Bottled Nightmares Vol.2 by David Dwan - HTML preview

PROLOGUE

The dawn of the twentieth century, despite its many promises of wonders to come, had not started well for Richard Palmer. In contrast, the last year of the previous one had been counted amongst the best of his young life.

At just twenty-five years of age, Palmer had been promoted to the rank of detective sergeant. This had made him the youngest police officer of that rank in the whole country, let alone his native Yorkshire.

Of course, such a meteoric rise had garnered much attention within the force and none more so than the fabled Metropolitan police in London. And at the end of a dizzying round of interviews and appraisals, Palmer had been offered a position with the Met, and though he was a country lad at heart he had leapt at the chance and accepted with almost indecent haste.

The adjustment had been swift and arduous, but Palmer had knuckled down and as much to his own surprise as well as his new colleagues, he had soon found his feet amongst the cobbled streets of London. Which he had soon become all too aware, were not paved with gold.

Crime in the capital he had soon discovered, whilst on the surface of it seemed much the same to him as it did in Leeds or Manchester. Was, once you dug a little deeper, on a whole other level of depravity and rampant criminality. It was on an almost industrial scale in parts of its many sprawling boroughs. Londoners, he soon discovered, were very serious about their illegalities.

One of the early warning signs to the task ahead, had come just one week into his new role. When he had been issued a Webley revolver and a box of ammunition by the station’s quartermaster.

Although he had been fore warned during his interview, it was a shock all the same. Back home, firearms were issued on a as and when needed basis which was thankfully rare on his patch. He had only been issued with a pistol twice and had never had cause to use it in the field.

And six months in, he still hadn’t fired his weapon during the course of his work here in London. But on the night of the sixteenth of January, and with the new century just over two weeks old, Richard Palmer had wished he had.

Palmer had joined in the hunt for a drunken deck hand from one of the many ships and barges that were moored in the busy western docks area of the Thames.

He had been interviewing the owner of a pawn shop in the area, who had come into procession of several stolen rings and bracelets, when he noticed a group of five, very pensive looking uniformed officers gathered across the street outside by the entrance to a large open-ended warehouse.

He had given the pawnshop owner the evil eye and promised to return, and then jogged across the road in search of more excitement, and to where the bobbies were gathered, shown them his ID and offered his help.

A woman had been seriously assaulted down by the docks, and when two sailors had come to her aid, one had been shot by the suspect, who had then fled. He had last been seen in this area, cursing to high heaven and brandishing a pistol.

The bobbies had understandably been nervous about pursuing an armed assailant, as they themselves were only equipped with whistles and a wooden truncheon. Fine for breaking up drunken fights and pinching pickpockets, but useless against a bullet. The relief on their faces had been palpable when he had flashed them his revolver.

“Don’t worry, lads,” he had told them with all the arrogance of youth.

Palmer had immediately taken charge, and they had split into three pairs and set off to search for the attacker. With Palmer ordering them to blow their whistle if they saw the man, and not approach him for any reason. An order they were all too happy to obey.

Soon, a distant gunshot followed by the sound of two whistles sounding manically had sent Palmer and his partner towards a small cluster of ramshackle buildings right on the water’s edge. Two of the bobbies were cowering by a stack of wooden crates, they saw Palmer and frantically beckoned him over.

The deck hand had been attempting to steal one of the small row boats moored close by when they had stumbled across him. He had fired but missed and was now hiding in the boat itself trying desperately to untie the mooring line.

Spurred on by the frightened bobbies and buoyed up more than he should have been by the pistol clutched in his hand, Palmer had moved around the crates on his own and began to maneuverer his way along the dock’s edge, ducking from cover to cover as he went. Until he had the boat in sight some ten yards below and a little more than twenty odd yards further down and could see a dark crouching figure inside.

Palmer had panicked when he realised the man had managed to untie the boat and it was starting to drift out into the Thames. If he was able to get onto the river proper, he would be able to row across to the other side or just simply let the tide take him off and away into the night. Either way the man would escape.

Pride over common sense sent Palmer sprinting down the dock towards the boat, where he could now see the man was struggling to get the oars into place.

“That man there!” Palmer had shouted and brandished his revolver.

The man was either extremely lucky or a crack shot. Even though he was balancing in a rocking boat, he drew and fired in one fluid motion and Palmer’s left leg was knocked out from under him like he’d been hit with a cricket bat.

For a moment, Palmer felt nothing but confusion, one moment he was about to fire a warning shot, the next he was flat on his back on the cold stone dock. Then his left leg seemed to catch fire as searing hot pain shot up his shin and thigh.

The initial confusion drained away replaced by a biting fear. Then the shock twisted faces of the three bobbies were looming over him. One, older, wise eyes and a face like granite, knelt down next to him and gave a thin smile, whilst another ran off, hopefully for a doctor.

But more than anything Richard Palmer remembered from that night, it was the face of the third bobby, a young lad of perhaps nineteen. He was staring down, open mouthed and horrified at his shattered leg.

Palmer had tried to sit up, but the older bobby knelt by his side gently placed a hand on his heaving chest and eased him back down.

“Easy, lad,” he said in a benevolent tone.

“I’m going to lose my leg,” Palmer uttered. It was a statement rather than a question.

The older man smiled as best he could. “Better that than your life, son,” he said.

And with that, he had passed out. But despite that nameless, drunken shadow, firing blindly in the dark, Palmer did not lose his leg. Something to do with the low calibre of the bullet, and the angle of the shot the police surgeon had told him later as he lay recovering in hospital.

Although he had kept his leg, Palmer had lost something more than blood that night. The bravado and ambition of youth and early success’ had fled him like a coward once he had awoken. Either that or it had been stolen as he slept.

Rehabilitation had been long and arduous, but he had made an almost full recovery. He had been left with a limp, but not one bad enough to force him to retire or be relegated behind a desk. But more harmful than the physical, the incident had left him with a newfound cynicism for the job, and those he had sworn to protect.

Even though he was now still only twenty-seven, and still considered something of a wunderkind in the Met, this cynicism infected him like a virus long after his physical trauma had healed. He was just getting better and better at hiding it these days.

Now he just got by, chalking off one day at a time, much like the older coppers he used to despise, as he had worked his way through the ranks back in Yorkshire. The ones who were now so jaded and had seen so much, they did little more than the bare minimum just to get by and paid. First out the door, last out the pub.

ONE

Palmer eyed the slate grey sky which had been threatening snow all day and got awkwardly out of the carriage with the grunt of a man twice his age. He had been lucky to secure the single horse drawn carriage that brought him here. When the message came through regarding the robbery, it had been the only one left in the yard, otherwise he would have had to folk out for a cab.

The police coachman, who was perched up on the leather seat, which was open to the elements, struggled with the reins, then wrapped them around the bar at his feet to secure the horse which hadn’t taken too kindly to being dragged out at nine o’clock on a bitter November night. A feeling Palmer, and no doubt the red cheeked driver shared.

“You want me to stay, sir?” The driver asked hopefully.

Palmer hissed under his breath and flexed his left knee.

His shin, close to the healed bullet scar always ached in the cold night air.

“Sir?” The driver prompted a little testily.

“Yes,” Palmer replied and stamped his left foot on the ground several times.

He looked up at the sour faced officer. Being a police coachman was a good job most of the time, but night call outs could be a pain.

“Yes,” he said again. “But you can wait in the carriage,” he gestured to the black lacquered vehicle.

“Thanks, sir!” The man replied gratefully and jumped down.

Palmer nodded and turned to the large house across the other side of the road which, was set on its own and back from the main street behind a large black wrought iron gate and fence.

The modest grounds beyond were already a circus of police activity. He had been told it was a simple break in, but the owner of the house was obviously well off, or well connected to the top brass. So, the powers that be, would be eyeing this much more keenly than your standard smash and grab robbery.

“Great,” he muttered and buttoned up his overcoat against the chill and started across the street.

It was times like these, approaching his colleagues, that Palmer became all too aware of his limp. And even though he

had long convinced himself he didn’t care, the wound was inflicted on the job after all. He still always found himself trying to correct his stride to make it as even as he could.

Stupid he knew, yet he did it all the same.

As he approached the open gate, a familiar uniformed constable saw him and broke away from gossiping with two colleagues in the garden. He came down the gravel path which stretched from the entrance to the house to the street to meet him.

“Evening, sir,” constable Jim Maloney said.

He had his usual hangdog expression, which the gaslight from the streetlamp next to the gate did no favours in warming up. It was if the man somehow felt guilty at being at a crime scene. And not for the first time, Palmer wondered if he might actually be an imposter.

Still, despite his sometimes-sour demeanour, Maloney was a good fellow and an excellent beat bobby. He was about forty and had often told Palmer, when he asked why Maloney wasn’t yet sergeant or even a detective. That those ranks weren’t any kind of job for a gentleman.

“Maloney,” Palmer offered in way of a greeting and started on up the path.

Despite his limp, Maloney had to quicken his pace to keep up with him.

“So, what have we got then?” Palmer asked.

Although Maloney was just a constable, Palmer knew he would know more than most on the scene. It was more out of nosiness than diligence but was often invaluable all the same.

“Strange one this,” Maloney said as they walked. “If the night watchman is to be believed. It’s a real Sherlock Holmes case, I’d say.”

Palmer threw him a look of distain. Lord how he rued Conan Doyle and his fictional amateur sleuth. Suddenly every person in the city who could read and came into contact with a crime, fancied themselves a master of deduction.

Once inside the house, Palmer was surprised to see a large entrance hall, complete with a reception desk tucked against the left-hand wall by the door. At first glance the place had the look of a hotel about it, and he cursed himself for not paying enough attention to the message back at the station.

“What is this place?” He asked Mahoney softly.

“This!” An indigent posh clipped voice announced from an open doorway opposite the counter to his right. “Is the Sir Henry Meeker Museum.”

Palmer turned on his good heel and put a face to the speaker. A large white-haired well-dressed gentleman with an impressive grey moustache fair filled the doorway. He seemed to pause for a moment and puffed out his considerable chest so everyone could see him in all his glory. Then he came out of

what Palmer could now see was an office and into the reception area.

Palmer felt his cheeks redden, a museum? That would mean he had probably missed a large sign outside announcing such.

Christ, he was getting lazy.

The man looked about sixty, with thinning slicked back grey hair. He was formally dressed in a crisp white shirt, black tuxedo, complete with black bowtie, and a white silk scarf hanging over his broad shoulders.

“And you are?” Palmer asked and was rewarded by a look of muted shock on the man’s ruddy face.

“I, sir,” he replied, straightening. “Am Sir Henry Meeker.”

Of course you are, Palmer thought, taking an instant dislike to the man. No wonder there were so many coppers around. The man was probably in such a bad mood because by the look of him, he had been called away from the opera or something, when news of the burglary had reached him.

Now that the man had vacated the doorway, Palmer could see through into the office beyond. A forlorn looking man in his fifties and dressed in a night watchman’s uniform, was sitting, head bowed with his cap in his hand, flanked by two bobbies. He was speaking and shaking his head as one of the policemen took notes in his pad.

“That the chap who discovered the break in?” Palmer asked.

It was a little redundant, but after his embarrassment just now, he was keen to be thorough.

“That sir, is the culprit,” Meeker replied. His expression one of theatrical shame. “Such betrayal from a man in my own employ.”

“And he’s confessed?”

Meeker was about to reply, when Maloney came to Palmer’s side. “That’s the Sherlock Holmes part,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Palmer resisted the urge to swear at the man and turned his attention back to Meeker.

“Sorry, Sir Henry, please go on,” he prompted.

“Well, no,” the man blustered. “But it’s plain the man did it. The evidence is all there.”

Again, Palmer cursed Conan Doyle’s scribblings. “Let me be the judge of that,” Palmer replied curtly.

Meeker was about to reply when Palmer moved past him and through into the office, before he could speak.

“Evening fellas,” he greeted the two bobbies once inside.

“Sir,” they replied in unison.

The night watchman looked up at Palmer but did not speak.

His eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, his face, ashen.

“This is John Seagrove,” the copper to the man’s left said. “Night watchman. He’s the one who reported the break in.”

“There was no break in,” Seagrove said, emphasizing the last two words. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,”

he added with a weary sigh.

“Rubbish!” Meeker exclaimed from the reception behind Palmer who gladly silenced him with a wave of the hand.

“So, there was no break in? Nothing taken?” Palmer asked the night watchman.

Seagrove paused, wrestling with his reply. His shoulders seemed to sag under the weight of it all.

“Well, yes, something was stolen,” he shook his head as if reticent to carry on. But then he rallied a little. “Yes, something was stolen, but... There wasn’t a break in, as such.”

“As such?” Palmer prompted.

“I heard something in one of the upstairs rooms. A banging, there was someone in there, of that I’m sure,” he exhaled, clearly exhausted. “But when I checked, the door was locked, from the outside. I lock all the doors to the exhibitions after closing, you see? So, I unlocked the door and when in. But there was no one there.”

Palmer could almost feel Maloney’s excitement at this Holmesian twist.

“So, they went out of the window,” Palmer stated plainly.

“Christ,” Seagrove hissed under his breath. “No, there aren’t any windows in there, not anymore, they were bricked up years ago.”

He moved to stand but one of the bobbies put his hand on the man’s shoulder and he slumped back down.

“I know how this looks,” Seagrove said with resignation.

“Looks damn fishy,” Palmer told him. “So, to sum up.

You heard a noise in a locked room, you unlocked and entered said room, a room with no windows mind. But when you came inside, there was no one there?”

Seagrove gave a resigned nod, he clearly knew how this all sounded.

“So, they disappeared into thin air,” Palmer continued.

“Along with..?”

“A priceless Egyptian neckless,” Meeker replied coming into the office. “One of our most prized exhibits.”

The night watchman’s head dropped, and he stared at his shoes. “I didn’t take it,” he breathed.

“Uhuh,” Palmer put his hands in his trouser pockets and studied the man. “How long have you worked here, John?”

Meeker moved forwards before Seagrove could answer.

“Just a few months, I’d say,” he replied for him.

Palmer saw the night watchman’s jaw clench, and he looked up at Meeker with daggers. The peer, for his part, took two steps back as if fearful the man would fly at him in a rage.

“Two years,” he said firmly, without taking his eyes off Meeker. The contempt was clear in his voice.

“Well, I...” Meeker began to bluster but thought better of it and retreated into the back of the office muttering.

“Right lads,” Palmer said to the coppers. “Take mister Seagrove down to the station.”

Seagrove moved to protest, but Palmer silenced him by holding up both hands.

“Just for now,” he said. You’re not under arrest, but I’m sure you can imagine how all this looks.”

The night watchman actually smiled at this. “Can’t argue with that,” he acknowledged with good grace.

“Good man,” Palmer said and turned to Meeker skulking in a corner now. “Sir Henry? If you could show me this mysterious room of yours?”

It was just as Seagrove had said. The door to the exhibition room on the second floor hadn’t been forced or tampered with.

“Does anyone else have access to the keys?” Palmer asked Meeker who was loitering on the landing next to Maloney who had somehow managed to wangle his way up here despite his duties downstairs.

“I also have a set, which I keep locked in a safe at all times,” Meeker told him.

Palmer nodded. Although he would never admit to the man, he was quietly impressed by the size of this private museum.

The whole large house seemed to have been given over to its exhibits. Four floors, probably five rooms like this one on each.

“Right, let’s have a look,” he said and went into the large room, followed by Meeker and Maloney.

There were eight white wooden plinths dotted around the room, each topped with various oddities to Palmer’s untrained eye. Busts with tiaras perched on top, a couple of old looking stone figurines each under glass. Red ropes had been placed around each one but there was still plenty of room to walk around.

And just as Seagrove had said, there were no windows.

Palmer could see the plastered over outlines of three across one wall where they had been bricked up, victims of the old window tax from years ago, no doubt.

There was however he noticed, a door at the opposite end of the room which was also roped off. And had a sign which read ‘private’ on it.

“That room?” Palmer asked pointing.

“Storeroom,” Meeker replied. “Little more than a broom closet. No windows or what have you, only that door in and out.”

“We checked it,” Mahoney confirmed. “Not enough room to swing a cat.”

“Don’t touch that!” Meeker exclaimed suddenly.

Maloney pulled his hand away from an old vase like it was red hot.

“That, constable as you can clearly see,” Meeker said pointedly. “Has not been stolen.”

Maloney flushed and moved off mumbling some apology.

Palmer gave the man a look of faux disappointment as he shuffled past.

Palmer approached the plinth at the very centre of the room. It held an obviously fake bust of some pharaoh or other. He deduced the missing neckless must have been displayed around its plaster neck.

He bent down slightly to read the plinth label: ‘Neckless of unknown ownership. Discovered in eighteen eighty-four near the site of Giza. Thought to have been from the reign of Ramses the second.’

“It was priceless,” Meeker lamented from his side.

“Shouldn’t it have been in a museum or a vault of some kind?” Palmer asked mischievously.

“This is a museum officer,” Meeker reminded him testily.

“The piece is on loan from the British museum.” He paused.

“Oh, my, I will have to inform them.” His voice sounded sick now.

“Is it insured?” Palmer asked.

“It is,” he replied clearly getting the inference. “But not by me. It’s owned by the state.”

It was worth a try, Palmer mused. Still, he made a mental note to follow that up with the British museum later.

“What’s this supposed to be?” Maloney asked from the other side of the room near the storeroom door.

He was peering at a square piece of paper on the wall.

But wasn’t getting too close this time.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Meeker said. “That’s not one of ours, our art pieces are displayed on the first floor.”

Palmer came across and gently pushed Maloney aside.

There was no frame, no red rope, this wasn’t part of the exhibition. And what he had first taken as a modest sized painting was in fact a five-inch square photograph. But unlike any he had ever seen before. It was in colour, or at least at first glance seemed to have been painted as such.

“So, this is not one of yours?” He asked moving closer.

“No,” Meeker replied.

Yes, he could see that despite the colour, it was definitely a photograph. It was of a plainly furnished room, nothing special, dull in fact. All the furniture had been pushed to the very edges of each wall leaving a large open space in the middle.

Such an odd subject. The only photographs Palmer had ever seen were those stiff awkward looking portraits of folks in their Sunday best, or some important building or other.

And, of course, the ever-growing number of crime scene photographs they used these days. But they were always of

‘something,’ and little more than grainy facsimiles. But this had a vivid clarity he had never seen before.

And why anyone would wish to waste a photograph on such a banal scene escaped him. Not only that, but then to take the not inconsiderable time to painstakingly colour it in with this incredible detail.

It was then he noticed the faint smell of burning in the air, close to the photograph. He glanced down to see a small pile of what looked like burnt paper on the floor directly below the picture. Thinking of his knee, he gestured to Maloney who was close by.

“Maloney, pick that up, will you?”

Malony got on his haunches and tried to pick the paper up, but it turned to ash the moment his fingertips touched it.

“Sorry boss,” Maloney said.

Palmer dipped his hand into his pocket and took out one of his cards and gave it to Maloney.

“Scoop up a bit will you, Jim?”

Maloney did as he was told and then stood upright again, balancing a small pile of the ash on the card. He gingerly handed it to Palmer.

On closer inspection, it had an odd green, black hue to it. Palmer pinched a bit between his thumb and forefinger like you would snuff. He smelt it and recoiled at the harsh sulphuric odour that made his eyes water.

“Christ!” He exclaimed.

“You alright, sir?” Maloney asked with a grimace.

He nodded and dabbed the tears from his eyes with the back of his free hand and then wiped the dust off his fingers on his trouser leg.

“Smells shocking,” he said and could almost taste it at the back of his throat. “Here,” he handed the ash and card to Maloney.

Palmer gave an involuntary shudder and tried to shake it off. Then returned his attention to the photograph once more.

As he gingerly plucked it from the wall, there was a faint ’snap’ of energy as it came away from the plaster and Palmer felt something like static in the air for a moment.

