For If It Prosper

© 1997 Stephen Hunt (UK)

Sample Chapters: Part 1

Print this one out? Approx 8 pages of A4 text

 London. 1864.

Lord Beaton shivered as his steward pushed open the door, the servant's eyes searching for the coachman waiting outside. Snow was still falling on the streets of St. John's Wood, the only warmth in the night a ghostly halo from the gas lights compassing Regent's Park.

 Beaton turned to his two guests. "You mark my words, Old Pam hasn't the guts to see this Dutch business through. The Prussians have got a taste for victory now, and the devils aren't going to rest until the inhabitants of Schleswig-Holstein are drinking snapps and eating beerwurst."

 Peter D'Corsair shrugged, well-muscled shoulders moving beneath his black cape. "Perhaps, but Palmerston has indicated Holland won't be fighting on its own if the cards are drawn badly for the Dutch. If the Prussians invade "

 Lord Beaton looked at his last guest, clearly seeking another opinion. "How about it, MacGregor, what does the honourable member for Skye and Lochalsh think? Has Old Pam got the nerve for it ­ to give the krauts a good hiding?"

 "No, I don't think so," MacGregor said. "He's no been looking so spry on the floor of the house recently. Russel or Gladstone will be Prime Minister by the end of the year. And it's no us Bismarck will have to settle with, I fear. Austria, now. That's another matter. Someone has to unite Germany, and the Hapsburgs aren't going to stand by and meekly watch the Prussians do it."

 Outside, the coach drew up, and the three men walked down, Lord Beaton's cane striking a rhythm on the steps. "Germany united? Never do. They'll be as bad as the bloody Russians. Mark my words, one day Otto's lot will have us in a cat match that'll make the Crimea look like a bloody pleasant day's boating on the Avon."

 Beaton was about to mount the coach's step when the two figures emerged out of the gusting darkness, both dressed in identical Inverness cloaks. Something about the men made Beaton stop, a cold feeling he hadn't felt since the siege of Lucknow. It startled the Lord that his campaigner's senses still stood capable of registering a breath of fear on his spine. Both men were well dressed enough, but their faces were flat and brutal, and the more desperate thieves sometimes ventured past the City from Whitechapel, bringing their violent robberies and savage vices into London's decent wards.

 D'Corsair lent over and stopped Lord Beaton's hand on his cane. That it concealed a sword was an open secret among the members of the St. James Club.

 "Do you know these coves, Peter?"

 "A nodding acquaintance, William."

 Both men halted by the wheel of the coach, their eyes beady, carefully consuming the wealth implicit in the party's evening clothes and coach.

 "Good day to you, gents. D'Corsair. You've been sent for. We've got a growler waiting in the next street."

 D'Corsair's green eyes narrowed dangerously. "And what makes you think I will find your company preferable to that of my friends tonight?"

 The tallest one grinned and pulled back his caped cloak, revealing the glint of metal from a holstered pistol. "No scenes, old chum. On a night like this, nearest Peeler's going to have his feet cosy up and toasting by the fire."

 The other's companion pulled out a life-preserver and slapped the weight of the small bludgeon in his palm. "We ain't forgotten that time in Deptford, eh. So if you want to play the gallant, D'Corsair, you just go ahead and we'll apply our hobnails to your noble head and bring you in just the same."

 Even in the cold January air, Lord Beaton's face was turning crimson. "How dare you accost us in this manner! Outside my own house, by God. I'm sending for the police and I'll see you transported for your damnable nerve."

 "Transported is it?" The tall thug drew out a silver badge, a unicorn and the trident of Britannia highlighted in the blue light. "This is Home Office business, your Lordship. Best you keep your nose well out of it."

 "The what indeed! Do you mean to say you devils are from Great Scotland Yard? I've never seen any badge like that before; who is your superior? I'll have you know that Inspector Munroe is a personal friend of mine and if you ­ "

 ­ D'Corsair stepped forward to calm the old man. "It's alright, William. You and MacGregor go on to the opera. With luck, I will have caught up with you by the first interval."

