Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Mr. Norton had no difficulty finding the particular house that overlooked Vauxhall Gardens.
It was a corner home that was a story taller than its neighbors, but all the windows were heavily curtained.
Moreover, no light leaked from the rooms on the lower floors, but many candles blazed on the top floor, which would normally be storage space or servants’ quarters.
When he rapped on the front door, it was opened by an Oriental man who said nothing—simply bowing and stepping aside so Norton could enter the house.
Norton had seen an Oriental man once or twice years ago in his youth, when he worked as a clerk for Mr. George Mifflin.
But the man’s alien features still unnerved him, as did his silence, which somehow seemed judgmental.
Any other servant would be able to tell him if his master was available, or show him to a sitting room where he could wait, but this man was apparently unfamiliar with English customs. He simply bowed and gestured with one hand toward the staircase.
Norton walked to the first-floor landing, which was dark. Seeing no light from under any of the doors, he continued up the stairs.
It was the same on the other floors until he reached the top. There were only two doors, and while one was closed and dark, light streamed from under the door to the right. Norton knocked, and a voice he recognized bid him enter.
The attic had large dormer windows overlooking Vauxhall Gardens. Since it was late afternoon, the fairy lights had not yet been lit, but the faint yellow glow of sunset gilded the gray clouds over London.
The rest of the space was dominated by a long table in the center, as well as a few smaller tables along the walls. Every surface was covered with scientific instruments, most of which Norton had never seen before.
Dr. Ward stood in front of the table, performing some procedure with a candle and a small porcelain pot set on a stand on top of it. He looked to be fully engrossed in his task, and out of long-standing habit, Mr. Norton waited patiently on the edge of the room for him to finish.
He had known his mentor would be here—the note he had found slipped under the door to his apartment had been in Dr. Ward’s bold handwriting. He had expected to see Jack or Maxham here as well, but the doctor was alone in the workspace.
Some liquid in the pot was boiling and spitting droplets onto the wooden table.
The smell of the Goldensuit filled the air, a scent Norton was familiar with—like freshly picked medicinal herbs, and the spiciness of a rose, or perhaps a little fresher like a carnation.
There was also the smell of rot like an under-note, which roiled Norton’s stomach, but he had visited Dr. Ward in his laboratory many times, and he had become used to it.
After a few minutes, Dr. Ward extinguished the flame and left the pot to slowly stop boiling. He turned toward Norton with blue eyes that were somehow both hard like stone and hotter than a flame, while the rest of his face was an impassive mask that hid those deeper, fiercer emotions.
Norton bowed to him. While Dr. Ward had done much for him over the years, which indicated he must have considered Norton useful, he never had the feeling that the doctor was particularly pleased to see him.
This time, however, he expected the flash of annoyance that made the blue eyes resemble twin flames.
Ward gave a long, disappointed exhale. “I expected better from you, Norton. How could you have been caught by Sir Derrick?”
Norton bowed again. “I beg your pardon, Doctor. A lapse of judgment—I expected him to return to his home and study an hour later than he did. He saw me, and I was forced to kill him.”
Dr. Ward slammed his hand down on the corner of the worktable, causing all the instruments to jump because the table had two legs that were slightly shorter.
Liquid sloshed out of the porcelain pot onto the wood.
The scent of grass and flowers wafted up, and unusually, instead of rot, the scent of a dead, dried animal carcass that had baked under a summer sun.
“You should never have been seen!” the doctor shouted at him.
“We had finally tricked Sir Derrick into assigning you to Drydale’s team.
If you had not killed him, the power of the Ramparts would not have shifted to those two fools.
Because of them, the Ramparts went after Drydale and his team too early.
We only needed a few more weeks before we would have been able to destroy them all.
Instead, you revealed yourself to them and then allowed them to escape! ”
Norton bowed his head. He had become overconfident.
Doctors Lowald and Brady had not been competent enough to even disarm Mr. Antingham before he fired the gunshot in the laboratory.
