The Courtesan's Portrait

By James White

When a mysterious and alluring portrait is delivered to Parisian showgirl Pigalle, it signals the beginning of a deadly quest for the portrait’s secrets that will not only change her life, but possibly the balance of power in the world itself.

In 19th Century Montmartre, Parisian showgirl Pigalle De Vere is delivered a portrait with links to her own past and the parents she never knew. The trouble is, it also contains the key to discovering not just a fabled treasure, but the last work of a recently murdered inventor. Once rumours of the inventor’s hidden wealth surface, together with snippets of intrigue about the implausible weapon he was working on, Pigalle, joined by the dashing but untrustworthy adventurer Chester Albany, soon finds herself thrust into a deadly game of intrigue that takes her from Paris, to London and beyond.

Dogging her every step is the mysterious and terrifying Emma Van Stark. Head of a powerful cabal intent on harnessing science and innovation for material gain and power, Emma Van Stark proves to be not only a ruthless opponent, but holds some of the keys to unlocking Pigalle’s past.

Emerging triumphant Pigalle is irrevocably changed by her experiences and is ready for her next adventure in a world with far wider horizons and greater intrigues than the ones she’d ever dreamed of in Paris.

This the first in a series of books featuring Pigalle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James White
• Release date: Aug 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463902967

James White

James White lived in Northern Ireland. He was a popular writer of science fiction for over forty years. He was best known for his twelve novels in the Sector General series, beginning with Hospital Station. He died in 1999.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The fire’s dull glow cast a light onto the shadows of the wood-panelled drawing room. Outside, the wind was rising to a low moan. The rain swirled around the crooked eves of the manor house. The pounding crash of the surf rumbled faintly from behind the heavy velvet drapes. The men stood in silence. Over the gentle crackling of the flames in the hearth, an old man’s voice rose softly.

You’re quite sure?

The younger man swallowed. Quite sure. It was as you suspected. We’ve had a traitor. He threw his hands up. Jenkins knew nearly enough! Thank God he didn’t know more...

Knew? The old man interrupted, fixing him with a stare.

Pardon?

You said Jenkins knew nearly enough?

Yes. We found his body just off the road barely three miles from here.

An accident?

No sir. He paused. He had a slit throat. A pregnant silence filled the room. There’s something else. He placed an object on the table. The older man’s face grew pale. His knuckles whitened and he gripped the back of his chair. It was a small plain black calling card, blank apart from a flowing silver monogram ‘EVS’. We found this in Jenkin’s mouth.

The silence in the room became unbearable.

It’s her. The old man whispered.

Sir? What does it mean?

Saddle your fastest mount and go. Don’t stop for anything. Stay off the main roads. You know where you have to go. You know what you have to do.

Lord Hargreaves, I won’t abandon you here, I...

You’ll do what I damn well say! Hargreaves thundered. He straightened up, conjuring the campaigning general of the British Empire he’d once been. He took a deep breath for his final command: You have to get word to the girl. She is our only hope. You, are my only hope of reaching her.

Lord Hargreaves, you don’t have to stay. We can leave together - now! We can pray that they don’t find it, or us.

They won’t find it. Not where it is now. Their eyes flicked to the table. Hargreaves ran a hand through his white hair with a sigh.  I’m not running. Not from my home. Not anymore. I’d always imagined I’d finish my days here, by the coast. I admit, not so soon…but...well, I hope we find salvation. If not… He paused. Tapping the table top with a finger, he resumed defiantly. I shall make my stand here. Come dawn, I trust the secret shall be safe no matter what – whether I am here or not.

Sir! I beg you...

The younger man moved forward. Hargreaves held up his hand. It is out of our hands now and into hers.

But, but you have not seen her for years. You don’t know if she’ll be able to follow what you’ve prepared! Whether she can protect it...

She is the only one I trust. She owes me a debt too, something you will make clear to her – do not forget that. His voice trailed off and he paced to the window. Sighing, he turned to face the younger man. We always knew this moment might come. It’s time.