 "No, sir," Beaton insisted, banging his white gloves against the side of his coach. "Leave you in the company of these flash rogues? Outside the ranks of the Connaught Rangers, I can't believe Her Majesty's government has taken to engaging such low and insolent ruffians in good employment."

 "There's little good about their employment, William. Go now. Really. I shall be fine."

 Still fuming, Lord Beaton got in and drubbed his hand on the coach door. He glanced back at D'Corsair walking away into the fog, then turned to the Scottish member of parliament as they rattled away from their young friend.

 "Did you see that gun, MacGregor? Damn queer looking, American or some such and those two brigands. What trouble has Peter got himself into now?"

 "The gun, I believe it was an air-pistol," MacGregor said. "Girandoni manufactured a similar style of weapon for the Austrian Emperor. During the Napoleonic wars. But Peter's troubles now, aye, those would be something else again."

 "What do you know, man?" Beaton demanded. "Before he died, I promised Peter's father that I would look out for the lad. Lord knows, I have done poorly enough in that regard to date. Don't make a liar out of me again."

 MacGregor stared out the window, his long white Dundreary whiskers reflected back in the glass. "Aye, of course, Lord Beaton. I have a fondness for the laddie myself. All I know is what I've heard tell of in chambers. The badge we were shown. I have heard rumours the crest is linked to the offices of Lord Corrington."

 "Sir Clarence Mock?" Lord Beaton started to cough in the damp air of the carriage. "Sweet Jesus, man, the fellow is nothing but a reckless butcher. If there were any justice in the world, the bastard would have died in the Crimea alongside the lives of the troops he frittered away on the battlefields of Sebastopol."

 MacGregor shook his head heavyheartedly. "Aye, but if what I have been hearing is half true, these days Clarence Mock is the justice in the world."

*

With the heavy velvet curtains of the cab drawn, D'Corsair had nowhere to look but the surly faces of his two companions, their broken noses marking them as the prize fighters they had once been, bare knuckle matches in front of the crumbling Limehouse tenements, blood spilled to the jingle of shillings bet on the first man to fall ­ or in the case of the more sinister underground matches, the fighter that spluttered his final breath away onto cheap sawdust and wasteground mud.

 "You have quite a talent for diplomacy, Brooke," D'Corsair told the more imposing ruffian. "You should be careful. You might wake up one day and find yourself promoted to Foreign Secretary."

 "Shut up! We're working. Which is more than can be said of you, old chum."

 "Would that you had remembered that earlier. I am free of all your foolishness now. I shouldn't have thought you would have needed reminding, not after our last meeting."

 "We'll see," said Brooke. "We'll see just how free you are, D'Corsair, before this night is out."

 The other thug peeled back a strip of the curtain, checking the progress of their journey, then sealed them into anonymity again. "Easy to be a free man with the money you've got, eh Peter? Don't think we haven't been keeping up with you in your absence. All those balls, the days at the races, the nights with other men's wives. Bit of a gambling man now too. We 'ad a few wagers ourselves on how long you'd last without the pleasure of our company to jolly you along."

 D'Corsair ran a hand through his thick mane of dark hair. "Oh. I could have gone a few more years without you. Count on it."

 "That servant of yours still alive?" Brooke asked. "The bloody Chinaman?"

 "Very much so. Though he's Tibetan, not Chinese, and wouldn't be flattered by your ignorance. By the way, how is your leg?"

 "Your friend broke it cleanly enough, old chum. Still hurts on cold nights. You had better pray my men never get the orders to badger you again. Next time, we'll do it proper. Nothing personal."

 D'Corsair lit a Turkish cigarette. "If you try to kill either myself or Kai again, you had better do it right, Brooke. I swear, if you botch it a second time, it'll take more than a plea for mercy from Kai to spare your lives. That's nothing personal either."

 Brooke almost seemed pleased by D'Corsair's threat. "More like it, Peter. Now you're thinking like a bloody professional again."

Rattling to a stop, Brooke opened the door wide enough to pass his badge and wallet out to a soldier dressed in crimson, the uniform patched damp by snowfall. Not a real soldier, D'Corsair suspected. Not on this duty. Outside their carriage, the Tower of London's moat lay fretted by the wind, a plane of silver glass sleeping under the lights of Bridge Approach. D'Corsair shut his eyes for a second, listening to the sound of a steamboat moving on the Thames, stray dogs yelping along the length of the Wapping wharves.