Maloney yelped in surprise at the sound and swore under his breath.

Palmer winced and nearly dropped the photograph, his fingertips tingled, and it was suddenly hot to the touch. Not hot enough to burn, but there all the same. He held it by its edge and turned it over. There was nothing on the back or on the wall itself to indicate how it had been attached.

He turned and held the photograph up for Meeker to see.

The older man took out a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and held them away from his face squinting.

“And you haven’t seen this before? Not some parlour trick for the visitors?”

“Absolutely not,” Meeker replied indignantly. “We exhibit art and antiquities here, detective. This is not an east end side show.”

“And the room, ring any bells?”

Meeker held his glasses closer, then shook his head.

Palmer noticed the photograph was now perfectly cold. He glanced at Mahoney.

“Get one of the boys to take a sample of that will you?”

He said motioning to the ash on the card.

“Will do,” he replied and was gone through the door a moment later, with the air of a man who couldn’t wait to get out.

Palmer studied Meeker for a moment. He had always been a good judge of character. The toff was a snob of the highest order, but not a liar.

“How many visitors would you say came in here today?” He asked.

“I have no idea,” Meeker told him with a shake of the head. “I can ask the receptionist, once she comes in tomorrow morning?”

“Please.”

“We can get upwards of one hundred on a good day,” Meeker added with pride.

One hundred? Christ, Palmer thought. Anyone could easily come in and reconnoitre the room and the building’s security. He looked at the photograph. Some joke left by the burglar? But to what end?

“It has to be Seagrove,” Meeker said.

Wouldn’t that be nice, Palmer had to admit. All wrapped up in a nice, neat bow. Steal the neckless, then report the crime. But then why concocted such an impossible heist?

He found himself half wishing Conan Doyle’s creation was flesh and blood. This would be one hell of a conundrum for his famed intellect.

But alas, Holmes was just words on a page. Which left the very real Metropolitan police, headed by himself, to tackle the case. And their collective, albeit less famed intellect and powers of deduction.

TWO

The following morning, after a pitiful amount of sleep, Palmer had presented his initial findings, such as they were at this early stage, to his immediate superior, Chief inspector Daggart.

Normally, Palmer wouldn’t be expected to brief Daggart so early on, but his boss had collared him first thing and asked for an update and any thoughts he had on the case.

Daggart, for his part was a solid copper with twenty years’ experience and Palmer knew him as stand up fellow and

who he knew hated the politics that often surrounded his job.

So, he was a little surprised at the meeting. This meant that whoever was leaning on Daggart at this early juncture must have been quite high up the food chain.

Daggart had informed him that he wanted a swift end to the case. Which Palmer well knew wasn’t just due to the strong, if circumstantial evidence against the night watchman Seagrove, but as this meeting proved was also due to the rank of the victim. Sir Henry Meeker. Friends in high places, Daggart had told him with a knowing wink.

Palmer had mooted the possible insurance angle, and Daggart, despite the pressure from above had told him to pursue that side of things, but quietly. The Deputy commissioner himself was a member of the same gentlemen’s club as Meeker, so he would need cast iron proof if that indeed turned out to be the case. ‘Oh, the scandal!’ Daggart had exclaimed in mock anguish.

First things first, Palmer said he was going to organise a sweep of all the less than reputable pawnshops, known not to be too particular about there the goods came from. It was, Palmer admitted, a shot in the dark, the neckless was priceless, but if Seagrove had stolen the item and knew the police were on to him, he would no doubt want to shift the thing as soon as possible.

Theft to order was another possibility, that would be harder to trace, as anyone with a private collection of such things would know the historical value of the item. They would be all about possessing the neckless, not profiting from it.

Daggart was satisfied and had let Palmer get on with his investigations with a parting comment to keep him informed of any developments in the case.

And then there was the strange photograph. Palmer didn’t know why, but he had not included it in his discussion with Daggart. In truth it was impossible to explain at this stage and its relevance was still unclear. But it gnawed at him, nevertheless. That initial feeling of heat when he removed it from the wall. The tingling in his fingers and that odd sensation of static in the air. The burnt paper which turned to ash underneath. That nauseous smell of sulphur it gave off, and its greenish black colour the likes of which he had never seen before.

Palmer had taken out the photograph when he had returned to his desk after the meeting, guarding it from prying eyes as he studied the bland subject so artfully rendered. The sweep of the pawnshops would take a day or two. Palmer had a stop to make of his own.

Griffin and Son photography was a modest but popular portrait studio located just behind Marylebone station on

Baker street. Palmer primarily knew the place as they had once assisted in photographing a particularly difficult to capture crime scene. This made them ideal, because at this stage, he did not want to use the station’s own lab just yet.

He had been particularly struck by Griffin’s son, Milton.

The youngster, he remembered had an infectious fascination with the actual mechanics of photography itself. But much to his father’s chagrin at the time as he had taken much longer than usual setting up the equipment and lights.

The shop was a bustle of activity when Palmer arrived shortly after eleven o’clock. A family of five, all dressed in their Sunday best, had just finished getting their photograph taken, which had clearly sent the three young children into near delirious excitement. Their flustered mother was wrangling them as best she could whilst her husband was leant on the counter, paying Griffin senior.

Palmer slipped the leather documents case he was carrying under his arm and perused the various photographs on the walls as he waited for them to finish. They all looked the same to him, families, couples the odd babe on its mother’s lap. All frozen in time as they stared stiffly into the camera fearful not to move.

He was put in mind of the crime scene photographs that were becoming more and more prevalent these days. And mused grimly how much they resembled these. Subjects just as lifeless, awkwardly positioned, deathly still. Then he thought of the photograph of the room and wondered just what the taker had hoped to capture.

The ‘tinkle’ of the bell over the door brought him back from images of murder and depravity. He turned to see the last of the brood exiting the shop, led by the father like a line of ducks.

“Sorry for your wait, sir,” Griffin said. “How may I help you?”

Palmer took out his ID and badge, but before he could show it Griffin’s face bloomed in recognition.

“Oh, hello, inspector...?”

“Palmer.”

“Palmer yes,” his face dropped a little. “Not another crime scene I hope?”

“No, no” Palmer assured him. “Nothing like that, I was hoping to speak to your son?” Again, that look of concern.

“Don’t worry,” he continued. It’s in a purely professional capacity, regarding a photograph I’d like him to look at.

It’s quite unusual.”

“Unusual you say? Yes, Milton would like that.”

He opened up the hinged counter and beckoned him through.

“Please, this way.”

Palmer followed him through a curtain covering a door to a large storeroom. The first thing that hit him when they came inside was the strong chemical smell. The room itself

was large if a bit dingy and cluttered with all manner of stands, tripods, and light blackout sheets strung between metal poles.

One wall at the back had a four-tier metal shelving unit which housed an array of camera equipment. And a dozen or so small wooden crates and cardboard boxes.

“Milton, someone to see you,” Griffin called out.

A moment later Milton, perhaps nineteen but looked much younger to Palmer came through from a back room. He was casually dressed in a blue woollen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baggy work trousers and a grubby once white apron which was now smeared in what looked like ink and grime.

He immediately recognised Palmer, and his face brightened, perhaps in hopes of more gory pictures to be taken.

“Inspector Palmer, isn’t it?” He said and came forwards wiping his hands on the apron.

“Good memory,” Palmer replied and held out his hand, the lad’s grip was good and firm.

“Do you have another case for us?” Milton asked.

“Sorry, no. Nothing quite so dramatic I’m afraid,”

Palmer told him. “But I do have something you might be interested in.”

“I’ll leave you both two it,” Griffin senior said and went through the curtain back into the shop.

“Can I offer you some tea, inspector?” Milton asked.

“No, thank you,” Palmer took the document case from under his arm and opened it. “I remembered you had quite the technical knowledge about photography.”

Milton smiled a little embarrassed. He gestured to the organised chaos around him.

“Yes, it’s quite the obsession,” he admitted. “This is just a job to my father, but I’m fascinated by the whole process, every aspect.”

“So, I remember,” Palmer said and took out an envelope containing the photograph.

He handed it to the lad, confident he had come to the right place.

“I’d be grateful if you could take a look at this. I’ve not seen anything like it before and wondered if perhaps you have?”

Milton slipped the photograph from the envelope and frowned as he flexed the paper.

“Are you sure this is a photograph?” He asked. “Who took it?”

“You don’t think it’s a photograph?” This was not the response he was expecting.

“Well for one thing, this paper is unlike anything I’ve ever seen used to print on.”

He frowned and held the paper up under the lamp above his head. Then moved over to a long, cluttered work bench which

was against the wall under the window. He made a space and tossed the envelope aside before taking a small oil lamp from a shelf. He lit the wick and turned the flame up to its highest.

“Mind you, the French are moving in leaps and bounds ahead of everyone at the moment,” he said. “Might be a new kind of paper, I suppose.”

Palmer moved to his side. The paper was the last thing on his mind. “What about the picture itself?

Milton leaned in and examined the image more closely.

“Of course it doesn’t help someone has painted over it,”

Palmer offered.

“Hmm,” Milton mumbled distracted.

He reached into a pocket at the front of his apron and fished out a small magnifying glass which looked to Palmer like a whiskey shot glass. He placed it over the photograph and put his eye to the lens and began carefully checking the image inch by inch.

“Where did you get this?” He asked not looking up.

“A crime scene. Don’t know why, but I get the feeling it’s important somehow,” Palmer said. “But there is definitely something, off about it.”

He hoped that would be enough for the boy, as the last thing he was going to do was mention the strange occurrences surrounding the thing.

“Christ’s teeth!” Milton suddenly exclaimed and came away from the bench rubbing his eyes.

“What?”

“This is a colour photograph,” Milton breathed unnerved.

“Painted,” Palmer reminded him.

The lad’s face was a mixture of confusion and muted revelation. He shook his head.

“No, this was printed in colour somehow. And the sharpness of the image. I’ve never seen anything like it.

It’s like looking through a window right into that room.”

“So, I take it colour is rare?” Palmer asked. He was hoping for answers not more questions.

“You could say that. It hasn’t been invented yet.”

“What are you saying, Milton?”

Milton glanced back at the photograph on the bench and actually looked a little fearful to Palmer.

“We can tint the print at the moment,” Milton told him.

“One, perhaps two colours. It’s a pain, and expensive but not that hard. But this is full natural colour, captured at the time. Not post exposure tinkering.”

Milton gestured for Palmer and handed him the magnifying glass. “Take a look.”

Palmer took the glass and gently placed it on the paper.

He pressed his eye against it, and after a moment his eye adjusted and the image came into minute focus. The lad was right, he glided the lens over every inch of the picture. No

brush strokes, however delicate. And like he said, the image was pin sharp.

“I would love to get my hands on the camera that took that picture,” Milton said, his voice full of admiration.

“Where do you think it came from?” Palmer asked coming away from the bench.

“That’s just it, it shouldn’t exist! If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it,” his voice dropped to an awed whisper. “Colour is one thing, someone is bound to crack that one day. But that clarity? Impossible.”

Somewhat deflated, Palmer took the photograph and put it back in the envelope. It was the photographer he was after not the camera.

“Thanks for your help, Milton,” he said and slipped the envelope back into his case. “Tell you what, if I find this impossible camera of yours, I’ll let you know.”

The lad beamed. Palmer knew it was a lie, but he couldn’t help getting a little caught up in Milton’s youthful enthusiasm.

THREE

Palmer stood in the corner of the interrogation room as Seargent Vickers pressed the night watchman Seagrove for the umpteenth time about his involvement in the burglary. The man looked dreadful and clearly hadn’t slept since his inevitable arrest.

He kept looking to Palmer with pleading eyes, but there was nothing he could do for the poor soul.

“Don’t look at him!” Vickers snapped and slammed his hand on the table. “I’m the one asking questions here!”

“I’ve, I’ve told you everything,” Seagrove stuttered.

He looked ready to burst into tears, which was Palmer’s que to exit the interview. He thought he must be getting soft, normally he would be the one issuing threats and seductions in equal measure to get the man to confess. But then this was all different somehow.

It had been three days since the burglary and all they had was Seagrove, still resolutely protesting his innocence.

No, he hadn’t stolen the neckless to sell on, and no, Meeker had not paid him to steal the neckless for his own gain.

The sweep of the local pawn shops had yielded nothing.

There wasn’t even a hint of the whereabouts of the neckless, from reputable outlets to back-room operations. No one had heard even the merest whisper.

Palmer knew there were rumblings of discontent from the top brass, even Daggart, no doubt pressured from above was beginning to question his lack of progress, and it was clear to Palmer that it was only a matter of time, today probably,

that Seagrove would be formally charged, and hauled off to prison proper to await trial.

Then it was up to the judiciary to decide if he was guilty or not. In truth they had no physical evidence against the man and only Seagrove and Meeker had a key, a fact he had freely admitted all along.

It had struck Palmer that Seagrove had made no attempt to change his account no matter how incriminating it seemed.

Normally, in cases such as this, a suspect would have already concocted or made-up a story on the spot if caught. This would lead to the inevitable slip ups under interrogation.

But not in this case.

And Palmer kept coming back to the fact he had alerted the police to the crime. Could have been a double bluff, but as he looked at the poor wretch sat there, he doubted it.

“That’s enough for now,” Palmer finally said. “Take mister Seagrove back to his cell, get him some food, he looks ready to drop.”

This won a quizzical look from Vicker’s, but he relented with a nod.

“I didn’t do it, Inspector” Seagrove said faintly.

I know, Palmer wanted to say, but just turned and left the interview room to get some air.

Back at his desk sometime later, Palmer was going over the various reports from the pawn shop sweep when he felt his head dropping with fatigue, his eyes were stinging, and he had to stop several times to rub them and re-focus. And contemplated calling it a day. There was only so many times you could read the same negative result from the dozen or so badly written reports before you wanted to blow your brains out.

It was already six o’clock in the evening and he was dog tired from the interview earlier and trudging around London all day. He had spoken to a curator at the London Museum, who had confirmed the neckless was on loan to the Henry Meeker Museum, and at one point Palmer actually thought the man was fighting back tears at the loss.

With all the death and misery his job offered up with nauseating regularity, the thought of weeping over some old trinket made him suddenly want to grab the privilege fool and shake him, scream in his face that at least nobody was dead.

But had somehow resisted the urge.

Palmer rubbed his face and sighed. He was about to push his chair away from his desk and head for the door, when he noticed a constable weaving his way down through the office towards him. Christ, what now?

The constable was carrying a large envelope, and definitely coming his way. More useless reports from the sweep he thought and had already decided not to even look at them until the morning.

The constable stopped at his desk and respectfully waited for Palmer to speak.

“Yes,” Palmer said wearily.

The constable put the envelope on the desk in front of him. “Maloney said you might be interested in this, sir.”

Maloney? Palmer opened the envelope and tipped it up, so the contents fell out, he half glanced at it, then jolted awake. It was another of the photographs, same size, he picked it up, same strange paper as the other, and again in full vivid colour.

Another oddly banal subject. This time it was of a long narrow nondescript red bricked alley way, the type you could see all over London.

“Where did you get this?” He asked.

“There was a ruckus at the King’s head pub in Mayfair, late last night,” the constable told him.

“Ruckus?”

“A fight broke out, don’t know much more, I wasn’t called out to it. But Maloney said they found that in one of the pub’s upstairs rooms. Mal’ said you should know.”

“The King’s head?” Heart hammering, Palmer scooped up the photograph and half expected it to be warm, but it was cold to the touch.

“Mayfair, yeah,” the constable replied looking a little perplex at his reaction. “Firearms were involved I here,” he added.

Palmer opened a draw and took out his pistol and spare ammunition. He pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet, he nearly cried out as his shinbone shot red hot lightning up his leg, he hissed in pain.

“Bastard!” He said through gritted teeth.

He held the back of the chair for a moment and waited for the pain to fade.

“You alright, sir?” The constable asked awkwardly.

Palmer could feel the sweat beading on his face. He breathed out and waited for the wave of nausea to pass. Damn, damn leg.

“Yes,” he murmured. “You can go.”

The constable was off in a flash and Palmer watched him go cursing the man’s two good legs.

During the short coach trip from the police station to Mayfair, Palmer did his best to study the photograph by the intermittent streetlights that passed by the window as they went.

Just an ordinary alley way as far as he could tell, and he made a mental note to get one of those magnifying glasses Milton Griffin had used the other day. The picture looked like it had been taken from one end, but there was nothing, let alone anything of significance that he could use to identify its location.

The alleyway stretched on perhaps twenty yards between two common or garden buildings. There was a street running across at the very end, but no street sign that he could see to give away its location.

Again, the quality of the photograph was incredible, even under the London gas lights, and again such a remarkable rendering of something so unremarkable. But why?

The Griffin lad had said that colour photographs had yet to be invented and seemed more intrigued than flat out amazed at its existence. No colour in a photograph was just something a layman like Palmer could accept without question.

That’s just the way they were. Until now it seemed.

So, perhaps the camera was some kind of prototype, and these two were nothing more than tests. It was a reasonable assumption, but oddly one that filled Palmer with a sense of sadness. As if he was hoping for something more...

Mysterious?

But still, that didn’t explain why one had been so mischievous displayed in the museum.

“Bollocks to it!” he snapped as the coach ran over a bump. He abandoned any further examination of the photograph for now. The more pressing matter was where and why this one had turned up.

The King’s Head pub was one of the more reputable watering holes of London. Although Palmer had never been himself, it had a reputation at the station for catering to the more discerning drinker. Those with money enough to buy legitimate beverages brewed in Yorkshire vats and Scottish distilleries, rather than back street bathtubs.

This wasn’t one of those rat-infested gin holes down by the docks, where people found themselves when they were at the end of their tethers or had simply given up and just wanted to drink themselves to death.

Palmer had always found those places utterly depressing.

You could almost feel the despair seeping into the very foundations of the buildings and spilling out onto the streets beyond.

As he alighted the coach and made his way down the busy street and over to the pub, the first thing he noticed was one of the main windows by the entrance had been boarded up. As a result of last night’s ‘ruckus’ no doubt.

When Palmer came inside, he was surprised to see that despite the time of day the place was empty. All the banks and offices in the area would be closed now so he would have imagined the pub would be heaving.

One glance around the bar and it didn’t take a detective to see why. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, couple with the warm orange glow of the roaring fireplace, Palmer could see the place had been the scene of one hell of a full-

on brawl. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he could see at least two bullet holes in the wood panelling on one wall.

A large pile of broken bottles and glasses had been swept into one corner, whilst in another was a tangled mass of broken and splintered furniture. The remaining intact tables and chairs were neatly stack by the wall next to the long bar.

“We’re closed,” a gruff voice informed him.

Palmer turned from the chaos to see a man in his late fifties come out from a back room and put down a full crate of fresh pint glasses onto the bar with a grunt of effort.

“Are you the landlord?” Palmer asked as he approached the man.

“For my sins,” the man replied with a world-weary sigh.

He looked shattered to Palmer, it had clearly been a long day and eventful night before.

“My name is inspector Palmer, I just need to ask you a few questions about last night.”

The man spat onto the floor and fixed him with a squint-eyed look of mild distain.

“I’ve already spoken to you lot earlier,” he said. “I’ve had coppers in and out of here all day. Last night when it was all kicking off? No fucker.”

He began to take the glasses out of the crate and place them on the bar.

“You catch the vixen yet?” He asked as he worked.

“Sorry?”

“That female hurricane that started all this,” the landlord paused for a moment to think about that. “Well, finished it I should say,” he added with a crooked smile.

Palmer lent on the bar next to him. “No, idea about any woman,” he told him. “I’m not working that particular part of the case. I just need a word about what happened.”

“Why?” The landlord asked as he worked.

“Call me nosy,” Palmer said with an officious edge to his voice.

