The Final Endgame.

Chapter 9

The next day dawned, a chill, bright morning, and at five to twelve I was walking down the street towards Thames Bridge. I was in boy's clothes, as I had decided they were more practical, and I had my little side-bag slung over my shoulder. I was more nervous than I would have liked to make out.

The bustle of London seemed lonely and distant as I crossed the road and began to make my way onto the bridge itself, running a casual hand along the stone rail as I walked tentatively along, trying my hardest to hide the fact that my stomach was doing backflips and my throat felt like the Sahara Desert.

I had almost reached the middle when I spotted him, through the minimal foot traffic on the bridge. Walking with purpose, and wearing a large dark overcoat and top hat. Walking straight at me, on my side of the road.

We met in the middle, perfectly, and Stephenson cordially tipped his hat.

"Miss Winter" he greeted stonily.

"Mr. Stephenson" I replied.

"You kept your appointment" he carried on, as we faced each other, both still as statues. His was probably meant for intimidation, while mine was, sadly, born of fear.

"I set the appointment" I corrected, again hiding my fear behind bravado. "So really, it should be me saying that you kept your appointment."

"Weren't you expecting me to?" he asked curiously.

"I wasn't sure you'd get my message" I admitted. He chuckled.

"How could I not have? You sent it so bravely. I'm almost proud. Now then, to business, perhaps?" Quick as a flash, he drew a long revolver from his coat, and fired two shots into the winter sky. Instantly, two carriages which before then had been rattling quite innocently along the bridge skidded to a halt at either end, turning sideways to block the road, and dozens of men scrambled out, lining the rest of the road and the pavement, blocking anyone's entrance. There was now no human being closer to me than two hundred feet either way, other than Stephenson, who boredly checked his watch.

"I reckon we've got about twenty minutes before the law gather themselves enough forces to get to you" he commented casually. "What shall we discuss?"

I, meanwhile, was studying the forces surrounding me.

"Not bad" I smirked. "Flashy, yet effective."

"I pride myself on my theatricality" Stephenson replied, deadpan. I decided to stop stalling.

"I want answers" I told him. "More importantly, I want to know if I'm right."

Stephenson chuckled again, almost skipping off the pavement and onto the now empty road.

"Well, ask away."

I frowned, wondering where to start.

"You were never planning not to kill me, weren't you?" I asked. "After you sent the first letter, I mean."

Stephenson's bushy eyebrows shot up. He was now prowling around me, a bit like a tiger after a deer.

"Very good!" he praised. "Very good. Very true. Tell me how you worked it out."

"The whole notes-around-London thing was a hoax" I explained. "I thought there was something fishy about it the whole time. It was a win-win situation for you, even if anything went wrong, which nothing did. If I got myself into trouble with the law, which I nearly did, by the way, then I'd be out of your way, and if I didn't work it out in time, the murder would have happened anyway and it would have made no difference. You would have still sent the second letter to me. You weren't bothered about who it was that died in Downing Street, all you needed was someone to die at three o'clock, which they would have, since the clock was stopped, and it would have seemed like your plan, whatever it was, had succeeded. We would have all been chasing our tails forever if it had been a servant or a butler, I can tell you."