40. CHAPTER 40
T he terms: thirty thousand pounds in a leather briefcase, delivered by the Duke of Dalton, alone, to Bishopsgate Pier at midnight. Vivienne released upon receipt. Anyone accompanies him; she dies. He fails to appear; she dies. The money is short; she dies.
Dalton read the note twice. The instructions were specific enough to suggest real intent and vague enough to allow a dozen variations. Alfred would not be on the pier. He would be in a position of advantage. A warehouse window. Somewhere with a clear view of the pier and a clear shot.
A ransom and an execution.
Alfred didn't need thirty thousand pounds.
He had had thirty thousand pounds and his freedom, and he had used both to build the most elaborate act of spite Dalton had ever encountered.
No, this was personal. It was about power.
He wanted Dalton dead. The one man capable of dismantling his conspiracy buried in the Thames mud.
He tucked the note into his pocket and placed his palm flat over it.
Nathaniel returned less than an hour after he left, rain-soaked and grim. Ardmore was one pace behind him.
Dalton took them to the study. He told Ardmore what he had learned in Kent, and what Nathaniel's man had found in Rotherhithe, and what Harrison had confessed an hour ago in this room. Then he gave him the note.
Ardmore read it standing. His eyes moving quickly over the page .
"This is an ambush," he said. "Shooter on the warehouse at the end of the pier. You walk into range, you show him the money, you do not walk out."
"I know."
"You intend to comply," Nathaniel said.
"I need to appear to comply." Dalton crossed to the far wall. Behind his father's maritime charts on the third bookcase was a concealed panel, and behind the panel a Whitworth rifle in an oilskin case, a leather belt fitted with a double-action revolver, and a steel breastplate.
He lifted the breastplate out. The steel was cold against his palms. He tested the weight: eleven pounds, give or take.
He had had it made in Sheffield by an armorer who supplied the Metropolitan Police with experimental work.
A quarter-inch of steel. Cut to his measurements, designed to be worn beneath a shirt and a loose coat.
The dent in the center, the size of a shilling, was where a Beaumont-Adams round had hit it at fifteen yards in testing.
He set it down on the desk where Nathaniel and Ardmore could see it.
"I walk the pier at midnight. Alone. Wearing this. I carry the briefcase. Alfred fires when I am within range. The breastplate holds. I go down and stay down."
"And then?" Nathaniel said.
"He will come to check and collect the money. When he is close enough, I act."
"And if he aims for the head?" Ardmore asked.
"Then my evening ends rather differently than planned. Which is why I need you both nearby. Hidden. If I die, someone needs to make certain Vivienne lives."
His friends' faces did not move.
"The old customs warehouse has a gallery window with a clear sightline to the pier," Ardmore said.
"I know the one." Dalton had mapped these docks during the Shanghai affair in sixty-three. He remembered every rooftop and mooring post. "You will have the Whitworth. Sighted to four hundred yards. You won't need half that."
"I won't need a quarter of it."
Dalton looked at him.
Ardmore was not counting on range. He was counting on proximity. On being close enough to make the outcome certain.
"The gallery window faces east," Ardmore added. "If he posts a second shooter on the grain store roof, I will have a three-second window between targets." A pause. "You should know I have never shot anyone."
The room went quiet.
"I have shot a great many things," Ardmore continued, in the same mild tone. "Bottles. Pheasants. A weathervane in Hertfordshire. But I mention the distinction in case it matters to you."
Dalton studied him. Composed face. Steady hands.
"Does it matter to you?"
Ardmore considered the question.
"Ask me tomorrow."
Dalton nodded.
"Nathaniel. You hold the perimeter. Bring two of your own men. Not mine. I do not want anyone from the Office within a mile of those docks tonight. If this goes wrong, it goes wrong without witnesses who answer to the Crown."
"Understood."
They were already moving. Nathaniel checked the chambers of the revolver he had brought in his coat. Ardmore lifted the Whitworth from its case, ran his hand along the barrel, and tested the sight.
Dalton walked them to the door. On the threshold, Nathaniel gripped his arm. Brief. Hard.
"For what it is worth, I would have done the same thing in your place."
Dalton nodded. Once.
"We will bring her home," Nathaniel added.
"I intend to." It was a promise .
Ardmore paused a step behind. He did not offer his hand. He looked at Dalton with those dark, too-sharp eyes.
"I will be in position by eleven."
Then he was gone, the Whitworth case under his arm, his collar turned up against the rain.
The door closed.
Dalton returned to the study. The breastplate lay on the desk where he had left it, dull gray steel catching the lamplight. He picked it up and ran his thumb across the dent.
A quarter-inch of Sheffield steel between his heart and Alfred's bullet.
He hoped it would be enough.