The landlord finished unloading the glasses and dragged the empty crate off the bar and threw it onto the pile of furniture. He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the bar with a shake of the head.

“Drink?” He said out of the blue.

The landlord pulled down one of the still intact tables and two chairs and motioned for Palmer to sit.

“Jameson’s alright?” He asked already grabbing a bottle and two glasses.

“Fine, thank you.”

He poured them both a generous measure and sat opposite him.

“Your good health,” the landlord saluted.

“Cheers, and yours,” Palmer toasted.

Palmer was a little taken aback by the landlords change of heart, but reasoned the man probably just wanted a break from the carnage. He looked around the bar and took a sip.

“Quite a fight,” he said.

“Bloody terrifying,” the landlord sighed.

“I can imagine.”

“Never seen anything like it,” the landlord continued.

“It was like the bloody wild west in here. You know, like those shows that come over from America every once in a while?

With Indians and the like.”

“I remember reading about them.”

“At first, that’s where I thought that woman was from, a wild west show.”

“She was a Foreigner?” Palmer enquired.

“Uhuh, she was dressed all in leather, even leather trousers if you can imagine such a thing! Like a dark burgundy colour. Stood out a mile as you can imagine.”

“So, she was American?”

“No, that’s what I thought at first. From the way she was dressed,” he shook his head at the memory. “And she had a gun! A pistol in a holster.

“Blimey.”

“That’s one word for it,” the landlord said and took a sip. “No, anyway I think she was French. One of my regulars who was here thought she sounded French. He was in the navy, he’s been all over the world. Besides, her clothes didn’t have those tassels you see in pictures of cowboys. Just plain leather, but fancy in a way.”

Although he was itching to get onto the subject of the photograph, he was intrigued with the story of the gun totting French woman. And it wasn’t a stretch to wonder if the two strange occurrences might be connected somehow. Either way he wanted to hear more.

“Would you mind running me through what happened?” He asked.

The landlord drained his glass and poured himself another. He gestured to Palmer’s still half full glass, but he put his hand over the top and shook his head.

“Everything was fine at first,” he said. “She was strange to look at in that get up, but seemed a good enough girl, generous. She had plenty of money and spent it freely, so she could have been stark naked for all I cared.”

“Age?”

“Not old at all, twenty, perhaps even younger.

“So, what happened? Why did she shoot up the place?”

The landlord took a large swig as if to prepare himself for the tale. His eyes blazed as he remembered, and he looked around the bar, seemingly replaying the scene in his head.

“That’s the thing,” he finally said. “She didn’t shoot up the place.” He gestured to the bullet holes. “She was a dead eyed shot. She shot two of the fellas that came in

looking for her. It was one of those idiots that shot up the wall. Couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo.”

The landlord suddenly got to his feet, he moved off gesticulating wildly and Palmer just sat back and watched in mild amusement as the man began to animatedly act out the scene.

“Craziest thing,” he said. “So, she’s sat at a table over here,” he moved over towards the other side of the pub.

“Feet up on a chair like she owned the place.”

This made him chuckle as he remembered. And Palmer was sure the alcohol was having a numbing effect on what this little drama had done to his precious pub.

“She’d been in here about half an hour,” he continued.

“Laughing and joking with the regulars,” he pivoted rather gracefully to face Palmer once more. “Now you have to remember this is a respectable place. Lots of bankers and such, no riffraff. All very buttoned down most of the time.

So, her carefree demeanour was actually a breath of fresh air, if I’m honest.”

He shook his head and smiled. “So, all is well until these three chaps walk in,” he continued. “Smartly dressed, suits, bowler hats.”

He mimed someone peering across a crowded bar to where the woman was sitting.

“They spied our French friend holding court over there, and they start across.”

“They recognised her?”

“Certainly. And she knew them too... So,” he crept across the bar room like a vaudeville villain. “She clocks them coming over and shoos away her little gaggle of admirers.”

“And you saw all this?” Palmer asked doubtfully.

“Wasn’t it busy?”

“Truth be told I wasn’t serving at the time, I was...”

His face reddened and he gave an apologetic shrug. “She was such an odd duck, with her get up and pistol and what not. I have to admit, I was quite taken with her.”

Fair enough, Palmer thought. She sounded quite the character.

“What colour and style of hair did she have?” Palmer enquired, before he forgot to actually do his job.

“Jet black, and cut short, but it framed her face nicely.”

‘Framed her face nicely?’ By Christ the man was smitten.

“Go on,” Palmer prompted stifling a smirk.

“Well, it all started out cordial enough as I could tell.

She offered them a seat, which they refused. They chatted for a while, don’t know about what though. She was quite calm, but now I think about it the fellas were tense as hell. That might just be hindsight though.”

The man grew serious, as if suddenly registering the severity of what had happened.

“Rest is a bit of a blur,” again he looked around as if seeing it play out in front of him. “One of the men pulled out a pistol, and Frenchie kicked the chair she was resting her feet on at him. Then she kind of rolled off and onto the floor. The man fired,” he pointed to the bullet holes in the wall. “You can see the holes there.”

“Just up and tried to shoot her in cold blood?” Palmer asked with a chill.

“Yes,” he replied with a nod. “Scared the shit out of me, and everyone else as you can imagine. So, then pandemonium breaks out, people running every which way. Most of the damage was actually caused by the punters panicking”

He waved his arms around frantically to illustrate the point as he continued. “I heard a bunch more shots and saw two of the men go down. Then the last thing I saw of the woman was her jumping over the bar, right past to me! Then she ran off and into the back there.” He pointed to a door behind the bar.

“Can I see?”

“Your mob have already been back there, but sure, if you like.”

The landlord led Palmer around the bar and through the door and into a long darkly lit corridor that was lined either side with boxes, crates and beer barrels.

“Two of the men, one looked like he had been shot in the arm, dragged the other, who looked dead to me, outside.

That’s the last I saw of them.”

He pointed to a set of stairs at the fair end of the corridor. “The police supposed she scarpered up there as the back door was locked. It leads to our private rooms upstairs, then up to the attic. You can get out onto the roof tops from there through a skylight.”

Palmer remembered the constable telling him that Maloney had found the photograph in one of the upstairs rooms in the pub. He gestured to the stairs.

“Mind if I take a look?” Palmer asked.

“Me my guest,” the landlord replied. “There’s no one up there, the wife is staying with her sister until we have cleaned up around here.”

It only took Palmer a moment to find what he was looking for. On the floor in the living room which was the first room you came to at the top of the stairs, was a pile of ash by a wall. He contemplated picking up some of the greenish dark powder, but remembered the strong sulphuric smell from the museum, once was enough for that particular pleasure.

He made a cursory look through each room of the modest living quarters. He made a point of checking the view from

each window in the vane hope of finding one that looked down on the alley way in the new picture, but with no luck.

He found the skylight leading to the roof in a back room, which was closed. It was some ten feet or so high, and you would need a chair to get up there if that was indeed how the mysterious French woman had made her escape.

He thought of the two photographs, each pinned to a wall somehow, with the strange burnt paper or ash underneath.

Seemingly the only connecting elements to two otherwise unrelated incidents.

Then there was the French woman, was she the key? He would need to check with the investigating officer for this incident in the morning, hopefully they might have an idea who she was. And then he might be able to ascertain how, if at all, she was connected to the robbery. He had come here hoping for answers, but all he left with were more questions.

FOUR

Due to the nature and severity of the incident at the King’s Head, and despite his best efforts, Palmer had found it near impossible to get any further information from the team heading up the investigation. The case had been given to Inspector Alba of Scotland Yard, a force notorious for looking down on the Met and their trivial cases.

Alba had refused Palmer’s request for a meeting, even when he had hinted at a possible connection between his case and the Kind’s head shootings. Palmer had still kept the matter of photographs to himself, which didn’t help. It was as if, he had to admit to himself, he was jealous of anyone else becoming aware of them until he and he alone could work out what their significance was. He knew he was being ridiculous, but the feeling was there, nevertheless.

But in the end, as fate would have it, his reticence counted for nothing. A casual remark from Maloney to a sergeant who made a casual remark to an inspector, who was a drinking pal with Chief Inspector Daggart, led to a summons to Daggart’s office the next morning.

Daggart, not one for whimsy, had taken one look at the two photographs and snorted in derision at the idea they connected the two cases. Certainty he had to agree, they were strange, but beyond that, just what the hell did they have to do with the burglary, or the shooting? Which he reminded Palmer had been dragging on for nearly a week now and that people higher up were breathing down his neck for results.

Which in turn meant he was breathing down Palmer’s.

Daggart had picked up the photographs and jabbed them at him and for one truly terrifying moment, Palmer thought he was going to tear them up and throw them into the bin.

He had actually been sweating at the prospect of losing them, but Daggart had finally just tossed them back to Palmer and told him to focus on the job in hand. Get a confession from the night watchman and ship him off for the courts to deal with.

Palmer had spent the next few minutes after the meeting just sitting at his desk, looking at the two pictures. Not in hopes of seeing any previously unmissed detail. But actually, in relief they were still intact. It was as if they were treasured family portraits of long dead loved ones plucked from a house fire.

In a way Daggart was right, they were a distraction. But one he couldn’t help but revelled in.

Whilst on a break later that day, Palmer had spotted Maloney in a café across from the station which was a frequent haunt for coppers on a break or before and after a shift. He was sitting at a table with another constable nursing a cup of tea.

“Maloney,” he said walking up to the table.

“Oh, hello, sir,” he replied with a genuine smile. “Any luck with the Meeker case?”

Palmer knew the familiarity was only part respect, but mostly because he let Maloney, and the others get away with murder when they were out in the field. The common touch a colleague had once remarked.

“Not yet,” Palmer replied and pointed to an empty chair at the table. “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

As Palmer sat, the other constable drained the rest of his tea and got to his feet.

“Well gentlemen, if you would excuse me, the city won’t save itself.”

“I thought you were off now?” Maloney asked.

“I am, the city won’t save itself, but will at least have to wait until Tuesday when I’m back on.”

He gave both Palmer and Maloney a salute and headed off.

Palmer watched the man go, then leant forwards a little.

“Thanks for the new photograph by the way,” he said to Maloney.

“As soon as I saw it with one of the lads from the scene, I knew you’d be interested,” he replied.

“You didn’t find it?”

“No, I didn’t catch that one. But as you can imagine, word of a shootout in Mayfair soon got around.

Palmer nodded, somewhat deflated. He had hoped Maloney might be able to offer some inside insight into the French woman and her attackers.

“Constable Miles had the photograph back at the station,”

Maloney told him. “Of course, no one knew what the hell it

was. Don’t think they believe it has anything to do with what happened.”

“Right,” Palmer sighed. “Anyway, thanks for thinking of me,” he added brighter.

“No problem,” Maloney said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Still, two crime scenes, two odd photographs?”

“The shootout and the case of the locked room,” Palmer said with a smirk. “A case even your Sherlock Holmes would struggle with.”

This won a throaty laugh from the constable. “Still,”

Palmer continued. “You don’t have any gossip about the shooting?”

He knew only too well that even though Maloney wasn’t directly involved in the case, rumours would be running wild at the station after such a hullabaloo.

Maloney shrugged. “They’re checked all the local hospitals for the wounded fellas but found nothing.” Then he leant in and lowered his voice. “But I hear on the grape vine a few of the top brass are panicking about something or other.”

“Panicking?”

Whereas Palmer knew a gunfight such as this was relatively rare in Mayfair, panicking top brass seemed a bit of a stretch.

“There’s been interest from the foreign office,” Maloney said. “I hear, and the Commissioner himself got a visit from army intelligence.”

“Blimey.”

“Blimey indeed,” Maloney agreed and finished his tea.

“Let me know how the case goes, mister Holmes.

“Ha, will do, Watson.”

When he got back to the station, Palmer had been informed that Seagrove the nightwatchman had been formal charged. And although it had a sickening inevitability to it, the news had left Palmer feeling deflated all the same. The man was now at the mercy of the British criminal justice system.

So, Palmer’s responsibility was over, for now. He would perhaps be called upon to give evidence at the poor man’s trial, such as it was!

In cases such as these the more cynical policeman, whose ranks Palmer was rapidly approaching. Would say, the poor bastard has two hopes. No hope and the forlorn hope.

The saying ‘forlorn hope’ as Palmer knew it, came from the Napoleonic wars. It referred to a group of soldiers who had been picked to make a near suicidal attack on a breach in an enemy’s otherwise well defended position.

Palmer remembered the expression again that night as he sat at the small desk in his modest room at home going over the two photographs for the umpteenth time by the light of his oil lamp. He had borrowed a powerful magnifying glass from

the station’s crime laboratory in hopes of it revealing some new revelation.

He realised he had spent the best part of an hour meticulously going over each picture in turn, when the bell of the nearby St. All Souls Church had struck eleven.

“Christ,” he uttered and stifled a yawn.

The photograph of the nondescript room was just that.

Yes, it was captured in exquisite detail, but with nothing to distinguish it from any other room, let alone give up its location.

And again, it was the same with the alley way. Palmer had hoped to find a street sign somewhere within the brickwork at the very end where it met the crossing road. But despite the quality, (he found he could literally count each individual brick.) There was none to be found.

Admitting defeat for tonight, Palmer put down the glass and rubbed his tired eyes, he had to blink several times until they came back into focus. He would need spectacles before long at this rate.

A hammering on the door shook him out of his lethargy in an instant. He stood and moved across the room and over to the door. Then he remembered the time and paused. His coat was laid over an armchair by the window, so he went to it and took out his pistol, just in case.

“Who is it?” He called out as he approached the door.

There was a pause, so he pressed his ear against the door and could hear muffled voices for outside. He was about to repeat his question when someone finally spoke.

“Inspector Palmer? By name is Robert Willis. I’m from the foreign office.”

Palmer remembered what Maloney had told him earlier and moved to open the door, but he hesitated. It was eleven o’clock at night. What could be so important that it couldn’t wait until morning? He glanced back to his desk and the photographs.

“It’s bloody late,” he replied. “Couldn’t this wait?”

There was silence for a moment and again he could hear hushed voices. At least two that he could make out.

“Inspector,” Willis said with authority. “Please open the door, this is a matter of national security.

“Very well, one moment” he called back.

Palmer moved swiftly back over to his desk and put the photographs and the magnifying glass in a draw and out of sight. Then he went back over to the door. He paused to take a breath then put the pistol into the back of his trousers and unlocked the door. He opened it slowly and peered outside.

Two men, both younger than Palmer thought they would be, both in their late twenties he quickly calculated, each dressed in dark suits stood on the landing. Palmer glanced between the two, one, Willis he assumed was in front of the other, who looked deathly pale and sickly and even in the

half-light of his lamp, he could see a sheen of sweat on his face. He shifted slightly and winced as he flexed his right arm.

Palmer instantly thought of the King’s head. One of the assailants had been injured, hadn’t he? He was about to slam the door shut, when Willis kicked at it and barged inside knocking Palmer back several steps.

Both men rushed into the room, Palmer moved to grab his pistol, but Willis had a gun pointed at his head in a heartbeat.

“Now, now,” he warned. The other man came gingerly to his partner’s side.

“Let’s have no surprises, eh?” Willis continued and gestured to Palmer with his free hand.

The injured man moved awkwardly behind Palmer and took the pistol out of his waistband.

“What’s all this about?” Palmer asked in a panic.

Willis took a step towards him with a look of mild amusement on his face.

“We hear you are interested in photography, mister Palmer.”

Palmer barely registered the remark when he was hit hard on the back of his head. A moment later he was on the floor seeing fireworks before his eyes. Willis aimed a kick in his face, and everything went black.

FIVE

Palmer was jolted awake to find he was in the back of a carriage when the motion of the vehicle caused his head to bang against the wooden door. He cursed at the stabbing pain behind his eyes.

He was vaguely aware of a figure sitting on the seat opposite, but at this stage it was little more than a grey blur against the dark gloom of the interior.

“Arh, welcome back Richard,” a voice said from his right.

He slowly turned his throbbing head to see Willis sitting next to him. If that was indeed the man’s real name.

“Foreign office, my arse,” Palmer managed to say.

This won a laugh, then a hiss of pain from the pale man opposite. Palmer could see his face as a passing streetlamp illuminated the carriage interior for a moment. It was a vision of real discomfort.

“You need any more morphine?” Willis asked.

The pale man shook his head and just gritted his teeth against the pain.

“You know you are kidnapping a police inspector?” Palmer said and touched the back of his head, he winced but was grateful his fingers came back bloodless.

He now noticed Willis was holding the two photographs.

He held one of them up to him.

“They really are quite remarkable, aren’t they?” Willis said.

“I said...”

The pale man kicked Palmer in the knee to silence him, it hurt but clearly not as much as the perpetrator.

“Bollocks,” the man cursed in pain.

“Policemen are such gossips, don’t you agree?” Willis asked.

Palmer was about to reply when the pale man raised his foot again. Clearly this line of questioning was rhetorical.

“We wouldn’t have even known you had these,” Willis continued. “If it wasn’t for the station gossips. Oh, and your chief inspector of course. He didn’t know it, but he was a great help.”

He wafted the photographs like a fan. “We know where you got these. The question is, why?”

Palmer didn’t reply. The truth of it was that the mystery of it had gotten the better of him. And that had only deepened when the French woman had been added to the mix.

“The man asked you a question,” the pale man said.

“You said it yourself, they’re remarkable,” Palmer said.

“Arh, yes,” Willis agreed. “But you do know who took them.”

It was a statement not a question and he emphasised the word do. But still he was going to tell him the truth, that no he didn’t, when the carriage came to a shuddering halt.

Palmer looked out of the door window. They were outside a modest detached town house.

The pale man opened the carriage door and carefully stepped out into the street, whilst Palmer noted, keeping his injured arm tucked inside his heavy over coat. He waved Palmer’s own pistol at him with his free hand.

“Out.”

Palmer hesitated for a moment and considered leaping at him, he could easily overpower the wounded man, but then of course there was his partner, Willis who was also armed.

“Pretty please,” Willis said from behind him, perhaps sensing his thoughts. “This is a quiet street, away from prying eyes and ears. No one would hear a shot or two.”

Palmer did as he was told and got out into the biting wind. And by that all too familiar smell on it, he knew they were close to the Thames. He could hear distant shouts and bells which suggested one of the many docks along the river was close. But a quick glance around the deserted street told him he was in an unfamiliar part of town.

“If you please?” Willis said and pointed to the house.

Palmer reluctantly followed the pale man up the steps, whilst Willis kept a few paces behind. The injured man

fumbled with the lock and eventually managed to open the door and went inside.

As they came inside, Palmer could smell damp and mildew, the place was in near darkness, but he could make out a long hallway which stretch down to when looked like a kitchen. The stairs were directly to his right and there was a door to his left about halfway down.

“Watch the front,” Willis called out into the street.

Palmer looked past Willis in the doorway to the street beyond where the single horse drawn carriage was parked.

There were two men up on the driver’s seat. One jumped down carrying a rifle whilst the other tied off the horse reins.

“Alright,” Willis told him as he slammed the door shut.

“Let’s go.”

He pushed Palmer down the hallway behind the pale man and then through the doorway and into a modest looking living room. Palmer half-hoped it was the room from the first photograph but was disappointed. It was just a regular if scruffy living room. Dining table and four chairs at one end, a sideboard stacked with crockery and a large three-seater couch, but no carpet.

Willis pushed Palmer down onto the couch and took off his overcoat and threw it next to him.

“Time is short, Richard,” he said. “So, I’ll get right to the point. What do you know about who took these?” He tossed the photographs into Palmer’s lap.

“I don’t know anything about them, just where they were found,” Palmer told him.

The pale man snorted and went over to the sideboard which had four glasses and a bottle of gin on it. He opened the bottle using his left hand and poured himself a drink.

“I bloody told you!” He snapped at Willis and took a large swig.

