Episode 16: The Meeting in the Upstairs Room
Miranda scurried to the railway station’s ladies’ room and retrieved her carpet bag. The image of Mr Packham leaning from the train window, distraught and helpless, pained her. I’ve deceived him and I wish I hadn’t had to, but he wouldn’t have understood. He’d have tried to stop me. He might even have taken against me so much that he would have made a formal complaint to the chief librarian. Oh lor, but I’ll have to patch things up with him when this is over.
She knew his first thought would be to come back to Cambridge. She went to the ticket office and checked the Sunday timetable. His train stopped at Bishop’s Stortford in about thirty-five minutes. But the next train from there to Cambridge didn’t leave until ten o’clock that evening.
Poor Mr Packham, hanging about all that time. Would he take her advice and leave her to make her own way back to London? She doubted it, but she couldn’t worry about that now. She checked her wristwatch. Almost half-past five. She wanted to get to the Pickerel Inn well before the meeting began at seven o’clock. The meeting whose purpose and attendees she had no notion of. There was a moment, walking from the railway station back into Cambridge, when she laughed aloud at the sheer lunacy of what she was doing. A clergyman, passing her under his umbrella, stopped and looked at her with concern.
‘Are you alright, miss?’
‘Quite alright, sir, thank you. You see, I’m having an adventure for the first time in my life.’
He walked off shaking his head, as she was a lost soul.
She got to the Pickerel Inn just before six o’clock. This time, she walked through the courtyard at the side of the building and entered through a side door. She paused in the passageway and looked through to the saloon bar. There was Mrs Mackay, chatting with a customer seated at the bar.
She waited until the landlady disappeared into the public bar and then hurried through the saloon and up the narrow staircase. Then she walked along a narrow corridor, past the bedroom doors, to the function room at the front of the building. The door was unlocked. She slipped inside and closed it behind her. She had scouted the place on her last visit and now she made for the corner bar. Mrs Mackay had said that she brought the drinks up for the gentleman, so Miranda was betting that they would not use this bar during the meeting. It would be her hideaway. For she intended to listen in secretly.
This was her adventure, her secret mission. It was thrilling, and it was reckless. But ever since she had seen the Pickerel Inn and made the surprising connection back to Major Lock’s enquiry at the London Library, she had felt it to be the centre of a mystery that she must solve. Of course, there might be no mystery at all. All this trouble, which included the alienation of Mr Packham, with potentially severe consequences for her position at the library, might all be for nothing.
These scientific gentlemen, as Mrs Mackay had called them, might all be solid, upright citizens of Cambridge, pursuing perfectly reasonable ends. But she intended to find out either way.
She hid herself behind the little bar, thinking all the while of Jim Hawkins hiding in the apple barrel on the Hispaniola. Though this would be, she sincerely hoped, no conspiracy of cut-throat pirates. But she might at least have something concrete to report back to Major Lock, enough to impress him with her initiative and capability.
And if she was wrong and these scientific gentlemen had nothing at all to do with the elusive Pickerel Institute, well then, she had at least proven that she was a girl of spark and pluck.
The narrow space behind the bar was cramped and dusty. After taking off her hat and coat, Miranda put her carpet bag against the wall, propped herself against it, and prepared for what might be a long and uncomfortable evening. She was tense, alert, and more than a little scared. She could feel sweat running under her arms and her palms were clammy. Jim Hawkins was scared too, she reminded herself, but he didn’t let the fear beat him. Well, neither will I. She took a notebook and pencil from her handbag.
She had taken some currants from the breakfast table at the guesthouse and chewed on these, fearful her nascent hunger would make her belly rumble and give her away. She occupied her mind with fruitless speculation on what the purpose of the Pickerel Institute might be and why Major Lock was interested in it, and wished she had asked him when she had the chance. But he was so daunting a person to her, with his aloof manner and that scar on his face, that she had lacked the nerve.
She checked her wristwatch. A quarter to seven. Mr Packham would have been at Bishop’s Stortford for over an hour now. She imagined him pacing the platform anxiously, waiting for the train that would bring him back to Cambridge. Oh lor, what a lot of trouble I’ve caused him. If only he’d just let me get on with things. But if he comes back here, where will he look for me? He surely won’t think of coming here. But it will be so late that this meeting will be over, anyway. And then what will I do with myself? I suppose I can stay here for the night.
The soft breath of a door opening on well-oiled hinges interrupted her thoughts
A man’s voice, deep, cultured, and confident, said, ‘Well, here we are again, Reece. I’m becoming quite fond of these weekly gatherings’.