 A minute passed. The soldier passed back the badge to Brooke. D'Corsair knew the gate had a way of testing it to prove its validity. Something mechanical to do the job, probably, although he remained unaware of the exact process they exploited. Another of the Bloody Tower's many secrets.

 Passing over the moat, the carriage continued along a bailey before stopping outside the yellowed bulk of Lanthorn Tower. From the west came the distant chimes of Big Ben, crisp in the cold air and quickly lost to the night. A soldier dressed as a Beefeater silently opened the growler's door and saluted, another opening a wooden door into the tower, D'Corsair's two escorts moving ahead and behind, marking him in case he attempted to break away. Not that he would. He was curious to see just what on earth it was Sir Clarence Mock thought they had to say to each other. What situation could be just so desperate that Peter D'Corsair had been summoned by the Lord's rowdy flashmen without even the courtesy of changing out of his dress suit. Whatever else could be said about the Lord Corrington ­ and by all that was holy, there was much ­ the man's veneer of good manners were usually impeccably correct. It was what lay beneath which couldn't be trusted. His seemingly benevolent smile, a permanent fixture, was the grin of a tiger chancing across a lost missionary. D'Corsair had come near enough to that maw himself to know the true measure of Sir Clarence Mock, the thrice-damned Lord of Corrington. Ruthless, cruel, and obsessed with the service of the Empire.

 Mock, D'Corsair considered, was the kind of man who would have better served his colleagues' interests by wearing the normal puritan grimness of Whitehall, rather than disguising his merciless core with a veil of affability and false concern. Perfidious was the word which came first to mind. And as tenacious as a terrier with its teeth sunk into some unfortunate's ankle ­ which, along with curiosity, was why D'Corsair hadn't killed the two bruisers sent to collect him.

 Led through a long series of musty storerooms, D'Corsair watched one of the Beefeaters walk to a wall of barrels racked against the wall. Sliding off the head of a barrel, the man exposed a series of brass levers. One was thrown, a section of wall loudly grinding back to reveal only stygian darkness beyond. It did not stay dark for long. Hoist cables began to shake and an oil lamp-lit cab was lowered into sight, the tiny lift's walls lined with rich red leather.

 Brooke got in first, tapping a brass pipe and speaking some words into it. D'Corsair hoped the brute had remembered the day-phrase correctly, or the car might find itself plunging the rest of the way down. At the very bottom of the shaft was a freezing cavern of water, quite deep enough to drown unwanted intruders, or for that matter any hapless thieves who might think they had come across a secret passage leading to the crown jewels.

 Doors cranked down and the cab began to descend, accompanied by the sucking noise of the hydraulic winch drawing water from the distant Thames. The trio sank, minutes blurring, Brooke impatiently tapping the silver-plated handrails. Arriving with a shudder, the lift reached the entrance level. Two crimson-uniformed soldiers swung back the cab's doors, their jackets noticeably bare of the insignia beloved of Queen Victoria's proud regiments.

 "Your passes, if you please, sir," barked the sergeant on their right. Brooke passed his badge over, oblivious to the formality and the soldier's obviously bored tone.

 Seeing the sergeant's nod of approval, the other guard shouldered his Adams-Beaumont percussion lock rifle and slid out a large key on a belt chain, unlocking the iron doors in front of them.

 Entering an immense barrel-vaulted chamber, D'Corsair found himself at the terminus of a ring of railway tracks, a dozen dark tunnel mouths surrounding the chamber, a turntable ahead of them spilling light out of its signal box. Scattered across the artificial grotto a number of cars lay stalled, locked into cables to silently draw them through London's hidden tunnel systems, metal tunnel creatures well able to feed from the network of steam engines concealed about the surface. The pungent smell of the chamber's oil lamps unlocked unpleasant memories for D'Corsair.

 "That one," Brooke indicated an open carriage further down the line of wooden sleepers. "And let's be sharp about it. You know what a bugger his Lordship is for punctuality."