“Christ,” Willis uttered and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We risked exposure to capture this clown?” The pale man exclaimed and drained his glass.

“Alright, alright,” Willis said testily. Then turned to Palmer. “Camille Breton?”

Palmer shook his head, there was no doubt this was the woman from the King’s head, and despite his current circumstance, putting a name to the myth gave him a great sense of relief.

“Where is she?” Willis bellowed after a moment.

“No idea,” Palmer replied. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard that name.”

Willis and his partner exchanged a glance of anger and Willis then stepped forwards and aimed his pistol at Palmer’s head.

“Waste of my fucking time,” he said through gritted teeth and cocked the hammer of the gun, and his eyes flashed with murderous intent.

Palmer watched this with a kind of surreal detachment, somewhere in his subconscious a spark of terror tried to ignite. This man as about to shoot him, and he still had no real idea why.

“Who is the French woman?” Was all he could think to say to his executioner.

The next instant Palmer was hit by the concussion of some unseen blast, it hit him square in the chest knocking the very air out of his lungs and pitched him backwards as the couch tipped over at the impact.

Willis was flung forwards off his feet, and he tumbled to the floor. Likewise, the pale man let out a muted cry and stumbled back into the sideboard which collapsed under his weight, and he hit the floor hard as it rained crockery and shattered glass around him.

It was like a cannon shell had exploded right in the centre of the room, but with little physical impact save for the initial force of the blast. No sound, no shrapnel or shredding of flesh.

Then a flash of blinding white light bleached everything out for a moment and was gone an instant later.

Palmer’s ears had popped at the sudden decompression in the room, disorientated, he clambered up the back of the upturned couch and peered over it, at first there was nothing but bright blotches as his eyes tried to adjust back to normal.

When the room slowly came back into focus a woman was crouched in the middle of the room like a cat ready to pounce.

A thin mist of vapour, rising off her body swirled around her form obscuring her features for a moment, but this was rapidly evaporating as it hit the air.

The faintest hint of what looked like thin strands of white lightning danced briefly over her body until that too faded away. The whole breach was over in a heartbeat.

The woman sprung into a standing position with athletic ease and aimed around the room with a pistol in her right hand. Eyes narrow slits of intensity, her face a mask of cool calm concentration as she surveyed her surroundings, ready for anything.

Her face softened slightly when she saw she had the complete element of surprise. Palmer watched on in dazed awe.

Camille Breton. She was exactly as the landlord had described her.

“Well, it’s about time you bastards got here,” she said in a thick French accent.

Willis was the first to react, he rolled onto his side and snatched up the pistol he had dropped during the assault.

He swung it expertly in her direction and fired three times.

The woman dodged to one side and the first bullet went high and wide, biting into the plaster ceiling. The other two went well wide smashing the window behind her. With lightning speed she aimed down at Willis, who immediately realised his mistake.

“Camille!” He cried and held out his free hand as if to stop the bullet that was to come.

Camille fired and the bullet went straight through Willis’ palm and slammed into his neck. He uttered a muffled cry and fell back, pumping blood across the bare floorboards.

She then fired twice in rapid succession into his chest and the man shuddered for a moment and lay still.

Palmer let out an involuntary cry at the sudden shocking violence and she spun around and aimed at his head.

“Please!” Was all he could manage and winced in anticipation of the kill shot to come.

“Mon Dieu!” She dropped her aim and gave Palmer a look of annoyance.

“Ugh, God, God,” the pale man said faintly.

He rolled around in the crockery and smashed sideboard wincing in pain. Breton turned to the prone man just as shouts of alarm came from outside.

“Two outside, correct?” She said to Palmer.

“Wha’, erm,” he stuttered still in shock.

“Outside! How many?”

“Two, yes two,” he told her.

She must have been watching the house when they arrived Palmer thought distractedly. Everything was moving so fast it made his already aching head spin.

Breton moved swiftly over to where the injured man was flailing and dragged him by the back of his collar into the centre of the room, then to his feet.

“Up, up,” she coaxed.

“Christ Breton!” The pale man exclaimed.

“Where is Mitchell?” She snarled, pulling him close.

Confused, the pale man looked down at Willis’ body.

“You, you shot, Pete,” he said lamely.

The woman punched him hard in his already injured arm and he let out a high-pitched scream.

“Carson! Where is Mitchell?” She shouted in his face.

The man swallowed hard. “The warehouse, they took him to the warehouse.”

“Merde,” she uttered and was about to let him fall when he caught her sleeve.

“You should know,” he said gravely. “The Engineer’s still there.”

“What?”

A look of panic flashed across her young face, and she let him go, and he slumped to his knees with a grunt, clutching his arm.

Breton screwed her eyes shut at this revelation, it meant nothing to Palmer, but it had clearly shaken her.

“Merde! Merde! Merde!!” she yelled.

Loud hammering on the front door seemed to pull her back to the situation at hand. She stood bolt upright and glanced towards the living room door and the hallway beyond.

“Hey! Open the fucking door!” Someone shouted from outside as the hammering continued. “Willis? Carson? What the hell is going on in there?”

Camille darted across the room, leant out into the hallway and fired three times down towards the front door, then ducked back inside.

“Why is he still here?” She asked the wounded man, Carson.

“You stole the device from him! Did you think he was just going to let you go?”

“He’s been paid by your people, no?” She said.

“Technically, I stole it from you.”

“Are you really going to argue about that now?” He shrieked in response.

She shrugged at this, good point. Then turned to Palmer and waved her pistol in his general direction.

“And what is his story?” She asked.

“He had the photographs, from the museum and the pub. We thought he was cleaning up after you,” Carson replied with a pained expression. He looked ready to pitch over at any moment.

She squinted at Palmer and frowned. “I have no idea who his man is.”

“We know that now!” Carson exclaimed.

Then, still studying Palmer like he was an exhibit in a sideshow, she shot Carson square in the head, painting the wall behind him with his brains.

Palmer gagged at the horror and turned away. “Fuck me,”

he uttered putting his head in his hands.

He heard her moving back over to the hallway, broken crockery and glass crunching under her feet. Then she fired three more times.

Palmer dragged himself up using the back of the upturned couch and stood on unsteady legs as Camille Breton came back into the room. She took a metal strip containing a row of bullets from a thin pocket in the thigh of her trousers and began to reload her pistol.

The weapon was a strange design, but one Palmer knew. It was a German Mauser with a ten round magazine capacity which explained how she had managed to fire off so many shots before reloading.

She slid the rounds into the weapon using the metal clip with practised efficiency and then put the empty clip back in her pocket, once the bullets were loaded.

Palmer thought of his own weapon, and he scrambled around the clutter on the floor and over to Willis body for his pistol until he found it laid close by. He picked it up and held it in two hands like a drowning man to a life preserver and felt a little better for it.

Breton rummaged around in a pocket in the side of her leather jacket and took out a photograph. She swiftly moved over to a wall and pushed it against the plaster where it stuck. What the hell was it? Palmer wondered incredulously, some bizarre calling card she left at every crime scene?

A volley of shots came through the window, Palmer hit the floor whilst Camille ducked against the door frame to avoid the bullets and flying glass.

“Fuck you!” She shouted at the window in what Palmer had to admit was very good English.

She fired through the window then holstered her weapon.

As Palmer watched from his prone position on the floor, she took out a small square envelope out of her trouser back pocket. She opened it and slipped out a brownish piece of rough crumbled paper and let the envelope fall.

She took a deep breath, then another and seemed to be preparing herself for something. She looked apprehensive and was rocking backwards and forwards on her heels facing the photograph on the opposite wall.

She glanced down at Palmer and shook her head, her lips were moving and she seemed to be having an inner argument with herself.

More shots from outside, then that hammering on the front door again followed by the sound of splintering wood.

Camille carefully placed the paper into the palm of her right hand and held her arm out horizontally, palm out so it was in line with the photograph. All the time arguing with herself in whispered French.

She glanced at Palmer again, clearly wracked with indecision, then back to the photograph. Then she braced herself and looked to Palmer like a sprinter at the start line of a race. Then she set off, ran two steps then skidded to a halt before she reached the other wall and the photograph.

“Nom de dieu!” She shouted to the heavens.

She gave Palmer a look like she wanted to kill him, but then shook her head and muttered something clearly not complementary to him in French.

“Do you know how to use that thing?” She asked nodding to the pistol in his hand.

Palmer just stared at her blankly for a moment, stunned by the odd display. Then realised she was speaking English he nodded mutely.

She looked less than convinced, but spoke to herself again and seemed to come to some kind of a decision. She moved away and picked up the discarded envelope and slipped the piece of paper back inside and returned it to her back

pocket. Then took the photograph off the wall and put it back in her jacket.

“Listen to me,” she said firmly fixing Palmer with an intense gaze.

“What the hell’s going on?” Palmer asked. “Where the hell did you come from!?”

“Shut up and listen to me, there’s no time. What’s your name?”

“Palmer, Richard Palmer.”

“Alright Richard Palmer, listen to me. We are going to shoot our way out of here and take that carriage outside, understand?”

“What?” He began to protest, but she cut him off.

“It’s either that or I leave you here,” she stated without emotion. “Go out the way I came in.”

Palmer had no idea what that meant, but nodded all the same. She took out her Mauser and held out her free hand to him, he took it, and she hauled him to his feet.

“Come on,” she whispered.

Palmer followed her over to the doorway, he glanced back briefly to take in the carnage of the room. He shivered just thinking about how cold bloodedly she had despatched the two men. Despite his job, he realised ninety-nine percent of his contact with violent crime was in the aftermath. Not witnessing it first-hand like this. And by the sounds of what this strange woman had in mind, this wouldn’t be the last of the bloodshed.

They moved quietly out into the hallway, guns trained on the now silent door.

“They said they were from the foreign office,” Palmer said softly.

“Really? Well, in a way I suppose,” she caught herself and actually gave the ghost of a smile. “They are army intelligence,” she added.

Army intelligence? Then what did that make her? He was about to ask, when she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him further down the hallway and closer towards the bullet ridden door. Palmer could feel his left shin complaining at the sudden exertion but put it out of his mind as best he could.

“How many bullets do you have?” Breton asked.

“Just the six.”

She gave him a look of distain like it was his fault.

“That will have to do,” she sighed.

She fired into the splintering wood until her pistol was empty. Then put her back against the wall and reloaded. She finished and gave him a mischievous look.

“Only six bullets, eh?”

“There’s more back in the room,” he offered, felling somewhat inadequate.

“No time,” she said with the shake of her head. “Well then, Richard Palmer, let’s hope you are a good shot.”

Her eyes flashed with glee, and she edged towards the door. Palmer almost told her that he had never actually fired the weapon outside of the police firing range, but thought better of it.

Camille cautiously stopped by the door and squinted through a bullet hole.

“Looks like they are both at the carriage,” she whispered, and Palmer drew closer. “Now listen, I am going to unlock the door, pull it open, then I want you to crouch behind it, using it as cover and then fire at the carriage.”

Palmer realised his hands were shaking as the events of the past few minutes were starting to catch up with him. He had to grip the pistol with both hands again. Camille rested her hand on his.

“Hey, you will do just fine,” she told him with remarkable calm and authority. “Just fire a couple of rounds at them, for cover. You will be safe behind the door.”

He nodded and crouched by the wall ready to move behind the door when she opened it. Camille turned the key in the lock and waited a moment, still peering through the bullet hole for any response from outside. She winced slightly at the noise of the large brass handle turning as she pulled the door open ever so slightly.

“Ready?” She whispered to Palmer who nodded back, his throat was too dry to utter even a syllable in the affirmative.

She pulled the door open, and Palmer moved to grab it so he could then pull it in front of him as instructed. But the French woman kicked him hard in the backside and he rolled off balance and pitched head-first down the three stone steps to the street below.

He hit his head on the pavement and saw stars for a moment. And instant later all hell broke loose as the two men over by the carriage began firing, he thrashed around on the cold stone floor like a fish on a hook as bullets hit all around him. He felt the sharp sting on his cheeks as one bullet kicked up stone shards into his face.

He cried out and curled himself up into a ball as the realisation caught up with him through the sheer panic clouding his thoughts. He wasn’t covering fire for her, he was bait.

He glanced through his flailing arms to see Camille crouched behind the door, as he should have been, firing into the street. The reports of her pistol echoed around him like cannon fire.

The automatic action on the weapon clicked back and locked as the last round was fired. And there was a dreadful silence, and Palmer prayed everyone in this murderous exchange was out of ammunition.

Then to his absolute astonishment, instead of retreating back inside, Camille holstered the still smoking pistol and

came down the steps, she jumped over Palmer who covered his head.

“What, what the?” He babbled as she passed.

Camille reached down and scooped up his long-discarded pistol and walked briskly over to the bullet ridden carriage and disappeared behind it. Palmer couldn’t see the two men, but she fired twice, the muzzle flash illuminating the carriage outline for a moment, then fired twice again.

The poor horse kicked and neighed in panic, it pulled frantically at its reins trying to flee the chaos, but the wheel brake held the carriage fast. Palmer shuddered at the woman’s ruthlessness. By Christ she was efficient.

She came back around to the horse at the front and began soothing the terrified creature. Murmuring softly to it and stroking its mane and face.

“You going to sit there all night, Richard?” She called out without taking her attention off the horse.

Palmer dragged himself stiffly to his feet, his dodgy leg ached dully, but not nearly as much as it should have. He felt numb, probably shock he reasoned and knew that in an hour or so his body would make him suffer. But strangely, as he stood there watching Camille fussing affectionately with the horse, he didn’t care.

There was the thought lurking somewhere at the back of his addled brain, that he should arrest the woman. He’d witnessed her shoot dead four people, two up close. And if she was to be believed they were all army intelligence. But of course, their downright illegal treatment of Palmer, who they knew damn well was a police man, did throw that particular piece of information into grave doubt.

He actually smiled as he watched her with the horse, he had so much to learn about this strange creature. What was she a thief or a spy? And more importantly he wanted to know more about the photographs, and that odd ritual she was performing in the house with the paper in her hand.

And most perplexing of all, lest he forgot, that spectacular magic trick, she had performed to gain entrance to the house. That, he mused would put any west end magician to shame.

He also had two other new names to add to the unfolding mystery. Who was this Mitchell she was looking for? Someone he felt she genuine cared for. And then this Engineer they spoke of? He had detected real fear in her otherwise stoic persona at the mention of him.

“Are you coming, or not?” She called out to him, pulling him back into the here and now.

She gestured up and down the street. And to the houses nearby with their now illuminated windows and shadowy onlookers hiding behind twitching curtains.

“I’m a police officer. I should arrest you,” he said without conviction.

She laughed and it sounded like music to him. He recalled the way the landlord had spoken about the young woman. She was easy to become enamoured with, if you weren’t careful.

“Many have tried,” she replied.

She climbed up onto the carriage driver’s seat and began to untie the reins. And Palmer knew if he wanted answers he would need to go with this French enigma.

Maybe, he thought to himself as he stiffly made for the carriage, he would arrest her later. For now, he was just gathering evidence. He didn’t believe it for a moment but got in just the same.

SIX

“Well, are you coming in or not?” Camille asked a dumbstruck Palmer somewhat annoyed.

Palmer must have been standing slack jawed in the doorway to her modest room for a good ten seconds, although it could have been as many minutes. He just couldn’t move, his feet felt like lead weights as he had tried to step inside. Inside the room, inside the room.

It was the room from the first photograph, exactly as depicted but now with the furniture placed back where it should be.

“It’s, it’s,” this latest revelation had damn near put him on his backside.

“Christ man!” Camille exclaimed and grabbed him by the arm. “What is wrong with you, d’you get shot in the head back there?”

He barely heard her, she let out an exasperated sigh and pulled him inside then locked the door.

“It’s the room from the photograph,” he uttered redundantly.

She ignored him and unclipped her holster and slung it onto the back of a chair. Palmer patted his pockets then remembered he had been holding the photographs when Camille had made her dramatic entrance. He must have dropped them in all the confusion.

He had to bite back a sob that rose unexpectedly in his throat. He had lost them, and the realisation hit him hard, harder than it had any real right to. He dismissed it as the residual shock from the gun fight, but it left a hollow feeling in his stomach, nevertheless.

“You stole the neckless,” he said numbly. It was hard to believe that had been the start of all this mayhem.

“Huh?”

“At the museum.”

“Oh, so that’s where you come into this Shakespearean farce,” she said with mild amusement. “Yes, I had to make

sure it worked. The whole thing was a bit far-fetched to me in the beginning.”

The last part sounded to Palmer like she was speaking from underwater, and he suddenly became aware that he had better sit down before he fell down. The stress of his near execution and the subsequent violence, and now this latest revelation was finally catching up with him.

“I, think,” he breathed feeling faint.

Camille, none the wiser to his impending collapse, she continued on. “Thought I may as well make a little profit whilst I was testing the thing,” she said with a chuckle.

“Had the devil’s own time taking the damn picture of that storeroom at the back when no one was watching. I had to make sure I would appear in there away from the exhibits, or I would have destroyed the place!”

Now she sounded to Palmer like she was speaking from the bottom of a deep well. He suddenly remembered Seagrove the nightwatchman.

“An innocent man is going to jail over your test,” Palmer said.

“Really? That is a shame,” she replied, and Palmer couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Perhaps I’ll give it back, eh?” she added with a grin.

Palmer staggered slightly. “Need to sit down,” he said falteringly.

He just made it to a nearby armchair and slumped down into before he fell. He held his head in his hands as images of Willis and the injured Carson flashed into his mind’s eye.

Coupled with Camille’s cold-blooded despatching of the two, not to mention their companions outside.

“Here.”

He looked up and Camille handed him a glass of whiskey.

He took it gratefully and had to hold it with both hands to take a sip. It warmed him instantly and he took another drink and waited for the liquor to sear away the shock.

“Better?” She asked from across the room.

“Thanks,” he replied with a nod.

He thought back to the room and her dramatic entrance, and the strange way she had prepared herself to, to what? Run at the new photograph she had placed on the wall?

“What were all those shenanigans with the photograph back at the house?” He asked, the alcohol in his system making him bolder.

“Shenanigans?” she replied distractedly.

She was moving around the room, she removed her jacket and then the shirt underneath, without any regard for Palmer, leaving only a flimsy undershirt. She poured a jug of water into a basin on a chest of draws and ducked her head in.

Palmer’s face reddened at her boldness but found himself looking at her slim frame all the same. He quickly studied the glass in his hand when she came up for air gasping.

“That rigmarole,” he said and cursed his choice of words.

Her English was very good but using words like shenanigans and rigmarole were stretching it he imagined.

He tried to think of something simpler but suddenly English seemed to be his second language. He watched Camille as she grabbed a towel laid next to the bowl and began to roughly dry her short hair. She gave Palmer a look of confusion and then tossed the towel on the back of a chair.

“Answers,” he finally said. “I need answers. What the hell is going on?”

“No time,” she replied dismissively and went through into another room.

Palmer drained his glass to numb his growing frustration.

When she came back into the room she was wearing a fresh man’s dark blue shirt, which she proceeded to button up. Again, oblivious to Palmer’s presence.

“Who are you?” He asked.

She went over to a small dining table at the far end of the room with large wooden box on it and slid it over to her and flipped open the lid.

She took out a wax paper wrapped cardboard box, reached into her back pocket and took out a switchblade knife. She snapped out the blade and cut open the seal of the box and tipped out two dozen or so bullets onto the tabletop.

She then retrieved several metal strips from various pockets, which Palmer had seen her use to load the Mauser.

She pulled up a chair and began to load each strip with fresh rounds. It was clearly a ritual she had done many times before and she worked with a fluid efficiency that made Palmer wonder just how many people she had shot in her young life.

“Who is Mitchell?” He asked.

She tried to ignore him as she worked, but Palmer detected the slightest of frowns at mention of the man’s name.

