible moment again.

Penelope leaned forward, eager to find out more. “What did you see?” she asked.

“His face,” Middleton murmured, his distant gaze staring into the gloom. “It glowed.”

Seated next to her, Penny heard Alfie stifle a chuckle and she shot him a warning glance. Middleton, however, didn’t even show that he’d heard this, his voice a cracked whisper as he continued to speak.

“As a child I’d heard stories about the radiant boys – glowing ghosts that told of disasters to come. My grandmother used to say they were angels of death, and any man who saw them was destined to die.”

Radiant boys…
The echo of these words rang in Penny’s mind. She had heard this somewhere before. As she groped for the answer, Sergeant Major Middleton slowly pulled up the sleeve of his greatcoat, presenting his right arm to Penelope. She saw with a shudder the burn that covered his forearm: the shape of five fingers pressed against puckered flesh, the skin beneath a brilliant red. “I felt his touch, Miss Tredwell, and it wasn’t the touch of a mortal man.