The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Imagine it in your mind!” she urged. “Visualize how the contraption will work. The French Ambassador places his foot on the rest, presses the button and the polish cloth rubs his boot, then the second piece starts to move.” She waved her hands to demonstrate. “It has to come down, in order to buff the leather. It strikes the cross bar, only very lightly, but sufficiently to cause a spark.” She leaned forward a little. “Now — visualize the other piece … unnecessarily double, you recall …That is the dynamite, Mr Stockwell … it will ignite, and explode!” She jerked her hand and nearly threw the candle at him.

“Miss Brodie!” he cried.

“Be quiet!” she whispered in agony of embarrassment. “Think of where we are! I had to come, because there will be no time in the morning. We may not even see each other till half way through the day. We must do something to prevent this! No one else will. It lies with us.”

“I … I shall speak to Mr Dagliesh,” he offered. “In the morning!”

“To do what?” she said exasperatedly. Really, Stockwell was being very obtuse. Perhaps he was one of those people who woke only slowly?

“Well … to …” he looked uncomfortable. He could now see the pointlessness of expecting Freddie to do anything at all about it. He would only speak to the General, in his own innocence, believing Welch-Smith to be equally blameless.

“If the General knows about it, he will deny it,” she pointed out. “And if he doesn’t know about it, of course he will deny it. Mr Dagliesh will be immensely relieved, and tell us we do not need to worry. All is well.”

He frowned. He was obviously feeling at an acute disadvantage sitting up in the bed, but he did not wish to rise with Brodie standing there. He felt very exposed in his striped nightshirt. There was something about being without trousers which was highly personal.

“Perhaps all is

well?” he said with a thread of hope. “Surely it is more than possible the design is simply clumsy?”

The perfect answer was on her lips. “Do you imagine Mr Sherlock Holmes would be content with ‘a possibility’, Mr Stockwell?”

He straightened up visibly, forgetting his embarrassment and his doubts.

“I shall meet you at the stables at a quarter past eleven, Miss Brodie,” he said with absolute decision. “We shall take the carriage, as if on an errand, and determine for ourselves the exact nature of this wretched machine. Be prompt. Whatever your duties, see they are completed by then. We must act.”

She smiled back at him approvingly. “Assuredly, Mr Stockwell. We shall prevent disaster … if indeed disaster is planned. Goodnight.”

He clutched the sheet with both hands. “Goodnight, Miss Brodie.”

* * *

It was a fine day and the ride to the town was swift and pleasant. Outside the exhibition hall were posters proclaiming the official visit of the French Ambassador the following morning. Inside, there were rather more people than there had been yesterday. Brodie and Stockwell were obliged to excuse themselves and pass several groups standing in front of various examples of French ingenuity and design. They heard exclamations of admiration and marvel at a people who could think of such things.

Brodie gritted her teeth, remembering why they were here. The French might be the most inventive race in Europe, but it would be English courage and foresight, English nerve and integrity that saved the Ambassador.

They found the boot polisher, looking more than ever like a bicycle upside down. Brodie was both relieved and offended that there was no one else in front of it, admiring the ingenuity which had thought of such a thing. That was the trouble with the British … they always admired something foreign!

She glanced at Stockwell, looking utterly different this morning: in his pin-striped trousers and dark jacket, his face immaculately shaved, if a little pink, his collar and tie crisp and exactly symmetrical. She thought she saw in his eye a reflection of the pride, and the conviction she herself felt. It was most satisfying.

She turned her attention to the machine. It would not move without the electrical power, and that was to be turned on tomorrow, by the Ambassador; but, the more she looked at it, the more certain she was that the parts would rub against each other with sufficient force to strike a spark. There was only one thing that remained to be done. She leaned forward to touch the redundant piece and feel its texture. Metal … or dynamite? She did not know what dynamite felt like, but she knew steel.

“Don’t touch the exhibits, if you please, Madam!”

It was the voice of the curator, sharp and condescending, as if she had been a small child about to risk breaking some precious ornament. She flushed to the roots of her hair.

Stockwell leaped into the fray with a boldness which surprised even himself.