Will Thomas: The Hellfire Conspiracy

Barker slipped out again, and when the barrage of glass missiles came his way, he butted them away impatiently with the brass head of his walking stick.

“You!” he said, pointing to the leader as he walked to the center of the circle. The rough-hewn man met him there. I was not going to be left out; and as I stepped across, a fourth man, obviously his lieutenant, came as well. Our quartet met in the middle.

“How far are you prepared to take this?” Barker asked.

“As far as it need be,” the young man jeered back.

“But how far are you contracted to go? Are you here to frighten Stead or to take him?”

“To take him.”

“The damage is already done,” the Guv said. “The article came out this morning.”

“But Stead’ll come out with another one tomorrow.”

“If we let you come in and stop the press, will you let Stead alone?”

“Nah,” he said flatly. “He is to be made an example of.”

Barker crossed his burly arms and stood in thought. “There is a lot of give in that statement,” he finally stated. “Do you intend to take his life?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

“Break an arm or leg, then?”

“Hadn’t thought that far. Are you tryin’ to broker a compromise?”

“I did not say that, but it appears we are at an impasse. I’m certainly not going to recommend to him that he come out so you can break his head.”

“He should have thought of that before he started making reckless remarks in the newspapers.”

“I think it best,” Barker said, addressing me, “if we went in and joined Stead.”

Our quartet separated, and the bottles came flying again like arrows at a besieged castle. We squeezed sideways through the doorway, closed the door behind us, and listened as more glass shattered on it.

Most of the ground floor was deserted, but there was a brace of Salvation Army women at the door who seemed capable of taking on the entire crowd outside themselves and were not frightened by a little glass. In the back, there was a printing press going full blast, putting out another special edition for the next morning. Upstairs we found a couple of dozen employees watching anxiously out the windows. In Stead’s office, the editor himself sat at his desk, while across from him, the stern but clear-cut features of General Bramwell Booth of the Salvation Army regarded us calmly. If the purpose of the crowd outside was to frighten the men into submission, they had chosen the wrong men. For all the cowering employees outside in the hall, these two acted as if it were any other evening.

“Their intent,” Barker explained to the editor, “is to do you harm.”

“I am prepared for that,” Stead said coolly. “My subordinates have copy for the next two days, and if we are broken into and the press smashed, I have arranged with the Standard to borrow theirs for a limited run.”

“How capable do you think they are of carrying out their threats?” Booth asked my employer.

“They are hirelings and only in it for the purse. I doubt there are many in the crowd genuinely perturbed over the ‘Maiden Tribute’ article. However, we cannot control the crowd. If they are agitated, we could have a riot on our hands. How well are you prepared for a siege?”

“We have food and water for a day or so,” Stead said. “If they make a concerted effort to break in the door, we can push the press in front of it.”

There was a crash of glass behind us, as one of the upper windows was shattered by a paving stone.

“Did you expect such a response?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Stead said.

“They shall certainly have to force a bill in the House of Commons after today,” Booth stated. “The edition has sold out. Half of London has read it.”

“Shall you bring the child you purchased back to England now?” Barker asked.

“Soon,” Stead replied.

Booth cleared his throat. “She’s in a Salvation Army property we own in the north of France.”

“Eliza is a smart little thing,” the Gazette editor said, referring to the child in question. “She should do well if she is to speak at my trial.”

“You believe it shall come to that?”

“It may, that is, if I survive this night.”

There was a sudden thud at the outer door.

“Woodbury!” Stead called. “What is that racket?”

A young and frightened-looking clerk came shuffling into the room. “They’ve pulled a stout table from one of the pubs, sir, and are trying to use it as a ram.”

There was a second crash against the door and a third. Barker looked over at me, as if to say it is only a matter of time now. Then suddenly, it stopped.

“What the deuce?” Barker asked.

Woodbury came shuffling in again.

“The police, sir! They’ve just arrived. It looks as if some of the crowd is going away.”

“Thank heavens,” Booth said, and Stead gave a sigh of relief.

Our celebration was premature, however. The Yard had not come to save W. T. Stead at all.

“Stead! Open this door and surrender yourself,” a voice boomed from a speaking trumpet in one of the inspector’s hands. “You are under arrest for transporting a child out of the country.”

Stead drummed his fingers atop the blotter of his desk and rose. “I suppose that is it, then,” he said. “You know what to do, Booth.”

“I shall arrange counsel,” the general said, shaking his hand. “God bless you, William.”

“Thank you, Bram. Mr. Barker, they might have hanged me waiting for the police to arrive. I owe you a debt.”

Booth’s guardians at the front door allowed the police in, and soon we were all being questioned about the event of the evening, while Stead was put in darbies and escorted to Scotland Yard. The Gazette office was in complete disarray, and I did not envy the staff the tremendous work and expenditure necessary to get it looking as respectable as it once did, but I noticed that the press never stopped cranking out endless copies of the next edition. Booth took over Stead’s chair and fired off messages and before we left, I noted that most of the staff was seated in front of typewriting machines, taking down the events they had witnessed firsthand that evening for the later edition.

By the time Barker and I left, the crowd had almost dispersed. People loitered about here and there, looking at broken brickbats and an inch-thick carpet of broken glass in front of the Gazette ’s door. Of our friends, the Ratcliff Highway Boys, there was no sign.

I was lying on my bed with my arm behind my head and a copy of Donal Grant in my hand. I wasn’t doing MacDonald justice, idly turning pages, but then he was not the sort of author to read when one is feeling down. After another ten minutes, I tossed the book down on the bed and began counting the beams in the ceiling.

“Am I interrupting, sir?”

Mac had come in. I don’t know what he puts on all the hinges in the house that all the doors open soundlessly, but it is faintly unnerving.

“I was working up a thought, but I don’t believe I have the right equipment, and it hardly seems worth the effort. What do you want, Mac?”

“There is a young lady who wishes to speak to you.”

Until I am dead, I shall always consider those to be agreeable words.

“Pretty?” I asked. For some reason, I’ve always considered Mac a fine judge of women.

“Yes, sir. Quite attractive.”

“Did she give a name? Is it Miss Potter?”

“No, sir. Your visitor is Miss Amy Levy.”

“Miss Levy?” I asked, putting my feet over the side of the bed and pulling on my first boot. “How extraordinary. I wonder what she wants. We cannot speak in the street. Show her into the garden and pick a flower for her, Mac. Recite poetry until I get there.”