Coronation Year, page 27
“Is there anything I can use to tie his hands?”
“There’s some rope over here,” Edie answered, and Stella ran over to fetch it, along with a pocketknife that Brooks must have dropped earlier. It was a good thing the wretch hadn’t thought to make use of it as well.
Jamie fastened the rope around Brooks’s wrists, rather more tightly than he ought to have done, and then he cut a second length of rope and tied together the man’s feet, just to be sure, before turning him onto his back. It wouldn’t do for him to expire from asphyxiation before he could be brought to trial.
And then he remembered the bomb.
He ran to Edie’s side, dropped to his knees, and untied the rope that Brooks had wrapped around her wrists. “He spoke of a bomb—where is it?”
“In the tunnel. I’m not sure how far.”
Brooks’s abandoned headlamp was nearby, and Jamie used it now to guide him as he advanced into the encompassing void of the unlit tunnel. It was an effort to continue on, step-by-step, into the dark unknown, his legs shaking, his every breath an effort, and when he did find the device that Ivor Brooks had constructed, the last of Jamie’s courage threatened to desert him.
Brooks had spoken of wanting the hotel for himself, and had even changed Edie’s will so he’d be sure to inherit it, but the device in front of Jamie was capable of flattening the Blue Lion and every other building in a fifty-yard radius. Not only did it appear to incorporate at least fifty pounds of dynamite, but the alarm clock rigged as a timing mechanism was ticking steadily away, and the hour hand—the others had been removed—was creeping toward a contact wire that had been secured in place with a blob of melted wax. At the speed the timer was advancing, the bomb would detonate within the quarter hour, if not sooner.
He rushed back to the cellar and, crouching next to Brooks, wrenched the man’s head around to face him. “I don’t know who told you how to build a bomb, but a single stick of dynamite properly placed would have been more than enough to bring down the tunnel and do away with Edie and the professor. Instead you’ve wired up enough goddamn explosive to bring down this entire hotel and most of its neighbors. What were you thinking?”
Brooks’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re lying. I was told I needed at least a hundred sticks to bring down the tunnel.”
“By the man who sold it to you? For a hundred times the price of the amount you actually needed? Let me guess: Was he the one who showed you how to wire it up, too?”
Jamie considered himself a peaceable man, but the display of greed, heartlessness, selfishness, and stupidity he was witnessing made it intensely difficult for him to resist the urge to throttle Brooks on the spot. It was with great difficulty that he refrained, but that was only because he needed to learn how Brooks had put the device together.
“Listen,” he began, affecting a tone of sympathy that was in no way sincere. “I can understand your feelings. I’m sure you have your reasons for all of this. I’m also sure the authorities will be lenient once you’ve had a chance to explain. But if you don’t help me now, we are all dead. Tell me you understand.”
But Brooks, his mouth pressed into a thin, bitter line, said nothing.
“Did you build in a way to deactivate the thing if you changed your mind? People will die. You do understand, don’t you? Innocent people, complete strangers. Hundreds of people. There are children in the crowds above us—does that mean nothing to you?”
Brooks shrugged, his gaze fixed on a point over Jamie’s shoulder. “I’ve no chance of getting the hotel now, and life in prison is what I’m facing if I do survive. Better a quick death to the alternative.”
It was no use; Jamie would get nothing from the man. “Stella?” he called out, marveling at how composed he sounded. “Has Inspector Bayliss arrived?”
“I do not know.”
“All right. Please go upstairs, and if he’s here, let him know that Brooks has planted a bomb that’s big enough to level this entire building and put an enormous hole in the middle of today’s coronation route. If Bayliss hasn’t arrived, run through the hotel and do your damnedest to clear the place out. Edie, see if you can wake the professor. But don’t take too long. I need you out of this cellar and as far away as your legs can carry you.”
That accomplished, he ran back into the tunnel, his only tools a dull penknife and the miner’s headlamp he’d taken from Brooks.