 "Yes. I remember."

 Moulded in metal relief, the car bore the latin motto of the Special Office on her side, Duty In Silence, Duty In Honour. D'Corsair wondered if it had been the Duke of Wellington who had first thought of those simple words. He had been the founding father of the Special Office, after all; the secret department created after the Peace of Europe to deal with the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars. Its task to ensure no foreign megalomaniac ­ no Corsican artillery sergeant with delusions of grandeur ­ would ever threaten England's shores with such arrogant ease again. Some called it the Great Game. Others the Balance of Power. The names might change, but the price of playing always remained constant.

 In the switching tower a signalman raised a crossarm in front of the three men, and the cab rolled away, jolting as the cable stretched and picked up their weight. Relaxing, D'Corsair let the occasional breeze from the air ducts blow across his observant features. Streams of dark-coloured mice scattered in front of the flatcar as the car's lamps caromed towards the vermin, their passage sending entire rodent armies scuttling for cracks in the tunnel.

 Nearing the conclusion of its journey, the car's approach set off a bell on a platform next to the stall their carriage locked into. Sporting a thick curved moustache the same colour as his blonde mop of hair, a muscular young man in the same uniform as the guards at the shaft-entrance came out of a booth to greet the visitors.

 He seemed discomforted by the sight of D'Corsair. "Why, captain. I never did think I would catch sight of you down here again, and that's the truth of it."

 "I hope you will not be too disappointed, Morton, if I say that's a sentiment I share."

 "Are you taking the Queen's sovereign again, sir?"

 "Hardly. Not unless she's offering the gold reserves of the Bank of England as my wages."

 "I doubt that, sir. Perhaps you could advance to the wall and place your right hand on the glass plate there. Mr Brooke will do it first and show you how it's done."

 D'Corsair glanced to where the guardsman was pointing. "This is something new, Morton?"

 "Introduced just before Christmas, sir. I understand that it will have a great impact on the future of criminology when we choose to release it to Scotland Yard."

 The crystal D'Corsair had has fingers against went dark for a second. When he removed his hand he saw there was an ink-like substance staining his fingers.

 "The towel is behind you, sir. Mister Brooke, if you and your flashman would care to deposit your gas-guns at the desk "

 After the two bruisers had been relieved of their weapons, Morton pulled up a magnifying system from the booth and examined it for a second, then smiled, well satisfied with the results. "That's excellent. Not that I had any doubts about you, Mr D'Corsair. You would be a rather difficult act to impersonate." He went to a drawer and pulled out three green-enamelled shields hanging on copper chains, handing them out to the visitors. "You are clear to proceed. Please remember to stay away from any portal with a doorknob painted red or blue. If you need to travel through a gold door, you may do so, but you will need to pass the sentry there first."

 Opening a door as thick as a safe vault, D'Corsair entered a hall which might have been any corridor in Westminster save for the absence of windows and natural light; thick carpets, and walnut-panelled walls hung with cartoons from Punch and landscapes by Constable, even a few foreign oils by Théodore Géricault. Clerks moved about in dark waistcoats, piles of paper clutched between their fingers, oblivious to the cherry-red soldiers checking chains at sentry tables. It was easy to tell the Office's agents of the field ­ the flashmen ­ most of them sported their Inverness cloaks as proudly as badges. They might as well have worn Police uniforms and carried truncheons and rattles.

Bounded by an iron bust of the Duke of Wellington on one side and Queen Victoria's stern features on the other, Mock's private secretary glanced up from a pile of paperwork and silently opened the door for D'Corsair. His escort pointedly waited outside.

 Lord Corrington had changed as little as his office. It might have been two years ago for all that the passage of time had eroded the man's painted-on smile.

 "You've put on a little weight, Peter."

 "That comes about, you will find, from reducing the amount of time spent locked up in foreign jails."

 Mock got up from behind his massive desk and walked over to a cabinet, pulling out a golden bottle of Trois Riviéres. "I remembered your tastes, Peter. I had a navy acquaintance of mine bring this back from Martinique."

 "I remember your tastes, too, Sir Clarence."

 "Really? Surely you haven't grown overcautious with age ­ I always thought our occasional disdain for the rules that bind the common herd was something we shared?"

