Chapter 10
Jules returned home early on the evening of his first week of watching over the brothers. They had been very nervous about something all day, cutting their sightseeing short, claiming fatigue. "They have been trying to get rid of me all day."
Jules had stayed near their hotel for half an hour after leaving them to see if they went somewhere, but they never left.
Jules reached Savile Row before dinner. Phileas and Rebecca had not been expecting him home. Passepartout let him trail him as he worked about the house for a time, but Verne eventually took the valet's gentle hints. When Fogg was away, he was at his busiest getting heavy housework done.
Adrift for company, Jules headed to his room to read.
I should be happy for the time alone to read or make notes for my next play, but–I'm too restless.
He paced with the book in hand for a while, went downstairs to get some hot chocolate. Verne always had access to hot chocolate when with the Foggs. It was a luxury he never afforded himself in Paris, even though he loved the stuff. As he swirled the chocolate into the milk, a knock rang out at the front door. Passepartout was upstairs doing who knew what in Fogg's wardrobe. Jules took the milk off the fire to answer the door.
The knocking was frantic as Jules came closer to the door. When he opened it, he found a very frantic American about to hammer the door again. After three days near the brothers, Jules had picked up on traits that differentiated the twins. Matthew was the calmer of the two. He was steady, cheery; as factious as Fogg sometimes, and would never pass up the chance to talk to a lady, be she five or fifty, tall or short, thin or fat… She just had to be female. Jules had watched him take on a stout fortyish shop woman who was berating his brother for disturbing a display of fruit. Matt had had her eating out of his hand in five minutes and offering them all free apples besides.
Mark had been found to be the more intense of the two. To say he was passionate was to say a cat had fur. Mark was passionate about museum exhibits, food, religion, politics, the weather, women… and he jumped into whatever altercation was handy because of it. His brother spent half his time holding his brother back from fights over the treatment of apprentices in shops, hired horses and whatever else Mark became disturbed over. Once, Mark had tried to walk into the middle of a fight between a casino whore and her madam.
It was Mark with his intensity that Jules found assaulting the door. He looked like he had run all the way from Vauxhall Gardens, out of breath and leaning against the threshold for support. He had a bruise on his chin and a bloodied hand. His coat was torn at the shoulder and there was a bloody cut somewhere above his hairline, plastering his hair.
Jules caught him as he fell into the hall.
"Matt," Mark called out. "Matt–They took him."
"Slow down," Jules said. "What happened to Matt?"
Jules led Mark to the chair in the hall as Mark gulped for air and control. Passepartout came down the stairs, hearing the noise. Together the two Frenchmen helped Mark into Fogg's study to lie on a sofa while Passepartout checked his injuries. What Passepartout could see appeared to be minor, except for a long gash to the back of Mark's right hand. "Head bleeding, but not troubling. Head wounds always bleed freely. This looks like a knife cut," he said of Mark's hand. "It going deep to bone, necessitating many stitchings."
After winding a clean towel about the wound, Passepartout headed to a doctor's home down the street. While he was gone, Mark caught his breath and calmed enough to tell Jules what had happened. "Matthew worried all day after his near knife fight. He wanted to go back to the hotel and lie low. He wanted to get out of London. If we moved to another city or went straight to Cambridge, Fairmont might not follow."
"I was telling him he was making too much of it when we got jumped. Fairmont's thugs got us. The little guy with the knife led them."
Mark fell silent, bone tired, or was it blood loss?
He had fended them off at first, but one of the bigger men got hold of Matt, sending him bouncing into a hall table, and to the floor unconscious. Stiletto had given Mark the deep cut in his hand. A blow to the jaw put him in the arms of the other big man, which ended the fight in the hall. Mark was held tight while Stiletto moved their business into their hotel room.
The doctor arrived. Jules told Mark to wait until the doctor left.
Doctor Teasdale entered the house with his bag, expecting to find Phileas Fogg in some state of disrepair. He had been Fogg's doctor for years and had become used to being summoned on short notice. When he found an unknown young man bleeding in the study instead, he blinked once and went straight to work.
The hand and the young man's head required stitches first. Once done with the worst, Teasdale carefully looked Mark over for further injuries. Mark had to be helped out of his coat and shirt to facilitate the examination. By then, the heavy painkiller and sedative Teasdale forced down his patient before working on the hand was in full effect. He went limp on the couch out cold.
"Strong medicine?" Passepartout said.
"Not that strong. He's exhausted," Teasdale said. "He will sleep for several hours. Give him this for further pain."
Passepartout looked at the label and pocketed the bottle.
Phileas and Rebecca returned home just as the doctor was finishing the wrappings on Mark's ribs. Phileas looked on, surprised to find a bleeding stranger in his study.
Rebecca dragged her cousin out of the room. "That is one of the Ridgemont brothers."
"That answers one of my questions," Phileas said. "The next question is, what he doing here, and how did he know to come here?"
Jules came out of the study, catching Fogg and Rebecca up on what had happened and what Mark had told him.
The doctor came out to give his report. "He will do well with a few days' rest. The hand does not look infected, but I want to have a look at it again tomorrow afternoon. The ribs may not be broken, but I can't tell with all the bruising. We should know about that in a few days. Is this young man a relative of yours, Mr. Fogg?"
"A family friend," Phileas lied.
