Post by Lorpius Prime on Mar 31, 2007 0:54:43 GMT -5
Third Interlude
Martin Bozeman Holland did not like wearing his uniform. This was not merely because two years behind a desk meant that it no longer fit so well around his waist as it once did. Nor was it solely a response to the reassignment which made its wearing necessary. Martin Bozemann Holland hated the entire idea of uniforms and he hated his in particular.
He pushed gold buttons through the holes of the double-breasted coat. It was something of a paradox, the tradition and responsibilities of his organization were mostly Army in origin, but the uniform was entirely Royal Navy, right down to the four gold bars on his sleeve. It was one of the few relics surviving from his office’s chaotic mess of a birth.
The uniform was a symbol and a tool of discipline, of the regimented order required in a military life. Martin Bozeman Holland had no problem with discipline, but he felt no need to make a show of it. He and his subordinates were no simple minded soldiers in need of such mnemonic crutches to do their jobs.
He pulled the white peaked cap and its short black bill down over his forehead. The image was complete, and it was the antithesis of disguise. The hat was a beacon calling attention to him, it was meant to be recognized. He could no longer disappear.
It was good for getting free drinks and preferred seating, but Martin needed neither of these things.
Strange that a military uniform was such an impractical outfit for a fight. One could not run very fast wearing one, nor was it useful for carrying a weapon. Martin had his little revolver tucked inside the coat like he always did, but it would be rather tougher to get it out in a hurry than in his usual attire. A sword used to be a part of the ensemble, but no longer; and whatever fool wrote the dress code frowned upon replacing the scabbard and blade with a holster and gun. Martin did not expect to chance upon a battlefield strolling across southern England, but he did not like limiting his options.
But he wore the uniform. He did his duty.
And despite the ridiculous idiosyncrasies, it was good to be in the field again.
They turned him away at Westminster. The news had apparently already reached his subject. That had not been unexpected, not in the least, but Martin had not thought his mark would act on it so quickly. He’d been away from the game for too long, he wasn’t seeing all the possibilities and preparing contingencies, he needed to get his mind used to this work again.
He made it to the train station with time to spare. He could have easily had the train stopped if he had been late, but it would have been embarrassing.
He found his subject seated, alone, on a stone bench in the great lobby of the station. He was hunched forward, leaning on his cane and looking at the marble floor. Martin suspected he might have missed his train anyway.
Martin approached the old man, whose blond hair was showing streaks of white, and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Lord Blake.” He said it just loud enough for the other man to hear. Not that privacy was really a worry, the lobby was buzzing with echoes and other people probably didn’t care.
The older man looked up very slowly. His tired eyes traveled first to Martin’s hat and then to his arms.
“Aren’t you a little young for those stripes, Colonel?”
Martin nodded, which took some effort against the too-tight collar of his shirt, “Yes, sir. That’s a long story, actually several of them.”
“What do you want?” It sounded like he was trying to be forceful, but it just came out as a pitiful mutter.
“May I sit down, sir?”
Blake sighed and scooted aside somewhat grudgingly. Martin sat down, he held his back upright while the older man continued to slouch. Rather than looking at him, Martin kept his eyes straight ahead toward the departure notice board.
“Lord Blake, my name is Colonel Holland; I’m from the Security Service.”
“So I can see, what is it you want with me?”
“Well sir, as you are no doubt aware, your son Jay Thomson was apparently killed on Sunday in an airship crash in Germany.”
Blake’s body tensed, “Aren’t I aware, damn it? It’s been plastered all over the bloody newspapers hasn’t it? As if we haven’t the decency anymore to let a family know and grieve in private!”
“Unfortunately we don’t have control over the content of the papers. Things might have been handled differently, but we found out at the same time you did.” That wasn’t true, but they certainly hadn’t expected the newspapers to get a hold of the story so quickly.
Blake snorted, “Well that’s just really ruddy comforting. What do you want?”
“Lord Blake, my office has reason to believe that Jay Thomson may actually have survived the crash.”
A minute or two of silence passed between them before Baron Blake spoke again.
“Colonel, if you are lying to me, then I am going to kill you right now, you understand?”
From the way his hand was gripping his cane, Martin believed he meant it.
“It would seem, Baron, that three people, your son among them, survived the crash and were sheltered at an army base in Donauwörth Sunday night after their escape.”
“Then why haven’t we heard anything?! Jay Thomson would have sent a telegram, his poor mother…” he trailed off.
