The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Robert eyed the several derelict buildings that lined this small wharf. Wide wooden eaves jutted out over upper storeys, which in turn jutted out over the lower ones. There wasn’t a straight line to be seen; all the timbers, windows and bricks seemed to be at odds with one another. As he wandered slowly by, he glanced inside. One building appeared to be some kind of offices, with clerks scribbling over piles of dusty papers. Another, a sort of chandlery. The third seemed to be unoccupied.

Robert slouched on past. He’d find himself a hidden corner out of the wind and get himself comfortable. He had a couple of pies he’d bought from a passing pieman, and a stone bottle of ginger beer, as well as an old blanket rolled up in his pack. There were worse ways to pass a sunny day than watch all the craft going by on the river, and the mudlarks at work below.

* * *

Ada felt the warmth of the late October sunshine on her back as she strolled her favourite walk between the market gardens that ran down to the Thames. It was a circular walk from Fordhook to the river and back. Winter vegetables grew in ordered rows, and a few late butterflies and bees foraged in the hedges. Behind her she could hear her tutors Dr King and Miss Noel deep in discussion on a philosophical point.

She quickened her pace. Ahead lay the grove of willows that she loved, and beyond that the small wooden jetty where she could stand and watch the flowing water, see the boats plying by, and find a moment’s peace. Particularly, she wanted to forget her mother’s pronouncement on Mr Clark. She’d researched his background and found it severely wanting on his mother’s side, two generations back. “Barely more than a seamstress,” her mother had announced. “You’d better not be planning a secret alliance.” She’d watched Ada even more closely, and she was still forbidden reading The Times.

In her purse she carried her notes on the fourth and last quadrant of the secret cipher. She’d hardly slept the past two nights for trying to puzzle it out, not caring if her mother thought she was pining romantically. But to no avail. “10S, 15C, what is the rest of me?” Ten times S and fifteen times C? That was the correct mathematical notation. Then last night she’d wondered if it was proportions. Ten plus fifteen was twenty-five, so 75 of what, to make one hundred? It made no sense to her. As for those polyhedrons, she’d found herself idly redrawing them, separating out each individual shape, and turning them into a necklace. Could some of them represent jewels? Then, annoyed at her inability to penetrate the Prankster’s cipher, she’d put a big cross through it all.

Quickening her pace again, she glanced round. Good. They’d stopped, deep in argument. She lifted the willow fronds and hurried through the grove to the jetty. There she intended on tearing up the paper into a hundred tiny pieces and flinging it into the river. From henceforth she was going to renounce all codes and ciphers!

A small skiff was moored to the end of the jetty with one man sitting at the oars and another standing beside it on the jetty. She turned her back on them and was reaching for her purse when she felt a strong arm about her waist. “If you want to see your friend Babbage alive, you’ll come with me and quiet about it.”

In shock, heart thundering, she gasped for breath as the man on the jetty hurried her into the waiting skiff, and the oarsman — a big bearded fellow — pulled fast into the river, heading for a larger boat. The man who’d taken hold of her now draped a hooded cloak over her. “Keep silent,” he hissed. “Or Babbage don’t live to see another day.”

Ada heard herself whimper. She closed her eyes in terror. Could it be true? Was Charles’s life under threat? What had been done to him? The boat rocked wildly and she felt nauseous, putting a hand to her mouth, as she was quickly bundled on to the large boat.

“Lie down!” came the order, and she felt a foot placed on her back as she obeyed. Now she thought she could hear a faint cry of distress, like a marsh bird, from Miss Noel at finding her gone.

As the boat wallowed in the water and her stomach heaved, she kept her mind fixed on one thing. Charles is in danger. For some reason I am part of this — perhaps I can help him.

* * *

Robert jerked his eyes open. Dammit, he’d fallen asleep. What had awoken him, apart from the uncomfortable stone that was pressing into his back? Voices, he thought he’d heard voices. Stiffly, he forced himself to sit upright so that he could see over the weather-beaten boards behind which he’d found his pitch. A new boat was being pulled up on the mud, by a large man with a lot of woolly grey hair and a beard. Two other figures stood inside: a man and a woman in a rough woollen cloak.

Robert looked around. All the mudlarks had scattered and were determinedly looking the other way. They knew who these people were, Robert thought, and apparently they were people it was best one didn’t know anything about.