Once the ammo strips were full, she got up and put some of them in various pockets on her trousers, then moved over to her jacket and placed the remaining strips in there. It was quite the portable arsenal.

“Mitchell is a pain in my backside,” she finally replied.

She went over to the chest of draws again and opened the top one. She took out an envelope and a battered tin the size of a shoe box.

“You thought they had him at the house?”

She nodded but still didn’t stop what she was doing.

“Yes, I thought that would be where they would take him. I waited, but they brought you.”

Palmer thought he caught a slight hint of accusation in her voice. Back at the table, she emptied the contents of the envelope and carefully place the tin next to it. She began to sift through what Palmer could now see were three more photographs, she selected two and left the other where it was.

She put her hands on the table’s edge and finally paused.

Her head dropped a fraction, and she screwed her eyes tight shut.

“Bless him,” she said softly. “I’m sure he’s already dead. But I owe him enough to at least try.”

“Try?”

“Try to rescue him,” she stated as if it should have been obvious.

She seemed to rally somewhat and studied one of the new photographs. Palmer got to his feet and was thankful the alcohol had steadied his nerves and balance.

“What are those?” He asked.

She didn’t reply and put the two photographs in a long side pocket in her trousers. She opened the tin and took out what looked to Palmer like several square pieces of the same blank rough brown paper she had at the house.

She grabbed her jacket off the chair and slipped the papers into a side pocket. She put it on and then patted it and her trousers all over, checking she had everything she needed.

“The photographs,” Palmer prompted. “They shouldn’t exist.”

Camille raised an eyebrow at the remark and finally looked at him as she put on her holster.

“If I had all night, I would gladly sit here and explain everything to you, Richard Palmer. More for my own sanity than anything.”

He looked at her as she stood bolt upright, ready for action. “You’re going to that warehouse,” he said. “That’s where they have your friend.”

“Mitchell and I are not what you would call friends,” she told him, but still a smile played across her determined features. “Professional rivals, perhaps, at the start.

Turned allies in the end, when faced with then cold hard reality of things.”

“I’m coming with you,” Palmer said firmly.

Out of duty or the simple fact he couldn’t just leave this story half told he wasn’t sure. She gave him a look bordering on pity.

“I am a police officer,” he stated. “If there’s danger, it’s my duty to help.”

His cheeks flushed at her amused reaction. That had sounded better in his head.

“And I am a French spy,” she said. “And Mitchell is a traitor to your government.”

It was so plainly put that Palmer didn’t doubt it for a moment. But there were just too many questions. He was suddenly all too aware how reckless his need to know what he had stumbled upon had made him. But could he really in all honestly just go back to his normal life after such a glimpse into this new world of impossible things?

“Then I’ll arrest both of you, after we get him out of there,” he said with forced bravado.

She drew the Mauser so quickly he didn’t even see her hand go for it. She pointed it at his belly.

“You didn’t save me back there, just to murder me now, did you?” He asked and held her gaze. Reckless indeed, he thought grimly.

“I’ll take you along as cannon fodder,” she said with a smile so humourless, it left him in no doubt she wasn’t joking at all.

Palmer pulled the heavy overcoat around himself and buttoned it up with numb fingers as they stalked through the bitterly cold late-night streets. Camille had given him the coat as when he had been abducted, he had only been wearing his shirt. At least, he mused as they walked, he hadn’t changed into his night wear before meeting the late Willis and Carson.

Where she had acquired a man’s coat from, he had no idea and thought it best not to ask. But now that they were outside, he was glad of it all the same. He dug his hands into the coat’s deep pockets and felt the new pistol the French woman had also given him in one pocket and the box of bullets in the other. Again, he tried not to think of the weapon’s previous owner.

The frigid November air took his breath away and threatened to freeze the sweat on his cheeks and forehead as they walked. And flecks of a light snow were beginning to drift down from the black sky above. Despite the cold, Palmer mused, it could have been a pleasant night’s walk were it not for their destination.

He eyed the sky. “You know a horse drawn carriage would have been nice,” he said sarcastically.

Camille had unhitched the horse from the carriage when they had left her lodgings, smacked its backside and sent it on its way.

“It’s not far,” she told him. “And I don’t think we want to be announcing our arrival.” She quickened her pace, and he had to jog to draw alongside her again. “And,” she added as cold as the night air. “If you keep questioning every decision I make, I will change my mind and shoot you anyway.”

“I know, cannon fodder,” he said.

“We keep to the back streets,” she continued. “I know a place on this side of the Thames that overlooks the warehouse on the other side where they are keeping Mitchell, that is all you need to know.”

“Fine,” he replied petulantly.

He ran over his current situation in his head as they went. He was skulking through the London dock lands, on some kind of clandestine mission with a self-confessed French spy.

On their way to rescue a traitor to the crown. And all

because this Camille Breton had decided to ‘test’ some mysterious device, of which he still knew nothing. In a museum on his patch.

Instinct told him and not for the first time to contact Daggart at the station, he may not have believed him about the significance of the two photographs before. But now he had four bodies, which the police would have undoubtedly found by now to back him up.

Of course, he had to admit, if he told his boss exactly what had happened at the house, French spies appearing out of thin air and all. He would likely end up in an asylum. And perhaps, he wondered given his current course of action, that might not be such an inappropriate place for him to end up.

The night was young, he thought with gallows humour, there was still time.

“Expecting much resistance?” He asked as they moved between one deserted building to the next. More to get out of his own head than anything.

“The last time I was there, before all this started, I counted ten guards, I snuck in and out without any trouble,”

she said with some pride.

They paused by a wall as she looked ahead for their next move. She turned to him with a grin.

“But it should be even easier this time,” she added, patting her side pocket.

Then she was off again, jogging this time, Palmer cursed and kept up as best he could. His leg was already throbbing but the usual sharp pains he felt when it was really being tested had yet to trouble him, for which he was grateful but was mindful they could start at any moment especially at this pace.

They came to a small clearing, with the skeletal remains of a long-demolished building at its centre. The ground was covered in rubble and knee-high wild shrugs, which inclined down. Palmer could see the Thames now at the bottom and followed as Camille set off and the pair picked their way through the undergrowth and down towards the bottom.

They came to a stop at a crumbling wall at the bottom of the incline. Some five feet below was a long-cobbled path which ran off into the distance in both directions along the side of the Thames. Camille kicked at the wall, and it held, so she sat on the top and jumped down the short distance to the path. Where she waited for Palmer.

He gritted his teeth and awkwardly manoeuvred himself onto the wall, so he was then able to lower himself down far enough, so his feet touched the cobbles. It was far from graceful, and the French woman watched him struggle with mild amusement.

“Alright there, grandfather?” She asked with a smirk.

“Bollocks,” he replied and dusted himself off.

The path, much like the wall was in a state of disrepair.

There were holes in the cobbles here and there and as Palmer looked down its long length, he could see only one in every three streetlamps were working. So, he could only see where it stretched off to by intermittent pools of light.

He could tell they were getting closer to the main hub of activity on this side of the docks as most of the area to his right was lined with the walls of several large buildings that edged right up to the path. No doubt warehouses and workshops that were so prevalent down here.

He could hear the clatter of cranes unloading boats and the shouts of dock workers drifting on the cold night air towards them.

On his left was the water’s edge, some fifteen feet below, he could hear the lapping of the dark water against the bank. With only a patchy chain link safety fence running alongside, much of which was missing or had half fallen into the river anyway.

The Thames was at one of its widest points here, way off across the water the other shore was a hive of activity, massive lights dotted around the industrial landscape, stretching on onto the distance, illuminated huge warehouses, ships and boats of every size were being either loaded or unloaded by massive cranes swinging to and fro. It was a spectacular sight to see this engine of commerce in full flight.

“Alles,” Camille said and set off again down the path at a slow jog. “The warehouse on the other side,” she told him as he caught up. “But the place we need is just up ahead.”

After some two hundred yards they came to a ten-foot-high wrought iron security fence that blocked the path from further access. Breathing hard, Palmer pressed his face against the bars and could just about make out the large open yard of a monolithic looking warehouse in the near darkness beyond. A stack of crates had been piled high against one wall at the far end and he could see the skeletal silhouettes of discarded machinery littered around.

Camille rested her back against the side of the building to their right and took a moment to catch her breath as well.

For which Palmer was very grateful, he absently massaged his leg, but stopped, embarrassed when Camille saw him.

“Alright, old man?” She asked again raising an eyebrow.

“Just fine,” he replied a little too harshly.

He grabbed the fence and tried to shake the rusty but intact bars, but they didn’t move an inch.

“So, how are we going to get in?” He asked more to change the subject than anything.

“We climb,” she said with a knowing smile. “Unless your war wound is playing up?” She added impishly nodding to his leg.

“Ladies first.”

“Such gentlemen you English,” she replied.

He moved aside and Camille jumped up and climbed the fence with undeniable grace and ease. Once at the top, she swung a leg over and sat a astride. She looked across the yard, then down to Palmer.

“I hope you are not afraid of heights, Richard.”

“I think I can manage,” he replied, nodding up to her.

“No! We need to go up there.”

She pointed across the yard and up to the roof of the adjoining warehouse, which sat a dark and foreboding featureless mass against the night sky. It was fifty feet if it were five.

Palmer could see her short hair blowing in the wind even at her current paltry height atop the fence. She swung her other leg over and jumped down into the yard.

Cursing his leg, Breton and God Himself, Palmer began to clamber up the fence in he knew a much less dignified manner than the French woman. Hands slipping on the freezing dappled iron work he managed to pull himself up and once at the top, he paused to take a breath. Thankfully Camille had moved off and was looking at the building ahead.

He swung his legs over and prepared to drop to the concrete below. He gripped the top bar of the fence and like the wall before, he gingerly lowered himself down as far as he could, but knew he was still a couple of feet short.

He let go and instantly white-hot pain shot up his leg at the jarring impact of the yard’s unforgiving stone floor. He bit back a cry and was damn grateful Camille had moved off across the open yard towards the warehouse.

He allowed himself a moment until the worst of the pain passed, then hobbled over to where Camille was standing, correcting his stride as best he could as he did so.

“We can get in through a gap in the wall by the back,”

she told him as he reached her, and gestured to where the back of the warehouse stopped close to the river’s edge.

“Anyone working here?” Palmer asked.

“Not for months now, the place is riddled with rot,” she said. “Just been sold I hear, but there should not be anyone working yet, especially not this late. We can get onto the roof from the inside.”

“Up there, on a rotten roof?” Palmer pointed to the high sloped roof, way above them.

Camille made great play looking him up and down. “You don’t look too heavy, you might not fall through, if you are lucky.

Again, that impish smile, and Palmer couldn’t help but wonder whether she was trying to get him killed or not.

“Come on, around the back,” she prompted.

They moved silently over to the back of the warehouse, where the building sat very close to the edge of the

riverbank. Palmer saw a sign on the wall which read:

‘Dangerous structure. Risk to life.’

Camille cautiously eased around the wall and Palmer moved to follow but she placed a hand gently on his chest.

“Not much room,” she whispered. “Be careful.”

She disappeared around the back of the building, all the time keeping her right shoulder pressed against the uneven wooden wall and keeping her eye on where she was putting her feet as she tentatively walked on.

When Palmer came around to join her, he saw all too clearly why she was being so cautious. The back of the warehouse was perhaps no more than four feet from the vast river’s very edge. The grassy surface was slick with moisture, and even from the lights coming from the opposite bank he could see it was uneven and crumbling in parts where the frost had got into the ground during the day and frozen at night.

It was treacherous going and he could hear the water lapping against the earthen bank and see the rippling dark surface below. If you fell here, it would be a ten-foot drop into the water and once the Thames claimed you at this time of year, you would freeze to death in minutes as it swept you away from the banking, if the tide didn’t drag you under beforehand.

“Christ,” Palmer muttered and concentrated on where he was putting one foot after the other.

All the while keeping his back to the wooden wall of the warehouse trying desperately to give himself even another half an inch of space away from the black drop into the Thames and death.

“I would ask you if you can swim,” Camille said from up ahead. And for the first time her voice sounded strained.

“But I don’t think that would make a difference, huh?”

Eyes fixed on the drop off and where he was putting his feet, Palmer moved slowly along, then he bumped into Camille who had stopped and was looking through a sizeable hole in the buildings wooden wall.

“Careful!” She hissed.

Palmer swallowed a cry as he nearly lost his footing at the sudden jolt. A lump of soil gave way at his feet and fell into the water with an ominous splash.

“Christ, Christ,” he screwed his eyes shut until he was sure he wasn’t going to follow it.

“Come on, English,” Camille said from surprisingly far away.

He turned and he was alone. “Camille?” His voice sounded thin in the night air.

“Well come on, if you’re coming,” she called from inside.

Palmer cautiously turned and peered in through the hole to see her moonish face in the darkness beyond. She beckoned him in like a siren to a sailor heading for jagged rocks.

She stepped back into the shadows and Palmer moved level with the gap, he ran his hand over its sharp splintered edge.

It was going to be tight, but he calculated he should be able to slip through.

“Think thin,” Camille said from the darkness.

He eased his left shoulder in and slowly inched his way through. He could feel the sharp wood catching against his overcoat and was all too aware of a claw like splinter close to his face, but he forged on. And as he pushed himself the rest of the way through his sleeve caught on a shard and ripped the material and he had to wrench hard to free himself.

Better that than his flesh he thought as he staggered through and into the warehouse itself.

Light from the nearby docks came flooding in through gaps in the building’s ransacked walls, illuminating the vast open space inside in dusty shafts. The place had been completely gutted of anything of use and was now just an empty shell.

Footfalls drifted down towards him, and he could see Camille moving briskly over the uneven floor to a set of wooden steps which led up to a long gantry at the far side of the warehouse. He tapped the pistol in his pocket through the coat, more for comfort than anything and made his way over to where she was waiting, at the foot of the steps. He eyed the rickety looking structure with some trepidation.

Camille caught his reaction and gave a short snort of amusement. “These steps are the easy part,” she said and pointed way up past the steps and along the gantry overhead.

Halfway along the wooden gantry was a ladder, which led up into the darkness of the rafters.

“We need to get onto the roof,” she told him. “You can see right across the river to the warehouse compound on the other side.”

Palmer might have nodded in response, but he couldn’t be sure, his main focus was on just how flimsy that ladder looked. Camille caught his apprehension.

“Unless you want to stay here?” It was a genuine question for once, without a hint of sarcasm. “I just need to see how many guards they have over there this time, and if they have strengthened their defences.”

“No,” he found himself saying, “I’ll come.”

“En avant!” She said with enthusiasm and slapped him on the back.

Palmer watched as she started up the steps. Although he couldn’t tell if her bravado was for his benefit or hers.

There was no doubt in his mind that she was a very capable woman. But he was suddenly reminded of her reaction back at the house at the mention of this Engineer character and the fact he would be at the warehouse.

It had been brief, but yet he had seen genuine fear in her face. Despite this she was willing to risk everything, when she was already away scott-free. To risk it all to help

this Mitchell. How had she described their relationship? A rival turned reluctant ally. And one she had admitted might already be dead.

“You coming?” She called from above.

Palmer started up the thankfully solid steps and told himself not to think too much. The plain fact was this woman, whatever her motivations had saved his life back at the house and that meant he owed her something. And that had to be good enough for now.

When he reached the top, Palmer saw that Camille was already waiting at the bottom of the ladder. Even though the gantry was wide and still sound under foot, he was glad of the wooden rail that ran along its length and kept one hand firmly on it as he moved down to where she was standing.

Camille grinned and pointed up the metal ladder and Palmer could see it led up to a small skylight in the roof.

Palmer paused, he looked at her in the dim light, and for the briefest of moments she seemed even younger than her scant twenty or so years. What government would use a spy so young, he wondered? It seemed monstrous to him.

“What’s wrong?” She asked with a look of confusion.

Palmer realised he was probably looking at her with a newfound sense of admiration. “I just realised,” he said. “I think I’m committing treason.”

“There’s a lot of that going around these days,” she replied, and Palmer caught the hint of regret in her voice.

She seemed to want to say more in way of explanation but hesitated. She glanced at her feet and shook her head. When she looked back up her eyes had lost some of that harshness he had grown to expect.

“I will try and explain,” she said awkwardly. “But later.”

“You saved my life,” he told her. “You don’t have to explain a thing.”

She suddenly clapped her hands together and the moment was gone. “We are wasting time,” she said brightly and started up the ladder.

Well, he said to himself as he grasped the cold metal ladder and put his foot on the first rung. In for a penny, in for a pound. He could feel the thing was wobbling alarmingly already as Camille climbed, but he put it out of his mind as best he could.

He set off gingerly taking it one rung at a time and not looking down. Although something perverse in his subconscious was crying out for him to do so. He fought the urge and climbed on, trying to imagine he was a mere few feet up from a soft grassy lawn.

He heard the high-pitched complaint of metal hinges grinding against each other and chanced a look up. Just in time to see Camille pull herself up through the open skylight

and out onto the roof. He could hear the howling wind from the outside as he approached the opening.

He let out a curse, the ladder was definitely moving now as he neared the top, he could see the bolts holding it in place shifting ever so slightly with every movement he made.

He tore his eyes away and pulled himself up, so he was half in half out. And got a blast of icy wind in his face for his efforts.

Camille was on one knee, halfway across the sloping roof.

Head down, bracing herself against the wind that was whipping around her. She turned and shouted something to Palmer, but it was lost the moment it left her lips. She beckoned him to follow and then gestured to the apex of the roof before scampering off up the steep incline.

Palmer pulled himself up through the skylight and began moving like a toddler on ice on his hands and knees across the slippery moss-covered slates and just prayed the roof could hold his weight.

Camille held out a hand as he reached her and guided him the rest of the way, until they were both at the very apex of the roof, clinging to the ridge tiles that ran all the way along with their elbows.

Their vantage point, through treacherous couldn’t have been better and gave them a bird’s eye view of the entire dock area on both sides of the Thames.

To their right was the mouth of the estuary, and Palmer could see half a dozen ships being unloaded. The cries of the workers and sailors could be heard even over the driving wind.

And he could make out the odd obligatory curse words from the dockers despite the distance.

“Down there,” Camille called over the blustery gusts.

She pointed off to the left across a narrower section of the river, to group of large buildings set away from the water’s edge. They were surrounded by a high chain link fence, an open courtyard type area to the side had a heavy security gate and what looked like a guard house where he could see two uniformed figures huddled around a wood burning iron Brazier for warmth.

The whole area had the look of a military compound about it to Palmer. It was set away from the main docks and warehouses and was linked to the main hub by a long winding road.

Camille pointed to two very grand looking black carriages tethered close to an entrance door by one of the main buildings. Which looked totally out of place in these more practical surroundings.

“Looks like they have visitors,” she said. “Bigwigs, no doubt.”

“At this hour?” Palmer said incredulously.

“These people don’t keep regular hours,” Camille told him. “This place is off official records, I imagine most of

your government and conventional military don’t even know of its existence.”

Palmer tried hard not to think too much about that, and as he took in the whole compound, he saw there was a small dock towards the rear of one of the buildings closest to the water, but this looked too small for commercial use. A small sailboat with its mast wrapped closed was moored at the end of a short jetty, bobbing serenely in the dark water.

“I count two at the gate,” Camille said. “But I’m sure there are soldiers inside, possibly a whole garrison.”

Palmer pointed to the security gate. “They are bound to see us if we come that way.”

“Indeed, but we are not going that way.”

“Across the river?”

“I keep forgetting you are new to all this. How do you say, shenanigans?” She replied with a laugh.

He was about to reply when a side door to one of the larger buildings opened and two men, both clearly carrying rifles came out and began across the courtyard to the guard house by the gate.

“Well, Palmer asked. “If not the river, then how?”

Camille gave a mischievous smile, and her eyes glinted in the gloom. “Come on, it’s time for another piece of the puzzle, Richard Palmer.”