Another male voice, this one reedy, a little anxious, replied, ‘If you ask me, Melrose, meeting once a week is quite unnecessary. And damned difficult at times, too. I can’t possibly make myself available every week, as you know.’
‘None of us has to be here for every meeting. The collective is the thing, isn’t it? Besides, none of our members can be here every week. And, it’s impossible to schedule a monthly meeting that suits everyone. This way, everyone knows that if they miss a meeting, there’ll be another along soon.’
‘But look at this place. It’s fit only for meetings of tradesmen and socialists. I don’t know why we can’t meet at your college. It would be more comfortable and at least we’d have decent wine.’
‘As I’ve told you before, Liebrich and I are firm on this. If we met at St Cuthbert’s, it would be impossible to keep anything quiet. The college of full of inquisitive dons who like nothing better than meddling in other men’s affairs. They’d want to know what our business is and no doubt some of them would want to join us. Which might be appropriate at some stage. But not now, when our project is in its infancy. Best to keep matters within a clique for now.’
In her notebook, Miranda wrote the names Reece, Melrose, Liebrich, and St Cuthbert’s College. She was feeling very warm in her hidey-hole and her throat prickled with dryness.
‘And after all,’ Melrose continued, ‘this inn is not only the scene of our little association’s nativity, but the source of its name.’
Ah, thought Miranda.
Reece gave a derisive laugh. ‘Damned silly name, if you ask me. Why on earth you thought it appropriate for such an undertaking, I don’t know.’
‘Where’s your sense of humour? Didn’t the Kit-Cat Club name themselves after mutton pies? An inn is a finer thing altogether than a mutton pie.’
‘As far as I know, they were a group of limp-wristed aesthetes. We have a more serious purpose altogether.’
‘Once again, my dear Reece, your ignorance of politics and history shocks and offends me. The members of the Kit-Cat Club may not have been men of science, but they saved Britain in the eighteenth century. Just as we shall save her in the twentieth.’
Reece gave a little grunt of scepticism.
Miranda heard chairs being pulled out from under the table. Her throat really was feeling parched now. She fretted she might get a tickle that would turn into a cough.
‘So who else are we expecting tonight?’ Reece said.
‘Farson, of course. Robinson and Liebrich. Oh, and Hardcastle is stopping off here on his way back to his dark satanic mills.’
‘Hardcastle? It’s been a while since we’ve seen him.’
Miranda added these names to the list. Next to Hardcastle’s, she wrote, Dark satanic mills?.
‘You know he likes to come along and check how much of his money we’re spending and what we’re spending it on,’ said Melrose.
‘But will he understand it if we tell him?’
‘Now, now. Hardcastle is a fine man, a little rough around the edges, perhaps, but a fine man. And an absolute stalwart supporter of our work.’
Miranda heard the door opening again. Three more voices. Greetings exchanged.
Here were Farson, Robinson, and Liebrich, the latter with an accent she thought must be German. She made more notes.
Then another entry, Mrs Mackay, with a clinking tray of drinks. And then, grumbling about his train journey, and the lack of cabs and decent hotels in Cambridge, Hardcastle arrived, carrying a broad Yorkshire accent.
Melrose called the meeting to order, and the man called Farson, who seemed to be the secretary, handed out the papers.
‘Usual rules, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘All papers to be handed back to me at the end of the meeting.’
‘Damn stupid idea,’ Hardcastle grumbled. ‘We all know what we’re about here. I can tell you for nothing, I’d make damn sure no-one got sight of these papers if I took them away with me.’
‘I trust you on that score, more than any of us, Hardcastle,’ Melrose said soothingly. ‘But we must be cautious at this stage in the short life of our confederacy. If, by some accident, minutes of our proceedings should fall into the wrong hands, well…’Shall we get on? Any amendments to the minutes of the last meeting? No? Good. Matters arising, Farson?’
‘All covered under the agenda items, sir.’
Farson’s voice was clipped and contained, that of a man of organization and efficiency.
‘Good. Then onto the first item. Reece, why don’t you give us an update on the children?’
Children? Miranda frowned. What did children have to do with any of this?
Reece cleared his throat.
‘Well, there is still considerable upset among the children about the death of Mistress Susan.’
‘It’s been four months,’ Liebrich said coldly. ’Surely they’re past the grief stage now.’
‘These are sensitive children, in all senses of the word,’ Reece replied. ‘It’s quite natural that they aren’t past the grief stage. After all, we’ve been encouraging them to see themselves, feel themselves, as a collective. Now that one of them is gone, there’s a great sense of loss, perhaps greater than we can imagine.’