“Yes, well, we seem to have a new problem. After their rescue, your son and one of the other survivors have disappeared again.”
“Disappeared? What, what do you mean?” The old man was shaking his head in confusion.
“We don’t know where they are. We suspect there may be some sort of foul play involved. According to the garrison commander, the circumstances regarding the disappearance are highly suspicious.”
“Foul play? Suspicious? Stop leading me around, damn it! Talk straight!”
Martin shook his head as sympathetically as he could, “I’m afraid we don’t know very much at the moment, Lord Blake. That’s why I’m here.”
“To tell me my son might be alive but you don’t know anything?! What the hell good are you?!”
Martin couldn’t see Baron Blake’s face, but he knew what the man looked like regardless. He would be trying to disguise the tears in his eyes, to present only his anger. He wanted to intimidate Martin, or at least make him feel guilty.
And Martin had to pretend it worked.
“I’m sorry we don’t have more yet.” I’m sorry we had to talk to you at all.
The Baron harrumphed contemptuously and there was another brief silence. Eventually, Blake tapped his cane against the floor, “So why is Military Intelligence coming to me about this?”
Martin nodded, “Well, sir, as I mentioned, your son has disappeared again.” He brushed a piece of lint from the front of his coat. “My office is concerned that insurgent agents may have been involved.”
“What insurgent agents? Did the Danes get bored?”
Martin ignored him, “We have reason to suspect that the crash of the airship itself may not have been an accident. And London police were recently investigating the possibility of foul play in the death of one of your son’s coworkers. As such, my office is looking into the matter.”
“I don’t understand. You think someone’s killing journalists?”
If Martin had been smoking a cigarette, this would have been the time he would have taken it out of his mouth and stubbed it out on the bench. It was interesting; the deception was almost as good as tobacco. He’d been behind a desk too long.
“We’re not sure at the moment. I’m here partly as a precaution. If it’s a kidnapping, there may be a ransom letter coming to you and my office wants to be on top of that.”
“Since when are kidnappings the Security Service’s bailiwick?”
“Unfortunately, sir, that may the best case scenario. This may be—“
“May be what?”
Martin stopped and turned to look the Baron in the eye, “They may be trying to get to you.”
“What are you talking about.”
“Lord Blake, you’re a member of the government’s party in the Lords. Mr. Mills’ cousin is also a Tory in the Commons. The Captain of the downed airship was the son of a widow of another respected member of the Lords.”
Blake ran a hand over his face, “Yes. They’re friends of the family.”
Martin removed his hat, “Sir, if that is the case, if this is political, you may be in danger. And my office takes that very seriously.”
The older man tapped his cane against the floor again, somewhat more forcefully this time, and then sat up straight. “So what are you asking?”
“Lord Blake, I’ve been ordered to Exeter to take charge of security for you and your family as part of the investigation we’re starting here. I was hoping you would allow me to accompany you on the train.”
Blake nodded once, then stood up and lifted a top-hat onto his head.
“You’d better come along then, it’s here.”
Martin was annoyed, and maybe just a little impressed, that the Baron had noticed the arrival before he did.
It was a quiet train ride. The Baron retired to a sleeper car and Martin took up his seat among the regular fare passengers. This suited him. He passed the time for a few hours by reading from the slim portfolio he’d brought with him. Then he slept, and was only half surprised that he could still do this while sitting bolt upright in the seat.
He was awoken only once when the dirty-looking man occupying the seat next to him fell asleep and began to drool onto Martin’s shoulder. Martin quickly sent the reprobate scurrying off in a frightened hurry. He didn’t return for the remainder of the journey to Exeter. Martin slept soundly.
They arrived at their destination very early in the morning. Precisely three minutes past five according to the conductor. Sometimes the trains in Britain ran ahead of schedule. Sometimes.
When they met again on the platform, Baron Blake looked very much the same as he had yesterday, though Martin could see that he had changed his shirt. Martin was still in his uniform, having had neither the privacy to change nor spare clothing. He had left in a hurry.
“Good morning, Lord Blake.”
The life peer tapped his foot, “When you’ve got my son alive and back home, then it will be good morning.”
“Yes sir.”
Blake gestured for him to follow. He was swinging his cane almost like a weapon. Martin wondered what it was about the rich and their jewelry. He didn’t need shiny trinkets to impress people. His years of service had given him an appreciation for the power of subtlety. Expensive clothes were more likely to make people resent you than respect you. Martin didn’t mind being resented, but he’d seen more than a few members of the nobility balk at the realization that they weren’t all beloved.