She let go of the ridge tile and let herself slip back down the roof and then scurried across to the skylight.

Palmer left a sudden rush of excitement, but this was tinged with an all too real edge of fear as he watched her go.

Another piece of the puzzle. Hadn’t that been what he wanted all along? Still, his guts churned at the prospect.

“Arh, bollocks to it,” he said and let go.

He slid down the roof, but at a much slower pace than Camille. He stopped himself by the skylight and looked down.

She was already on the gantry. He shook his head and edged himself into the skylight kicking his legs until his feet found a rung. He suddenly let out a maniacal laugh at the madness of it all. It would be just his luck to fall and break his neck before discovering just what strange magical world he had gotten himself into.

SEVEN

When Palmer finally made it down to the solid ground of the warehouse floor, Camille was nowhere to be seen. He called her name, but it just echoed back to him unanswered.

He looked around the vast open space, it was all but empty and as such there was nowhere she could be hiding. He glanced back to the wall and the gap they had entered through.

Despite what she had said, had she deserted him all the same?

Taken the river on some hidden boat. Or had they been

discovered spying on the compound? He drew the pistol from his coat pocket.

“Camille?” He called out again and could hear the desperation in his voice as the word bounced around the cavernous building.

Something shifted deep in the shadows that clung to the very far end of the warehouse, Palmer held the pistol in both hands, but didn’t aim just yet and was suddenly all too aware of his lack of cover if he was attacked.

He heard the scrape of boots on the stone floor and peered into the gloom. It was more a sense of motion at this stage, but as he strained to see, a familiar shape emerged from the shadows.

“Christ,” he breathed and put away the pistol as Camille began towards him.

She was carrying a wooden box by a leather strap over her shoulder and although it appeared to be only approximately two odd feet square, he could see by her laboured gait that whatever it contained had no little weight to it.

He was shocked at how his heart was racing, seeing her approach. And it was clear from her reaction, the emotion was registered on his face.

“I was sent to England to investigate certain rumours,”

she said as she reached him. “Your government, or should I say your army intelligence were said to be dabbling in things they should not.”

She let the strap slip from her shoulder and gently lowered the box onto the stone floor between them and let out a breath of relief.

“There was talk of a weapon,” she continued. “Which is nothing new in of itself during these troubled times.”

“France and Britain are at peace,” Palmer reminded her.

“Indeed, we are,” she acknowledged with a nod. She sat down onto the box to catch her breath. “We didn’t know much at first,” she continued. “Abstract reports of a new device being developed, but little more.”

Palmer eyed the box she was so casually sitting on. The wood looked like polished mahogany in this light. He could see a pair brass hinges at the back and it had a heavy brass combination lock on the front, like one you would see on a bank safe, just below a thin silver metal handle which ran across its length.

“In the end,” she said. “It was your man, Mitchell, he came to me. Thomas Mitchell of her majesty’s secret service to give him his full title,” she added wistfully. “Oh, the run ins we have had in our time.”

“Thomas Mitchell, the traitor,” Palmer clarified bitterly.

He wondered now if that man was worth saving. But, to his surprise it was something more. He felt something in the pit of his stomach at the way she was speaking about him.

Christ, was it jealously about the way she spoke about him?

That look in her eyes?

“It is easy to judge from the outside looking in,” she told him. “But, although no one will ever truly know, Thomas is a hero. And believe me, I do not say that lightly, especially for a member of the British secret service.”

“This device?” Pamler said.

She tapped the box beneath her.

“So, you didn’t seal it yourself?” He asked.

“Oh, yes, but with Mitchell’s invaluable help.”

“Again, I’m finding it hard to sympathise with this man.”

Camille smiled knowingly and took out one of the photographs from a side pocket in her trouser leg. She turned it over and over in her hands.

Palmer craned to see, like a child watching a card trick, but it was moving too fast to make out the image. Perhaps another room?

“Mitch was charged with the role of liaison between the British army and the man...” She paused and a haunted shadow seemed to pass over her young face.

“And I use the term, man, very loosely,” she continued after a long moment of reflection. “Who had been commissioned to actually design and make the device.”

“This Engineer?” Palmer asked.

She nodded and Palmer thought he caught sight of a slight shudder run through her at the name.

“Mitch soon realised who they were dealing with, and most importantly what this device was capable of,” she added gravely.

“That was not his decision to make!” Palmer snapped.

Treason, he knew was just that, treason. And the more that as being revealed to him, the more uncomfortable he became with his role in these clandestine events.

Perhaps he reasoned to himself, it had been the excitement of the adventure as it unfolded. His kidnapping, his near-death experience at the house and of course these glimpses into such miraculous things that beat at the heart of it all.

He suddenly felt a stab of shame at his all too willing part in all this. After all, he was an officer of the law.

He had a self-confessed French spy right here in front of him.

Not to mention some obviously valuable military asset.

As if she could sense his growing disquiet, Camille tossed the photograph up at Palmer and he caught it.

“Doesn’t look like much,” she said. “Does it?”

Palmer examined the picture. Yes, even in the half-light he could see it was a room as he first thought. But this one looked like a basement, or cellar of some kind. And again, like the others, he could make out hints of vivid colour within its dark subject.

“Mitchell took that one,” Camille began to explain, then threw a thumb over to the wall in the direction of the river and the compound beyond. “It’s one of the basements in that building.”

“Where do these come from?” Palmer asked.

“Why from a camera of course,” she replied with a look of someone speaking to an imbecile.

“Alright, alright,” he said testily. “But what are they for?”

“I don’t know the mechanics of it, certainly not the physics,” she said. “That’s for the Engineer and his lunatic designs. But, plainly put, it allows you to jump from anywhere you place the photograph, to the very location of its image.”

Palmer was about to protest at this nonsense, when it hit him. Someone had come in and out of a locked room undetected to steal the neckless. A test run, as Camille had called it earlier. Leaving no trace, save for the photograph and a pile of ash. Then there was the same from the upstairs room of the pub she had inexplicably been able to escape from. And now, this photograph in his hands. Means of a way into that compound across the river.

He remembered the bizarre, almost ritualistic way Camille had acted at the house he had been taken to. The room she had just moments before appeared in, in the wake of that strange powerful yet ultimately harmless force.

She’d had a piece of paper in the palm of her hand, which it wasn’t hard to imagine was connected to the burnt paper at the museum.

“You had been at that house, the one they took me to, before.”

“It’s a well-known place they use from time to time,” she said. “I had thought perhaps that they would take Mitchell there. So, I broke in the day before and took the photograph of the room, just in case.”

No wonder the British army, not to mention the French were so desperate to get their hands on such a device. The possibilities for the military and espionage use were limitless.

“This is miraculous,” Palmer said, his head spinning.

“This is war,” Camille replied gravely.

She got to her feet and squared up to him. And despite her being a good foot shorter, Palmer found himself taking an involuntary step back.

“Don’t you see what this could mean?” She asked. “If one side or the other had something of this power. Can you imagine what they would do with it?”

“An arms race is nothing new,” Palmer pointed out.

“But this would end that race,” she stated. “If perfected, whole armies could cross continents in the blink of an eye. Global peace is a fragile thing. And a large part of

that is one side never truly having an unassailable advantage over the other.”

Palmer felt his blood chill, but still he drew himself up to his full height.

“I can’t let you take this back to France,” he told her.

It was a threat, no doubt about it, but one, he knew deep down he would struggle to carry out. He thought for a brief moment about reaching for the pistol in his coat pocket. But remembered just how good she was with a firearm.

She gave him a quizzical look, then seemed to register what he was saying.

“No!” She replied. “I don’t want this for my government. They are as dangerous and ambitious as yours!

Mitchell knew the truth of it as soon as he realised what the Engineer had created. No nation can be trusted with something like this.”

“So, what are you suggesting?”

“I’m going to destroy it, as soon as I am sure Mitchell is dead,” a hint of mischief flashed in her eyes. “Or, perhaps I will keep it for myself. It would be very useful in my line of work.”

Palmer couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“There. You wanted to know what all this is about,” she said plainly. “And I have told you. So, what do you say? I can do this with or without your help, Richard Palmer.”

He looked past her to the box. So, there it was, he thought with a chill. A weapon so powerful, yet so small that could ignite a war. He found himself wondering just what a hero he would be if he took it. The device could enable the British empire to expand its scope even further, and with such ease.

But that would no doubt rally the rest of the entire world against them. The death and destruction would be apocalyptic. All that pain and suffering from such small beginnings and, despite his innocence at the start of things, wouldn’t he be just as responsible for those deaths when he’d had an opportunity to aid in the device’s destruction, and done nothing about it? Worse still, handed it to those it would embolden.

It was a sobering, heady conundrum, and not one Palmer thought he would be having just a few short hours ago.

Camille had given up everything for this, and so had her counterpart, Mitchell. Both traitors to the countries they had served and loved. Countries they would have undoubtedly died for in the past. But ones they knew deep down could not be trusted with this dark horrifying power.

Who the hell was he to stand in the way of such selflessness? Camille tilted her head slightly and a frown played on her lips. And Palmer realised he was smiling. At the absurdity of his situation, for one, and in truth the fact

that he would have little to no chance of actually taking the box from the hellion standing in front of him.

But in reality, it occurred to him that more than anything, he desperately wanted to know how the photographs worked. He wanted to feel what it was like to defy the very laws of physics. And who wouldn’t?

“Bollocks to it,” he said and waved the photograph at Camille. “So, how the hell does this thing work?”

She gave him a faux frown of annoyance and snatched the photograph from his hand with amazing speed. Proof again, Palmer thought that he really would have had no chance at out drawing her. She went back over to the box and knelt in front of it.

She turned the lock clockwise, and Palmer heard the faintest of clicks. He craned his neck to see the combination but was surprised to see they were in fact hieroglyphic type symbols instead of numbers. He moved closer and Camille made no attempt to hide what she was doing.

She turned it again anticlockwise and now that he was closer Palmer could see there were two further rings each in descending size within the first and each with a dozen or so symbols. She moved onto the middle disk turned it to various symbols and finally to the smallest, each time rewarded with another click.

She then pressed the palm of her hand on the locks central pin and the lid of the boxed opened. She pushed it back and Palmer could now see that whatever was inside was tantalisingly covered with a white cloth.

“It really is all quite simple,” Camille told him.

“There are no magical incantations or witchcraft. It’s all about the blood.”

“Blood?” Palmer exclaimed and moved to the side for a better look.

Camille whipped off the cloth like a magician revealing the rabbit in a hat. And, using both hands she took out the strange camera. She grunted and strained a little under its weight.

“Shut the lid, would you?” She asked Palmer, and he gently kicked it shut with his heel.

She laid the device on the top of the box. Palmer was no expert in photography, but this was like no camera he had ever seen before. Then she casually tossed down the photograph next to it.

It was made from what looked like highly polished silver and brass. Its basic size was similar to that or a normal camera, but instead of a plain box shaped body, it had half a dozen or so thin metal tubes and wires woven from each side to the front. The body of the camera was perhaps five inches deep, by twelve inches long, and had two hand grips either side bound in leather.

The face was flat and dominated by the lens, which was fitted to the body by a series of intricate brass brackets and screws. The lens itself, which only protruded an inch from the casing, was some five inches in diameter and seemed to be made from what appeared to Palmer like shimmering, almost liquid looking glass. It flickered with a myriad of vivid colours, even in the meagre light coming through the mildewed windows and gaps in the wooden walls of the warehouse.

Yet for all this intricate, delicate design, Palmer couldn’t see for the life of him where a photographic plate would go, let alone fit.

Camille moved the device slightly to one side and took out the paper she had pocketed earlier. Now that he could get a good look at the paper, he could see that it seemed thicker than normal, and it put him in mind of the type he had seen in the natural history museum. Egyptian papyrus paper, only not weathered with age and blank.

Camille put the paper onto the box and smoothed it out, then carefully tore it into two, three-inch squares.

“I think any paper would do,” she said as she worked.

“But these came with the camera, so why take that chance?”

“One each?” Palmer asked.

“No, one will take us over, the other is...“ She paused and turned to him with an impish grin. “Hopefully for our return.”

Palmer scooped up the photograph of the dank looking basement and try as he might, he couldn’t imagine how this small piece of paper was going to transport both of them, through the warehouse wall, across the river and into that building beyond.

“This is madness,” he uttered.

“No,” Camille said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Just science, and a little of the unknown.”

She stopped, lost in thought for a moment then shrugged to herself. “I suppose there is more than a little magic in all of this after all,” she mused. “You would be surprised how common that can be. Oh, the things I’ve seen Palmer.”

Palmer was about to respond incredulously to that when she snatched the photograph back from him and placed it in her breast pocket.

“First, the blood,” she said with surprising nonchalance.

Camille ran her fingers along the right side of the camera and there was an audible click, and she took out of all things an ornate looking thick needle from some hidden compartment in the casing.

She held the needle up and Palmer crouched down to get a better look. It was approximately four inches long and as he focused on it, he could make out a series of interwoven grooves and ridges carved into the metal with minute, exquisite detail. There was a small glass bell type reservoir fashioned on the opposite end to the point.

“That’s beautiful,” Palmer breathed.

“Give me your hand.”

He let Camille take his hand and just registered what she was going to do when she plunged the needle into his forearm.

He winced in anticipation of the sharp sting to come but felt nothing. It penetrated his skin and was out again before he knew it.

Again, Camille held up the needle for him to see.

“Watch,” she whispered.

His blood ran down the grooves and ridges of the needle, coating it as it flowed down and collected in the reservoir.

Palmer absently rubbed his arm and watched as Camille then let a few drops of his blood flow back down the needle and onto, first one, then the other piece of paper.

This done, she replaced the still bloody needle into the side of the device and waited. “Not so bad, eh?” She said motioning to his arm.

He shook his head in response, his eyes still fixed on where the needle had gone into the camera with the rest of his blood.

“The blood connects the camera to the photograph, the paper is the ignition of the two,” Camillie explained.

“That doesn’t make a drop of sense,” Palmer told her plainly.

“It doesn’t need to.”

She took the needle back out of the camera, cleaned it off with her shirt sleeve and then repeated the whole process on herself this time. Palmer could see several tiny holes on her forearm from her previous adventures with the procedure.

“Now!” She said after she returned the needle and scooped up the two drying papers. “We need to make a copy of Mitchell’s photograph. As he took it, I don’t believe it will work for us. It may do,” she added thinking about this. “But I don’t know enough about all this to be sure, so why take the risk?”

Sure, Palmer thought, why not? That made just as much sense as any of this anyway.

“And to be totally honest,” Camille confessed with a mischievous smile. “I have been wanting to try the copy accessory since I got the camera.”

Perhaps it was her young age and sudden youthful exuberance, but as she crouched there over the device, she looked to Palmer for all the world like a child tinkering with a newly opened Christmas present. It might actually have been endearing were it not for the fact his life was in her over-excited hands.

Camille handed him the papers and took out the photograph. Palmer looked around the empty warehouse melodramatically. “I don’t see a photography studio in here, unless it’s invisible of course?”

She gave him a look of mild distain then gestured to the box. “Make yourself useful, pick up the camera, would you?”

Palmer did as he was instructed and grasped a hold of the hand grips, he lifted the device, and was prepared for how weighty it might be, but was shocked at just how heavy it actually was.

Camille quickly opened the box’s lid and took out a small delicate looking bracket from a side pouch and shut it again.

She gestured to the top and Palmer gratefully put the camera back down.

Palmer crouched down next to her as she carefully slotted the bracket over the lens using two ridges down each side until it was held security in place. Then she took the photograph of the basement and slipped it into the bracket, so it completely covered the lens.

“I don’t know much,” Palmer chimed in. “But there is no way that will be in focus.”

“That is true,” Camille replied slightly adjusting the photograph. “You don’t know much.”

She reached around to the back of the camera by the right-hand grip and Palmer heard a soft ‘clunk’ sound. A short sharp pulse of low energy knocked Palmer onto his backside. It wasn’t so much the force, but the shock of the odd sensation. He felt the hairs on his entire body bristle.

It reminded him of a residual hint of the energy he had felt back at the house when Camille had made her dramatic entrance.

The camera suddenly began to emit a low whirring sound, like tiny cogs turning against each other inside. Then after a moment a thin slit opened up on the top of the camara above the handles at the back and a photograph slid out.

“Unbelievable,” Palmer gasped.

Camille took out the photograph and the slit snapped shut once more. She showed it to him. “Et Voila!”

It was a perfect copy of the original. “Wonders it seems,” he breathed reverentially. “Will never cease.”

“Now, can you imagine how easy it would be to, say duplicate a photograph of the courtyard of an enemy compound?

Camille asked. “Perhaps a hundred times or more? Now do you see what I mean?”

Palmer nodded. “How long have you had this thing?” He asked amazed at her knowledge of the workings of the device.

“A week or so,” she replied after a moment’s thought.

“Just a week?” Palmer exclaimed. “How many times have you used it? How the hell do you know so much about how it works? The copies, the blood, all of it?”

It came out more of a rant than he had intended, but there it was, he had said it. Camille gave him a look of mild amusement. She tapped the box.

“There’s an instruction manual inside,” she told him with no little condescension.

Palmer’s face flushed and he slowly got to his feet, his leg was complaining again, and his shin felt like it was made with shards of shattered glass. He bit back a cry of pain and was thankful Camille was too busy with the camera to notice.

“And now!” Camille announced. “For our return.”

She picked up the camera and Palmer instinctively moved to help, but she shook her head. She hefted the device around on her hip, braced it against her stomach and pointed it towards the warehouse’s bare floor some five feet from where they were standing.

The camera had no visible means of lighting the scene, no external flash powder holder or anything on the camera body itself. But something told Palmer such simple illumination devises were not needed here.

“This should bring us straight back here,” she said.

“Now, close your eyes.”

Palmer did as he was told and readied himself for a jolt like before.

“Here goes,” she warned.

Again, a soft clunk, but this time accompanied by a short sharp blast of heat and Palmer saw the flash even through his closed eyelids.

Camille started giggling and when the light died down, Palmer cautiously opened his eyes. She had put the camera back on the box and was bend over with her hands on her knees looking flustered.

“You alright?” Palmer asked.

“Phew!” She exclaimed with a shake of her head. “That is an experience, and no mistake.”

Still laughing she straightened herself back up. She jumped on the spot and shook out her arms and legs in an odd giddy jig. Finally, she stopped and smoothed down her hair, regaining her dignity somewhat.

The camera began its now familiar whirring and grinding again and after a moment a photograph slowly came out of the top as before. Camille pulled it out and the slit snapped shut. She ran her eyes over the image with a slight frown of concentration.

“That will do,” she said and showed it to Palmer.

It looked ironically like nothing special at all, just the warehouse’s stone floor, almost as if someone had dropped the camera mid-photographing something far more important.

The image could have been colour, but since all it had captured was grey concrete it was impossible to tell.

Over by the box, Camille, still smiling picked up the camera kicked open the box lid and placed the camera back into its place. She replaced the bracket and then shut the lid and twisted the combination rings this way and that.

She turned to Palmer and the smile faded from her face.

“You cannot know where I am hiding this,” she said with gravitas and tapped the box with her foot.

“I won’t say a word to anyone,” Palmer told her, a little hurt by the remark.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just...” Her voice trailed off and she had to clear her throat before continuing. “If the Engineer gets his hands on you, like he has Mitchell. There will be nothing you can do to resist him.”

“I have no intention of...” Palmer began before she cut him off.

“He is a master of torture, there are none better. And what’s more, he likes it.” She pointed to the gap in the way they had come in through. “Go wait over there,” she ordered.

“I will be back soon.”

“What if he captures you?” Palmer asked almost petulantly.

She locked eyes with him. Her cold gaze razored edged.

“He will not get close. I will shoot myself first.”

