A/N: Thank you for all the reviews you lovely people! This chapter is dedicated to DaisyJane, for passing on the message ;)

Chapter Fifteen - Dynamite

Weeks went by, and Diana's education continued. She and Alfred spoke to one another almost exclusively in Russian now, which she felt she could reasonably converse in. The close eye Bruce kept on things made her believe that he had something very specific in mind for her new skill. He had said that it may be necessary for them to travel to Russia, but she was now absolutely convinced that they would do so. He dropped no hints as to when, or why – in fact they rarely discussed the active cases or leads he followed day to day. She did not see his correspondence, nor he hers. Not that she had much. Both Lois and Dinah wrote to her regularly, and she received messages from her sister too. Cassandra had hardly been the most reliable of correspondents, and that had not changed in the last four months or so. Her letters were full of what might be expected from a teenage girl at school: her friends, how much she liked or disliked a subject based upon her opinion of the teachers, new fashions and beaux. She complained that the French mistress was overly strict and harsh in her treatment of the girls, but Cassie herself had suffered nothing more serious than a wooden ruler across the back of her hand, and that for inattention. Diana disliked the idea of anyone using violence against a child, no matter how mild, but she recognised that it was how the world worked, and was unlikely to change any time soon. Should she have any children of her own, she would not be disciplining them with beatings – not that it was likely she would ever become a mother.

Dinah's letters were often accompanied by packages and presents, most of them books on eastern philosophy. Bruce was teaching Diana the practical skills of Chinese and Japanese martial arts, and the books Mrs Queen sent helped supplement that education with the background knowledge of how and why they had developed. It was an entirely different way of thinking to how Diana had been brought up: energy and the flow of it was at the heart of much of what she was learning, rather than thinking of her body as a mechanical object that operated along scientific principles. Not that science was to be ignored either, quite the opposite. She was undergoing a true renaissance education.

Lois normally sprinkled her letters with seemingly random and irrelevant (not to mention out of character) nuggets of gossip and pointless information about society belles and beaux whom Diana could not care less about. The rest of her writing was the Lois Diana expected to hear from: witty, intelligent, caring and informative. The contrast was intensely confusing, and led to Diana re-reading her letters several times in a row. One grey, wet morning, she experienced a flash of inspiration: Lois knew what Bruce was teaching her, she must do, or at least know something of it. Was it possible, then, that this was yet another facet of learning to be a spy? She dug through the last four letters she had received, looking for a specific name … there!

Mrs Medhurst's family has become embroiled in financial difficulty; it is said that her daughter has indebted herself to the startling amount of some six thousand pounds, and that the widow has had to sell some of her lands in order to pay off the gaming debt.

Yes, that had stuck in Diana's mind because neither she nor anyone she knew had the least connection to Mrs Medhust. She'd wondered if Lois had meant it as an obscurely veiled warning, that although she may now have access to Bruce Wayne's seemingly infinite wealth, it would be all too easy to lose too much at the gaming tables. She had been quite insulted at the insinuation. But then, Mrs Medhurst had popped up again in a later letter …

… so fearfully hot in the ballroom, it was rather overcrowded, you are indeed fortunate that you did not suffer through it, Diana – the ices were utterly melted. Mrs Medhurst's slippers were quite ruined when her dessert ended up all over them. Such a shame, as they were exquisite: jewelled satin with gold thread that wonderfully complemented her gown.

"Jewelled satin and gold thread," Diana murmured with a frown. "Yet she is so poverty-stricken that she must sell her lands?" There was one more letter where the Medhurst name cropped up; she reached for it now.

Miss Medhurst has been dispatched to her aunt and uncle Ryder in hope that they will be able to cure her of her ruinously expensive habits.

The name 'Ryder' immediately rang a bell at the back of Diana's mind. Could Ryder mean Richard Ryder? If so, then the pieces began to fit together in an ominous direction. She took the three letters and left her study for Bruce's. The door was closed when she knocked on it, but he called for her to enter immediately. She did so, spreading the three letters out on his desk. Bruce glanced at them with a frown, then gestured at the chair facing his.

