The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,158

Stockwell were obliged to excuse themselves and pass several groups standing in front of various examples of French ingenuity and design. They heard exclamations of admiration and marvel at a people who could think of such things.

Brodie gritted her teeth, remembering why they were here. The French might be the most inventive race in Europe, but it would be English courage and foresight, English nerve and integrity that saved the Ambassador.

They found the boot polisher, looking more than ever like a bicycle upside down. Brodie was both relieved and offended that there was no one else in front of it, admiring the ingenuity which had thought of such a thing. That was the trouble with the British … they always admired something foreign!

She glanced at Stockwell, looking utterly different this morning: in his pin-striped trousers and dark jacket, his face immaculately shaved, if a little pink, his collar and tie crisp and exactly symmetrical. She thought she saw in his eye a reflection of the pride, and the conviction she herself felt. It was most satisfying.

She turned her attention to the machine. It would not move without the electrical power, and that was to be turned on tomorrow, by the Ambassador; but, the more she looked at it, the more certain she was that the parts would rub against each other with sufficient force to strike a spark. There was only one thing that remained to be done. She leaned forward to touch the redundant piece and feel its texture. Metal … or dynamite? She did not know what dynamite felt like, but she knew steel.

“Don’t touch the exhibits, if you please, Madam!”

It was the voice of the curator, sharp and condescending, as if she had been a small child about to risk breaking some precious ornament. She flushed to the roots of her hair.

Stockwell leaped into the fray with a boldness which surprised even himself.

“Yes, my dear, better not,” he said calmly. He turned away from Brodie as if the order would be sufficient, his word would be obeyed, and engaged the curator in conversation. “Please tell me, sir, something about this remarkable piece of equipment over here.” He all but led the man across the room to the farther side, and a monstrous edifice of wires and pulleys. “I am sure you know how this works, the principle behind it, but I confess I fail to grasp it fully.”

“Ah well, you see …” the curator was flattered by this upstanding gentleman’s interest, and his perception in realizing that a curator was a man of knowledge himself, not merely a watchman who conducted people around. “It’s like this …” He proceeded to explain at length.

“Well?” Stockwell demanded when he and Brodie were back together in a quiet corner.

“You were magnificent,” she said generously, and quite sincerely.

He blushed with pleasure, but kept his face perfectly straight. “Thank you. But I was referring to the redundant piece. Is it metal?”

“No,” she said without hesitation. “It is soft to the fingernail, a trifle waxy. I was able to take a flake of it off without difficulty. I believe it is dynamite.”

“Oh … oh dear.” He was caught between the deeper hope that it would not after all be necessary to do anything and the anticipation of being right, and with it the taste for adventure. “I see. Then I am afraid it falls upon us to foil the plan, Miss Brodie. We shall have to act, and I fear it must be immediate. There is no time to lose.”

She agreed wholeheartedly, but how to act was another thing altogether.

“Let us take a dish of tea, and consider the matter,” Stockwell said firmly, touching her elbow to guide her towards the doorway, and at least temporary escape.

As soon as tea was brought to them, and poured, they addressed the subject.

“We have already discussed the possibility of informing the authorities,” Stockwell stated. He glanced at the tray of small savoury sandwiches on the table, but did not touch them. “The only course open to us is to disarm the machine. We shall have to do it so that no one observes either our work, or its result. Therefore we must replace the dynamite with something that looks exactly like it.”

“I see,” Brodie nodded and sipped her tea, which was delicious, but still rather hot. “Have you any ideas as to how we should accomplish that?”

“I have an excellent pocket knife!” he replied with a slight frown. “I think I should have relatively little trouble