The Baron wanted to pay the full cost of their cab to his estate. Martin didn’t argue. He took the time spent waiting for an available cab to write out a message to the local office. Then he gave a ragged looking boy a few shillings to deliver it.
After the few people in front of them had secured transportation, a driver hopped down from a Hansom cab to help them aboard. Baron Blake’s two suitcases were placed in a basket beneath the driver’s seat and then the two men climbed aboard.
“The Blake estate, near Upton Pyne, if you please,” the Baron said through the trapdoor in the cab’s ceiling. The driver nodded and cracked his whip.
Exeter passed them by to the clopping sound of their horse’s hooves against the road. It was a quaint little city, cleaner than most English towns its size, which had to be a draw for the upper-classes like Blake. And it was a concentration of influential persons like him which made Exeter a powerful lobby in Westminster, helping to ensure the factories stayed away from their precious city and reinforcing the cycle. But the rich had to have their resorts.
Martin sat with his slim soft-leather briefcase and hat on his lap, Blake was leaning somewhat messily against the window of the cab, his head on a hand and his top hat askew.
“I just did this.”
“Lord Blake?” Martin wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly; the other man had been speaking into his palm.
Blake shifted his weight to sit up, “I just did this the other day.” He nodded out the window, “With Jay Thomson, we rode down to the air station. We used the carriage and coachman from the house then, of course.”
“That would have been Saturday?” The Baron obviously wanted to talk, and Martin was well-practiced in letting another man think he was participating in a conversation. He could almost sleep and do it at the same time.
Blake nodded, “I gave him… I gave him something of my father’s.”
His office’s file had little information on Baron Blake’s family; the man had almost come from nowhere. “Heirloom?” Some people attached an unnecessarily large importance to simple objects.
“It was, um, his prayer book. He was a priest, but he wrote a lot of stuff down in it. About the only thing I had left of his after he died and the debt collectors finished. To think if it had burned in the fire....”
“We don’t know in what condition the survivors escaped. It may well have.”
Blake turned sharply towards Martin, then bit his lower lip and looked back out the window, resting his head on his hand again.
“I hope not.”
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-
Martin Bozeman Holland did not like wearing his uniform. This was not merely because two years behind a desk meant that it no longer fit so well around his waist as it once did. Nor was it solely a response to the reassignment which made its wearing necessary. Martin Bozemann Holland hated the entire idea of uniforms and he hated his in particular.
He pushed gold buttons through the holes of the double-breasted coat. It was something of a paradox, the tradition and responsibilities of his organization were mostly Army in origin, but the uniform was entirely Royal Navy, right down to the four gold bars on his sleeve. It was one of the few relics surviving from his office’s chaotic mess of a birth.
The uniform was a symbol and a tool of discipline, of the regimented order required in a military life. Martin Bozeman Holland had no problem with discipline, but he felt no need to make a show of it. He and his subordinates were no simple minded soldiers in need of such mnemonic crutches to do their jobs.
He pulled the white peaked cap and its short black bill down over his forehead. The image was complete, and it was the antithesis of disguise. The hat was a beacon calling attention to him, it was meant to be recognized. He could no longer disappear.
It was good for getting free drinks and preferred seating, but Martin needed neither of these things.
Strange that a military uniform was such an impractical outfit for a fight. One could not run very fast wearing one, nor was it useful for carrying a weapon. Martin had his little revolver tucked inside the coat like he always did, but it would be rather tougher to get it out in a hurry than in his usual attire. A sword used to be a part of the ensemble, but no longer; and whatever fool wrote the dress code frowned upon replacing the scabbard and blade with a holster and gun. Martin did not expect to chance upon a battlefield strolling across southern England, but he did not like limiting his options.
But he wore the uniform. He did his duty.
And despite the ridiculous idiosyncrasies, it was good to be in the field again.
* * *
They turned him away at Westminster. The news had apparently already reached his subject. That had not been unexpected, not in the least, but Martin had not thought his mark would act on it so quickly. He’d been away from the game for too long, he wasn’t seeing all the possibilities and preparing contingencies, he needed to get his mind used to this work again.
He made it to the train station with time to spare. He could have easily had the train stopped if he had been late, but it would have been embarrassing.
He found his subject seated, alone, on a stone bench in the great lobby of the station. He was hunched forward, leaning on his cane and looking at the marble floor. Martin suspected he might have missed his train anyway.
