The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,140

was pining romantically. But to no avail. “10S, 15C, what is the rest of me?” Ten times S and fifteen times C? That was the correct mathematical notation. Then last night she’d wondered if it was proportions. Ten plus fifteen was twenty-five, so 75 of what, to make one hundred? It made no sense to her. As for those polyhedrons, she’d found herself idly redrawing them, separating out each individual shape, and turning them into a necklace. Could some of them represent jewels? Then, annoyed at her inability to penetrate the Prankster’s cipher, she’d put a big cross through it all.

Quickening her pace again, she glanced round. Good. They’d stopped, deep in argument. She lifted the willow fronds and hurried through the grove to the jetty. There she intended on tearing up the paper into a hundred tiny pieces and flinging it into the river. From henceforth she was going to renounce all codes and ciphers!

A small skiff was moored to the end of the jetty with one man sitting at the oars and another standing beside it on the jetty. She turned her back on them and was reaching for her purse when she felt a strong arm about her waist. “If you want to see your friend Babbage alive, you’ll come with me and quiet about it.”

In shock, heart thundering, she gasped for breath as the man on the jetty hurried her into the waiting skiff, and the oarsman – a big bearded fellow – pulled fast into the river, heading for a larger boat. The man who’d taken hold of her now draped a hooded cloak over her. “Keep silent,” he hissed. “Or Babbage don’t live to see another day.”

Ada heard herself whimper. She closed her eyes in terror. Could it be true? Was Charles’s life under threat? What had been done to him? The boat rocked wildly and she felt nauseous, putting a hand to her mouth, as she was quickly bundled on to the large boat.

“Lie down!” came the order, and she felt a foot placed on her back as she obeyed. Now she thought she could hear a faint cry of distress, like a marsh bird, from Miss Noel at finding her gone.

As the boat wallowed in the water and her stomach heaved, she kept her mind fixed on one thing. Charles is in danger. For some reason I am part of this – perhaps I can help him.

*

Robert jerked his eyes open. Dammit, he’d fallen asleep. What had awoken him, apart from the uncomfortable stone that was pressing into his back? Voices, he thought he’d heard voices. Stiffly, he forced himself to sit upright so that he could see over the weather-beaten boards behind which he’d found his pitch. A new boat was being pulled up on the mud, by a large man with a lot of woolly grey hair and a beard. Two other figures stood inside: a man and a woman in a rough woollen cloak.

Robert looked around. All the mudlarks had scattered and were determinedly looking the other way. They knew who these people were, Robert thought, and apparently they were people it was best one didn’t know anything about.

The man on the boat said something, but he couldn’t make out what, and then the bigger man lifted down the woman and they all went up the stairs and headed for the building he’d thought was unoccupied. The big man was glancing around, as if to make sure no one was watching them. Robert kept very still.

Then, as clearly as St Paul’s bell, he heard the woman say “Is he in here? Will I see him now?” For answer, she was escorted in, and the door closed behind them.

He frowned. It couldn’t be. He must be imagining it. Were his brains still scrambled? But that voice – it sounded like Miss Byron. What could she be doing here? He began to struggle to his feet. He had to find a way to get inside – or at least see inside – that dilapidated building.

*

“Are you telling me the truth, Mr Babbage? She has not come here to your house? And you know nothing of any romantic liaison?”

“Believe me, Lady Byron, I’m as worried as you are. She has not come here, and I’ve not seen her since she was last here several days ago. As for romance – we confine our discussions strictly to science and mathematics, and matters of the higher mind.”

Lady Byron bit at her knuckle as she