The younger man forced his eyes from the object to meet the old man’s gaze.

Take this to her. Alone. Stop for no one. The old man sat down heavily, the words draining him. More hangs on this than you can possibly imagine. Passing a trembling hand across his brow, he pushed the rectangular package across the table. One finger lingered on the plain brown paper.  With a weak smile, he continued, I shall not see you again. Goodbye and good luck. Tell her I am sorry. I only hope that she’s up to the task.

And if she’s not?

Then God help us all.

Chapter 2

The wind sighed along the Seine, sending ripples that shivered across the water. The breeze sailed from the river, across the city and up the hills, where it gently stirred the chilly tendrils of mist hanging in the warm pre-dawn air .  The few gas lamps scattered along the streets were spluttering out, casting the streets in dark shadow. Slowly, the first pink glow of sunlight began to trickle over Montmartre’s uneven tumble of rooftops. Somewhere below, a horse clipped along cobbles, the rumble of its cart punctuating the bird song of Paris welcoming a new day.

Not everyone was waking. There were those that had not slept at all, as in a narrow lane, beneath the wooden sign of a black cat, a door swung open to release a chorus of drunken song and laughter. Whilst in the gutter opposite, a dog raised its head, its nose twitching as it caught the scent of perfume and tobacco, to watch a petite silhouette stepping out unsteadily into the street.

The door slamming shut behind her, Pigalle blinked, her eyes adjusting to the light. She began to totter up the sloping street, cursing every now and again under her breath as her boot heels skidded on the damp cobbles.  Rising to its feet, the dog began to pad softly after her. Smiling, Pigalle crouched slightly to hold out her hand. The dog moved closer, sniffing it inquisitively, and nuzzled against her rustling silk skirts. His tail bobbed warmly as she ruffled his ears.

Well, bonjour, mon ami. Who are you? You’ve been waiting for me? Are you hungry? Me too! Come on, let’s see what we can find you.

Above them, the dome of the Sacre Couer emerged in an orange glow from the gloom of night. Candle light flickered behind twitching curtains. Smoke rose from freshly warmed chimneys and the pungent smell of burning coal once again began to fill the air. Freshly baked bread and brewing coffee smells permeated the crisp morning air.

Pushing through the grey morning fog, the young woman quickened her pace. T he dog beside her suddenly tensed and stopped. As it peered intently into the darkness ahead, a low growl rose in its throat. Frowning, Pigalle looked down at him quizzically before the clatter of running footsteps drew nearer.

Eyes narrowing, she slipped her hand into her purse and fumbled for the small knife. She stepped to the side of the alleyway. Aware of her own heart thumping against her chest, Pigalle could suddenly hear the laboured breathing of whoever was running towards them. The dog’s body was taut, its tail rigid. Pigalle took a breath in a vain attempt to relax herself, her fingers gripping the handle of her stiletto dagger tighter. 

With his eyes cast back over his shoulder, a figure rounded the gloom at the corner and careered towards them. Flicking his head around, he saw Pigalle for the first time and his eyes widened in shock behind his glasses. His arms flailed as he tried to check himself and change direction to avoid her, he collided with the wall opposite Pigalle. Sweat poured from his gaunt face as panted hard, barely catching his own breath. He gasped, mouthing an apology. Watching him cautiously, Pigalle noticed his thin and bookish looking frame. Yet she could see he was consumed by absolute terror. In his hand Pigalle saw he clutched a small flat package wrapped in brown paper. Noticing her gaze, he shrank back, clutching the parcel closer to him with both hands before he turned and ran.

Beside her the dog bristled and let out a loud, low growl as the tall figure of another man advanced slowly towards them. He gave no sign that he had been running in pursuit, loping forward with a purposeful gate that had Pigalle tightening her grip on the dagger.

