I trust you recall our two Conversations of th past Aug, during and of which you so kindly entrusted me w yr Conjectures. I am pleased to inform you that cert manipulations have yielded a version — a true vers of yr orig — which I feel most confidently can at last be run, thereby demonstrating that Proof so long sought & expected.
The remainder of the sheet was blank, with the exception of three faintly penciled rectangles, containing the Roman capitals ALG, COMP, and MOD. ALG, COMP, and MOD had subsequently become a fabulous three-headed beast, frequent visitor to the higher fields of Oliphant’s imagination. His discovery of the probable meaning of this cipher, while examining transcripts of the interrogation of William Collins, had failed to dispel the image; Alg-Comp-Mod was with him still, a serpent-necked chimera, its heads nastily human. Radley’s face was there, quite dead, mouth agape, eyes blank as fog, and the cool marble features of Lady Ada Byron, aloof and impassive, framed by curls and ringlets that were proofs of a pure geometry. But the third head, sinuously swaying, evaded Oliphant’s gaze. He sometimes imagined its face was Edward Mallory’s, resolutely ambitious, hopelessly frank; at other times he took it to be the pretty, poisonous visage of Florence Bartlett, wreathed in fumes of vitriol. And sometimes, particularly as now, in the rubber bath’s cloying embrace, drifting toward the continent of sleep, the face was his own, its eyes filled with a dread he could not name.
The following morning, Oliphant slept in, then kept to his bed, Bligh supplying him with files from the study, strong tea, and anchovy toast. He read a Foreign Office dossier on one Wilhelm Stieber, a Prussian agent posing as an emigre newspaper editor named Schmidt. With considerably more interest, he read and annotated a Bow Street file detailing several recent attempts to smuggle munitions, each incident involving cargo destined for Manhattan. The next file consisted of Engine-printed copies of several letters from a Mr. Copeland, of Boston. Mr. Copeland, who traveled in lumber, was in British pay. His letters described the system of forts defending the island of Manhattan, with extensive notes on ordnance. Oliphant’s gaze, from long practice, slid lightly over Copeland’s account of the south battery on Governor’s Island, something of a relic by the sound of it, and quickly arrived at a report of rumors that the Commune had strung a chain of mines from the Romer Shoals to the Narrows. Oliphant sighed. He very much doubted that the channel had been mined, but the leaders of the Commune would certainly wish it to be thought to have been mined. As indeed it might soon be, if the gentlemen of the Commission for Free Trade were to have their way. Bligh was at the door. “You’ve an appointment with Mr. Wakefield, sir, at the Central Statistics Bureau.” An hour later, Betteredge greeted him from the open door of a cab. “Good afternoon, Mr. Oliphant.” Oliphant climbed in and settled himself. Pleated shades of black-proofed canvas were drawn firmly across either window, shutting out Half-Moon Street and the stark November sun. As the driver urged the cab-horse forward, Betteredge opened a case at his feet, took out a lamp, which he lit in a rapid and dextrous fashion, and fixed, with a brass apparatus of screws and bolts, to the arm of the seat. The interior of the case glittered like a miniature arsenal. He passed Oliphant a crimson file-folder. Oliphant opened the file, which detailed the circumstances of the death of Michael Radley. He had himself been in the smoking-room with the General and poor doomed Radley, the both of them awash with drink. Of their respective styles of drunkenness, Radley’s had been the more presentable, the least predictable, the more dangerous. Houston, in his cups, delighted in playing the barbarous American; red-eyed, perspiring, foul-mouthed, he lounged with one great coarse boot propped muddily atop an ottoman. As Houston spoke, and smoked, and spat, roundly cursing Oliphant and Britain, he sullenly shaved curls from a bit of pine, periodically pausing to strop the jack-knife on the edge of his boot-sole. Radley, in contrast, had positively quivered with the liquor’s stimulant effect, cheeks flushed and eyes flashing. Oliphant’s visit had been intended deliberately to disturb Houston on the eve of his departure to France, but the display of ill-concealed mutual hostility evident between the General and his publicist had been quite unexpected. He had hoped to sow seeds of doubt with regard to