"Please, Miss Prince, sit down. You will have to explain this to me; I admit to being at a loss as to why I am looking at Mrs Kent's hand, elegant though it is."

"Mrs Medhurst is a spy for the French, isn't she?"

"Is she?" Bruce asked mildly.

"Or the Americans, or someone who does not wish England well."

"What has led you to this conclusion?"

"In this letter, Lois told me that the family is in debt thanks to Miss Medhurst's gambling. Mr Medhurst has been these many years dead, so her mother must be in charge of finding the money. She has struggled, and has had to sell her lands to do so. Yet in thisletter, Mrs Medhurst wore jewelled satin slippers to a ball where they were certainly ruined, and any woman of sense would realise that was a possibility. As well as being a vulgar display of wealth, the slippers imply that Mrs Medhurst is unconcerned with such a waste of money. How could that be so, if she has had to sell her property to cover a debt?"

"An inconsistency, I agree," Bruce nodded, "but how can you be sure that Mrs Kent has not made a mistake, and carelessly mixed up names?"

Diana fixed him with a sceptical look. "You know Lois at least as well as I do, Mr Wayne, she does not make that kind of silly error."

A smile curled his mouth. "I suppose that's true. Please, do go on."

"The final letter has it. Miss Medhurst has been sent to stay with her uncle, Mr Ryder. Then I remembered that before her marriage, Mrs Medhurst was Miss Ryder. She is Mr Ryder's sister. And Mr Ryder serves on the Privy Council, as the Secretary of State for the Home Department, does he not?"

"He does indeed."

"That is the final piece of the puzzle then."

Bruce leaned back in his chair. "By all means, place it."

"If Mrs Medhurst is a widow, she has no means of increasing her wealth. She has had to sell lands, so her income is even more reduced. She suddenly has the money to spend on ridiculous shoes which could hardly be cheap, and anticipates more wealth. It's unfeasible she might have a lover: Mrs Medhurst is well over forty and has never been reckoned a handsome or particularly intelligent woman."

Bruce grimaced. "I can easily agree with that assessment."

"Therefore we must ask ourselves: where is this sudden influx of wealth coming from? Miss Medhurst is not married, so it cannot be from her dowry. It is possible, then, that Mrs Medhurst is being paid for some kind of service. What has she to offer? Very little, except access to a highly ranking British minister, one who is closely allied to the Prime Minister himself. I believe she is being paid by a foreign power to pass on information, perhaps regarding Britain's defences." She had finished, so she mimicked his posture and leaned back in his chair, confident that she was right and equally confident that this was all some kind of test.

Bruce nodded slowly, and after a pause said, "I owe Alfred half a crown."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I thought it might require one more clue for you to, ah, join the dots together, as it were."

"So it was a test."

"Indeed. Mrs Medhurst is, as you correctly deduced, a spy for the French. Mr Ryder is aware of the danger and has been feeding her misinformation for weeks." He stood, and made a courtly bow. "I offer you my congratulations, Miss Prince, and I humbly beg your pardon for underestimating your quick and ready intelligence."

It might have been mocking, except Diana felt she knew him well enough by now to see the sincerity underneath. Playing along, she offered her hand with an expectant look. "I do forgive your error in judgement, Mr Wayne, grievous though it was."

He smiled more with his eyes than his mouth – she was learning that was where Bruce really did smile, and found it more appealing than any of his debonair charm – and duly kissed her hand. "Would you care to accompany me to the cave, Miss Prince? I fear you may be late for your lesson, otherwise."

"So thoughtful. You may escort me, Mr Wayne."

"You do me great honour." He dropped the joviality as she stood. "Incidentally, now that you've passed this test, you're ready to begin cryptography lessons."

"And are you an expert at that too, Mr Wayne?"

"Not enough to teach it, no."

"Then who will be my teacher? Alfred again?"