His pale green eyes sought out her own, and Pigalle met their challenge with as much defiance as she could muster. Beside her the dog raised its hackles. The man smiled a cold, cruel smile that chilled Pigalle. Beneath his close-cropped grey hair, a livid scar pierced his cheek.

Offering a curt nod, the man made as if to pass the pair, but then stopped to look at Pigalle more closely. Feeling herself withering inwardly under his gaze, Pigalle jutted her chin forward and returned his gaze with, what she hoped was an assured look of her own.

Pardon me if I startled you Mademoiselle, I was looking for someone. Did a man just go past you? He spoke with a German accent, in clipped tones.

I think you know he did.

The corner of the man’s mouth curled slightly. Quite. He looked her up and down, before glancing beyond her as if deciding what to do. He did not give you anything?

Give me something? No. Why, what would he give me?

These are strange times. He searched her face carefully. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded to himself.

Mademoiselle, I bid you good day. He paced past her without waiting for her reply.

With her hand still tight on the knife in her purse, Pigalle watched him go.

You too, she breathed. Her body sagged against the wall.

Take care Mademoiselle De Vere! He threw back over his shoulder as he disappeared into the gloomy tangle of lanes below.

At the sound of her name, Pigalle quickly span around after him. But he had gone.

Come on, she murmured to the dog, let’s get out of here.

Higher up the hill, outside a shop, a man was already stacking up rows of baguettes on wooden trestles for the minutes away morning rush. His face split into a smile below his bristling moustache as he heard Pigalle coming.

Ah, Pigalle, just heading home, eh? He looked down. And I see you’ve a friend with you. I didn’t know you had a dog? He shuffled from one foot to the other as he addressed her, rubbing his hands nervously.

I don’t. She smiled, relaxing in the familiarity of routine. This old fellow just seemed to be waiting for me this morning. Tell me, did you see a strange man here just now? Tall with a scar?

No. Trouble Pigalle?

I hope not, she sighed.

You should be more careful. These streets aren’t safe.

I can look after myself Edmund, just like I always have done.

Yes, but still, one can never be too careful. Look what happened over in London with that Ripper. Some bread for him as well? His head bobbed towards the dog.

Catching her reflection in the glass frontage of the shop, Pigalle tutted at the smudged make-up around her emerald eyes. She attempted to tame stray strands of her raven hair back into the now uneven pile on her head. It had been a good night. Her gaze fell back upon Edmund, who stood there with a loaf outstretched.

Really, you’re too kind, Edmund, she said, reaching for it. She looked at the dog that was watching the hot bread intently, a dribble of drool collecting at the corner of his mouth.

Not at all. He looks hungry.

He does. I wonder what he gets up to all night?

He probably wonders the same about you! He chuckled nervously, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Really, Edmund. You should know better. Peering past his blushing expression, she continued. Is that your wife coming? A look of panic flew over the man’s face as he whirled around. She laughed and winked at him.

See you soon. She waved, striding off and tearing off a hunk of bread for the animal at her side. The smell of freshly brewing coffee drew her on, and as she rounded a corner, the welcoming sight of Francois’ café rewarded her. Leaving the bread’s remains for the dog outside, Pigalle pushed the door open and nodded to the waitress for a black coffee. At the sound of her voice a red sweating face, beaming with delight, appeared from behind the billowing steam around the machine. Like an organist, the man pulled at the levers on the huge hissing monster to release notes of steam and aromas of coffee.

Pigalle! Good morning! A good night I trust?

As good as one can expect. They’re still at it but I need my beauty sleep Francois.

Not at all, mademoiselle, He indicated the machine. It is playing up again and I have a list of orders, a few minutes… he began apologetically.

Nonsense! boomed a voice behind him. He flinched in time to avoid the thick open hand that flew through the mist towards his ear. The poor girl has been up all night, give her some coffee now. Sorry, Pigalle, my husband is an oaf without manners.  A stout woman appeared through the steam, prompting Francois to cower back out of sight behind the contraption, muttering to himself. Men! You are wise to stay alone. It is hopeless trying to teach them anything. This place would be in ruins if I left it to Francois to run, the customers would run rings around him. There was more muttering from behind the machine. The woman affected not to hear.