Martin approached the old man, whose blond hair was showing streaks of white, and clasped his hands behind his back.
“Lord Blake.” He said it just loud enough for the other man to hear. Not that privacy was really a worry, the lobby was buzzing with echoes and other people probably didn’t care.
The older man looked up very slowly. His tired eyes traveled first to Martin’s hat and then to his arms.
“Aren’t you a little young for those stripes, Colonel?”
Martin nodded, which took some effort against the too-tight collar of his shirt, “Yes, sir. That’s a long story, actually several of them.”
“What do you want?” It sounded like he was trying to be forceful, but it just came out as a pitiful mutter.
“May I sit down, sir?”
Blake sighed and scooted aside somewhat grudgingly. Martin sat down, he held his back upright while the older man continued to slouch. Rather than looking at him, Martin kept his eyes straight ahead toward the departure notice board.
“Lord Blake, my name is Colonel Holland; I’m from the Security Service.”
“So I can see, what is it you want with me?”
“Well sir, as you are no doubt aware, your son Jay Thomson was apparently killed on Sunday in an airship crash in Germany.”
Blake’s body tensed, “Aren’t I aware, damn it? It’s been plastered all over the bloody newspapers hasn’t it? As if we haven’t the decency anymore to let a family know and grieve in private!”
“Unfortunately we don’t have control over the content of the papers. Things might have been handled differently, but we found out at the same time you did.” That wasn’t true, but they certainly hadn’t expected the newspapers to get a hold of the story so quickly.
Blake snorted, “Well that’s just really ruddy comforting. What do you want?”
“Lord Blake, my office has reason to believe that Jay Thomson may actually have survived the crash.”
A minute or two of silence passed between them before Baron Blake spoke again.
“Colonel, if you are lying to me, then I am going to kill you right now, you understand?”
From the way his hand was gripping his cane, Martin believed he meant it.
“It would seem, Baron, that three people, your son among them, survived the crash and were sheltered at an army base in Donauwörth Sunday night after their escape.”
“Then why haven’t we heard anything?! Jay Thomson would have sent a telegram, his poor mother…” he trailed off.
“Yes, well, we seem to have a new problem. After their rescue, your son and one of the other survivors have disappeared again.”
“Disappeared? What, what do you mean?” The old man was shaking his head in confusion.
“We don’t know where they are. We suspect there may be some sort of foul play involved. According to the garrison commander, the circumstances regarding the disappearance are highly suspicious.”
“Foul play? Suspicious? Stop leading me around, damn it! Talk straight!”
Martin shook his head as sympathetically as he could, “I’m afraid we don’t know very much at the moment, Lord Blake. That’s why I’m here.”
“To tell me my son might be alive but you don’t know anything?! What the hell good are you?!”
Martin couldn’t see Baron Blake’s face, but he knew what the man looked like regardless. He would be trying to disguise the tears in his eyes, to present only his anger. He wanted to intimidate Martin, or at least make him feel guilty.
And Martin had to pretend it worked.
“I’m sorry we don’t have more yet.” I’m sorry we had to talk to you at all.
The Baron harrumphed contemptuously and there was another brief silence. Eventually, Blake tapped his cane against the floor, “So why is Military Intelligence coming to me about this?”
Martin nodded, “Well, sir, as I mentioned, your son has disappeared again.” He brushed a piece of lint from the front of his coat. “My office is concerned that insurgent agents may have been involved.”
“What insurgent agents? Did the Danes get bored?”
Martin ignored him, “We have reason to suspect that the crash of the airship itself may not have been an accident. And London police were recently investigating the possibility of foul play in the death of one of your son’s coworkers. As such, my office is looking into the matter.”
“I don’t understand. You think someone’s killing journalists?”
If Martin had been smoking a cigarette, this would have been the time he would have taken it out of his mouth and stubbed it out on the bench. It was interesting; the deception was almost as good as tobacco. He’d been behind a desk too long.
“We’re not sure at the moment. I’m here partly as a precaution. If it’s a kidnapping, there may be a ransom letter coming to you and my office wants to be on top of that.”
“Since when are kidnappings the Security Service’s bailiwick?”
“Unfortunately, sir, that may the best case scenario. This may be—“
“May be what?”
Martin stopped and turned to look the Baron in the eye, “They may be trying to get to you.”
“What are you talking about.”
