Page 52 of A Game of Scandal

We followed the sound of her voice until we caught up with her. She stood next to a long wooden table, her hand cupped round the weak flame of her candle.

“Get the flame back,” I snapped, my voice loud in the quiet space. Chemicals were laid out in dishes on the table.

Turning her back so the lick of fire was nowhere near, Sylla hissed out a slow breath.

“Explosives?” she whispered.

“Stay back but hold the candles up,” I instructed as I approached the workstation, tucking the pistol into the pocket of my coat. There was a flask of clear liquid over an unlit Bunsen burner, a shallow saucer full of white powder. Carefully, I picked up the dish and examined it before replacing it softly where I found it. I turned my attention to the liquid. Tilting the glass carafe to the side, I recognized the oily texture and fought to keep my tone level as I gently rested it back above the burner.

“I’m fairly sure this is nitro-glycerine,” I said, gesturing to the liquid. I leaned over, so that I could more closely examine the stoppered bottles of chemicals that were lined up neatly to one side. “Mercury, nitric acid, ethanol,” I murmured, turning my eyes to the white powder. “Oh, God, it’s mercury fulminate.”

“Not all of us speak whatever language that is,” Sylla said tensely.

“Look for copper,” I said, turning to face them. “And whatever you do, don’t come near this stuff again with those candles.”

“There’s some copper piping over here,” Izzy called. I made my way over to where she was standing, Sylla on my heels.

“It’s for the percussion caps,” I said weakly.

“Again, Felicity, not all of us live with our noses in science books. Tell us what’s going on.” Sylla’s hard tone cut through my growing fear.

“They’re making dynamite,” I said, my voice steady now. “A lot of it.”

“Are you sure?” Sylla asked.

“Fairly sure,” I said. “They’re formulating the different parts; they just haven’t been put together yet. Was dynamite used in the bombs sent to the Aviary?”

“Yes.” Izzy nodded, the candle she held throwing harsh shadows across her face. “We need to move,” she said, pulling a watch out of her pocket, holding it close to her eyes. “We’re almost at fifteen minutes.”

“Do one last quick look around,” Sylla said. “Felicity, you stay with me.”

Sylla and I moved back over to the stacked crates, looking for any that were open, or any writing on the boxes themselves that might offer some clue about what was inside.

“There are some papers here,” I whispered, finding a few loose sheets on top of one of the stacks. Sylla came towards me and held the candle close enough that we could read.

“It’s in French,” I said.

“‘Let us occupy ourselves with chemistry and set about making bombs, dynamite and other explosives,’” Sylla translated aloud before I could do so. “‘These are more powerful than guns and barricades as a way of leading to the destruction of the state… Courage, comrades, and Long Live Anarchy!’”

“Anarchists,” I said with a shiver. “Like the Greenwich Observatory park bombing?” The bungled bombing, which had ended in the death of the bomber himself, had taken place only six years ago, and was still spoken of in hushed tones, the source of many unanswered questions. Those answers had been lost with the man who’d died, but one thing that was clear was the fact the bomb had been intended for many more victims.

Izzy reappeared at my side. “We have to go,” she said, and Sylla slipped the paper she was holding into her pocket.

“Did you find anything else?” I asked Izzy as we made our way back to the door.

She shook her head. “There are some bolts of fabric piled up, but I think those were left over from when the warehouse was last in use. Strange, though – they’re very good quality.”

Sylla hesitated on the threshold of the doorway, scanning the surrounding scene, then deciding the coast was clear, she tugged me out after her. Behind us, Izzy closed the door, re-engaging the lock. The guards would awaken and tell how they’d been attacked, but if there was no sign of entry to the warehouse, it would hopefully be accepted as the sort of ruthless robbery common in this part of town.

Or Laing might know exactly who had been here tonight.

By the time the three of us reached the carriage, Mrs Finch and Maud were already there. We bundled inside, and Mrs Finch tapped on the roof. We moved off once more, and I looked around at the other women, before bursting into a wave of laughter, tinged with hysteria.

“I can’t believe we did that!” I said, flexing my cold hands, feeling them prickle with pins and needles.

“Nothing like getting away clean to make you feel invincible,” Maud said.

“Did you have any trouble with the guards?” Sylla asked.