Indeed, men do tend to be so one-dimensional, said Pigalle, warming to the game, but Francois does have at least one redeeming quality.

And what would that be? enquired the woman in mock shock. A hopeful face peered from the steam behind her.

His coffee is fairly passable, Pigalle said straight faced. The women laughed together. Behind them Francois shook his creased forehead as he disappeared once more, only for a hairy hand to plonk a cup of coffee onto the counter seconds later.

The older woman leaned closer over the bar, peering around to make sure no one was in earshot. A faint smile playing around her lips, Pigalle indulged her, inclining her head slightly. And your other line of work? Pigalle let the question hang, absentmindedly stirring her coffee. The woman looked at her eagerly.

Madame Bouvoir, you know that I simply cannot divulge anything about anything I may or may not be working on. Client confidentiality is everything, as you well know, she added pointedly, eliciting a blush from the matronly woman. But I have just concluded a case and am not working on anything at present.

Ah, the blackmailed servant girl of Madame Gestard! she interrupted.

My, you are indecently well informed.

I…, such gossip, really… Pigalle was gratified to see Madame Bouvoir flush crimson.

Thankfully my work is quiet at the moment and I can relax and enjoy my nights at the club. Pigalle continued quickly, neatly changing the subject.

Ah, such a glamorous life, Pigalle, if I were only younger, we could be partners, the woman said wistfully.

I can assure you that my life is less glamorous than it seems from the outside, madame, and quite frankly, more than a little taxing sometimes. I am so tired, I have been up all night.

Ah, but you look well on it, your eyes shine, your cheeks glow, every man stops to stare in the street…

Pigalle gave a little laugh. Really, I appreciate your flattery, but I think you have let your imagination run away with you. If only it were so. I tend to spend my days sleeping soundly and my nights performing in the dark of the club. I have become quite the lonely vampire.

For a beautiful young woman to be alone in Paris, it is simply not possible! exclaimed Madame Bouvoir emphatically, banging a sturdy hand on the counter, as if the very notion of it was an affront to her own sense of Parisian pride.

Unless such a woman chooses to be alone, said Pigalle, placing a dainty hand over Madame Bouvoir’s. Men have their uses, but I simply don’t have the time at present, even as she spoke, she felt a gaze upon her, and out of the corner of her eye caught sight of a handsome man seated in a dark corner of the café. Her overwhelming impression from the fleeting glance she gave was of his piercing blue eyes fixed on her. As she glimpsed him, he flashed a smile, he nodded and raised a cup of coffee to her in a toast. Slightly flustered she quickly turned back to Madame Bouvoir, who plainly hadn’t noticed and was continuing to speak.

Ah, quite so. Madame Bouvoir nodded understandingly. My Pigalle, always the independent one, even when you were knee high, running around getting into scrapes. Your time will come, my dear.

I don’t doubt it, but I am in no hurry, except to get to my bed. Pigalle drained her coffee. This girl needs her beauty sleep.

Pah! You can afford to go without with your looks. Listen, I am doing some baking today, I will bring you a quiche later if you wish?

Oh, thank you, that would be very kind. Pigalle sipped the last gritty dregs of her coffee. She savoured its warmth as it spread through her after the chill of the walk up the hill. Allowing her curiosity to get the better of her she flicked a look towards the corner seat, but it now sat empty. She pushed a coin into the woman’s hand. I will see you later, au revoir.

Au revoir, chorused back before Madame Bouvoir rounded on Francois with another bout of scolding.

The dog was still sat outside, but it appeared to be awaiting another patron. Keeping to its spot, it watched her stumble away sleepily up the hill,n its head cocked to one side. Feeling a small tug of regret that the animal was not accompanying her, Pigalle felt the familiar pang of loneliness that the fleeting companionship had staved off. 