Norton had only needed one more minute to kill Drydale, then he could have sought out Mr. Coulton-Jones and Miss Sauber and surprised them.
“I had not expected Miss Sauber and Mr. Coulton-Jones to free Mr. Benjamin and the chemist with such expediency,” Norton said.
“Those are merely excuses! Now Drydale’s team has disappeared.”
“I now have the power of the Ramparts in my hands,” Norton said. “The three other officers who are superior to me have been persuaded to allow me to lead the search for them.”
But Dr. Ward waved his words away as though waving off a fly. “Jack and Maxham are taking care of that.”
Norton bowed once again. “I deeply apologize, sir. I’ve only ever tried to follow your orders to the best of my ability.”
He was used to Dr. Ward’s moods, which flitted back and forth like leaves on the wind.
Now, the doctor walked up to him with an almost kind expression on his cold face.
“I know you do your best. But I wish you to become superior to your peers. Not only for the sake of the Citadel, but also because I wish to see you succeed.”
“I would do anything for you, sir, because I owe you everything.” While Mr. Mifflin had first recognized Norton’s value, he had still only seen him as simply a clerk. After Mr. Mifflin’s death, it had been Dr. Ward who saw Norton’s true potential.
While others had undervalued his worth, Dr. Ward had lifted him up and encouraged him to aspire to greater things.
He had encouraged Norton to refine his manners so that he could navigate the deadly social waters of any grand ballroom or political dinner, such that the gentlemen in positions of power at the Foreign Office and the Ramparts had been able to view him as one of their own rather than as a lowborn agent.
It was Dr. Ward who had taught him to harness his pain and rage at the death of his wife to instead fuel his ambition and his resolute purpose.
Norton was taller than Dr. Ward, and as he looked down at the man’s face, which was still as youthful as a gentleman’s son still at Cambridge, it was as if he looked at his younger brother.
And yet there was the weight of years behind the doctor’s eyes, and he often treated Norton as he did now, like an older man to a younger, or a father to a son.
It was far better than how Norton’s own father had treated him.
With kindness in his voice, Dr. Ward asked, “Did I ever tell you about my father?”
“No, sir.”
“My father was a hard man. He had to be, for he was simply a poor tenant farmer. Strong as an ox, and he brooked no disagreement in his household. He was heavy-handed with his belt, and often.”
Norton felt a rush of affection for this man. Their fathers had been similar. They were the same. Dr. Ward would understand him.
Dr. Ward continued, “He wanted me to be like himself—strong enough to work the fields from morning to night. He didn’t care that his son had a brilliant mind.
He didn’t see the value of science or intellect.
” His words had grown sharp and brittle, like flakes of shale.
“When he died, I both loved him and hated him.”
Norton was silent, but he wanted to tell Dr. Ward that he understood, more than that lunatic Jack or that strange Maxham ever could.
“He had no money to send me to university,” Dr. Ward said, “and so I learned everything I could from the same books as my peers. I read, and memorized, and became even more knowledgeable than all of them.” He bared his teeth slightly as he said, “And yet they do not respect me. And so I strove to surpass them in every way. I created something that they would kill for.”
Norton nodded. He knew the value of the Blood Nectar—how the greatest minds and the greatest leaders of the world could bring order to chaos, to replace selfish and greedy men like Antingham and Uppleby.
“The reason I am telling you this is because I gave you this chance to make something of yourself, as I did. We both have low origins, but that should not stop men with determination like us.” He captured Norton’s gaze with eyes like steel. “Show me your quality, Mr. Norton.”
Norton’s throat closed up with emotion at the power in that command, in the confidence imparted to him by Dr. Ward’s gaze. He swallowed twice before he was able to reply, “I shall, sir.”
Dr. Ward gave him a smile that was almost warm. Then he glanced toward the door several seconds before Norton heard the knock. “Enter,” Dr. Ward said.
Maxham entered the laboratory. Although he bowed respectfully to Dr. Ward, Norton thought he caught a faint bitterness of expression, an echo of it across his face before it was gone.