“Lord Blake, you’re a member of the government’s party in the Lords. Mr. Mills’ cousin is also a Tory in the Commons. The Captain of the downed airship was the son of a widow of another respected member of the Lords.”
Blake ran a hand over his face, “Yes. They’re friends of the family.”
Martin removed his hat, “Sir, if that is the case, if this is political, you may be in danger. And my office takes that very seriously.”
The older man tapped his cane against the floor again, somewhat more forcefully this time, and then sat up straight. “So what are you asking?”
“Lord Blake, I’ve been ordered to Exeter to take charge of security for you and your family as part of the investigation we’re starting here. I was hoping you would allow me to accompany you on the train.”
Blake nodded once, then stood up and lifted a top-hat onto his head.
“You’d better come along then, it’s here.”
Martin was annoyed, and maybe just a little impressed, that the Baron had noticed the arrival before he did.
* * *
It was a quiet train ride. The Baron retired to a sleeper car and Martin took up his seat among the regular fare passengers. This suited him. He passed the time for a few hours by reading from the slim portfolio he’d brought with him. Then he slept, and was only half surprised that he could still do this while sitting bolt upright in the seat.
He was awoken only once when the dirty-looking man occupying the seat next to him fell asleep and began to drool onto Martin’s shoulder. Martin quickly sent the reprobate scurrying off in a frightened hurry. He didn’t return for the remainder of the journey to Exeter. Martin slept soundly.
They arrived at their destination very early in the morning. Precisely three minutes past five according to the conductor. Sometimes the trains in Britain ran ahead of schedule. Sometimes.
When they met again on the platform, Baron Blake looked very much the same as he had yesterday, though Martin could see that he had changed his shirt. Martin was still in his uniform, having had neither the privacy to change nor spare clothing. He had left in a hurry.
“Good morning, Lord Blake.”
The life peer tapped his foot, “When you’ve got my son alive and back home, then it will be good morning.”
“Yes sir.”
Blake gestured for him to follow. He was swinging his cane almost like a weapon. Martin wondered what it was about the rich and their jewelry. He didn’t need shiny trinkets to impress people. His years of service had given him an appreciation for the power of subtlety. Expensive clothes were more likely to make people resent you than respect you. Martin didn’t mind being resented, but he’d seen more than a few members of the nobility balk at the realization that they weren’t all beloved.
The Baron wanted to pay the full cost of their cab to his estate. Martin didn’t argue. He took the time spent waiting for an available cab to write out a message to the local office. Then he gave a ragged looking boy a few shillings to deliver it.
After the few people in front of them had secured transportation, a driver hopped down from a Hansom cab to help them aboard. Baron Blake’s two suitcases were placed in a basket beneath the driver’s seat and then the two men climbed aboard.
“The Blake estate, near Upton Pyne, if you please,” the Baron said through the trapdoor in the cab’s ceiling. The driver nodded and cracked his whip.
Exeter passed them by to the clopping sound of their horse’s hooves against the road. It was a quaint little city, cleaner than most English towns its size, which had to be a draw for the upper-classes like Blake. And it was a concentration of influential persons like him which made Exeter a powerful lobby in Westminster, helping to ensure the factories stayed away from their precious city and reinforcing the cycle. But the rich had to have their resorts.
Martin sat with his slim soft-leather briefcase and hat on his lap, Blake was leaning somewhat messily against the window of the cab, his head on a hand and his top hat askew.
“I just did this.”
“Lord Blake?” Martin wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly; the other man had been speaking into his palm.
Blake shifted his weight to sit up, “I just did this the other day.” He nodded out the window, “With Jay Thomson, we rode down to the air station. We used the carriage and coachman from the house then, of course.”
“That would have been Saturday?” The Baron obviously wanted to talk, and Martin was well-practiced in letting another man think he was participating in a conversation. He could almost sleep and do it at the same time.
Blake nodded, “I gave him… I gave him something of my father’s.”
His office’s file had little information on Baron Blake’s family; the man had almost come from nowhere. “Heirloom?” Some people attached an unnecessarily large importance to simple objects.
“It was, um, his prayer book. He was a priest, but he wrote a lot of stuff down in it. About the only thing I had left of his after he died and the debt collectors finished. To think if it had burned in the fire....”
“We don’t know in what condition the survivors escaped. It may well have.”
Blake turned sharply towards Martin, then bit his lower lip and looked back out the window, resting his head on his hand again.
“I hope not.”
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-