He crouched before the bomb, knowing he should do nothing until he had properly assessed every component and gained some understanding of what he was facing. The sticks of dynamite, strapped into bundles, were divided between two open suitcases that had been arranged side by side on the ground. Perched atop the explosives in the right-hand case was the alarm clock that Brooks had modified so clumsily. It was wired to an electric detonator, which in turn was connected to a set of six-volt lantern batteries. The connecting wires were a uniform gray, and the location of the entire contraption, set back against the open lid of the suitcase, made it impossible for Jamie to assess the rear or underside for evidence of a booby trap. If Brooks had simply wired one element to the next, it would be a straightforward matter of severing the connection between the timer and the detonator—the penknife he held would do the job in an instant. But there was every chance the bomb was booby-trapped with a hidden antitamper circuit that would detonate if he started rummaging around. There was no way of knowing, and there was no time to lose, not now. Dozens of lives—hundreds, even—depended on Jamie, but it had been years since he’d matched his wits and nerves to an explosive device, and the last time he’d tried didn’t bear thinking about.
“Is it something you can sort out?” Edie asked in a voice so calm she might have been asking about a lightbulb that needed changing. Only then did he realize that she’d been standing at his side all along.
“Oh, aye. Nothing to it. Only I can’t begin until you go. Please, Edie.”
“If I go, there will be no one to hold the light while you work.”
“I’m begging you. We’re almost out of time. You must go.”
“Look at me for a moment,” she asked. “Thank you. I want you to know that I believe, truly believe, you can and will defuse this bomb. I have complete confidence in you. And that is why I am going to stay here and hold the light so you have both your hands free to deal with this wretched thing. You have a coronation procession to paint, and I have a hotel full of guests who will be wanting their breakfast before long, and I have had enough of Ivor Brooks and his antics to last me a lifetime.”
“I can’t persuade you to go?”
“No. When we leave this cellar, it will be together.”
He had never loved her more. “Right, then. I won’t be a moment.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Edie
Of course she was afraid. She was standing next to an enormous bomb, one that would level the Blue Lion if it exploded, kill or maim hundreds of bystanders, bring down the street above, ruin the coronation, and not incidentally end her life and that of the man she loved.
She was afraid, but she had complete confidence in Jamie’s ability to defuse the bomb. So she remained at his side, and held the light for him, and watched as he bent close and examined the parts of the device that Ivor had assembled—a nonsensical collection of batteries and wires and an alarm clock missing all but one of its arms, and most alarmingly stick after stick of dynamite that looked exactly like something out of a Hollywood film.
After what felt like hours, but likely had only been a few minutes, he stepped back, took a deep breath, and smiled at her. “Done.”
“We’re safe?” she asked, hardly daring to breathe. “What did you do?”
“Since Brooks didn’t have the faintest idea of how much explosive to use, I reasoned he likely didn’t have the knowledge to build in a booby trap. So I simply clipped the wires connecting the timer to the detonator. It was a risk, but I had to take it.”
“Is it safe now?”
“Safe enough. I’ll happily explain the whys and wherefores, but would you mind if I do so upstairs? I’ve had about as much of this cellar as I can take.”
Her heart clenched in sympathy, and not a little guilt at having forgotten how unbearable it was for him to be underground. “I don’t blame you one bit. Let’s see if we can get the professor moving.”
The poor dear was stirring already, and with a little help he was able to sit up, and then, once he wasn’t quite so dizzy, Jamie heaved him to his feet.
“Good heavens. What on earth has happened?”
“Rather a lot,” Jamie answered. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
“But the beams! Mr. Brooks told me that he’d found evidence of scribe-framing. I really must have a look.”
“Another time,” Edie answered firmly. “After you’ve seen a doctor, and after Mr. Brooks has been dealt with by the authorities, and after the coronation, then I’ll let you have a look.”
“Very well. I do have rather a nasty headache, come to think of it.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “A nice cup of tea is just what you need. Come along, now.”