 "Once perhaps, but the price got to be too high."

 Lord Corrington filled a glass. "You have changed. For the worst, if I may point that out. I hope you don't still blame yourself for the death of Prince Albert."

 His comment drew a bitter laugh from D'Corsair. "Blame myself for the Prince Regent's blood! It's you I blame! Your gambling streak and the Special Office's incompetence. You had a week to arrest those Italian assassins, but you used us as live bait instead. You were dangerously reckless and your egotism cost the Queen the life of the only man she ever loved."

 "Perhaps. But you really shouldn't have gone to Fleet Street, Peter," Sir Clarence raised his voice slightly, his tone disappointed. "What did you believe the newspapers were going to do? Print the story? Ridiculous. We only had to point out to them the details of your old life to completely discredit you. Then we had to bribe the News Barons with the bloody abolition of paper tax to stop them exposing your own past, which would have been almost as embarrassing for the country given your previous service to it. No, as far as history and the rest of the world is concerned, Prince Albert was struck down by a sad and unfortunate illness and that is the beginning and the end of the matter."

 "The end for you, damn your eyes, you arrogant bastard. And to what end? Italy's now sits a single, unified Kingdom, while the Queen of England pines for her dead husband."

 Lord Corrington eased himself down into his chair again. "Recriminations? You may choose to shed tears over the matter like some drama-enthralled grandmother, but perhaps I have less to atone for than you do. What the Special Office did, it did for the protection of the nation, and if the Empire demands sacrifices from the herd, then how much more should we expect from those born to high position?"

 "I believe you have your answer in the Queen's withdrawal from public life."

 "It is astounding how you can often find a conscience developing in the strangest of places," Mock observed. "Like weeds in a garden. Let me cut to the quick, Peter. We need you back."

 "You have a problem you want resolved, use Brooke."

 "His sort are details men, soldiers. Hardly officer class. It's your intellect we want, Peter, your habit for thoroughness. I made no secret of it when you resigned. You made the most exceptional flashman."

 "Hardly unique. Use Dr Casgrain or Theodore Preece - they're good men."

 "Casgrain is in Prussia at the moment. Preece is overseeing our interests in the American Confederacy, for as long as the Richmond government lasts anyway, which our intelligence suggests will not be much longer."

 "Why?" D'Corsair demanded. "Why ask me back here? You know what the answer is. It's the same as it was two years ago and the Special Office Six be damned to hell."

 "Ah," Lord Corrington nodded. "Yes. I thought your famous curiosity could be relied upon to bring you down here one more time. Very well. Let me show you what we are up against."

 Reaching under his desk, the nobleman pushed a switch and a praxinoscope concealed within Mock's bookcase threw a square of light onto the wall. With a rattle the projector's cylinder advanced to its first chronophotographic exposure.

"Two weeks ago, one of our gentlemen of influence inside the Home Office forwarded us details of this man, Professor Terrillion, a Belgian explorer frequently sponsored by the Royal Society. Last month Terrillion made contact with the government alleging a group of anarchists are preparing to overthrow the country. In the first instance we failed to take his claims seriously ­ they were really quite fanciful, exaggerated far beyond the boundaries of commonsense ­ but he persisted and finally a flashman was sent to interview him. Our agent was found murdered. Along with the corpse of Terrillion. The professor had been struck once through the heart with a curved blade; our flashman died from multiple wounds of a similar nature. This is the scene of the murder inside the professor's Wimbledon home."

 There was something strange about the image flickering on the wall, the murdered scientist lying on his side, frock coat dark with blood.

 D'Corsair frowned. "Curious? From that picture your murder victim only has one arm. So be it, Sir Clarence. You have shown me your gruesome photographs. But again I repeat my question, why in the name of God should I come back to the Special Office to help you resolve this matter?"

 Lord Corrington's smile grew. "Yes, one arm. Perhaps you think it was Terrillion's killer who tortured him before his murder? No. It was not the professor's mysterious band of insurrectionists who severed that limb. Terrillion's mutilation happened many years before his death."