With this she slipped on the shoulder strap, hauled up the box and moved off. Palmer turned to go to the gap as ordered but he paused and watched her as she went. The gravitas of those words weighing heavily on him. Then he finally turned and limped off towards the back of the warehouse and the gap in the wall.

He gazed through the gap and out into the river beyond and thought long and hard about what was about to happen.

Then, more for something to do than anything, he took out the pistol and checked the action. It was smaller than his usual Webley, but it would have to do.

The Thames seemed so peaceful as the slow flowing surface shimmered from the dozens of lights coming from the docks. He had no idea what time it was, but the noise drifting across the night air was as prevalent and harsh as ever. It was a place that never slept, as long as there was money to be made.

It was perhaps only five or ten minutes when he heard Camille come back into the warehouse and come through the darkness and over to where he was waiting. The camera must still be close, he reasoned. But with the number of buildings in the area, used and abandoned, it may well have been in Timbuktu for all the good it did him to speculate.

“Cheer up, miserable English bastard,” she said as he approached. And Palmer was grateful to see her mischievous grin once more.

She came over to the wall on the other side of the gap and beckoned him to join her. She placed the photograph of the basement onto the damp wood, and it stuck there as if pinned. She then took out the photograph of the basement floor and waved it at him.

“Now look where I am putting this,” she told him very deliberately. And she slipped it into the left side pocket of her trousers.

“Remember where it is. If anything happens to me, use it to get back here.”

Palmer nodded, his mouth dry and he had to swallow to be able to speak. “The camera?” He croaked out.

“No one will find it,” she said. “That dies with me.

But in years if they do, they will have no idea how to use it, I destroyed the instruction manual.”

Again, he nodded. Palmer desperately wanted to say something poignant to her, but his growing fear had robbed him of any eloquence he might once have had.

Camille held up the two bloody pieces of paper. She selected one and made great show of putting it into her right trouser leg pocket, making sure Palmer knew exactly where it was. He nodded his understanding.

She then took the other and placed it blood face out into the palm of her right hand, the way Palmer had seen her do at the house.

“It is all very simple,” she said and held out her left hand for him to take.

He wiped his sweaty palm on his sleeve and took a hold of her hand, gripping it tightly.

“Does it hurt?” He asked softly.

“No,” she replied. “But it is quite disorientating, especially with the first time. Once we are across there, take a moment to get your bearings.”

Palmer exhaled and took out the pistol with his free hand and squeeze Camille’s.

“Ready?” She asked.

“Christ no.”

“Perfect.”

Palmer braced himself as Camille drew back her right arm as if she was getting ready to punch the photograph open handed with the bloody paper. He screwed his eyes tight shut as she closed hers and slammed her palm into the photograph connecting the two.

EIGHT

The effect was instantaneous. Palmer felt like a heavy weight boxer had punched him in the solar plexus. Yet strangely, although he felt the impact, it lasted no more than the blink of an eye. It didn’t knock the wind out of him like reason dictated it should, nor did he stagger backwards.

Conversely, he felt himself being pulled with great force forwards. And he instinctively braced himself for the inevitable impact of the wall. But he just kept moving forwards as if a rope had been looped around his chest and he was being pulled ever onwards.

Searing multi-coloured lights danced under his eyelids for a brief moment and his ears popped. Then there was

nothing, no sight, sound or feeling of any kind and Richard Palmer wondered if he was dead.

Then suddenly a jarring impact as he was sent sprawling across a rough concrete floor. He rolled over and over until he slammed against a brick wall.

He was vaguely aware he was gasping and muttering something and could taste blood him his mouth from where he had bitten his lip. Dark shapes began to appear within the gloom, and he tried to get to his feet, but collapsed as his legs refused to support him.

Disorientated, he looked down at his prone body in disbelief, he was enveloped in a thin layer of vapour. Thin tendrils of bright white lightning arced and cavorted across his legs and torso and down his arms. He brought his hand up to his face, the lightning, fading already jumped between his fingers, until finally it disappeared. The thinning vapour rose up from his body into the air, until that too dissipated.

He heard an impish chuckle someway off and he squinted across the basement to see Camille, who was of course already up on her feet, pistol drawn and ready for action. The last remnants of vapour drifting from her shoulders like fleeing ghosts. The last of the thin white lightning danced momentarily across her eyes then disappeared.

She stepped over to him and held out a hand, he took it, and she pulled him to his feet. Palmer paused, head spinning, swaying like a drunkard at closing time and waited for his balance to return.

“Very balletic,” Camille teased and dusted off his shoulders.

Palmer caught his breath and took in the room. “Christ,”

he uttered as his equilibrium finally returned.

He felt his chest, then his arms and legs, half expecting to be covered in blood and bruises, but apart from his lip, he was unharmed. Even his dodgy leg felt numb at best.

Camille was already making her way up a set of stone steps to a door at the top.

Then the heat hit him. They were in fact in a boiler room, thick pipes snaked across the ceiling and off through the brick walls. The massive boiler itself was hissing, spluttering and creaking under the pressure in one corner.

As he moved forwards, he kicked something and looked down.

“Christ,” he muttered in embarrassment.

His pistol lay on the stone floor by his foot, in all the excitement he hadn’t even realised he had dropped it.

“Amateur!” He softly cursed himself and picked it up.

The metal was quite hot to the touch, and he winced thinking of the rather combustible bullets inside.

“Palmer!” Camille called down to him as quietly as she could. “Come on!” He came up the steps to join her by the door.

“Listen,” she whispered and pointed at the wood.

Palmer pressed his ear to the door and listened. He could her muffled voices coming from the other side and cocked his pistol. Camille shook her head and motioned with her free hand for him to wait.

Eventually the voices died away and Camille gingerly opened the door a sliver and peered through the gap.

“You’re not going to kick me out as a decoy again, are you?” Palmer whispered only half joking.

This won a grin from the French woman, she opened the door further and slipped out. Palmer followed close behind, his heart hammering hard in his chest.

They came out into a narrow dimly lit corridor, with an open door almost opposite the boiler room. Camille froze, but as Palmer came to her side, he could see there was no one in the room beyond.

“Let’s go,” Camille whispered, and they moved inside.

The room was large with two rows of bunks on either side.

A makeshift barracks for the guards, Palmer thought, each bunk had a heavy padlocked military style footlocker at its base.

He quickly totted up the number, twelve on either side. And, thankfully, despite the hour they were all empty.

“My God,” Palmer breathed. “What is this place?”

“Private militia.”

“Here? In Britain?” He replied, shocked.

“Perhaps, you can arrest them all once we’re finished,”

she said with a smirk.

They walked between the rows and down to another door, this one closed at the far end. Once they reached it, Camille once again teased it open an inch and looked outside.

Palmer strained to see over Camille, there was a large warehouse beyond, with crates of various sizes stacked in rows some twenty feet high, then he glimpsed two men, a little way off, not in uniform but each with a rifle slung over their shoulder. They were walking across a large open section from one side of the warehouse to the other.

He could tell from their body language they were engaged in a heated, but oddly muted conversation as if in fear of being heard. He caught hints of their raised voices but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.

The two men paused, deep in hushed disagreement and Palmer tensed. One pointed in their direction and both he and Camille froze, but his companion shook his head and gestured across the warehouse. Then they set off, one clearly reluctantly, over to another door just visible between two stacks of canvas covered crates.

It was clear by the exaggerated caution in the way they moved that neither of this pair should be in this area at all.

Once they reached the door, they both pressed their ears against the wood, listening.

“What are they doing?” Palmer asked in a hushed tone.

“Perhaps Mitchell is in there,” Camille replied.

One of the men suddenly came away from the door, and even from where he was, Palmer could see the man was greatly distressed by something he had heard in there. He roughly pulled the other man away and the pair rushed off across the warehouse away from Palmer and Camille and soon disappeared amongst the crates at the other end. A moment later, the sound of a heavy door being closed echoed down towards them.

“Come on,” Camille said, and they made their way across the open area and over to the side door. All the while keeping their attention trained in the direction the two men had gone.

As they reached the door, Palmer noticed a dim orange light coming from the gap between the bottom of the door and the concreate flooring.

Camille pressed her ear against the wood, she closed her eyes, listening. But even from where he was standing, Palmer could see the door was much heavier than most. This was confirmed when after a few seconds Camille shook her head and frowned. Whatever the men had heard to make them shrink away had stopped, but he realised with a swallow, must have been hellish loud.

Camille shrugged in frustration and motioned for Palmer to be ready with his pistol. Palmer nodded and took another cautionary glance the way the two men had gone, just in case.

Camille took a hold of the bulky metal door handle and slowly pushed down and tugged, but the door was locked. She reached into an inside pocket of her jacket and took out a small cloth bag with a draw string. She opened it and took out what Palmer knew was a set of lock picks.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” she whispered.

She knelt on one knee and began trying each of the various different shape and sized picks which were on a ring.

Until after an impressively short amount of time, she was rewarded with a soft click and the door opened ever so slightly. More light came through the gap and lit her face in a flickering orange glow.

The pops and cracks of an open fire could be heard from inside. Camille nudged open the door a little and readied her pistol. She gave Palmer a look and he nodded, and she opened the door further and they stepped inside.

It was a large workshop of some kind, which was dominated by a large heavy wooden table, which had been put on its end in the centre of the room and as they came in further, Palmer could see it has been secured in place with metal brackets bolted to the stone floor.

It faced away from them and towards a set of heavy sliding wooden doors, common in warehouses for loading and unloading larger items. A smaller, personnel door was set to one side for easier access.

A long work bench ran by the side of the upturned table, with what looked like all manner of strange metal cogs,

pulleys, and long cylindrical glass bulbs with thick twisted filaments just visible through patches of blackened glass spread out along it.

A large metal box with half a dozen or so dials and switches on its face was connected to a vast array of equipment the likes of which Palmer had never seen, by a tangle of thick multi-coloured wires. These all snaked up to the front of the table and connected to God only knew what, as they were still behind it.

The flickering light from the large open fire sent orange and black shadows dancing all around the room as Camille slowly began to approach the table.

Palmer, for his part was transfixed by the dizzying array of machinery on the bench and made his way over to it for a close look. He absently put his pistol back in the coat pocket as he approached.

Also connected to the box was a cylindrical brass clockwork counter. As he came closer, he could see it was ticking off descending numbers. He felt a stab of fear, it could easily be a bomb timer of some kind.

“Camille,” he whispered, transfixed on the devise as it continued its descent.

Twenty flicked over to nineteen. And he realised it wasn’t actually counting off seconds but some other unknown metric. As he watched and waited for eighteen.

“Camille!” He whispered again, more urgently this time.

He was about to turn to her when the breath caught in his throat. Half hidden in the clutter on the table was an open surgeon’s instrument leather bundle, with a set of still bloody medical equipment laid out on it.

Scalpels, needles, steel clamps and other devises he could not name with a gun to his head, all of various bizarre designs and sizes. Some had ornate carved ridges in the metal which put Palmer instantly in mind of the needle in the camera.

A glass syringe with a long needle still attached laid next to the bungle and he could see the remnants of a vivid green liquid inside.

Palmer had seen medical equipment before, but nothing as strange and downright surreal as these. He couldn’t imagine what twisted surgeon would wield such things and was glad of it.

A pitiful cry came from behind him and Palmer turned to see Camille with her hand clasped over her mouth as she looked on in utter horror to what all this manner of lunacy was hooked up to.

He almost cried out himself at the look of naked despair on her youthful face. All that air of confidence and strength she so effortlessly exuded had fled. And for the first time since meeting her Camille truly looked her young age, like a lost frightened child. The flickering firelight caught great

pools of tears welling in her wide eyes as she reached out a trembling hand towards the unseen horror she was facing.

Palmer desperately wanted to go to her, but he glanced again at the insanity of the workbench, at the surgical equipment and the descending counter.

Now he remembered that look of fleeting fear in Camille’s eyes back at the house at the mention of the name. This was the work of the Engineer, as he thought grimly, was whatever poor Camille was now looking at.

“Oh, Mitch,” Camille uttered, and Palmer saw her fingers come away dripping blood from what she had touched.

Richard Palmer had seen death before, you could find it anywhere in this city. In the gutters, in its flop houses, whore houses, on the streets and back alleys. Men, women and children butchered attacked and murdered for as little as a few pennies or a bottle of gin. He knew first-hand what mankind was capable of.

But he instinctively knew as he slowly moved over to Camille’s side. All that death would be a mere prelude to that capacity for malice and cruelty hidden somewhere inside all of us.

He was not disappointed. But this wasn’t wrought by a jealous lover, or some mindless rabid maniac with a butcher’s knife. This was meticulous, this was cold calculating mutilation and evisceration. This was pure evil.

Palmer gagged at the sight before him, he swallowed hard against his churning stomach, he exhaled a long slow breath, which helped. The nausea remained but was held at bay for now. He put an arm around Camille’s trembling shoulders as much for his comfort as her own.

Mitchell’s naked body, for he was surely dead, was held upright on the table by a metal band that had been placed across what was left of his mutilated chest. His feet, or what was left of them, dangled uselessly a few inches from the stone floor.

Palmer was put in mind of some university lecturer’s medical anatomy mannequin, every part of the poor man seemed dissected or removed completely in some way. His arms dangled by his sides and Palmer could see that the bone of his left forearm had been removed and replaced by what looked like a wooden facsimile. The skin of his left shin had been flayed off to expose the muscle and in parts white bone beneath.

Mitchell’s chest and ribcage had been cracked open and the two flaps of bloody flesh had been pinned to either side, like a frog dissected in a lab, to reveal the poor man’s lungs and other viscera.

If it were possible, even worse was still to come. The flesh and bone of the left side of his skull had been removed, his eye, was now nothing more than a hollow bloody socket.

His brain was visible and actually looked like it had been

washed clean to allow his tormentor better sight of the grey matter.

The mass of wires from the box on the bench were connected into the flesh in various places by copper needles.

One in the exposed heart, or at least what his secondary education in biology assumed that lump of glistening flesh to be. Two more were in bedded either side of Mitchell’s temples. Others in his legs and groin area. Palmer prayed these atrocities had all been carried out post-mortem as the alternative threatened his very sanity.

He looked away, his head throbbing, and Camille turned away with him as he did so.

“Christ,” he mumbled nauseously. “Jesus, Christ on the cross.”

There was much more of this horror to be seen, but Palmer feared his wits would flee him if he took in more.

“Ce monster,” Camille hissed animalistically from his side.

That monster, Palmer didn’t need a degree in French to understand that. He moved to take her free hand, but it was balled into a tight fist.

“Christ Camille, I’m so, so sorry.” Now he understood why she was so afraid of being captured alive.

Palmer became vaguely aware of the click, click, clicking of the counter on the bench to his left.

“We should go,” he told her. At least they would be away from this nightmare in a moment using the photograph.

“I’m going to kill him,” Camille vowed.

“Do you want to end up like, like that?”

He gently took her arm, but she wrenched it free. She moved to open the side pocket on her trouser leg.

“No!” Palmer snapped. She was going to give him the paper and photograph, tell him to leave her here.

“This is not your decision to make,” she said with a finality that felt like a slap in the face. “Take these and go.”

“Camille, no. This is madness!”

Click, click, then a loud ‘thunk’.

The breath caught in Palmer’s throat, and he spun around just as the counter reached zero. He let out a curse and braced himself, but there was no explosion, simply a spark, and the box shuddered. The dials on the front of the box began flitting wildly.

The wheels, cogs and gears connected to the box suddenly began turning and hissing as they sprung into grinding life.

The bulbs all started to throb with pulsating power and a sort of intermittent sparking sound filled the air.

He watched the display, mesmerised. The countdown wasn’t to set off a bomb, but to activate all these many devices that were all now animatedly moving and whirring with some mad

synchronicity, he didn’t have to wait long to discover to what ends.

Mitchell’s body abruptly started to jolt and shudder, Palmer stepped away from the horrific sight fearing it might convulse free of its metal housing towards him. The poor dead man’s exposed muscle and sinew began to convulse and ripple as the current ran through it.

“Camille,” he urged and took her arm. “Let’s go!”

Camille turned and he gasped at the sheer desolation on her face. She nodded slightly and he pulled her away from the awful sight of her one-time ally’s bodily desecration.

Palmer frantically looked around the large firelit room.

They could jump back from her or risk returning to the boiler room.

“Which way?” He asked breathlessly.

Camille seemed to regain her steely composure once more and Palmer thanked God for it. She took in her surroundings.

“Camille...” A hollow voice from behind them. The sound was more a death rattle than a word, and it froze them both in their tracks.

“No...” Camille uttered in horror.

“Christ,” Palmer breathed, the sound made him sick to his stomach. Would this madness never end?

Palmer desperately wanted to put his hands over his ears and scream the sound away. Camille turned back to the upturned table.

“Mitch?” She stuttered in disbelief.

And Palmer, God help him, did the same. He uttered an oath to whatever lunatic deity would allow such things.

Mitchell’s body was dancing an obscene jig, hanging from the many wires like some insane meat puppet accompanied by the mechanical chorus emitting from the bench’s many instruments.

He was dead, Palmer’s addled brain screamed in his head, the electrical assault was just giving the illusion of life, the juddering movements, nothing more than involuntary spasms.

That one word, nothing more than the last breath left in the dead man’s lungs expelled by the energy running through the cadaver.

But Palmer bit back a scream when Mitchell’s one remaining eye opened and shone with a horrible sentience, it darting around the room until it fell back upon Camille.

Mitchell fought to speak, each gasping breath a torture coming from his exposed lungs, his throat was open below the chin to his Adam’s apple and shuddered horribly as he tried to form the words.

“Camille...” The inexplicably living corpse spluttered.

Camille grew ridged at the butchered word.

“Look away,” Palmer begged her.

But she couldn’t or more likely he feared, she wouldn’t look away from this nightmare of flesh and wires.

The scattered paraphernalia’s morbid function was now all too clear. Mitchell had been dead, of that there could be no doubt. But now it was in motion, flooding his dead nerve endings with power, it had somehow brought him back.

“Cam...” Mitchell pleaded. “Destroy this thing...” The horrendous pain on his mutilated features as all too apparent.

Camille, half in shock, looked at her friend’s decimated body. She shook her head slightly. How do you kill something that should already be dead?

“The Engineer?” She managed to ask.

“I’m so, sorry,” he slurred. “I told them... Our meeting in the pub...” He sucked in air and his lungs bulged obscenely. “Couldn’t help...” His voice failed as another round of shocks ran through him.

“God, man,” Camille sobbed. “It’s not your fault.” She was crying openly now.

The counter on the bench clicked from zero back to thirty. The instant it did all the devises powered down and slowly ground to a halt. As this happened, Mitchell’s body shuddered and slumped forwards on the metal bracket and a last bloody breath escaped his lips.

“Kill...”

“Mitchell!” Camille approached the now lifeless body.

She paused and Palmer could see she desperately wanted to embrace the man, but the repulsion was too much.

Over on the bench, the counter clicked onto twenty-nine.

It was going to start all over again, Palmer realised in horror. That monster, this Engineer, had constructed the ultimate torture device. One that every thirty cycles wrenched his victim back from death itself. Back to a few moments of unimaginable pain and terror, of utter purgatory before starting the insanity all over again.

He could not imagine a worse kind of hell. Palmer’s first instinct was to shoot the poor bastard in the head. But that was pure folly given the state of him now. If he could be brought back from that, would a bullet make any difference at all?

Camille suddenly let out an almost bestial screech of pain fuelled rage. All thought of stealth now gone. She raised the Mauser up to Mitchell’s lolling head and fired twice.

“Bastard!” She screamed.

She then aimed at the bench and emptied the remaining eight rounds into the box. She methodically reloaded as she strode over to the bench and began to smash the bulbs and pulled at the wires, sending the box and the other connected devices onto the floor where she stomped on them. The wires attached to Mitchell’s body came out one by one as she worked her way along the bench destroying anything and everything, she could get her hands on.