"No, though she is someone you know …"

Any sane man would have gone home hours ago, Clark knew. Regardless of whether this story needed a few more minute tweaks or not, it was past ten o' clock, and was rapidly coming up to eleven. He laid the blame squarely at Bruce's feet. Well, Bruce and an overturned Hackney carriage that had precipitated a trip home, a bath and a change of clothes. The Hackney had come first. He had been on the point of entering the newspaper offices when the accident happened on the street outside. Something had spooked the horse pulling the carriage, which had reared and attempted to dash off in any direction it would. The resulting bolt had bashed the Hackney into a private barouche, and overturned it completely. Seeing that help would obviously be needed, Clark crossed the road at a run to see what he could do.

The horse was on its side, struggling vigorously against the harness, but all four legs appeared intact. Jimmy, the boy who sold the first copies of the Daily Planet outside the offices, had also seen the accident and was going to help. The scene was somewhat chaotic and confused; people were waiting and willing to help but no one seemed to know what to do first. Clark, who had grown up around farm animals, took charge of the situation.

"Jimmy, have you a knife about you?"

"Yes, Mr Kent, here."

"Go to the horse and cut her free, carefully. Let her get to her feet and then hold the bridle."

"Yes, sir."

Clark went to the driver, who had been thrown clear of the vehicle. His arm seemed to be hanging limply, but he was bloodied about the head, which concerned Clark most. He was slowly trying to push himself into a sitting position with a groan of pain.

Clark crouched to help him. "Easy, take care, my good man. Are you badly hurt?"

"I don't- I don't think so, sir, no."

"Your head? Is your vision clear?"

"Yes, though I'm a little dizzy …"

"I think your arm may be broken, can you move that?"

The man tried, but then immediately stopped, once again holding his arm against his chest. "No."

"I thought not. You need a physician."

Clark removed his coat and fashioned it into a makeshift sling which he knotted around the coachman. He was as gentle as possible, but the man still gave a cry of pain, which made the still-spooked horse rear. Jimmy was startled, but he recovered well, and prevented further damage. The coachman's eyes raked over his horse's form, which was good. The horse was likely his family's only source of income, and he had wits enough to check she was unharmed. He still shook his head at Clark though.

"You're very kind, sir, but a physician's out of the question."

"I will cover the expense," Clark said firmly.

At this offer, the coachman's jaw set mulishly, and he shook his head, his eyes leaving Clark's. "Don't need charity."

"Come, come, be sensible. You need your hands for your trade, do you not? So how do you intend to work if the bone heals wrongly and you are crippled? Poor relief does not stretch fair. You've children?"

"Three," was the reluctant reply.

"And can they afford not to eat? I offer no charity beyond a physician, and I happen to know an excellent such one, in Harley Street."

After a few minutes more of persuasion, the coachman agreed. Jimmy was given the right address to take the horse back to, and Clark hailed a new carriage. Ten minutes later, they were knocking at the house of Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange. It had taken an hour, and when they were done, Clark noticed how abominably filthy his clothing was. Unacceptable, and completely unfit to be seen. It necessarily precipitated a trip back home, in order to bathe and change.

Lois came into the bathroom while he was in the tub, having just returned from morning visit herself. "Good morning again, husband."

"Good morning."

"What prompted this? Or did you merely feel a rush of desire for my company so strong that it could not be denied? If so, say the word and I'll disrobe myself." Her eyes and smile both sparkled, issuing a clear invitation. Her simple honesty and direct approach to discussing the pleasure she found in their physical union was both incredibly unladylike, and made him love her all the more. Not to mention, it was good for boosting a gentleman's mood.

"Much as that is tempting, my dear, no. There was an accident – I stopped to help, found myself dirty, and needed to return home to clean. I've yet to actually make it into the office."

"Ah, I see. You're not injured?"

"Not at all. And I shall endeavour to remain healthy for the rest of the day."

She bent to kiss him. "You had better."

