Chapter 9 - Spies

It was the sound of raised voices which awakened Maggie.

Turner's large bed had the lightness of a cloud, when compared to the hard floor she was used to sleeping upon. Once her head reached the pillow, she sank into a wonderfully deep sleep.

But within an hour or so she was upright and attentive, listening to the raised voices from Mr Turner's living room. She looked to Thomas lying next to her in the bed but he had not stirred. She, on the other hand, had become a light sleeper ever since they had moved to the old, dockland shack.

She stepped from the bed and moved to the slightly ajar bedroom door, avoiding the strip of light creeping in from the living room.

"You have not been straight with me, Turner," shouted a well-dressed man. Standing beside Mr Turner was another man, older than the first, bigger and not as well dressed as his friend. He wore an eye-patch over his left eye and had the look and manner of a subordinate.

"There is something brewing, Turner," continued the well-spoken, younger gentleman. He had an easy air of authority, and when he spoke and asked his questions, it was with the tone of an interrogator. "Power was worried sick about his children you say. Ha! Poppycock! I don't believe a word of it."

Turner was busy fiddling around inside the desk drawer. "Here you go, Mr Whitmore. Twenty-five pounds for now. I shall pay you back the rest in due course."

"You're no longer working for us?" asked the older man, his voice coarser, his accent heavy with the stains of the London streets.

"Tonight gentlemen I have realised the error of my ways. I have seen the cowardice of my past actions. Therefore, I shall no longer betray my comrades, whatever force or inducements are applied," Turner said.

He attempted to hand over the money to the younger man, Whitmore, who scowled and removed his hands and let the notes fall to the floor.

"We know Power has been smuggling letters to you. Our request is simple: we would like to see them. We want to know what he was thinking, what his fevered imagination was planning," demanded Whitmore.

"Mr Whitmore, the information I gave you some weeks ago is all I have to go on. Fathoming the state of Power's mind is really quite simple. He has lost everything. His wife is dead and he is thousands of miles apart from his children. As I told you back then, he was quite despondent - if not suicidal."

"His wife is dead?" asked Whitmore. "You had not mentioned this before."

"Did I not tell you of this news some weeks back?" asked Turner.

"No. And what's more, you know you did not!" replied Whitmore.

"I was searching for the family, as you requested, and I was informed by a landlord at a boarding house that the mother recently passed away."

"Why then have you withheld this information from me?" asked Whitmore.

"It must have slipped my mind. Anyway, our friend Mr Power is not well in the mind. He cared only for his family -"

"What cares he of family?" said Whitmore. "He cares only for his ideals. He is a violent revolutionist who wishes harm to Her Majesty and this entire nation. Something is brewing, Turner. And I want to know what you and these Chartists are up to!" he continued.

"Read our newspapers. Everything we plan is out in the open. We are a democratic organisation."

Whitmore scowled, "No, Turner! I want the truth. Where is Power and what is he planning?"

"You say he has escaped, I very much doubt that. He may be missing, but my money is on suicide. He probably killed himself, through torment I shouldn't wonder. And I'll tell you again, I have not heard from him in months," responded Turner.

"No. Something has changed. And coincidently so has the mood of this country. The mood of these Chartists has changed too. They seem to be more forthright and confident. I thought with Power out of the way, you and your moderate comrades would lead the way. But now there is violence and terror in the air, I can feel it in my bones. And it has something to do with Power. He was the most persuasive advocate for what you call 'Physical Force', was he not?" Whitmore hissed, growing more and more furious.

"I'm telling you the truth!" replied Turner exasperated. "He was a broken man. He was frantic sick over the plight of his children. I have been trying to find them myself for a number of months now - if only to bring some comfort to Power that they are still alive. But they seem to have completely disappeared since their mother's death."

After he spoke these words, Turner, who had been looking directly towards the bedroom door, turned his gaze away from where Maggie knelt, hidden behind the door - and looked straight into Whitmore's eyes. Maggie wondered whether this last sentence was specifically for her, a warning of some sort. Had he spotted her? There was something in how he looked, as if he were performing for another, unseen audience.

"Hasn't it crossed your mind how we know he's alive, Mr Turner?" asked the older man grinning.

Turner did not reply.

"Go on Beagle," goaded Whitmore. "Tell Mr. Turner of the lengths his friend Power will go to. Tell him what he is capable of."

"We know he's still alive," began Beagle, "because we've reports that the men he escaped with are now dead. Not only dead, Mr. Turner, but found mutilated. Either the last remaining savages on that island got to them, or they was used for food by your friend -"

"Please gentlemen, this is preposterous. Your friends in the press have already done a good enough job of blackening his name. Now, if you wouldn't mind leaving, I've a busy day tomorrow and I've no time to listen to your feeble nonsense." Turner walked to the door and opened it and beckoned the men to leave.

"Come on, Beagle," Whitmore said. "Let's leave this traitor to his own devices. But do take great care, Mr Turner. Because if you ever come across Convict 41355, and he offers to take you out for dinner, you may very well find yourself the tastiest dish on the menu."

Whitmore put his hat back upon his head and nodded to his friend to do likewise.

"Say what you want, Gentleman, it does not alter the fact that the world is changing. The era of rule by kings and queens, of lords, dukes and aristocrats is coming to an end. We are entering a new, enlightened, democratic age. An age in which the many, rather than the few, will eventually rule over themselves. Bear this in mind, before you blacken my door again."

Whitmore walked beyond Turner and looked back at him with growing and undisguised contempt. His companion, Beagle, on Turner's blind side, armed with a short cudgel, struck him on the side of the head.

Maggie audibly exhaled. For a minute she wondered if she had been heard. Her head instinctively turned away. When she looked up again, Mr. Turner was struck once more upon the forehead. This time he jolted for a moment or two, before attempting to raise his hands in a desperate effort to stop Beagle from striking him again. By now, however, Whitmore gripped Turner's arms and pulled them behind his back, leaving it clear for Beagle to go to work upon him with a frenzied ferocity.

The next two blows saw Turner slump to the floor, blood oozing from his grey hair. As he fell down unconscious, Beagle continued to aim blows upon him.

"Enough!" cried Whitmore. "I want him to make some sense when he comes around, you fool."

"I thought you wanted the traitor dead, Sir," replied Beagle.

"He may be a traitor, but have you forgotten the golden rule: dead men do not speak. Help me get him upright. Let's get him out of here."

After they dragged the injured man down the stairs and back out on to the streets below, Maggie sat with her back to the door - trembling and sobbing. She was scared to leave the bedroom and looked back to the bed, where - unmoved and fast asleep - Thomas lay. She wondered if she should wake him.

Then she heard a noise, beyond the bedroom door, in Turner's main living room. She turned and looked back through the narrow crack in the door. Whitmore had returned to the room and was looking through papers on Turner's desk. She saw him pick up the documents she had left with Turner, the letters her father sent from his captivity on Van Diemen's Land. He also began rummaging through Turner's desk drawers. After several minutes, he held in his hands a batch of documents and letters. He looked around the room and stared towards the bedroom door.

Maggie held her breath.

He moved to the middle of the room, appeared to think for a moment about looking inside the bedroom, but moved back towards the main door, and stooped to pick up the money dropped to the floor earlier by Turner.

He left, closing the door softly.

***

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