With Jamie taking the professor’s right arm and Edie his left, and guided by the waning light of the headlamp she still held, they made their way, one shaky step after another, out of the tunnel and across the cellar. Ahead, a line of light appeared and grew steadily wider as someone opened the door at the top of the stairs.
“Sorted?” Inspector Bayliss called down.
“Sorted,” Jamie called back.
“Good man. Need some help?”
“God, yes.”
The inspector came down, and together he and Jamie carried the professor out of the cellar, and Edie, for a moment, was left alone. She was halfway up the steps before she thought to look back.
Ivor lay on the floor, forgotten, though presumably the police would return for him before too long. He glared at her, and although she was curious to learn how, exactly, he had put his awful plans in place, she didn’t much care to listen to him ever again. And she had better things to do than spend another moment in his company.
“I’m off to watch the coronation,” she told him. “I don’t expect I’ll see you again. Excepting at your trial, of course. Consider yourself sacked.”
Stella
After Professor Thurloe, still woozy from his ordeal, had been taken to the hospital, and Brooks, in shackles, had been led to a waiting police van, brought in through the back courtyard as the streets in front of the hotel were quite impassable, Stella remembered that she was expected to be in her place at the Abbey by no later than eight o’clock, and it was already half-past seven.
“No need to panic,” Edie soothed. “I’m sure we can find a way to get you there on time. Just do your best to get dressed as quickly as you can.”
Fortunately, Stella had always been the sort of person who had difficulty falling asleep if she was not prepared for the day to come, which meant her camera bag was already packed and her frock, ironed to perfection by Edie herself the day before, was laid out and ready for her to cast aside her pajamas and dressing gown.
With the Speed Graphic and its large-format film secured in her satchel, her Leica slung around her neck, and her press pass, identity card, and official pass to the Abbey tucked into the front pocket of her bag, Stella deemed herself ready.
Edie and Jamie were waiting for her, along with Gordon and one of his uniformed policemen. “Constable Timms here’ll see you through to the Abbey,” Gordon explained. “I’m off back to the Yard to see what I can get out of Brooks. If he admits to anything significant I’ll let you know.”
“And after that?” Edie asked. “Will you keep him in custody?”
“No chance of him getting out. Not today, and not for a long while. Try to enjoy Coronation Day, if you can.”
“I’ll do my best,” Edie said brightly. And then, turning to Stella, “These are for you.” She held out a packet of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. “Cook was worried you might get hungry while you’re waiting for everything to start.”
Stella tucked the sandwiches into one of the exterior pockets of her camera bag, and then, impulsively, pulled Edie close for a brief but heartfelt hug. It was not a day for restraint, she had decided. “Please thank Cook for me.”
A police car was waiting in the cobbled yard behind the hotel. Gordon opened the rear door and waited, showing no sign of impatience, as Stella settled herself on the rear seat. Constable Timms went around the bonnet of the car and took the front passenger seat.
“Thank you for this,” she told Gordon. “I’m not sure how I would get to the Abbey otherwise.”
“Least I can do in light of your actions this morning. You were very brave.”
“I only did as Jamie told me,” she protested. “He was the one who went into the cellar.”
“I mean the umbrella. Jamie told me about it while you were getting ready. Not sure as I’d have thought of it myself.”
“I was in such a panic. I didn’t even think.”
“I disagree. You kept your head, and you helped to prevent Brooks from blowing the entire hotel, and most of Northumberland Avenue, to kingdom come. Speaking as someone who would have spent the rest of his working life embroiled in the aftermath if that cretin had managed to set off his bomb, and also as an Englishman who wants to see his queen crowned today, I am very, very grateful for what you did. Now, tell me: You’ve got your pass? All your bits and bobs? Good.” He shook her hand, shut the car door, and thumped on the roof. “Off you go, and good luck.”
The driver reversed out of the courtyard onto Craven Street, but then, rather than turn left onto the Strand, he turned right.
