After their long journey westward, Mr Daim and Captain Robertson finally arrived in London, the capital of the ever-expanding, ever-glorious, ever-mighty British Empire. To Mr Daim, like many visitors hailing from the colonies, London seemed a lacklustre cesspit of poverty and desperation. Not the centre of culture, science and wealth, one would expect to be befitting of the globe-trotting Britannia whose trident commanded the waves in pursuit of her God-given right to rule the world: Dieu Et Mon Droit. Wherever Britannia’s trident pointed, her subjects would go. It just so happened in the case of Mr Daim and Captain Robertson, her trident pointed home.
To Mr Daim, the man who’d travelled as far as the imperial courts of Peking, London was the lump of coal amongst diamonds when it came to seats of power. Babylon had the Hanging Gardens, Baghdad the House of Wisdom, Constantinople the Hagia Sophia, but what did London have? A murky river polluted by the scourge of an industrial revolution, cobbled streets with festering horse faeces interposed between its furrows and a neglected palace disliked by its supposed inhabitants – one of whom tried to pawn it off on his own parliament. Speaking of which, perhaps the macabre Clock Tower protruding into a sky choking on smog was the only redeemable feature of this depressing landscape. After all, it was here the fate of millions was decided.
As the duo made their way across Westminster Bridge in a horse-drawn carriage, the macabre Clock Tower looming over them, it was Mr Daim, this time, who had trouble adjusting to a foreign climate. He had spent so long in the burn-inducing weather of northwest India that the frostbite-inducing weather of southeast England gave him a chilling shock from skin to bone. To remedy this, Captain Robertson had loaned the use of his winter coat to his charge despite the fact summer was only right around the corner and ignoring the fact doing so must have broken some protocol he was ignorant of. Over the course of their voyage, he had developed a burgeoning respect for his travelling companion and his endless stream of ghazals, with the belief the mysterious Mr Daim was a keeper of untold wisdom. The man carried himself with an aura of easiness one could only achieve if they were to sever their connection from the pursuit of fame and glory, something Captain Robertson thought admirable. For this reason, he began to hold Mr Daim in such high regard.
The pair were due to meet with the incumbent Commissioner Edmund Henderson of the Metropolitan Police for a top-secret meeting at the India Office, which promised to shed more light on the letter Mr Daim received from the juxtaposing sepoy back in Lahore. And so off they went, through the dense crowds, past the gothic drab of Westminster Abbey housing the rotting corpses of long-dead kings and queens, past the young boy perched atop an empty crate selling copies of The Daily Telegraph he couldn’t read, and northward towards the offices of Her Majesty’s government. There, sandwiched between the overflowing treasury and the oft-vacant number ten, lay the gears which kept Britain’s imperial machine running: the Home Office, Foreign Office, Colonial Office, and all-important India Office. It was from these very rooms Britannia commanded her vast empire. Mr Daim was about to enter the belly of the beast.
At the gates to the India Office, Mr Daim and Captain Robertson were greeted by the Secretary of State for India, the Duke of Argyll. After briefly exchanging pleasantries, the Duke quickly led them through the building, across the marble Durbar Court overlooked by interlocking crescents and crosses, up the Muses’ Staircase flanked by the fossils of millennia-old sea lilies frozen in stone, and briskly ushered them into his office, where Commissioner Henderson sat waiting.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Commissioner Henderson welcomed the men with the shake of his hand. Mr Daim could tell from his vice-like grip the man who stood before him had spent some time in the military.
“I take it you are the fabled Mr Dame who has come to save us?”
“Daim.”
This wasn’t the first time Mr Daim had to correct someone on the pronunciation of his name. He was certain it wouldn’t be the last, so long as he remained on the British Isles.
“We’ll just call you Mr D for the sake of convenience,” tension emanating from the tendons pulling Commissioner Henderson’s mouth into a tight grin.
“Let’s not dilly-dally, gentlemen. Please, Mr Dame, take a seat,” the Duke motioned for Mr Daim to take the remaining chair beside Commissioner Henderson.