And yet, why should Maxham not be bitter at Dr. Ward?
Maxham was merely a servant, able to provide requirements for Dr. Ward, able to prove himself useful to his betters.
And yet, Maxham spent most of his days adrift, alone, as insignificant as the foam floating on the water.
Maxham nodded to Norton, but there was a faint sardonic smirk at the corner of his mouth, almost as if he knew what Norton had been thinking about him.
“Have you found them?” Dr. Ward demanded, even as he tugged at his waistcoat and smoothed down the small gold buttons.
“Not yet, but soon.” Maxham dropped his hat upon the table next to the door to the laboratory. “Jack’s burglar entered the house successfully last night.”
“Drydale sent no one to guard Mrs. Coulton-Jones?” Norton asked.
“Oh, he was there himself, attempting to stay hidden in the shadows.”
Dr. Ward slammed his hand on the edge of the worktable once again, this time causing several instruments to jump and rattle. “And you did not kill him when you had the opportunity?”
Maxham’s pale gaze regarded Dr. Ward, as sharp as icicles, colder than a blustery winter night in the north. “Why would I do something so foolish?”
Dr. Ward’s face grew red. “How dare you?—!”
Maxham remained unperturbed in the face of Dr. Ward’s anger. “If I’d killed Drydale, Mr. Coulton-Jones would have forcibly removed his mother from the house, and then we would need to tediously search for them. Was that what you would have preferred?”
Dr. Ward’s face was still splotched with red, but this time with rage at Maxham’s condescension.
Affronted by the humiliation of his mentor, Norton’s fists clenched as he fought to keep his face an expressionless mask. He knew Maxham’s strength and speed, and he would be dead without landing a single blow upon him.
“I ensured that Drydale did not spot Mr. Banet,” Maxham said. “The attack tonight will be a surprise, and we will not only secure Mrs. Coulton-Jones—and her son’s cooperation—but we may also capture whoever shall be watching the house at the time.”
Dr. Ward’s mouth was a thin line, but he tugged at his waistcoat again and ran a hand down the embroidered silk in a slow gesture which Norton knew helped to calm him. “Then they will not remain in hiding for long. And what of the Stoudes?”
“Unfortunately, they left their townhouse yesterday, destination unknown.” Despite delivering the bad news, Maxham’s face was calm, as if he had expected it.
“Do you mean to say you cannot discover where they have gone?” The biting edge to Dr. Ward’s tone indicated his temper was rising to the surface again.
“They had departed before the men I sent to watch the house had arrived. They were unaware that the house was empty for most of the day, and only noticed when the house remained dark at dusk. I have sent others to try to follow them, but it may be impossible. They headed north, but they did not take their crested traveling coach.”
There were always a great many carriages along the Great North Road. One more would hardly be noticed, especially with Lord Stoude utilizing his training as an agent to ensure they could not be followed.
“So we have lost them?” Dr. Ward’s hand, still resting on the table, clenched into a fist.
“Lord Stoude is a member of the Ramparts,” Maxham said, a slightly harder edge to his voice. “I have no doubt he was packing and making plans as soon as he heard that Sir Derrick was killed.”
“Lord Stoude’s sister-in-law has not the influence with Mr. Drydale as Mr. Coulton-Jones,” Norton said, hoping to placate Dr. Ward. “It is perhaps a wiser course of action to increase the number of men sent to capture Mrs. Coulton-Jones tonight.”
Dr. Ward glared at Norton, but said nothing to refute his words.
Lord Stoude had many houses, and the couple could have gone to any one of them. Or he could have found another place to let, which no one knew about.
A sudden sound, like a cat screeching, suddenly rose from the ground floor, echoing in the stairwell and filtering through the open door to the laboratory.
“What on earth is that?” Norton asked.
Both Maxham and Dr. Ward stilled as they listened.
“A commotion in the entry hall,” Dr. Ward said in confusion.
In contrast, Maxham had the faintest smile on his lips. “Indeed,” he said. “I believe we have a visitor.”