"Ah, well, whoever gave him his beating knew how to do it. I have not seen that sort of work since I was called to the aftermath of a prizefight in Brighton. I would suggest you impress upon your young friend his lack of skill in this area and find him a less dangerous hobby. Good day."
They all headed back into the study.
"Phileas," Rebecca cautioned, "he may recognize us from the bar fight last week."
"His coming to this house for aid ends any point in secrecy," Phileas said. "We cannot send him back to his hotel, not in his present condition."
Back in the study, he took the chair closest to the sofa from Passepartout and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.
Mark started awake, but the reaction time was sluggish. He blinked at the fuzzy apparition sitting over him. "Who are you?"
"The owner of this house," Phileas said firmly. "You came here looking for Verne after your injury?"
Mark nodded, relaxing. "I have seen you before," he said groggily, trying to focus on the face before him. Mark's vision refused to cooperate. The man sounded familiar, but he couldn't think clearly enough to place him.
"Never mind that," Phileas said. "What happened to you? Where is your brother?"
"Which one of you is Matthew?"
Mark focused on the man talking to him for anchor and then finished the story he had been telling Jules. "After they moved us into their hotel room, the two big ones beat the fight out of me."
Frenzied with worry for his brother, Mark fought for their lives. But the two mountains against him put him down hard.
"Which one of you is Matthew?" Stiletto demanded angrily.
Mark said, "Go to hell!" Not the right answer; he was picked up and beaten to the floor again. All but unconscious, he heard Matt yelling for them to stop, telling them it was him they wanted. Mark saw the two mountains carry Matt away.
Stiletto nudged Mark with a boot, forcing him over on his back. "This is for your uncle." Something white flowed down to the floor beside him. "Tell your uncle Matt will be returned when weapons shipments resume. The exact terms of the new contract are in the envelope."
"What weapons shipments?" Phileas demanded, shaking the boy to keep him talking.
"The one's they won't get," Mark said. "Uncle Matt ended all contracts with the end of the war. These people want to keep selling. Matt told them no confederacy, no shipments." Mark's voice drifted. "It's crazy. Fairmont won't listen, it's just…"
The sedative took him.
Phileas shook his shoulder again, but couldn't rouse him. He helped Passepartout to move the boy upstairs to the guestroom Jules was using. After they had him in bed and comfortable, a cot was set up for Jules, who would keep watch on Mark through the evening.
Phileas and Rebecca left the guestroom to confer downstairs.
"Weapons." Phileas poured himself a brandy in his study.
"It sounds as if Fairmont is trying to unload excess inventory," Rebecca said. "How can he force the Ridgemonts to take a weapons order after the war's end?"
"I don't know," Phileas said. "I don't think that was all there is to this. The weapons trade is not run like that. There has to be a better reason for the insistence on taking weapons to America. A buyer must still be there, maybe not involved in the war. Perhaps other shippers are not be available."
He took the drink to his chair by the fire. There, he thought through all he knew of the blockade-runners in America and the European weapons that had been steadily moved to the southern region over the last three to four years. Included in the south's arsenal had been French pistols, English rifles, English cannon, and a few other odds and ends. The trick had been getting them into the country through a very effective northern naval blockade.
Blockade-runners in mostly steamships had supplied the means. They rode out of the south with southern cotton under the cover of fog and poor weather to ports in South America and the Caribbean. They returned under the same cover with weapons, iron, other war goods or luxury goods, depending on what the customers wanted.
It had been a lucrative enterprise, but a dangerous occupation. A successful haul could bring three times its normal price. To lose a cargo could include the sinking of one's ship. Blockade runners caught alive could be imprisoned or executed. Their cousin Jessica Parker's father had been one of the successful ones, along with this young man's uncle. After the war, the shipments of weapons should have stopped due to lack of buyers, but it had not.
"There is still a buyer in America for these weapons," Phileas said. "Fairmont would not be so insistent about the Ridgemonts remaining in the weapons trade, if that were not the case. My guess is the buyer has nothing to do with the former confederacy. That government has been completely routed. The military districts set up to keep the peace would not overlook pockets of confederate sympathizers, wealthy enough to afford large weapons shipments."
"But who?" Rebecca said.
Phileas looked over his glass at her. "Who could know without going to America and snooping about? That is not our problem. The Americans can deal with that. You will need to report this."
Rebecca nodded. "Yes, and I think I have enough information to wrap up my investigation of these boys. We know who is supplying the weapons and who was taking them to America. Their government can figure it out from there. We will see if we can free Matthew from his abductor, but the rest is out of our hands."
Maybe I can keep appraised of the American investigation through Agent Gordon. This will mean the end of the investigation for Verne as well. All I must do now is get his trip to Cambridge canceled and decide what to do with him. If sending him home is the only option, I will invent a shopping trip to Paris and stay until the League quiets down. It will be better for Verne than staying in England.
"May I stay here tonight?" Rebecca said. "I want to talk to Mark when he wakes.
"Certainly," Phileas said. He smiled, handing her up from the sofa. "Make sure to lock your door against intruders. I'm not talking about my other guests."
Rebecca giggled and kissed him. "The door with be locked. A pity. Have you told Verne about us yet?"
"No, not until we have something to announce." Phileas didn't follow that comment with what he wanted to say. He had plans. Romantic plans that would have to wait until this mess was cleared up.