The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

As he cast about the row of ancient buildings looking for another way in, by luck he saw a messenger-boy emerge from the door where he’d seen the clerks scribbling away. He gave him the Under Secretary’s address, his own name and that of the Stairs, plus a silver coin. He could only hope he was an honest boy.

A short while later he’d come across the entrance to a very narrow gunnel that ran behind the buildings, and now he was attempting to reach a first floor window to force his way in. He shivered. It was cold and dank here and he felt sick and sore. But he had to find out if Ada was inside, and why. Bracing himself, he took hold of the drainpipe.

* * *

It was getting dark, Ada noticed. The room she’d been forced into was getting gloomier by the minute. She’d been standing upright in the middle of the room for most of the time since being locked in. The floor was bare boards and there was no furniture, only a pile of musty sacks in one corner.

Her first action had been to look out of the one small window but all she could see was a brick wall opposite and a tiny glimpse of sky above. And then she heard them. Rats — mice — scuttling in the walls and above her head. There would be silence and then they’d be running by again. She visualized thousands swirling through the building. She tried not to think of the Plague, of rat bites — she stared down at her hands and saw to her disgust how they trembled.

She longed to sit down but could not bring herself to use the sacks. Supposing they were infested with fleas? Once or twice she sat down on the hard floorboards in the centre of the room, the only place she felt safe. She could imagine hundreds of beady eyes peering at her through cracks … horrible!

She’d tried banging on the door and shouting, but it had had no effect. She had then pressed her ear to it and heard the two men who’d brought her here laughing and cursing. It sounded as if they were playing cards. They ignored her.

She was cold, hungry and afraid, but as time passed her strongest emotion was anger — at herself. How could she, clever Ada, have been fooled so easily? Charles Babbage wasn’t here. She’d been tricked. But why? They knew of her association with Charles. Did that mean she’d been watched? And what did they want of her?

She heard the door being unlocked and drew herself up straight, assuming one of her mother’s sternest expressions. She would meet her fate with dignity.

In the glow of a lamp, a new man stood framed in the doorway. He gave a slight bow of the head. “Miss Byron, come and join us.”

Hesitantly she followed him into the outer room, which she’d only glimpsed before. A fire burned in the grate with hall chairs either side, while her two abductors sat at a small card table on the other side of the room. They glanced at her then resumed their game.

“Sit,” said the newcomer, indicating the chairs by the fire. She managed to make herself walk over and sit down. She watched as he poured some wine from a beautifully engraved decanter into equally exquisite glasses, and handed her one. There were other items of quality in the room too, she noticed. A French clock on the mantelpiece, and the rug at her feet was Chinese silk.

The man sat opposite her. His trousers and jacket were very well cut, and there was a diamond-tipped pin in his expertly tied stock. His blond hair was straight, and just brushed the collar of his jacket. Finally she looked into his eyes. They were a cold, cold green. Was this the Prankster?

“Your health, Miss Byron.” He raised his glass and drank. “I have sent for some supper. I intend to look after you. You’re far too valuable to me to be neglected.”

Valuable? For a moment she wondered if he wanted to employ her mathematical skills, but his next words disabused her.

“I can see you are your father’s daughter. You are brave, if not as beautiful as he was.” He smiled, but she did not sense any warmth. His speech and manners marked him as one of the gentry, but she’d never seen him before. He went on, “How much, I wonder, is Miss Byron worth? What do you say, my friends-in-evil?” Now he laughed and the other two joined in.

“A tasty piece,” the bearded man said. “Five hundred gold sovereigns.”

“At the very least. Add that to our pay-off for not blowing up St Paul’s and I reckon we might live comfortably — for a little while.”

“They were jewels. A ransom,” Ada said, finding her voice.

“I knew you’d solved it when I saw your coded message in the Personals.” The cold green eyes glittered. He stood up and leaned on the mantelshelf. “The poetic quotation was not as apt as I would have expected, but confirmed your identity. You decoded my message with help from Mr Babbage — my men have told me how you visit him. Now all that needs to be done is give the location where our ransom should be placed. I’m sure Mr Babbage can manage that alone.”