a pair of paraffin lamps—there were no electric lights in this room. I squeezed between two armchairs and put the books on the desk in the centre of the room while Ambrose locked the door.
‘Now, I’m a teeny bit worse for wear, old chap,’ said Ambrose, stating the obvious. ‘But I have more than enough wherewithal to take you through the case.’
I listened as Ambrose brought me up to speed in his own inimitable style. He unrolled the map—a large-scale street map of London—and pointed out the sites of the most recent dynamite attacks. As he described the events leading up to the attacks, he referred me to the books I had brought in with me. There was a book on the history of Ireland, including the most recent Troubles, a gazetteer of London, and a military handbook of weapons and tactics from around the world. Ambrose remained startlingly lucid, only slurring the occasional word, and I was impressed at his constitution. Finally, he rifled through the files in the office and pulled out several dossiers pertaining to the case.
‘Thought as much,’ he said. ‘Old Toby’s had these sent down for you.’
I was surprised to discover that the perpetrators of the Bond Street attack had been pursued across London, and that a gunfight had ensued at Marble Arch. How details of the engagement had gone unreported was beyond me; the sheer number of people who must have borne witness, even in the early hours of the morning, would have made concealing the facts from the press a logistical nightmare. Ambrose assured me that such things were ‘par for the course’ in Apollo Lycea, and I began to wonder just how many strings Sir Toby was able to pull in the pursuit of the Queen’s justice. The other bombings had occurred during the night, only hours apart, first at Kensington and then at Lisson Grove, and these had led to the authorities picking up the trail of the suspects.
‘Sir Toby’s especially keen to get to the bottom of this case, because these bombings were far too close to the Palace,’ said Ambrose. ‘Queen Vic may well have heard the explosion from her bedchamber. Worse still, they were even closer to the club. Bloody anarchists are getting too big for their britches.’
‘According to this, one of them was a woman,’ I said, raising an eyebrow as I scanned the reports.
‘Apparently so. Even the bloody anarchists seem to have embraced suffrage these days,’ said Ambrose, disdainfully.
‘And what happened to these anarchists?’ I enquired. The dossier was not forthcoming on the matter, and read as though several pages were missing from the anonymous report.
‘They got away,’ said Ambrose. ‘Although one of them was wounded. We found a few things that he must have dropped during his flight.’
Ambrose handed me a small, battered pocketbook and a scrap of paper, which looked as if it had been torn from a brown envelope. The piece of paper contained a scrawled note—four rows of six barely legible symbols, which looked strangely familiar. The notebook contained some forty-odd pages, each with one or two neatly scribed paragraphs, all of which were rendered in similar symbols to those on the note. This time I did recognise what was written, and I stared at the book dumbfounded.
‘You won’t get anywhere with that lot,’ I was faintly aware of Ambrose saying. ‘Some kind of Arabic, maybe, although some of our experts believe it’s ancient Chinese or Japanese. Lord knows why the bloody bog-trotters would use that kind of language. We’ve had our men look at it, but it’s all gibberish. We’re going through a selection process currently, to find some folk who we can trust to translate it.’
I had been quiet for too long, and Ambrose must have registered my look of bewilderment and, perhaps, horror.
‘Are you all right, old chap?’ he asked.
‘It’s not Chinese, Ambrose.’ I said, quietly. ‘It’s Myanmar.’
‘My what?’
‘Burmese. It’s written in Burmese.’
* *
‘Now, I’m a teeny bit worse for wear, old chap,’ said Ambrose, stating the obvious. ‘But I have more than enough wherewithal to take you through the case.’
I listened as Ambrose brought me up to speed in his own inimitable style. He unrolled the map—a large-scale street map of London—and pointed out the sites of the most recent dynamite attacks. As he described the events leading up to the attacks, he referred me to the books I had brought in with me. There was a book on the history of Ireland, including the most recent Troubles, a gazetteer of London, and a military handbook of weapons and tactics from around the world. Ambrose remained startlingly lucid, only slurring the occasional word, and I was impressed at his constitution. Finally, he rifled through the files in the office and pulled out several dossiers pertaining to the case.
‘Thought as much,’ he said. ‘Old Toby’s had these sent down for you.’
I was surprised to discover that the perpetrators of the Bond Street attack had been pursued across London, and that a gunfight had ensued at Marble Arch. How details of the engagement had gone unreported was beyond me; the sheer number of people who must have borne witness, even in the early hours of the morning, would have made concealing the facts from the press a logistical nightmare. Ambrose assured me that such things were ‘par for the course’ in Apollo Lycea, and I began to wonder just how many strings Sir Toby was able to pull in the pursuit of the Queen’s justice. The other bombings had occurred during the night, only hours apart, first at Kensington and then at Lisson Grove, and these had led to the authorities picking up the trail of the suspects.
‘Sir Toby’s especially keen to get to the bottom of this case, because these bombings were far too close to the Palace,’ said Ambrose. ‘Queen Vic may well have heard the explosion from her bedchamber. Worse still, they were even closer to the club. Bloody anarchists are getting too big for their britches.’
‘According to this, one of them was a woman,’ I said, raising an eyebrow as I scanned the reports.
‘Apparently so. Even the bloody anarchists seem to have embraced suffrage these days,’ said Ambrose, disdainfully.
‘And what happened to these anarchists?’ I enquired. The dossier was not forthcoming on the matter, and read as though several pages were missing from the anonymous report.
‘They got away,’ said Ambrose. ‘Although one of them was wounded. We found a few things that he must have dropped during his flight.’
Ambrose handed me a small, battered pocketbook and a scrap of paper, which looked as if it had been torn from a brown envelope. The piece of paper contained a scrawled note—four rows of six barely legible symbols, which looked strangely familiar. The notebook contained some forty-odd pages, each with one or two neatly scribed paragraphs, all of which were rendered in similar symbols to those on the note. This time I did recognise what was written, and I stared at the book dumbfounded.
‘You won’t get anywhere with that lot,’ I was faintly aware of Ambrose saying. ‘Some kind of Arabic, maybe, although some of our experts believe it’s ancient Chinese or Japanese. Lord knows why the bloody bog-trotters would use that kind of language. We’ve had our men look at it, but it’s all gibberish. We’re going through a selection process currently, to find some folk who we can trust to translate it.’
I had been quiet for too long, and Ambrose must have registered my look of bewilderment and, perhaps, horror.
‘Are you all right, old chap?’ he asked.
‘It’s not Chinese, Ambrose.’ I said, quietly. ‘It’s Myanmar.’
‘My what?’
‘Burmese. It’s written in Burmese.’
* *
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