the French tour; to this end, and primarily for Radley’s benefit, he had managed to imply an exaggerated degree of cooperation on the parts of the intelligence services of Britain and France. Oliphant had suggested that Houston already possessed at least one powerful enemy among the Police des Chateaux, the bodyguard and secret personal agency of the Emperor Napoleon. While the Police des Chateaux were few in number, Oliphant insinuated, they were utterly without legal or constitutional restraint; Radley, at least, in spite of his condition, had obviously taken note of the implied threat. They had been interrupted by a page, who brought a note for Radley. As the door opened to admit the man, Oliphant had glimpsed the anxious face of a young woman. Radley had stated, as he excused himself, that it was necessary that he speak briefly with a journalistic contact. Radley had returned to the smoking-room some ten minutes later. Oliphant then took his leave, having endured an extended and particularly florid tirade from the General, who had consumed the better part of a pint of brandy during Radley’s absence. Summoned back to Grand’s by telegram in the early hours of dawn, Oliphant had immediately sought out the hotel-detective, a retired Metropolitan named McQueen, who had been called to Houston’s room, number 24, by the desk clerk, Mr. Parkes. While Parkes attempted to calm the hysterical wife of a Lancashire paving-contractor, resident in number 25 at the time of the disturbance, McQueen had tried the knob of Houston’s door, discovering it to be unlocked. Snow was blowing in through the demolished window, and the air, already chilled, stank of burnt gunpowder, blood, and, as McQueen delicately put it, “the contents of the late gentleman’s bowel.” Spying the scarlet ruin that was Radley’s corpse, all too visible in the cold light of dawn, McQueen had called to Parkes to telegraph the Metropolitans. He then used his passkey to lock the door, lit a lamp, and blocked the view from the street with the remains of one of the window-curtains. The condition of Radley’s clothing indicated that the pockets had been gone through. Sundry personal objects lay in the pool of blood and other matter surrounding the corpse: a repeating match, a cigar-case, coins of various denominations. Lamp in hand, the detective surveyed the room, discovering an ivory-handled Leacock & Hutchings pocket-pistol. The weapon’s trigger was missing. Three of its five barrels had been discharged — very recently, McQueen judged. Continuing his search, he had discovered the gaudy gilded head of General Houston’s stick, awash in splintered glass. Nearby lay a bloodied packet, tightly wrapped in brown paper. It proved to contain a hundred kinotrope-cards, their intricate fretting of punch-holes ruined by the passage of a pair of bullets. The bullets themselves, of soft lead and much distorted, fell into McQueen’s palm as he examined the cards. Subsequent examination of the room by specialists from Central Statistics — the attention of the Metropolitan Police, at Oliphant’s request, having been swiftly deflected from the matter — added little to what the veteran McQueen had observed. The trigger of the Leacock & Hutchings pepperbox was recovered from beneath an armchair. A more peculiar discovery consisted of a square-cut white diamond, of fifteen carats and very high quality, which was found firmly wedged between two floor-boards. Two men from Criminal Anthropometry, no more than usually cryptic about their purposes, employed large squares of tissue-thin adhesive grid-paper to capture various hairs and bits of fluff from the carpet; they guarded these specimens jealously, and took them away promptly, and nothing was ever heard of them again. “Are you done with that one, sir?” He looked up at Betteredge, then down at the file, seeing Radley’s blood spread in a tacky pool. “We’re in Horseferry Road, sir.” The cab came to a halt. “Yes, thank you.” He closed the file and handed it to Betteredge. He descended from the cab and mounted the broad stairs. