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Authors: Mark Latham
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studies. It filled me with a strange sense of pride that the literary tradition prevailed at the Apollonian even now, and I envisaged the likes of Tennyson and even Wilkie Collins spending many a late night in that very room as they wrought their masterworks.
Our search for the correct map was not straightforward. I’d learned of the virtues of Ordnance Survey mapping during brief periods serving alongside the Royal Engineers. They often espoused the virtues of good British mapping, whilst cursing the inadequate hand-drawn charts of the East. However, the techniques I had learned in India had not yet reached civilian mapping, and so much improvisation was required. With the coordinates from the pocketbook to hand, and our knowledge of the anarchist’s dynamite targets acting as a key to the affair, I was able to draw a more detailed grid onto a map of London, and soon we knew we were on to something. We looked at each other, uncertain of what we had found. Even though I was acting partly on guesswork, the map references I calculated were more than significant.
Kensington Road. Lisson Grove. New Bond Street. And the fourth: Marble Arch.
I circled the four locations with a stubby pencil.
‘What does it mean?’ asked Ambrose.
‘It means that the fracas at Marble Arch was no accident. The anarchists intended to go there all along. Which means they must have had a plan—some means of escape.’
‘Then we must investigate the scene again,’ said Ambrose, ‘and this time with a fine-toothed comb. No stone unturned and all that.’
I nodded sternly.
‘But not tonight! It’s past twelve already, I haven’t had nearly enough to drink, and I’m bloody tired to boot. Let’s go home, and strike out for Marble Arch in the morning.’
It was hard to disagree, for it had been a long day. Determined to conduct my investigation by the book, however, I first scribbled a missive to Sir Toby on club notepaper, outlining my discovery and some cursory details of the code, before sealing it, ready to hand to a porter on the way out.
* * *
The rain had slowed to but a mist-like drizzle, though we still took shelter on the club portico whilst the night porter went in search of a cab for us. Ambrose’s flat was located in Clerkenwell, and we agreed to share a hansom. However, I urged my new colleague to take the cab direct, and have the cabbie drop me near the British Museum. I would hear no protest; I had my overcoat and hat, both of which had been dried by the servants at the club, and I had no desire to return straight to my lodgings without a short constitutional. I had not yet had a restful night in London; perhaps I still had on my sea legs. I coveted the opportunity to take a walk through the quiet gas-lit streets before retiring, to steep myself in old remembrances and, maybe, to persuade myself that it was forgivable—nay, expected of me—to relax after years of wandering and trials.
I disembarked near the British Museum, and Ambrose went on, the carriage clattering on the wide, cobbled thoroughfare and echoing into the night. I stopped for a short time and gazed through the great iron gates at the museum. The sheer familiarity of the place filled me with unimaginable comfort. Presently I checked my pocket watch, and deciding that I’d lingered longer than anticipated, I began to wend my way back to Mrs Whitinger’s boarding house.
As I made my way past Russell Square Gardens, I encountered a police constable going about his rounds, shoulders hunched from the chill and rain-cape around his shoulders. We exchanged brief pleasantries, and I moved off down a side-street. I knew better than to loiter near the public gardens at such an hour, and felt somewhat reassured when I saw the street lamps of a main thoroughfare up ahead, knowing that a policeman was to my back. I chastised myself, for I’d had no reason to fear anything in London so far, and yet I felt uneasy despite myself. I turned onto another deserted
Our search for the correct map was not straightforward. I’d learned of the virtues of Ordnance Survey mapping during brief periods serving alongside the Royal Engineers. They often espoused the virtues of good British mapping, whilst cursing the inadequate hand-drawn charts of the East. However, the techniques I had learned in India had not yet reached civilian mapping, and so much improvisation was required. With the coordinates from the pocketbook to hand, and our knowledge of the anarchist’s dynamite targets acting as a key to the affair, I was able to draw a more detailed grid onto a map of London, and soon we knew we were on to something. We looked at each other, uncertain of what we had found. Even though I was acting partly on guesswork, the map references I calculated were more than significant.
Kensington Road. Lisson Grove. New Bond Street. And the fourth: Marble Arch.
I circled the four locations with a stubby pencil.
‘What does it mean?’ asked Ambrose.
‘It means that the fracas at Marble Arch was no accident. The anarchists intended to go there all along. Which means they must have had a plan—some means of escape.’
‘Then we must investigate the scene again,’ said Ambrose, ‘and this time with a fine-toothed comb. No stone unturned and all that.’
I nodded sternly.
‘But not tonight! It’s past twelve already, I haven’t had nearly enough to drink, and I’m bloody tired to boot. Let’s go home, and strike out for Marble Arch in the morning.’
It was hard to disagree, for it had been a long day. Determined to conduct my investigation by the book, however, I first scribbled a missive to Sir Toby on club notepaper, outlining my discovery and some cursory details of the code, before sealing it, ready to hand to a porter on the way out.
* * *
The rain had slowed to but a mist-like drizzle, though we still took shelter on the club portico whilst the night porter went in search of a cab for us. Ambrose’s flat was located in Clerkenwell, and we agreed to share a hansom. However, I urged my new colleague to take the cab direct, and have the cabbie drop me near the British Museum. I would hear no protest; I had my overcoat and hat, both of which had been dried by the servants at the club, and I had no desire to return straight to my lodgings without a short constitutional. I had not yet had a restful night in London; perhaps I still had on my sea legs. I coveted the opportunity to take a walk through the quiet gas-lit streets before retiring, to steep myself in old remembrances and, maybe, to persuade myself that it was forgivable—nay, expected of me—to relax after years of wandering and trials.
I disembarked near the British Museum, and Ambrose went on, the carriage clattering on the wide, cobbled thoroughfare and echoing into the night. I stopped for a short time and gazed through the great iron gates at the museum. The sheer familiarity of the place filled me with unimaginable comfort. Presently I checked my pocket watch, and deciding that I’d lingered longer than anticipated, I began to wend my way back to Mrs Whitinger’s boarding house.
As I made my way past Russell Square Gardens, I encountered a police constable going about his rounds, shoulders hunched from the chill and rain-cape around his shoulders. We exchanged brief pleasantries, and I moved off down a side-street. I knew better than to loiter near the public gardens at such an hour, and felt somewhat reassured when I saw the street lamps of a main thoroughfare up ahead, knowing that a policeman was to my back. I chastised myself, for I’d had no reason to fear anything in London so far, and yet I felt uneasy despite myself. I turned onto another deserted
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