TETRAGRAMMATON Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Stirred, But Not Shaken

December 23,
1895, after the accident at Shepherd’s Bush railroad crossing.

Wilfrid Voynich
rushed to Sergey’s aid, but there was nothing left of his friend save for bits
of white bone, entrails, and blackened meat. He fell to the ground and heaved
his stomach on the track ballast. His fellow revolutionary and lover, Ethel
Boole hurried to his side. “Stay back!” Wilfrid shouted through spittle
and bile. “He’s gone.”

 Ethel appraised the scene like it was the
conclusion of an experiment. “I shouldn’t wonder.” Her dark-grey,
puritan dress mirrored a detached scientific demeanor. Ethel hid her natural
beauty and pleasing figure with a plain dress, no makeup, and utilitarian hairstyle.
She eschewed the frill and lace of Victorian clothing and the ‘New Woman’
fashion of feathered hats and tailored suits favored by the English upper
class. She looked past the grizzly scene hoping to spot the men that chased
Sergey onto the tracks.  She recognized
one of them as Sidney Reilly, a man soon be known as the “Ace of
Spies.”

Reilly is easy to
pick out in a crowd. He isn’t a handsome man. His slim build supported a head
too big for his body, and his long Roman nose and prominent ears were too big
for his head. He wasn’t much better up close—skinny and with an overly large
penis that most women found uncomfortable to manage. But he had a patrician
bearing, was charming in bed, and he made her laugh. They met on the quay while
boarding a liner to Italy last summer. Confirming that ocean voyages were
fertile soil for romantic adventures, they made love on the second night and
spent the rest of their holiday together.

Wilfrid heaved
again then struggled to his feet. Wobbling like a drunk, he stood up and wiped
the spittle off his chin with the sleeve of his coat, his eyes bloodshot from
stress, and his face pale. He shouted above the crowd. “Stop them! Who are
those men?”

The train’s
progress was unaffected by the accident. Neither of the train engineers noticed
Sergey due to the weather, impending darkness, and the disadvantage of sitting
behind the enormous boilers that blocked the crew’s view. Not that it would
have mattered much, the train needed a quarter mile to stop. As the trains
moved away from the crossing, crowds of gawkers began to stream in from every
direction. The only people walking away from the scene were Sergey’s two
pursuers.

“Hey, you
two!” Wilfrid’s courage swelled with the incoming throng. “Stop! Police!
Stop them!”

But he could not
be heard over the cries of the onlookers, and the two assassins began to fade into
the screen of falling snow.

“Who were
those men?” Wilfrid said to no one in particular. “Someone find the
police!”

“They are
the police,” Ethel took his arm, “At least they are a type of police.”

For a moment she
carried herself back to the bedroom in the Italian villa. Sipping champagne on
black velvet bedclothes in front of a fire and relishing the afterglow. Sidney
taught her many things about lovemaking, and she proved an avid student. But
his personal life was closed to her. Sidney evaded questions about himself and
his background. It got to be a running joke; he told her he was the son of an
Irish sea captain, the bastard son of a Cardinal, and the scion of Russian
aristocrats.

Whatever his
pedigree, Sidney was well-educated and knowledgeable in the finer things of
life. Most importantly, he made her laugh. Wilfrid, like all the radical left,
were humorless creatures who demanded to be taken seriously. Ethel smiled as
she recalled the shocked look on Sidney’s face when she drizzled warm chocolate
fondue on his body, then licked it off – the teacher had become the student.

As if he had read
Ethel’s thoughts, Sidney turned and tipped his hat in her direction, then
disappeared into a curtain of snow and people. Sidney trained himself to be
observant, and it was clear he spotted her. Ethel found his gesture arousing and
made her yearn for his body. Struggling to clear her mind of him, Ethel grabbed
Wilfrid by his elbow to lead him away.

 “Let’s go, Wilfrid.”

Wilfrid stared at
Ethel like a stranger, then jerked his arm away and ran after the two men.
Ethel watched Wilfrid fight the tide of gawkers coming the other way. It was a hopeless
attempt to catch them, and fortunate for Wilfrid, as he would have been a casualty.
It was peculiar that dangerous men never touted their skill, the same with
great lovers. Ethel allowed herself one last fantasy of the glorious nights
they spend at the Villa Aldobrandini south of Rome.

She murmured
under her breath, “Goodbye, my love.”

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