‘My concern is how that unfortunate incident has affected the relations of the other children with Master Roland,’ Melrose said. ‘You’re quite right, Reece, about the collective aspect of all this. But that will be fatally undermined if they begin to fear him. If they worry that what happened to Mistress Susan might happen again — to one of them.’
Miranda was scribbling as quickly as she could, but she didn’t know shorthand and was having to leave bits out. None of this was making any sense — and what if she left out a phrase or an exchange that might be crucial? Were these men running some kind of school? And what was this unfortunate incident that had killed one of the children? Melrose had used the word ‘incident’ rather than ‘accident’.
She shivered in her hiding place.
‘Master Roland has been quite contrite,’ Reece said. ‘He’s been adamant with the other children that it was a game that went wrong.’ He paused. ‘Though he’s been more candid with me in private.’
‘Oh?,’ Melrose said.
‘Yes. He told me it was more of an experiment than a game. Indeed, he claims he was simply taking a leaf out of my book. He regards what happened as upsetting, regrettable, but says he wanted to help the children develop their faculties.’
‘But is his contrition genuine?’ Hardcastle said.
‘I believe so,’ Reece said. ‘He’s even suggested some sort of annual remembrance ceremony, likening Mistress Susan to the first martyr of the new age.’
Robinson, silent until now, snorted. ‘The last thing we need is for them to found a new religion.’
‘Quite so,’ Melrose said. ‘But we must remember we’re dealing with immature minds. What does Nurse Baxter think about the situation?’
‘Oh, you know Nurse,’ Reece said. Then, in a comical Scottish accent, ‘Broth and hugs, broth and hugs, all will be soothed by broth and hugs.’
A couple of the others laughed.
‘She’s a simpleton,’ Robinson said.
‘But the children adore her,’ Melrose said.
‘Master Roland doesn’t,’ Reece said. ‘He shares Robinson’s opinion of her.’
‘Are you certain you can control the child?’ Liebrich said.
‘Yes,’ Reece replied. ‘I can manage him. He’s surprisingly trusting of me. And I know more about the behavioural cues of the Superiors than any man alive —‘
‘Must we call them that?’ Robinson said.
‘What would you prefer to call them?’ Reece said.
‘Is that your pride speaking, Robinson?’ Melrose said. ‘Reece is quite right to use that term. And it is, after all, the whole point of our project.’
‘What I was going to say before I was interrupted,’ Reece went on, ‘is that if I got the sense that he was trying to, let’s say, exercise his powers on me, I’d be able to sedate him before anything serious happened. And of course, the children are all aware of how much they owe us and how much they depend on us.’
Miranda, scribbling all the while on her notepad, felt the dust she was breathing in under the bar tickled her nose.
‘Let’s move on,’ Melrose said. ’Individual progress reports on the children. Liebrich, feel free to add to Reece’s remarks as you see fit. We’ll leave Master Roland until last. Let’s start with the girls, Mistress Nancy, Mistress Charlotte, and Mistress Ruth.’
‘Hold on just a minute, chairman,’ Hardcastle said gruffly. ‘That’s all very interesting, and I’d like to hear it. But first, I want a report on the outcome of the Irish expedition. I paid out a lot of money for that and I’d like to know what it’s bought us. My pockets may be deep, but I’m not throwing good money away on pointless escapades. All I know is that Lock and his wife were got rid of — which still seems a ridiculously risky business to me —’
‘The bacterial pneumonia preparation I developed has proven fast-acting and highly effective,’ Reece said curtly. ‘The local doctor certified their deaths without question.’
‘And Dalton?’
‘I have discharged Dalton from our employment, as his services are no longer required.’
‘And what about these damned notebooks you took?’
‘Strictly speaking, our man Dalton took them. But, yes, we have them.’
‘I damn well know you have them,’ Hardcastle said angrily. ‘I want to know what’s in them and how that helps us.’
The itch in Miranda’s nose was getting worse. Except now it felt like it was going to develop into a sneeze. She pinched her nose and her eyes watered.
‘Very well,’ Reece said. ‘The notebooks contain a complete record of Lock’s researches into psychical abilities, including his experiments with supposedly gifted subjects. From our point of view, they cover two periods. The first is from September 1880 to November 1881, when I was Lock’s assistant. This is the period for which I have names and other personal details for all the subjects of interest, among them four mothers and two fathers of the children we have — or had. The second period, from November 1881 to December 1882, is after Lock and I had our — hmm — disagreement. I don’t know the names and personal details of these subjects. If we are to complete our harvesting of promising children from Lock’s work, then we must have this information.’