Sleepy eyed townsfolk were beginning to drift through the twisted maze of cobbled streets that rose steeply up the Montmartre hill, heading off for their days business whilst Pigalle was now just heading home, an irony that was never lost on her. A merchant nodded to her as he carefully guided a slowly plodding horse and cart past her down the hill, the cart laden with sacks of ground flour from the windmills.  The pungent scent of hay and wet horse hair filled Pigalle’s nose to remind her of languorous childhood days in the country. A smile played at the corner of her mouth as she remembered carefree days spent outside Paris, happy walks with Marie in flowering meadows where the grass and flowers loomed above, enveloping her small frame with warmth. And before she’d been old enough to be sufficiently wounded by the taunts of other children to realise that she missed the parents she’d never known with a keening hunger. 

She turned to watch the horse. Her reminisce was abruptly cut short as she noticed the gentlemen who’d raised a cup to her in the café was now stood outside next to the dog. Both watched her.

Frowning to herself, Pigalle turned and continued her climb up the street. Narrow stone steps rose canyon-like between the uneven skyline of tall crooked houses ahead of her as she fervently climbed on. As she glanced back over her shoulder, Pigalle was surprised to see both the man and dog were gone.

Resolute, she mounted the steps before stopping at a heavy wooden door. She fished in a small satin clutch bag for her key. She cracked the door open and slipped through, skirting creaking floor boards to access her own rooms. Slipping through another door, she stepped into the twilight gloom of a large reception room. Heavy floor to ceiling red velvet drapes softened the lines and blocked out the weak early morning light, shrouding the room in a warming dim ruby glow. Painted in deep red, the room itself was padded with walnut furniture, and a few paintings of comforting classical nudes. One painting was of a darkly lit stormy coastline. Under her feet the thick carpet gently cushioned her steps as she padded deeper into the room’s soft caress. The remains of a warm fire smouldered softly in the grate. As the dim gas lamps whispered softly, the dark warmth of the room shrouded Pigalle in a womb like embrace.

The comforting smell of the soft fire mingled with the heavy scent of the lilies on the table, secreting a soporific lull to the space. She paused to look longingly at the oil portrait of her parents, stretching a hand, but not quite touching the picture. It was a ritual she’d sunk into, as if it could somehow bring them closer and give them flesh. It comforted her to imagine them watching over her from this space on the wall, in this place where she felt at once at her most vulnerable and also her most secure.

Turning away Pigalle crossed the room and gratefully sank onto a dark red chaise, resting her bag onto a nearby walnut sideboard. Pulling her layers of skirts up she tugged at the laces on her boots just below her knee, and casting them off after some minutes struggle she flexed her feet in relief, peeling off gossamer black stockings as she did so.  She stood, and moving to the other side of the room, delighting in the soft rich carpet beneath her feet she pulled open the hinged lid of another sideboard to reveal a small bar with a collection of glasses and bottles.  Pouring a large glass of brandy she crossed the room once more to sink into a battered wing backed leather chair, letting its embrace swallow her . Tucking her legs beneath her she gave a contented sigh, and sipped at the brandy, blissfully embracing its warmth as it slid down her throat.

She pulled at the buttons on her braided wool jacket and shrugged it off onto the floor. A beaded jet bracelet clicked on her wrist as she shook a tangle of sable tresses loose. Draining the last of the brandy in a single swallow, she stood and slipped off her remaining garments before padding up a smaller staircase in the corner of the room.

She blinked in the glare of the small window letting light into the small bathroom. Turning the tap she doused her face with water, gently rubbing away the light makeup and giving a deep breath of relaxation before patting herself dry. She looked wistfully at the great empty bath tub beside the fireplace, yearning for a deeper cleanse but the effort of preparing a bath now was outweighed by her need to sleep.