“Streets are all blocked off,” Constable Timms explained, correctly sensing her alarm at the direction they were taking. “So we’re heading for Waterloo Bridge. There’s a police mooring point nearby, and we’ve a boat waiting for you. From there it’s straight along the river to Westminster Pier. We’ll be there in no time at all.”
Within five minutes, no more, they were passing by the pier at Charing Cross, and from there onward the riverbank was a mass of jubilant crowds and waving flags and voices raised in song.
“They’ll wear themselves out,” Constable Timms observed. “Hours yet until the procession.”
The boat pulled in at Westminster Pier soon after, and together Stella and the constable hurried up the stairs and across Bridge Street. She had expected a certain degree of chaos—how could it be avoided with thousands of people all vying for the chance to see the queen pass by?—but the crowds were polite and orderly, and not a single person complained when Constable Timms told them to step aside and make way.
Straight ahead were the Houses of Parliament; to their right was Westminster Abbey, its western end engulfed by a starkly modern annex. They continued on and presently came to a barrier that was guarded by a pair of uniformed soldiers.
“Got a press photographer here,” Constable Timms explained.
“You was supposed to be in your place hours ago,” one of the soldiers protested.
“None of your guff, if you please,” said Constable Timms. “She was helping Scotland Yard with some inquiries.”
“Why didn’t you say so straightaway? Let’s see your pass—no, it’s the reverse I need. It’ll show me where you’re meant to go.”
“I believe it is called the triforium,” Stella said, hoping to expedite matters.
“Good thing you wore sensible shoes. The triforium it is, and you’d best brace yourself for a climb. You’ll be going in through the entrance next to Poets’ Corner. It’s straight ahead, just before the chapter house. Show this to the usher when you come to the door.”
She said good-bye to Constable Timms, who promised to wait for her, and hurried onward, almost missing the path to the entrance in her haste. It was narrow and rather overshadowed, and led beneath the flying buttresses of a high round structure to the promised door. A short queue of men and women were waiting for admission, and as several among them had camera bags slung over their shoulders she felt confident she was in the right place.
Her passes and identification duly vetted, Stella followed the other journalists to a small wooden door, through which was a steep and tightly winding set of stairs. Up and up she climbed, not at all certain where she would end up, but as the man in front of her had said he was a writer for Time magazine it seemed sensible to follow.
They emerged onto a sort of mezzanine set high above the floor of the Abbey, and rather like the attic of an old house, it, too, was cluttered with the detritus of centuries. Several rows of chairs had been set close to the edge of the triforium, with a slender, waist-high metal rail offering only nominal protection against a long and presumably fatal fall.
It took her a while to inch past the other journalists and photographers, whispering brief hellos to the ones she knew from photo-calls, trying all the while not to let herself dwell on the twenty meters or more of empty air between the triforium and the marble floor below. When she did sit down she had scarcely enough elbow room to open the Speed Graphic, load it, and set it on her lap. Fortunately, she had no need for a flash, since the lights set up for the newsreels and television would brighten the dim interior even better than direct sunshine.
Next she took the Leica from its case, removed the lens cap, and slung it over her shoulder so it sat just under her arm. That way it would be easy to access when she needed it, but also secure if anyone were to bump her arm.
She glanced at her wristwatch; it was almost nine o’clock, with more than two hours remaining before the ceremony began in earnest. Now was a good time to eat at least one of the sandwiches Cook had prepared. She extracted the packet from her camera bag, unfolded the paper just enough to wiggle loose one triangle of sandwich, and as she took her first bite she caught the eye of a woman in one of the galleries across the way. She, too, was eating a sandwich, and rather amusingly was using her upturned coronet as a makeshift bowl. They exchanged smiles, and when Stella lifted her camera, the woman nodded and raised what looked to be a bottle of ginger beer in a silent toast. That was an image worth capturing, no matter that the ceremony had yet to begin.