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding a given visit, he invariably felt a peculiar quickening upon entering the Central Statistics Bureau. He felt it now, certainly: a sense of being observed, somehow — of being known and numbered. The Eye, yes . . . As he spoke to the uniformed clerk at the visitor’s-desk, a gang of journeymen mechanics emerged from a hallway to his left. They wore Engine-cut woolen jackets and polished brogues soled with creped rubber. Each man earned a spotless tool-satchel of thick white duck, cornered with bronze rivets and brown hide. As they moved toward him, conversing among themselves, some drew pipes and cheroots from their pockets in anticipation of a shift’s-end smoke. Oliphant experienced a sharp pang of tobacco-hunger. He had often had call to regret the Bureau’s necessary policy regarding tobacco. He looked after the mechanics as they passed, out between the columns and the bronze sphinxes. Married men, assured of a Bureau pension, they would live in Camden Town, in New Cross, in any respectable suburb, and would furnish their tiny sitting-rooms with papier-mache side-boards and ornate Dutch clocks. Their wives would serve tea on gaudily japanned tin trays. Passing an irritatingly banal quasi-biblical bas-relief, he made his way to the lift. As the attendant bowed him in, he was joined by a glum gentleman who was daubing with a handkerchief at a pale streak on the shoulder of his coat. The articulated bars of the brass cage rattled shut. The lift ascended. The gentleman with the soiled coat made his exit at the third stop. Oliphant rode on to the fifth, the home of Quantitative Criminology and Non-Linear Analysis. While he found the latter infinitely more compelling than the former, it was Q C he needed today, most particularly in the person of Andrew Wakefield, the departmental Under-Secretary. The clerks of Q C were individually walled into neatly cramped cells of rolled-steel, asbestos, and veneer. Wakefield presided over them from a grander version of the same scheme, his sparse sandy head framed by the brass-fitted drawers of a multitude of card-files. He glanced up as Oliphant approached, prominent front teeth displayed against his lower lip. “Mr. Oliphant, sir,” he said. “A pleasure as ever. Pardon me.” He shuffled a number of punch-cards into a sturdy blue envelope lined with tissue-paper, and meticulously wound the little scarlet string about the two halves of the patent-clasp. He set the envelope aside, in an asbestos-lined hutch containing several other envelopes of identical hue. Oliphant smiled. “Fancy I can read your punch-holes, Andrew?” He levered a spring-loaded stenographer’s-chair up from its ingenious housing and took a seat, his furled umbrella balanced across his knees. “Know what a blue envelope’s about, do you?” Springs clanged as Wakefield folded his articulated writing-desk into its narrow slot. “Not a specific one, no, but I rather imagine that’s the trick of it.” “There are men who can read cards, Oliphant. But even a junior clerk can read the directive primaries as easily as you read the kinos in the underground.” “I never read the kinos in the underground, Andrew.” Wakefield snorted. Oliphant knew this to be his equivalent of laughter. “And how are things among the corps diplomatique, Mr. Oliphant? Coping with our ‘Luddite conspiracy,’ are we?” It would have been impossible to mistake the man’s sarcasm, but Oliphant pretended to take him quite literally. “It really hasn’t had too great an effect, as yet. Not among my own areas of special interest.” Wakefield nodded, assuming that Oliphant’s “areas of special interest” were limited to the activities of foreign nationals on British soil. On Oliphant’s request, Wakefield regularly ordered the files spun on groups as diverse as the Carbonari, the Knights of the White Camellia, the Fenian Society, the Texas Rangers, the Greek Hetairai, the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and the Confederate Bureau of Scientific Research, all of whom were known to be operative in Britain. “I trust that the Texian material we provided has been of some use?” Wakefield inquired, coil-springs creaking behind him as he leaned forward. “Quite,” Oliphant assured him. “You wouldn’t know,” Wakefield began, taking a gold-plated propelling-pencil from his pocket, “if their legation intends a change of premises?” He tapped the pencil against his front teeth, producing a loud clicking sound that Oliphant found repulsive. “From their present location in St. James’s? ‘Round from Berry’s the wine-merchant?” “Precisely.” Oliphant hesitated, seeming to weigh the matter. “I shouldn’t think so. They haven’t any money. I suppose it would depend upon the good-will of the landlord, finally . . . ” Wakefield smiled, his teeth dimpling his lower-lip. “Wakefield,” Oliphant said, “do tell me — who wishes to know?” “Criminal Anthropometry.” “Really? Are they involved in surveillant activities?” “I gather it’s technical, actually. Experimental.” Wakefield put his pencil away. “Your savant chap — Mallory, was