Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

Muntle had come, as well, from his new lodgings in the Fagins’ apprentice quarters, having watched Dabber Hall from the shadows, waiting for our return to hear the upshot of the meeting of the Bedlam Board. With one hand my good friend poured himself a glass of stiff brandy-neat. The other hand held within it the exchange of memoranda between the two Tiadaghton Project employees, which he had twice read since his arrival, and upon which he was now seeking detailed exegesis.

Turning to Ruth Wolf, Muntle enquired, “What exactly does this mean?”

“I call your attention, Sheriff, to the words ‘hydraulic theatre.’”

“There is another telling phrase in the missive,” I struck in.“This ‘wam, bam, thank you dam.’”

“A flood,” said Ruth Wolf with a nod. “Brought about by dynamiting the nearest dam upriver: the Tiadaghton Dam. This would be my guess.”

“Good God,” said Muntle.

“It should not be too difficult a thing to collapse the dam by such means, to place hidden charges there. And consider that the force of the water upon the Tewkesbury Cut would be of sufficient strength to rip away large chunks of the porous rock that delineates that narrow opening. The water would have free rein to wreak its havoc upon this valley.” It was apparent that Ruth Wolf had studied the topography of our region, just as she had thoroughly informed herself about everything else about our valley home that would serve her in the course of taking up residence with us.

“Then I must assume,” I said, “that our own dam to the south — the Belgrave — which prevents the Thames from exiting the Dell in any way other than through its subterranean discharge channel beneath Southern Coal Ridge — I assume that they are expecting that it should hold and thus allow for a rapid collection of floodwater within the valley basin.”

“Thereby drowning all of Dingley Dell,” said Muntle gloomily.

“But what of those who cling to rooftops and the like?” asked Bevan.

“The force of the water will no doubt collapse all but the sturdiest of our buildings,” said I. “And those structures that remain intact will be left fully underwater. As for those lucky few who have somehow purchased a few extra moments of survival upon the floating debris, there will, in all eventuality, be armed Outlanders standing at the ready to come in when the waters recede and pick off each of them one by one. It is no different from their obvious intent to slay all of those who are lucky enough to make their way to the woods or halfway up the ridges as the floodwaters race in. We will be fish-in-a-barrel as the saying goes. Do I have down the last chapter of our story as you would envision it, Miss Wolf?”

Ruth Wolf thought for a moment and nodded. “That would be the cleanest way to effect it. Then once the floodwaters have fully subsided, all of the dead bodies will be deposited into the iron pit, just as Miss Martin had said, and sealed for the end of time. Despite her predictions to the contrary, there stands the distinct possibility of complete and total success in this murderous venture.”

“Then we should act without delay,” said Muntle, bounding over to Ruth Wolf and myself to take first my hand and then Miss Wolf ’s in his usual exuberant, demonstrative manner, “to get as many of us out and away from this doomed valley as we are able before the floodwaters are unleashed.”

“And how would we succeed in such an undertaking without Feenix and Pupker and all the others getting wind of it, Muntle?” I asked. “Think clearly, man. They already suspect that we’ve something seditious in the works — that we stand poised upon the brink of outright insurrection. Now how much of a vault of the imagination would it require to re-ascribe our insurrectionary motives to something not communistic at all, but to that which threatens them most of all: our growing realisation of the true nature of Dingley Dell? The Moles cannot be blind to the fact that as events have escalated on their side with the approach of their day of rescue and repatriation with the Outland, some of us should begin — as indeed we have — to become more observant, to become much better at putting together the pieces of that no longer inchoate mosaic.”

“Aye,” said Muntle, nodding slowly, his exuberance for immediate action having dissipated. “Especially when so many of those pieces of late have been so generously handed us. Trimmers, you make a compelling case for keeping our heads, and keeping our feet planted firmly upon the soil of the Dell. At least for the time being.”

“And to that end — the end to be achieved by our collective cerebration — I should enquire as to the specific whereabouts of the most celebrated cerebrater in the valley — Professor Chivery. Where within that Minotaur’s maze of rooms-within-rooms in Bedlam, Miss Wolf, would we find this brilliant gentleman?”

“On the top floor. In a secured room in the building’s attic. He was put there amongst the Limbo Returnees.”

“The Limbo Returnees — now who would they be?” asked Muntle.

“Those who have either come back to the Dell under their own industry or have been conducted here by the offices of my rescuing group. Those like Trimmers’ nephew Newman who are assumed to remain still in the Outland.”

“And that is where they are keeping Newman?” I asked.

Ruth Wolf nodded. “I enquired about him just this evening. He is well. He is safe. And he has become quite adept at winning backgammon for toothpicks.”

I smiled. Muntle did not. “Why do they not simply kill all of them in that attic room if their presence here is unknown to anyone but that small group that attends them in the asylum?”

“Towlinson, to his credit, refuses to stain his hands with the blood of a single Dinglian,” said Ruth.

Muntle laughed dryly. “I cannot believe that the ogre has grown such a conscience as that with which you impute him.”

“Granted, it is a small conscience. But even Gamfield was never meant to die. Fibbetson accidentally injected him with a second dose of the general soporific.”

“A point of fact which you had no recourse to rebut at this evening’s meeting,” said I.

Ruth nodded. Bevan drew near and took her hand in his.

“In your interview with Chivery, was there anything else that was said?” I asked, suddenly thinking that whatever intelligence had been imparted by Chivery to Miss Wolf would vanish with her, until such time as we were able to meet with the quarantined man to learn it ourselves.

“He said very little except this: that ‘his calculations proved that all of it could work. The first stage and the second.’ He was most cryptic in this regard, and so I asked him whatever did he mean. ‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘But you must release me to do any good. My calculations cannot be of benefit if they are not to be applied with the utmost speed. Take these papers,’ he said, giving me the memoranda between Miss Martin and Miss Kreis. ‘Use the papers to win my release. Time is of the essence. Time is of the essence.’ I recall all of the words he communicated to me because he began to repeat himself until the appeal became almost nonsensical in its redundant utterance.”

Muntle now turned to me with a look of the most profound urgency. “Yet there should be a great deal of sense and order to what he said. Once one knows how the words are to be interpreted. We must go to Bedlam, Trimmers. You and I. We cannot wait until Towlinson and Fibbetson and the others have fled. By then it will perhaps be too late to use the product of Chivery’s calculations to our benefit. What could he mean? We will draw it out of him.”

“And what if we fail, my friend?” I asked. “And we are put under arrest in the course of the attempt? What good will we do in a gaol cell?”