Anything she couldn’t physically smash, he picked up and launched against the wall.

Over the din of her rage, Palmer heard shouts from outside and ran over to the large double doors, just as the side personnel door opened and a guard clumsily moved to come through but was struggling with his rifle. Palmer could see there was a long corridor behind the man and three more guards running down towards them.

Palmer reluctantly raised his pistol at the man, but the guard stopped dead, his face a frozen mask of shock as he looked past Palmer and to the horror dangling from the table.

“Christ,” the guard uttered, and the colour drained from his face.

Suddenly the guard’s head snapped to one side and the back of his head exploded, from a bullet Palmer felt zip past his ear.

Camille roared in defiance from behind him and was at his side in a heartbeat. She shouldered past him and fired into the corridor beyond.

“Vas t’emmerder!” She screamed. “I will kill you all!”

Palmer pulled her back into the room just as a volley of shots ripped into the wooden door frame close to them. As he closed the door, he glanced into the corridor to see one guard on his knees clutching his stomach and another three or four further back crouching for cover, rifles raised.

He felt several bullets hit the door after he slammed it shut, but it was thick enough that none of them actually penetrated the wood. He frantically checked, but there was no locking bolt or even a keyhole on this side.

“Bollocks!” His voice echoed around the cavernous room.

Palmer reasoned they wouldn’t come through in a hurry, but that didn’t mean they would be any less vulnerable from attack when they did. Especially if they opened the main sliding door. He remembered the beds, what was it twenty-four? That was a lot of fire power.

Camille was panting and pacing around the room like a feral beast looking for something to kill.

“Camille!” He shouted. “We need to go, now!”

She suddenly rounded on him, her eyes oddly lifeless given her rage and for one terrible moment, Palmer thought she was going to shoot him too. But her face finally softened, and she lowered her pistol. Her shoulders slumped as if all the pent-up energy had drained away from her slight frame.

“Monster,” she hissed to the floor.

Palmer nodded, but they both knew vengeance would have to wait for another day.

“Tut, those who cannot create, destroy.”

The clipped English male voice was at once in front but also behind them, close yet distant. Its timbre was that of someone speaking from the horn of a phonograph but magnified and oddly directionless.

Palmer wheeled around a full three hundred and sixty degrees trying to locate the man. But of course, they were alone in the room. There was a large skylight high above their heads, but it was closed and whoever it was speaking sounded close by.

“Palmer,” Camille prompted. “There and there.”

She pointed with her pistol to a wooden box with a mess front attached high up where the ceiling met the wall, then to another across the other side of the room, lower down on the wall itself.

“Show yourself you bastard!” Camille shouted to the rafters.

“Oh, I think not, sweetness,” the metallic disembodied voice replied. “I must say, I thought you would never get here.”

Palmer remembered the other door, the one they had originally come in through. He bolted across the room and gingerly opened it so he could peek out into the warehouse beyond. It was thankfully still empty.

“Camille!” He shouted across to her. “Two ways in, can you lock this one again?” But she was too preoccupied with glancing between the two wall mounted boxes. “Camille?”

She gestured to Mitchell’s body. “Why did you do this to him? You monster.”

“Crude, I know,” came the reply, and even through the inadequate speaker boxes the arrogance was plain to hear in his voice. “Little more than a thumb nail sketch of what it could be, given time. ”

“Why!?” Camille demanded.

“Truth be told, I am not sure yet. But I’m sure the device, once perfected, once nuanced, will show me its true purpose, given time. If not? Well, it has been quite amusing to tinker with.”

“I will kill you, you sadist,” Camille yelled.

“We shall see, mon cher,” the Engineer replied.

“Camille!” Palmer snapped and ran over to her. “We have to get out of here,” he pointed to the back door. “Can you lock that door?”

“He has to be close by,” Camille mumbled searching the shadows overhead. She peered up to the grubby glass of the skylight. “Has to be.”

“I don’t care,” Palmer said. “In a few minutes, they are going to come through that door,” he pointed to the large double doors, then threw a thumb to the back door. “Or that one!”

Camille ignored him and continued to search for any sign of her tormentor above.

“Christ!” Palmer exclaimed.

He saw a heavy looking chair laid on its side amongst the debris that littered the floor around the bench. He ran across to it and dragged it over to the back of the room. He

slammed the back door shut and wedged the chair as best he could under the handle, he kicked it in place with his boot and hoped for the best.

It would at least give some warning if anyone tried to gain access that way, which was something at least he thought grimly. He then ran back over to the large double doors and listened. Muffled shouts through the wood coming from the other side. They were close, perhaps directly behind it for all he could tell.

“Why are you hiding? You coward.” Camille taunted from behind Palmer. “Why are you even still here?”

“It seems my British pay masters have become a little, shall we say queasy with some of my more creative methods.

You should have seen their faces when I showed them poor Mitchell,” he gave a short humourless laugh. “He had been that way for days, by the way. Alive, dead, alive, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Finally, they see you for what you are,” Camille said.

“It’s short-sighted!” The Engineer snapped indignantly.

“These governments are all the same. They want what I can provide, but grow reticent when they discover just what my creations can truly do. Like that machine there, the one you so carelessly destroyed. Can you imagine a more perfect torture devise? One where even the release of death is but a temporary one?”

“Even governments have their limits when it comes to depravity,” Camille told him.

“They bore me now, sweetness,” he said. “And they thought they could steal from me?” Again, that inhuman laugh.

“They didn’t steal from you, I did.”

“No, Camille, you stole from them. I had already delivered the camera. And believe me, they were very pleased.

Then of course, your friend Mitchell got cold feet.”

“He got a conscience, not cold feet.”

“It could have changed everything,” the Engineer lamented . “Shame, really, I was looking forward to the chaos it would bring.” He gave an audible distorted sign at this.

“You know they tried to threaten me?” He continued .

“After the camera was lost? They wanted me to make another camera or release the plans. I told them what I always tell anyone I create for. I never, never repeat myself. An artist never does. ”

“You are not an artist, you are a monster!” Camille shouted to the rafters. “It could have tipped the world into war!”

“Indeed. But my creations, old and new are wasted on these western politicians. I am thinking of going east. They are much more pragmatic there. Less... Prudish.”

Camille pulled herself up onto the work bench and peered up to the skylight.

“So, you waited here, just to show me your latest atrocity?” She called up.

“No, two birds, one stone,” he replied cryptically.

“You forget we have the photographs, you cannot trap us here.”

“I didn’t forget,” the Engineer told her . “You, my dear are one bird, a thorn in my side I have been wanting to pluck for quite some time now. Poor Mitchell, he was just the bait.

The second bird or should I say birds, are those short-sighted bureaucrats who threatened to take my creations by force.

They’re here now, being wined and dined. I lured them here with some of my more, obsolete devises.”

Palmer watched as Camille froze. She glanced around the room, not looking for the Engineer this time, but for something else.

“What have you done?” She asked warily.

“I must sever my ties with the British government, with all the western blocs. I must perish along with my secret service contacts. And what better way than at the hands of a French spy. ”

“What have you done!?” Camille repeated louder still.

“Oh, sweetness, you should see the things I have planned.”

“I’ll stop you!”

“Arh, alas I think not. Toodle-pip, Camille Breton.”

“Wait,” Camille urged. “Tell me more of what you have planned.” She outwardly cringed at the obvious delay tactic.

“Still hoping to find me? Oh lovely, I am already on the Thames and away. The fireworks should be spectacular.”

“Engineer!? Engineer!?” She shouted with growing desperation.

There was an audible short sharp hiss from the boxes, then they went dead.

“What the hell’s going on?” Palmer called across.

He caught the movement of several shadows through the grimy skylight above. No doubt soldiers moving into position on the roof.

Camille turned to him in horror. “He’s going to blow it all up!”

“The photograph!” He shouted.

Camille nodded and reached for her side pocket, when the skylight above her shattered as a volley of shots ripped through the glass and bit into the bench around her feet.

She cried out in pain as another volley rained down and she pitched forwards off the work bench and hit the stone floor hard.

“Merde!” She screamed and rolled under the heavy bench for protection. She clutched her left arm as bullet hits kicked up the stone floor around her.

Palmer fired up into the skylight at the many shadows he saw looming there. They each had rifles and fired down into

the room. He dove to the floor as bullets hit close by and scampered on his hands and knees and over to the bench. He rolled under it and came to a stop next to Camille.

“You up there!” Palmer shouted. “This building is going to explode!” But the words were lost in the defending roar of violence erupting from a fresh round of shots overhead.

“Camille?” He uttered.

He twisted around to see that she was bleeding heavily from a wound on her left arm which ran from her shoulder to her elbow where a bullet must have grazed her.

“Grab, grab the photograph,” she told him through the pain.

Palmer shuffled down on his side to her legs and fumbled with the flap of the pocket. Behind him the personnel door was flung open, and he glanced across to see two guards burst in, firing as they went.

Camille aimed over Palmer and fired, hitting the two men who crumpled to the floor. Another appeared half in, half out, swinging his rifle left and right, but clearly couldn’t see where the gunfire had come from, so ducked back into cover with a shout of alarm.

“The bench!” Someone shouted from above. “They’re under the bench!”

But if any of the guards out in the corridor heard, they didn’t respond or rush the room. Camille fired twice more through the open doorway just to be sure.

The dull thud of a distant explosion, somewhere in the compound, rattled the entire room and Palmer could feel it through the stone floor.

“Christ!” He uttered in shock. Another, closer this time, rattling his very bones.

He finally managed to take out the crumpled photograph as shouts of alarm came from above and the corridor as another explosion tore into the building. Closer still.

“Christ, Christ!” Palmer cursed and smoothed out the photograph as best he could.

He pressed it against the underneath of the bench above them where it stuck.

“Will that do?” He asked and could hear the growing panic in his voice.

“Yes, good,” Camille replied.

She hissed in pain through her teeth as she managed with great effort to maneuverer herself so she could take out the paper from her other pocket.

An explosion over head sent half the skylight and three mangled bodies raining down into the room. Palmer watched in wide eyed horror as one of the guards, missing his right arm, tried to push himself up with his left, but slipped in the growing pool of his own blood then lay motionless on his face.

Another explosion, sounding like it went off just at the far end of the corridor blew in great chunks of wood as the

large double doors took the brunt of the damage. Then another turned the door into kindling which blasted into the room like a million jagged knives.

Palmer instinctively turned away from the blast and hugged Camille as dozens of tiny splinters ripped into his back and legs. The breath was knocked out of him, and his ears popped as the concussion hit him an instant later.

He screamed in pain and clung to Camille anticipating the next explosion would surely kill them both.

But then came that familiar tug on his solar-plexus and he was hurled violently upwards. But this time he knew we would not hit the underside of the bench.

The searing lights followed in a heartbeat, dancing like lunatic fireflies across the back of his eyelids, brighter, and more vividly coloured than nature could ever hope to duplicate. Then nothing but a total almost physical blackness.

NINE

For a moment there was nothing, just darkness and a numb feeling over his whole body, and all he could hear was his own fitful breathing. Breathing, he noted gratefully, at least that meant he was alive.

Finally, the dull sound of someone moving next to him in the void, a grunt of effort and pain followed by a torrent or rapid-fire pained French. Underneath this, a distant rumbling sound, like thunder growing louder with each passing second.

Palmer opened his eyes, he was on his side and was looking across the warehouse, shafts of light, coming from the structure’s many gaps illuminated the bare stone floor. A flash of fading white light bleached out his vision for the briefest of moments then was gone.

He was laid in a pool of cooling dark liquid, he averted his gaze all too aware of what and whose it was.

Dragging, faltering footsteps, from behind him receding from where he was, and moving off until they were drowned out by the now thunderous roar coming from outside.

“Camille,” he uttered, his lips numb.

Palmer moved to get up, but screamed in pain as countless stabbing sensations ran through his back and legs.

“Come on,” he urged himself through gritted teeth. “Come on.”

He slowly rolled onto his front and pressed his palms against the bloody stone floor and gingerly pushed himself up into a kneeling position. That old familiar pain in his shin bit hard sending a shock up into his guts.

“Fuck!” He explained.

His head swam and he feared he might keel over, but he took deep breaths until the pain subsided enough for him to

attempt to move again. Gasping at the small but painful effort, he straightened his back as much as his injuries would allow and turned to locate Camille. But she had already disappeared through the gap in the wall, leaving a tell-tale trail of blood in her wake.

It was only now that he noticed the side of the warehouse facing the river was bathed in a harsh flickering orange light. No doubt from the buildings they had just barely escaped from.

A volley of shots and a pain cry from outside echoed down towards him. This gave him the energy boost he needed and before he knew it, Palmer was on his feet. He checked the floor around him, he had lost his pistol somewhere, but couldn’t locate it.

“Bollocks!” He cursed and set off, painfully half running half staggering over to the back of the warehouse and the gap in the wall.

When he reached the gap, he paused to catch his breath.

But the stench of acrid smoke made him cough and splutter. He eased through the gap, covering his mouth with his sleeve and that was when the heat hit him.

“Jesus, Mary Mother of God.”

The entire compound across the river was a blaze. As he watched on in disbelief, one of the large warehouses collapsing in on itself, sending plumes of smoke and fire up into the night sky. Another structure, close to the water’s edge crumpled and slid into the river with a harsh roar of steam and blistering wood.

Despite the distance, the heat threatened to drive him back into the relative cool of the warehouse. He could see the front-loading yard and the guard house had been completely devastated and was now nothing more than a smouldering crater.

Dock workers were already running in their dozens from the main road down towards the conflagration but were beaten back by the sheer ferocity of the flames. Another explosion deep within the burning buildings drove several of the more cautious men back to a safer distance and Palmer couldn’t blame them.

It seemed an almost fitting apocalyptic end to the horrors that had been so diabolically wrought by the Engineer and his shamefully British paymasters within those walls.

Palmer shuffled his way along the edge of the warehouse until he came to the large open yard, where they had first approached the building across, what seemed like days ago.

Another shot rang out and Palmer quickened his pace as best he could.

He stopped by the wrought iron fence that blocked access to the riverside path. He cursed and rested his forehead against the bars. He had struggled to get over the thing before he had been injured and knew he had little hope of scaling the thing now.

He could see Camille someway off, she was shouting something at the Thames and Palmer shifted his gaze to the water and could see a small sail boat drifting down the river.

It was too far ahead for him to make out anything but the vaguest outline of a figure standing on its bow. The Engineer no doubt, making good his escape.

Palmer mustered up what was left of his strength and reached up and gripped the fence, he tried to pull himself up, but the pain in his back and legs knocked him to the cold stone ground. He pressed his face between the bars like a prisoner pleading with his jailers for mercy.

“Camille!” He shouted hoarsely.

She was standing by the water’s edge some thirty yards from him, looking forlornly off after the Engineer’s boat. He could see from the way her shoulders her shaking that she was crying.

“Camille!” He shouted again, he desperately wanted to go to her, but he could already feel the exhaustion and blood loss creeping up on him.

After what seemed like and age, she finally turned to look back down in his direction. Her face half in darkness half illuminated by the fire raging across the river. She holstered her pistol and just stared at him. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she was smiling.

She raised her hand and waved to him and in that moment, Palmer knew he would never see that strange, wonderful young woman again, and it fair broke his heart. He wanted to call out to her, to beg her for one last moment together, but he fought back the urge.

After all, what could he say? She was safe, he was safe, and he would just have to be content in that knowledge. Even though he knew he would never be quite the same again.

“You were good cannon fodder, Richard Palmer,” she called down to him.

“And you’re under arrest,” he called back and began to weep.

She was laughing now, and he wished more than anything in the world that he could hear that musical sound one final time. But she was too far away so he had to be content with the memory of it, and now his own gasping sobs.

By the time he had composed himself once more, Camille Breton, the French spy, was gone.

It seemed impossible to Richard Palmer that in the days following the devastating events at the London docks, no one had seen fit to question him about any part he had played in the destruction.

It was only when he reminded himself that, although he had been at the very centre of things, no one apart from the two now dead military intelligence officers could connect him

to Camille Breton, the mysterious Engineer and the conflagration at the compound.

The death toll, the papers informed him had reached fifty and was expected to rise. There was no mention however about the clandestine dealings that had taken place there, nor of the horrific torture devise and God only knew what other heinous experiments the accursed place had been witness to.

And nothing of course, about any miliary or government involvement. The implementation of the official secrets act from those high up in the army and government, had seen to that no doubt.

Palmer had spent the following four days in hospital having the many splinters removed from his body and a total of twenty-three stitches to close his various wounds. All the while expecting someone from the army or a police bigwig to come and interrogate him about how he got his injuries.

If Willis and Carson had been acting for military intelligence as Camille claimed, then they either hadn’t had the time or the inclination to inform their superiors about Palmer’s possible involvement with the camera. Or perhaps he wondered if the powers that be had decided to draw a discreet veil over the whole sorry affair.

Afterall without the camera or any of the photographs, there was no proof of Palmer’s part in any of this, and he for one was glad to play along.

Chief inspector Daggart had visited on the fourth day just before his discharge from hospital and again if he knew anything more about the case, he was the master of discretion.

He had accepted, perhaps a little too easily Palmer’s explanation that he had received his wounds in a quite unrelated incident whilst chasing a suspect. But try as he might, Palmer couldn’t detect even the hint of deception in the man’s demeanour.

There was no mention, officially or otherwise of the blood bath at the house which had left four dead agents, again Palmer believed that this, like the nature of the compound had been conveniently swept under a carpet of secrecy.

Daggart did however have one piece of welcome news about the robbery case he should have been working on. It seemed that the Egyptian neckless thought stolen from the Meeker’s museum had mysteriously been found in the building’s safe, although Sir Ralph had sworn blind, he had no idea how it had gotten there. And as a result, all charges had been dropped against the long-suffering night watchman, John Seagrove.

Apparently, a red-faced Sir Ralph had offered Seagrove fifty pounds and his old job back. To which Seagrove had taken the money and told the old toff to shove his job up his arse. Palmer wished he could have been around to see that.

“Penny for them?” Constable Maloney asked Palmer as he placed a cup of tea down on the café table in front of him and sat down opposite.

Palmer had been day-dreaming about Camille again, as he so often had in the two weeks since his return to work.

He looked around the crowded café, it had always been an oasis of calm away from the chaos of the station, even more so now. A grounded place away from impossible cameras and French spies.

“Richard, alright?” Maloney prompted.

“What? Oh yes, nothing, miles away.”

“Bet you wish all cases would solve themselves like the neckless one, eh?” Maloney said.

Solve themselves? Palmer thought incredulously, but then again, what could he say?

“Hmm,” was all he was willing to offer in response and took a sip of tea.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Palmer looked up from his cup. A young boy, of perhaps ten was standing by the table holding a flat parcel, about twelve inches square, wrapped in brown paper.

“What is it lad?” He asked.

“Inspector Palmer?”

“That’s right.”

“Sir, I was paid to give you this,” the boy replied and handed Palmer the parcel.

“Is it your birthday?” Maloney asked with a smirk.

Palmer dug a penny out of his pocket and gave it to the boy.

“Thank you, sir!” The boy exclaimed and darted off to the sweet counter for cake no doubt.

Palmer ran his hands over the parcel before opening it, it was something in a frame. His heart skipped a beat, and he ripped off the paper.

It was a small, framed black and white photograph. A simple picture of Camille standing behind a table holding a thankfully normal looking box camera. She had taken her reflection in a mirror and Palmer could see a mass of smashed and twisted metal on the table in front of her. The tell-tale lens was smashed into tiny shards of now dull glass.

“Good for you,” he whispered.

“There’s a note,” Maloney said with a puzzled look on his face.

Palmer took the note and read it. ‘For one who appreciates good photography, C xxx’

Palmer felt tears sting but blinked them back. Content he would now have more than scars, memories and yes nightmares to remember her by.

END