it?” “Yes?” “Saw a review of his book. Off to China, is he?” “Mongolia. Heading up an expedition for the Geographical Society.” Wakefield pursed his lips and nodded. “Out from underfoot, I should think.” “Out of harm’s way, one should hope. Not a bad sort, really. Seemed to keenly appreciate the technical aspects of your Bureau’s work. But I’ve a technical matter for you myself, Andrew.” “Really?” Wakefield’s springs creaked. “Having to do with Post Office procedure.” Wakefield made a small, entirely noncommittal sound in his throat. Oliphant took an envelope from his pocket and passed it to the Under-Secretary. It was unsealed. Wakefield took a pair of white cotton gloves from a wire basket at his elbow, drew them on, extracted a white telegraphic address-card from the envelope, glanced at it, then met Oliphant’s gaze. “Grand’s Hotel,” Wakefield said. “Quite.” The establishment’s crest was printed on the card. Oliphant watched as Wakefield automatically ran a gloved fingertip across the lines of punch-holes, checking for indications of wear that might cause mechanical difficulties. “You wish to know who sent it?” “That information is in my possession, thank you.” “Name of addressee?” “I am aware of that as well.” The springs creaked — nervously, it seemed to Oliphant. Wakefield rose, with a twanging of steel, and carefully inserted the card in a brass slot set into the face of a glass-fronted instrument which overhung a bank of card-files. With a glance at Oliphant, he reached up a gloved hand and cranked down an ebony-handled lever. On the down-stroke, the device thumped like a shopman’s credit-press. As Wakefield released the lever, it began to slowly right itself, humming and clicking like a publican’s wagering-machine. Wakefield watched as the whirling character-wheels ticked and slowed. Abruptly, the device was silent. “Egremont,” Wakefield read aloud, but quietly, ” ‘The Beeches,’ Belgravia.” “Indeed.” Oliphant watched as Wakefield extracted the card from the brass slot. “I require the text of that telegram, Andrew.” “Egremont,” Wakefield said, as though he hadn’t heard. He took his seat again, replaced the card in its envelope, and removed his gloves. “He seems to be everywhere, our Right Honorable Charles Egremont. No end of work he’s making for us here, Oliphant.” “The text of the message, Andrew, is here in the Bureau. It exists physically, I believe, as however many inches of telegrapher’s tape.” “Do you know I’ve fifty-five miles’ gear-yardage under me, still fouled from the Stink? Aside from the fact that your request is rather more than usually irregular . . .” ” ‘Usually irregular’? That’s rather good . . . ” “And your friends from the Special Branch trooping in hourly, demanding that our brass be spun and spun again, in hope of shaking loose these Luddites alleged to be lodged in the nation’s rafters! Who is this bloody man, Oliphant?” “A rather junior Rad politician, I understand. Or was, till the Stink and the resulting disorders.” “Till Byron’s death, rather.” “But we’ve Lord Brunel now, haven’t we?” “Indeed, and bloody madness under him in Parliament!” Oliphant let the silence lengthen. “If you could obtain the text of the telegram, Andrew,” he said at last, very quietly, “I should be very grateful.” “He’s a very ambitious man, Oliphant. With ambitious friends.” “You are not alone in that assessment.” Wakefield sighed. “Under the circumstances, extreme discretion –” “By all means!” “Aside from which our yardage is filthy. Condensed particulate matter. We’re working the mechanics on triple-shifts, and having some success with Lord Colgate’s aerosol applications, but I sometimes despair of ever having the system properly up and spinning!” He lowered his voice. “Do you know that the finer functions of the Napoleon have been unreliable for months?” “The Emperor?” Oliphant pretended to misunderstand. “The Napoleon’s gear-yardage, in equivalent terms, is very nearly double ours,” Wakefield said. “And it simply isn’t functioning!” The thought seemed to fill him with a special horror. “Had a Stink of their own, have they?” Wakefield grimly shook his head. “There you are, then,” said Oliphant, “most likely the gears are jammed on a bit of onion-skin . . . ” Wakefield snorted. “Do find me that telegram? At your earliest convenience, of course.” Wakefield inclined his head, but only very slightly. “Good fellow,” Oliphant declared. He saluted the Under-Secretary with his furled umbrella and rose, to retrace his steps through Q C’s cubbies and the bowed and patient heads of Wakefield’s clerks.