While the Duke sank slowly into the leather armchair on the opposite side of his large mahogany writing desk, Mr Daim’s eyes were drawn to the vast bookshelf. Scanning the spines of books pertaining to subjects as broad as ornithology to economics, it became clear to Mr Daim the Duke shared a greater affinity for science than he did politics. Meanwhile, Captain Robertson remained standing by the door with the stalwart grace one would expect from a member of the British Armed Forces.
“Unfortunately, Her Majesty is indisposed at the moment and will not be able to greet you personally.”
Mr Daim wasn’t surprised by that revelation. He had become used to the eccentric procedures of royalty and didn’t expect to be granted an actual audience with Queen Victoria. At least he wasn’t being given the same runaround afforded to him by the Emperor of Mali.
“I must confess I am pressed for time, and so I’ll try my utmost best to be brief, succinct and to the point.”
In Mr Daim’s experience, politicians were rarely brief, succinct and to the point, but he awaited amazement nonetheless.
“Recently, there have been… unusual sightings of… some kind of… well, to be perfectly candid, I’m not quite sure how to explain it other than as some kind of supernatural phenomenon. Some sort of flying creature, to be precise.”
“It doesn’t fly, Mr Secretary. It jumps. And if I may be so bold as to inquire why you saw it fit to seek the aid of a foreigner in what is clearly an internal matter concerning MY department?”
Commissioner Henderson was clearly agitated by Mr Daim’s presence as if it signified the undermining of his authority.
“Well, the answer to that question is quite simple, Commissioner,” the harsh C hiding a dozen tales of contempt, “the Met has proved itself quite out of its depth and now…”
The Duke paused to fiddle with one of the desk drawers before pulling out and slapping the front page of a newspaper onto the varnished mahogany.
“And now, the tabloids are getting wind of your failure to put an end to this threat. Hence, Mr Dame, who specialises in matters like these, has been brought here from the colonies to see this menace dealt with. Does that satisfy your question, Commissioner?”
The Duke accepted the ensuing silence as a sign of his victory. An ever so sly smile flitted across his face as he turned away from his wounded quarry and towards the patiently waiting Mr Daim.
“Apologies for my colleague’s rudeness. I trust you know what needs to be done?”
Mr Daim nodded in agreement.
“Great, well, I’ll let you get to work. Captain Robertson will remain by your side to assist you in this endeavour as your personal bodyguard. Should you need extra support, Commissioner Henderson has been approved to allocate you any resources that may be of assistance. Although, I’m not quite sure how effective his help will be. Any questions? No? Very well, I must really be off now to attend to an important matter. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
The Duke bid farewell to Mr Daim and Captain Robertson without extending the same courtesy to his now silent rival. He was just about to walk through the door when he remembered he had one last request for Mr Daim.
“I trust you understand how sensitive this matter is and would greatly appreciate it if you were to do everything within your power to keep things quiet.”
“Of course, Mr Secretary. Rest assured that this menace will cease to plague the streets of London.”
“Good man.” And with that, the Duke was off to attend to an important matter.
As soon as the Duke left the room, Commissioner Henderson turned blood-red hostile.
“Look here, Mr D,” Mr Daim turned to look here, “or however you pronounce it; frankly, I don’t care, but what I do care about is the safety of this city and if you so dare interfere with police business at any point during your stay, rest assured I will bring the full might of the law down upon your helpless soul.”
The tip of his finger was thrust between Mr Daim’s ribs now.
“So you can go out there with your little trinkets and incantations, or whatever it is you Indian faqirs do, while I’ll lead my men in capturing that… that… thing and bringing peace to the city of London. Just make sure you stay out of our way.”
Was that spit Mr Daim felt splash against his cheek?
“Good day, gentlemen. And with that rather undeservedly insolent farewell, Commissioner Henderson stormed out the door. It wasn’t until both men had left that Captain Robertson finally caught a proper glimpse of the newspaper’s headline: SPRING-HEELED JACK STRIKES AGAIN.
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London