The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Yes, my dear, better not,” he said calmly. He turned away from Brodie as if the order would be sufficient, his word would be obeyed, and engaged the curator in conversation. “Please tell me, sir, something about this remarkable piece of equipment over here.” He all but led the man across the room to the farther side, and a monstrous edifice of wires and pulleys. “I am sure you know how this works, the principle behind it, but I confess I fail to grasp it fully.”

“Ah well, you see …” the curator was flattered by this upstanding gentleman’s interest, and his perception in realizing that a curator was a man of knowledge himself, not merely a watchman who conducted people around. “It’s like this …” He proceeded to explain at length.

“Well?” Stockwell demanded when he and Brodie were back together in a quiet corner.

“You were magnificent,” she said generously, and quite sincerely.

He blushed with pleasure, but kept his face perfectly straight. “Thank you. But I was referring to the redundant piece. Is it metal?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “It is soft to the fingernail, a trifle waxy. I was able to take a flake of it off without difficulty. I believe it is dynamite.”

“Oh … oh dear.” He was caught between the deeper hope that it would not after all be necessary to do anything and the anticipation of being right, and with it the taste for adventure. “I see. Then I am afraid it falls upon us to foil the plan, Miss Brodie. We shall have to act, and I fear it must be immediate. There is no time to lose.”

She agreed wholeheartedly, but how to act was another thing altogether.

“Let us take a dish of tea, and consider the matter,” Stockwell said firmly, touching her elbow to guide her towards the doorway, and at least temporary escape.

As soon as tea was brought to them, and poured, they addressed the subject.

“We have already discussed the possibility of informing the authorities,” Stockwell stated. He glanced at the tray of small savoury sandwiches on the table, but did not touch them. “The only course open to us is to disarm the machine. We shall have to do it so that no one observes either our work, or its result. Therefore we must replace the dynamite with something that looks exactly like it.”

“I see,” Brodie nodded and sipped her tea, which was delicious, but still rather hot. “Have you any ideas as to how we should accomplish that?”

“I have an excellent pocket knife!” he replied with a slight frown. “I think I should have relatively little trouble in removing the dynamite. I believe it will cut without too much difficulty. I could also use the blade as a screwdriver, should one be necessary. However, I have not yet hit upon any idea of what we should put in place of that which we remove.”

Brodie thought hard for several moments. She took one of the sandwiches and bit into it. It was very fresh and really most pleasant. She took another sip of tea. Then the idea came to her.

“Bread!” she said rather more loudly than she intended.

“I beg your pardon?” Stockwell looked totally nonplussed.

“Bread,” she replied more moderately. “Fresh bread, very fresh indeed, may be moulded into shapes and made hard, if you compress it. I have seen beads made of it. After all, it is in essence only flour and water paste. We still have to paint it black, of course, but that should not prove too difficult. Then we may put it in place of the dynamite, and we will have accomplished our task.”

“Excellent, Miss Brodie!” Stockwell said enthusiastically. “That will do most excellently well. But of course it is only a part of our task …”

“I realize making the exchange will not be easy,” Brodie agreed. “In fact it may require all our ingenuity to succeed. The curator is not impressed with me as it is. He will not allow me near the machine again, I fear.”

“Don’t worry, I shall accomplish the exchange,” he assured her. “If you will distract the curator’s attention. But that is not what I meant. We cannot claim our task is completed until we know who placed the dynamite in the machine.” He shook his head a little. “On considering the problem, it seems clear to me that it can only have been either the General himself or Harrison. I have weighed the issue in my mind since you brought it to my attention, and I believe that the General has no reason for such a thing, and would bring about his own ruin, since he will naturally be blamed. Whereas Harrison appears to dislike the French, and may have some deeper cause for his feelings than we know. He has far less to lose, socially and professionally speaking. And he would be able to disappear after the event, take the next train up to London, and never be seen again. We know nothing of him, whereas we know everything of the General. Mr Dagliesh has had his acquaintance on and off for thirty years.”