Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 26: January 1887.
Posted by varneyjack on August 6, 2008
Twenty-Six: January 1887.
From Trafalgar Square to the Mall is the briefest of steps. Archie Purdey-James did it in less than five minutes, hurrying from Charing Cross Station. He had been at his house in Orpington, and had fretted for the whole of the journey into town. A summons such as this came rarely. It was a last resort, and signalled a matter of the utmost importance.
As he reached the gateway to the Mall, he took an abrupt right turn and entered the portico of the building that spanned Admiralty Arch. The doorman nodded as he went past: if he had not been known, the seemingly innocuous and occasionally bumptious official would have had him on the polished marble floor before he could blink, his arm twisted so far up his back it would dislocate. At the reception desk he muttered ‘BF. Blue.’ and was ushered towards the staircase that swept up.
‘I know my way, thank you,’ he said hurriedly, anxious to make his appointment. Up the echoing marble steps until he reached the corridor that ran along the length of the arch. Normally, he enjoyed pausing to look at the traffic and the bustle below. It was a pleasant reminder of humanity, and why they sometimes undertook the tasks that befell them…
Today there was no time to stop and smell the horse dung, let alone the roses it bequeathed. He hurried across to the other side, which had no public access for reasons of security, and dashed down a flight of stairs until he reached an unmarked, polished mahogany door. He rapped smartly, and was rewarded with a muffled bid of enter.
Closing the door behind him, he advanced across the red, plush carpet to a small man with moustaches and hair as polished and sleek as that very mahogany. Although Purdey-James knew that the man behind the desk was over six feet, he still seemed dwarfed by the size of the desk and the mountain of paperwork that spilled over the green leather desk top. That little which could be seen was dulled and stained with rings and spills from coffee cups and wine glasses. Indeed, a steaming cup of Turkish coffee stood beside a pile of reports and documents, threatening to melt the red wax on their official seals. Continuing the Turkish theme, wreathes of smoke from the constantly burning Turkish tobacco cigarettes befogged the room. Odd, considering Purdey-James knew for a fact that Bertram Featherstonehaugh had spent his time in the services in India, and had never actually been to Turkey.
‘Archie,’ Featherstonehaugh said, peering up through a cloud of smoke and indicating a chair, ‘pull one up and sit. Nice of you to make it so quickly.’
‘It’s been five years and seven months, Bertie. If you feel it’s serious enough to call, then I feel it’s serious enough to drop everything and come running.’
Featherstonehaugh assented. ‘Glad you feel that way, Archie. I wouldn’t unless it was, if you get my meaning. By the way, where are you today?’
‘On my way to the cotton works in Manchester. A planned trip which I’ve just brought forward a week. My secretary booked the room and bought me rail tickets for last evening. A slight delay caused by a domestic issue, a telegram sent by one of my agents in Blackburn, and –‘
‘You could be in any one of three places, and vouched for. Still got the touch, Archie,’ Featherstonehaugh said admiringly. ‘You should come back.’
Purdey-James smiled sadly. ‘Not the man I was, Bertie. Age dulls the edge.’
‘But not the knowledge, old son. The mind stays sharp a lot longer, if we’re lucky. And it’s your mind I want, Archie.’
Intrigued, Purdey-James leaned forward. ‘And what could a middle-aged and boring textile tycoon know that Bertie Featherstonehaugh of Military Intelligence doesn’t?’
Featherstonehaugh seemed about to speak, then paused. Lifting a finger, he said: ‘I’ll call for more coffee… Tea, perhaps? Then you can tell me everything you know about that inventor chap, friend of yours… Haining.’