 With another click, the praxinoscope advanced to the next slide, the body had been turned over to reveal the scientist's face.

 D'Corsair's eyes widened.

 "But I see you recognise Terrillion now. Yes, Peter, it was you that cut off his arm, and you that murdered his wife shortly afterwards!"

*

No light entered the room, heavy velvet curtains drawn, the snow sprinkled oblong of Manchester Square sealed outside while its birdsong and scissor-grinder's cries went unnoticed inside the apartment. With London freezing bright in the morning glow, the room was lit only by the dun illumination thrown from a pair of blood-coloured incense sticks.

 Kai placed the plate of food down for a moment, shutting the door.

 "You have been inside a week now."

 D'Corsair said nothing to the old Tibetan.

 "Mrs Davenport has made you a bowl of soup. She will be most upset if I carry it down full again. Why should I incur her wrath for your actions?"

 Still D'Corsair was silent.

 "Meditation is best done by relinquishing the mind, making it an empty vessel, not filling it with turbulent thought. And fasting is best done when you start with a full stomach."

 Kai lifted up the tray he had left the previous day. Untouched. Cold food. "The old times are done with now, Peter D'Corsair. You yield your own present."

 About to leave the bedroom, Kai stopped as D'Corsair spoke for the first time.

 "Send a message to Lord Corrington."

 "So, at last the tree finds a breeze to rustle its leaves. What message?"

 "You know what message, Kai."

 Kai nodded thoughtfully and closed the door.

*

Stopping to let them pass, D'Corsair watched a knot of giggling ladies whisk their stiffened pink hems across the marble of the Albemarle Hotel's lunching room. As usual, the place was full of the wealthy weary taking a break from the pace of shopping around Piccadilly. Showing D'Corsair to his table, a smartly suited hotel lad pulled out a chair.

 A man rose from the other seat, fastidiously groomed and peering myopically over his pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. "D'Corsair? Yes? I would have preferred to have met around Pall Mall."

 They shook hands. "But of course, Mr Cassin-Scott. Unfortunately, I find your club slightly too public for my tastes."

 "Public? Good godfathers, man. Do you think the Carlton Club has taken to admitting revolutionaries into its ranks? It was only last year we started receiving liberals in the guests' room."

 "I am sure the Carlton Club's selection process is quite rigorous," D'Corsair said, making his order from the menu. "But then, it is of anarchists that I have come to discuss."

 "I know, I know. That dratted Belgian scientist. I am beginning to regret the day I first laid eyes on him."

 "As would M. Alphonse Terrillion, I am sure, if he were alive enough to do so."

 "See here, D'Corsair, I regret that the Belgian died in the manner he did. But I hope you are not suggesting that I hold any of the blame here. It was myself who initially contacted the Special Office. And quite frankly, I had my doubts about doing even that much. Terrillion was in your protection when he died."

 D'Corsair refilled the civil servant's glass with more wine. "No. No, you acted quite correctly. But what led you to have doubts about Professor Terrillion's talk of revolution and plots?"

 "Quite frankly, I think all this fuss over public unrest has been overdone. London is not the Paris mob and never will be. Physical Force Chartism died with Feargus O'Connor eight years ago. Each year the lot of the common man has been improving along with Britain's advancements in science and the growth in Imperial trade and now you want me to believe there's a radical conspiracy by the masses to overthrow Whitehall and bring in the guillotine for all the errant tories? Stuff and nonsense, sir. If you had asked me the same question ten years ago before the repeal of the Corn Laws, I might have answered differently. But now? Pure fantasy. It's the trade unions you should be watching if you want to nip the future troubles of this land in the bud ­ they'll be demanding the vote for wandering gangs of navvies next if the government gives them the legal rope to flourish."

 Surely," D'Corsair asked, "there must have been more to your doubts than that?"

 "By Jove, so there was, D'Corsair. I had one of my clerks check the professor's background before I alerted the Special Office to his outlandish story, and quite a background it turned out to be. Terrillion was thrown out as an associé of the French Academy of Sciences but managed to keep his expulsion quiet through bribery ­ his wife was a society woman in Brussels and quite rich, you know?"

 "Yes. I believe I met her once."