Choosing not to wash away the night, she crossed the corridor and stepped into the only other room upstairs.  In the near pitch dark, the only visible feature in the gloom was the looming presence of a huge four poster bed. A faint glow leaked from the heavy curtains as the new day tried to force its way into Pigalle’s sanctuary. 

As she slipped beneath the crisp sheets of the four poster she let the comfortable embrace of the soft mattress engulf her. After only a minute there was a soft knock at the door.

Enter. The door opened silently and a large middle-aged woman rustled in, wiping her hands on her apron. Good morning, Pigalle said.

Morning, miss. A good night?

Passable. Marie, I intend to meet some friends and go shopping later, so I wonder if I could trouble you to draw me a bath for two o’clock and awake me when it is ready?

Surely, miss, and will you want some coffee and some food?

Yes, something light, I will eat out later before work. The woman nodded and swallowed nervously. Pigalle frowned. Is everything all right Marie? Marie’s hands wrung at her apron.

Yes, miss. Well, I’m not sure, I’m glad you rang for me before you went to bed. A gentleman called for you last night, not long after you’d gone.

Pigalle smiled. Nothing unusual in that, Marie, she said, yawning and stretching her arms. I’m sure he will come back.

That’s just it, miss, I’m sure he will. He was a little… um, odd. Made me feel right uncomfortable, kept babbling that he had to see you, that it was most urgent.

Pigalle was struggling to stay awake. Quite so, men are frequently like that. She yawned again, snuggling her head deeper into the pillow.

No, miss, he was most peculiar, tried to push his way in, but he was only a scrawny little man. Didn’t seem to believe you weren’t here, kept trying to peer over my shoulder.

Well, I’m sure he’ll come back, then, murmured Pigalle, her eyes closed.

He had a package for you and he said he had a message, that he had to give it to you now, or he might not get another chance. Then he wouldn’t leave the package, said he had to give it you personally. I sent him away with a flea in his ear and told him to come back later today when he was back to his normal self and not drunk or some such. She looked anxiously at the drowsy Pigalle and shook her head. Miss?

Very good, Marie, if he comes back, I’m not to be disturbed. Tell him to come later tonight, Pigalle mumbled, already in the grip of sleep. From her heavy lidded eyes Pigalle could make out Marie's frown and hands tightly balling her apron, but exhaustion was overwhelming her. They could talk later.

He most unnerved me… She faltered, and realising further conversation was hopeless, she silently backed out of the room.

Outside the sun shone boldly on a bright clear day as Paris came alive. People rushed about the street dodging carriages and horses as the cries went up from traders and a million conversations began as the happy citizens started on their day. Sheltered in her dark boudoir, the sounds and smells of the daytime city muffled out by the heavy velvet drapes and her own perfume, Pigalle drifted towards sleep, her brow crinkling briefly in a frown as she remembered the man being pursued past her that morning but her fatigue made her dismiss the thoughts as she slipped towards slumber.

Chapter 3

Sturridge flinched as the door softly clicked shut behind him. His neck prickled. Feeling entrapped in this creepy house and looking  at the two figures in front of him, he silently promised himself he’d make this his last job. Despite Sturridge’s battered face and looming physical size there was something about the leader of this group that unnerved him.No – it scared him. In all his years in the army fighting around the world, and performing private jobs like this, he’d always been the one to manage to impose himself, by his sheer size, by his confidence, his toughness. Now for the first time he’d met someone that terrified him. More galling than that, was that he couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly what it was that inspired such terror in him. It was their very presence. An overwhelming presence. He´d been passed messages in pubs, woken up in his bed, tapped on the shoulder at the market. It wasn’t normal. Now he was in Paris. He´d travelled a lot in the army, but never Paris. Yet Sturridge sensed he wasn´t going to get the chance to see much of it.