‘And so you have it now,’ Hardcastle said.
‘Not quite,’ Reece said. ‘Lock always took the precaution of enciphering the subject’s personal information: names, addresses, occupations, and dates of birth, if known. That wasn’t an issue when I was working with Lock. I knew who the subjects were, but for the later ones, I’m in the dark.’
‘You mean this information is written in some kind of cipher?’
‘Precisely. And my knowledge isn’t anywhere good enough to break it. I’ve tried using the obvious techniques, but it’s no good.’
There was silence for a moment and then Hardcastle said, ‘Well, Melrose, here you are, a professor at the University of Cambridge. Surely there’s someone in that great factory of learning that can break this cipher for us?’
‘I’m certain there is,’ Melrose said. ‘But no-one I’d trust not to ask awkward questions. No, we have to find someone outside, someone who has the brains and the skills, and who we pay to keep their mouth shut.’
‘I’ve identified a potential candidate,’ Reece said. ‘A young Indian who arrived in England recently on a scholarship. He joins Trinity College in the autumn. A mathematical prodigy, by all accounts.’
‘Have you contacted him?’
‘Not yet. He’s rather difficult to track down. He’s working as a bookmaker’s assistant —’
‘Really? A bookmaker’s assistant.’ Melrose said, laughing. ‘Well, I —’
And then Miranda sneezed. It was a loud sneeze, as if a pot that had been simmering for a long time, suddenly blew its lid.
The conversation at the table ceased abruptly.
Then Robinson said, ‘Hullo, hullo.’
The sound of footsteps. Miranda shoved the notebook into her bodice and put the pencil on the floor. A figure appeared behind the bar. He leant over and held a hand out to her.
‘Up, young lady, and let’s find out a bit about you.’
She knew from his voice that this was Robinson. He was a man in his late thirties, she guessed, an ordinary-looking man with a receding hairline and little round spectacles. She took his hand and found it was soft, dry, and warm. He pulled her up, gripped her arm, and led her toward the table where the other members of the Pickerel Institute sat.
‘Well, well,’ said Melrose. He was a plump, ruddy-faced man with a grey beard and bushy eyebrows.
‘Please, sir,’ said Miranda. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. It’s just that I missed my train to London — I left my bag in the waiting room, you see. And I need somewhere to stay the night and I don’t have any money and —’
Seeming breathless and scared wasn’t difficult — she was short of breath and scared — very.
A pale, thin-faced man, his black hair slick with pomade, said, ‘I propose we adjourn the meeting. I’ll take her to my surgery and question her. I don’t want to cause a stir here at the inn.’
So this is Reece, Miranda thought. I don’t like the look of him.
He told her to put on her hat and coat, which she did. He picked up her carpet bag and pushed her towards the door. She had just enough time to glance at Liebrich — tall, short grey hair, aquiline nose — Hardcastle, short, stout, balding, and Farson, younger than the rest, blond, bespectacled, before Reece had her out of the room.
He stopped at the top of the staircase and said, ‘Now we’re going to walk out of here calmly and quietly. Make a fuss, and I’ll make sure you never get home to London. You may be an innocent and what you told us may be true, but I’m going to find out. My house is not too far away.’
He took her down the staircase and out into the courtyard.
They had only just begun to walk along Bridge Street towards the centre of the city when Miranda saw a police constable walking along the opposite side of the pavement.. She was about to call out to him when he looked at her, looked at the carpet bag, and looked at her again.
‘I say, is that Miss Colston of the London Library?’ he said.
‘Yes, yes, it is,’ she said, almost crying with relief.
‘Ah, we’ve been looking for you. Had a telephone call from your colleague Mr Packham. At Bishop’s Stortford, he is. Been worried about you. This gentleman’s been assisting you, has he?’ the constable said, eyeing Reece with interest.
‘Yes, he’s been most helpful.’
‘Good evening, officer,’ Reece said. ‘I heard the young lady’s hard luck tale, and I was going to take back her to my house where she could rest and wait for her friend. But I’ll leave her in your capable hands now.’
Reece turned to her. ‘Well, I regret we’ve had such a brief acquaintance.’
He took her hand, as if to shake it, then leaned in closer, and whispered. ‘And not a word to anyone about what you heard this evening, or I promise I’ll come after you, Miss Colston of the London Library.’