 "Really? Well, Terrillion's professional reputation was unsteady to say the least. You will doubtlessly understand why, when I tell you that he was friends with that miserable ape-worshipper Darwin. They worked together in Bahia, and in fact it was Darwin who is said to have proposed Terrillion for membership of the Linnean Society."

 Watching as their food was served, D'Corsair continued. "Darwin? Illustrious company indeed, Mr Cassin-Scott. The Linnean holds some of the Royal Society's most prestigious chairs."

 "You think so? In my mind Terrillion's association with that Darwin devil only reinforced the doubtful elements of his story. I am a thoroughly modern creature, D'Corsair, all in favour of King Steam, but I am a Christian first and foremost. Darwin's anthropological conceits are dangerous and self-defeating. However, I digress, in the year before his murder, Terrillion was becoming even more deranged; his closest colleagues in the Royal Society were loathe to associate with him any longer."

 "Deranged, how so?"

 "He claimed to have found evidence of an ancient civilisation on his last expedition. One, I believe, mentioned by Plato in one of his accounts. Do you know the legend of Atlantis?"

 D'Corsair signalled he did not.

 "Nor did I until this strange matter. It's a rather obscure myth, one normally restricted to the ranks of Oxford's scholars of classics. If the tale is to be believed, the ancient land of Atlantis was settled by the daughter of the Greek god Atlas and became a great maritime power many centuries before the reign of the Egyptian Pharaohs, then the Atlantean nation was supposedly destroyed by some walloping great natural disaster."

 "Surely the discovery of Atlantis's ruins remains a possibility? Look at some of the recent finds in the jungles of South America, the new sites being unearthed around the sands of Dakhla?"

 "He was insane, D'Corsair. You might as well say Troy still waits for us to find it. Besides, as I understand it, the legends that surround the antediluvian world place Atlantis on the seabed between Europe and the Americas. Terrillion's last expedition was to the South Pole! Ice and seal bones were all that he brought back with him. Whenever he was challenged for any proof of his fantastic discoveries he merely grew vague."

 "And what of his sans-culottes uprising? Did Professor Terrillion get as far as naming the man who would be Britain's Robespierre?"

 "If it wasn't for Terrillion's murder, D'Corsair, I would have written his entire tale off as the ramblings of an addled mind. He had a taste for Indian opium and had grown as thin as a brush ­ like a single heavy rainfall would snap him in two. According to the Belgian, his conspiracy of anarchists have plans to seize the country at the start of the summer. If Terrillion was in the possession of any of the conspirators' names, he didn't see fit to pass them on to myself, although he did take every opportunity to allege the revolutionaries were working at the highest level of society."

 "There were no names discussed at all in your conversations?"

 "Not as such. Although he did refer to the conspiracy as the Fraternity once. But he grew almost hysterical whenever I attempted to prize more details of the cabal from him. He was undoubtly mad. The very idea of well-placed members of the English establishment conspiring to bring the lunacies of the Paris mob to Westminster. Quite preposterous."

 "You sound certain?"

 "Birmingham and Manchester's rookeries might produce anarchists and communes but Oxford and Eton? I have yet to see a half-decent rioter emerge from the estates of Hampshire. In fact, I am still not convinced Terrillion wasn't just murdered by bludgers breaking into his house in search of the family plate and silver." 

 D'Corsair shook his head. "The flashman who was protecting him was armed with a pistol, an expert marksman and adept in pugilism. The professor's neighbours in Wimbledon didn't even hear our man cry out. No, whoever murdered them both was no rank amateur in such matters."

 "I will rely on your judgement for that, sir. But you mark my words, there's not going to be any revolution in England in 1863. Or any other year for that matter. We're not the Frogs you know, we had all that nonsense settled by Cromwell during a respectable period of history. Everyone knows their position here ­ it's the genius of our system."

 "Obviously not everyone, Mr Cassin-Scott. Certainly not Professor Terrillion's uninvited house guest."

 "Everyone who counts, D'Corsair, old chap everyone who counts."


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These two novels are still unpublished. Interested publishers can contact my agent, Maggie Noagh, to bid for these (same agent who represents Stephen Baxter etc).

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