There was little light in the room. The curtains blocked out what sunlight could have filtered through the shuttered windows.  A multitude of flickering candles sputtered around the chamber giving off a low light, and a sweet sickly smell. He shivered. The room should have been warm, but it was cold, freezing cold. If the others felt it they didn´t show it. They´d hardly spoken to him since Lord Hargreaves house, but then, he hadn´t wanted to talk much after he´d seen what they´d done to the old man. He´d seen some sights in the army, but that, he felt suddenly sick again. Good job the old boy died quick, but as far as Sturridge could tell they were no closer to whatever it was they wanted.

The subsequent necessary escape to Paris had unsettled him. The journey itself an uneasily orchestrated experience of professionalism. The fast ship they’d had on hand, a grey steel viper of a boat that looked more suited to military naval operations, but was fitted with an interior  of opulent luxury, built for a crew that were familiar with such undercover operations. Time had seemed to contract as they’d sped from one country to another. Sturridge knew he wasn’t bright, but he was observant, and he could tell the crew were motivated by an undercurrent of fear. A fear he shared. Yes, this would be his last job for this lot, whoever they really were.

He cleared his throat nervously, kneading his cap between his calloused fists. The leader looked up sharply at him.

Yes, what is it Sturridge? Even the voice chilled hi m, cut glass, delivered in glacial tones, and the gaze... ice cold eyes pierced the darkness, almost luminous blue.

I, er, just wondered what I should do now? Sturridge volunteered. He looked to the other man in the room who purposefully averted his eyes.

I need you to be my eyes and ears and run interference. The leader said idly picking a pen up from the table.

Interference? Sturridge stammered.

The leader sighed and absentmindedly twirled the pen between elegant fingers, Sturridge stared at the movement. He allowed himself to become mesmerised as it grew faster and faster. Yes, since we were not altogether successful in our attempt to recover Lord Hargreaves' work and we let one of his assistants slip through our net, our task has been made somewhat more difficult. Hence, Sturridge, we are now here in Paris. Our spies picked up the assistant at Dover but were unable to intervene, we’d had him watched ever since, he’s slippery though, he keeps losing our tails. Not only that, there are now other concerned parties in the frame, which is going to make things a little more tricky.

You want me to grab the assistant? Sturridge asked His eyes were fixed on the twirling pen.

You can’t send him out to do that! Interrupted the other man suddenly. The pen stopped twirling. A deathly silence filled the room. I mean, now we know the Prussians, Hungarians and Tsarists forces are close, we need to move with more tact... the man’s words faltered, tailing off.

Yes, and if you had done your job back at Hargreaves' we’d have our hands on both his assistant and his work by now. The pencil arced up through the air, was caught and in one deft movement that was little more than a blur, the leader’s hand plunged the writing tool deep through the unfortunate man’s eye. The man dropped without a sound. Stone dead, only the very tip of the pencil protruding from his ocular socket.

The stakes are high Sturridge. We can’t afford more failure, and as Mr Thompson pointed out before he was, retired, there are now several other parties after the same thing. We shall have to be far more circumspect.

Circumspect? Sturridge murmured dully. He looked in horror at the body of his comrade on the floor. His brain again struggled to make the word connection.

Careful, Sturridge. It’s of the upmost importance that we act carefully but decisively to ensure it is us that get what we want.

A hand stretched to Sturridge’s face and he felt a chill at the light caress on his cheek. He realised he was holding his breath, half expecting a strike or violence of some sort. The hand dropped away and he let out his breath.

We have our eyes and ears out there, but I want you out there too. Find out where Hargreaves’ assistant is going, who he’s meeting, we can’t afford any lose ends, and besides. The leader smiled again. "Knowledge is power. Get out there and find out everything you can. If you need to dissuade any rivals, go ahead, but discreetly. If you can get your hands on the assistant, or what he’s carrying, fine, but I would prefer you report back to me first, there’s a lot in play here and I like to know where all the pieces are.

Sturridge swallowed and nodded, cramming his cap back on his head, he turned to go, relief to be out of the room flooding over him.

Oh, and Sturridge?

He turned with a sense of dread and looked back at the leader.

We can’t afford any more mistakes. The leader looked meaningfully at