Clark returned to the office in a happier mood than he'd dared to hope, though it was quickly dented by a letter which awaited him in his desk. As well as transcripts of interviews, a pile of descriptions of France, Prussia and Belgium that needed to be handed to the newspaper's sketch artist, there were also four letters from friends scattered across the continent, relaying information to him. What had to be his main priority, however, was the thick, heavy, cream-coloured envelope in the middle of that paper pile. It was unaddressed, and sealed with black wax pressed into the shape of a bat. He recognised it as being from Bruce instantly. It was too dangerous for him to use his usual 'W' signet ring with his secret correspondence, and as long as Clark had been privy to Mr Wayne's true business, anything important had been marked with a bat. Other journalists employed by the newspaper had, of course, noticed the odd symbol, but Clark had successfully managed to pass the 'Bat-man' off as a confidential source. Many of his colleagues jealously guarded their sources of information in a similar way, so few questions were asked.

Clark locked the door of his office behind him, leaving him alone. He took up the envelope from Bruce and slit it open. Inside was a further envelope, this one open, and a sheet of notepaper penned in Bruce's neat, precise hand. There were only a couple of sentences.

K,

This was intercepted from the Prussian ambassador, possibly regarding a secret weaponry deal with the French from some years ago. Could be highly lucrative information when cracked. Contact me when you have something.

W

Normally, Bruce unlocked coded messages himself, being an excellent cryptographer. It was usually only when he was extremely busy that such information was passed on. If Clark was unable to break this code, he would take it home. Perhaps, for many men, the fact that their wife had certain intellectual skills they lacked might prove a problem. For Clark, it was Lois' perspicacity and brilliance he had first fallen in love with. She was the master at codes such as this. Neither she nor Bruce had ever admitted as much, but Clark had a strong intuition that she had instructed him in the art of cryptography and code-breaking. They certainly had a long-standing acquaintance: Bruce had been the one to introduce Mr and the now-Mrs Kent. The main reason Bruce had sent this to Clark rather than Lois was simply discretion: it might raise suspicion if an unmarried man wrote to a married woman. Certainly cause gossip among the servants, and that could not be underestimated in terms of damage.

The letter began in German, but quickly changed to a polyalphabetic cipher that it took all of Clark's concentration and the work of several hours to make any headway with. By the time the bells of St Paul's had tolled three in the afternoon, he was just finishing. Of course, then there was all the other work to do.

Hence the lateness of the hour now.

At the chiming of eleven o' clock, Clark threw his pen down. It was too late, and fatigue would not enable him to work faster. Time to go home. He stood and collected the work he had managed, ensuring that the cracked Prussian letter was tucked safely into his coat. He locked the door to his own office and headed for his editor's. The door was unlocked, as the night watchman would not make all secure until after the last employee (Clark) had vacated the building. As he entered the office, there could be heard a loud ticking. Ticking that did not seem to be coming from the carriage clock set upon the desk.

Setting his work down, Clark allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and focused on the sound. He tracked it to a cupboard in the corner, and opened it to find a very odd device indeed. It appeared to be half a dozen long sticks of a clay-coloured material, all bound together by some kind of wire. Extending from each stick was some kind of fuse, leading to the ticking object. The ticking was coming from an ordinary clock, except it was late: showing less than minute to eleven even though Clark knew it to be past that hour. As he watched, the clock struck eleven. Then everything seemed to happen at once. The mechanism of the clock struck a flint against a hidden flash-pan – that spark then set alight to the fuse, which burned swiftly up to the clay cylinders.

Suddenly, Clark knew he should leave. Quickly.

He was not, however, quick enough. Even while his mind wondered what on Earth those clay sticks had really been, they exploded. The blast force punched him across the office and towards a window. He registered the sharp pain of broken glass on his face, a bright glare of heat against his back, and saw the black pavement rushing up to meet him. Then, he knew no more.

A/N: I know, the patent for dynamite was not filed by Alfred Nobel until the 1860s, but give me a little poetic license please! Also, the Prussians were part of the Seventh Coalition, allied with the British (among the others) against Napolean. So you can see why it might be embarrassing to be selling arms to your enemies.

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