“I have got an amber.” Said Romney. “How much further do you have to go?”
“Another twenty feet before we should be able to grasp the ladder.” She said, the ship not moving as she held it in place.
“This will have to be quick.” Said Romney quickly, concentrating hard.
“Be ready, Vaillant!” shouted Victoria. “As soon as that ladder is in reach I want it in use. Lady Harrington first then William and then Montague. You after that. I shall be last.”
“Very well!” shouted the Inspector, moving away from the huddled remaining members of the Harrington family to where the rope ladder hung overhead.
“I am going to do it all in one go, Romney.” She said and the demon merely grunted in her head as the ship began to fall towards them, the rope ladder now so close that the Inspector lunged for it but it was too far away. Victoria gave it another five feet and watched with satisfaction as Vaillant snagged the ladder, and holding on to it tightly called for lady Harrington to ascend which she nervously began to do so.
“High amber.” Said Romney, “And rising. The roof is getting hotter Victoria.”
She looked to the ladder, seeing Lady Harrington awkwardly clambering up the ladder as best she could. She was still only half way up.
“Too slow, Vaillant!” she shouted, “The gas tank on the zeppelin is going to blow if we don’t speed this up! Get William on the ladder!”
The inspector grabbed the younger son and helped up the ladder as far as he could lift him to speed him up and the young boy began to clamber up the rope eagerly.
“Good good.” Said Victoria. “Montague. Be ready!” The elder son nodded somberly, watching his mother closely as she reached the hatch and clambered inside. Already William was halfway up the ladder, proving to be much more adept at climbing the rungs than his mother.
“Go!” shouted Victoria and Montague leapt for the ladder, grabbing hold of it and beginning his ascent.
“Mid red, Victoria!” shouted Romney in her mind, “You need to go!”
“On the ladder, Vaillant!” shouted Victoria and the Inspector did not hesitate, throwing himself up the ladder as high as he could. Already the ship was beginning to move away from the roof as Montague continued to climb up the ladder. He was nearly up to the hatch now, William and Cordelia peering through the hole from above. Vaillant rapidly shinning up as the ship continued to climb.
“Holding red boss!” shouted Romney in her head. “You need to ascend faster!”
“Very well!” she replied as the ladder withdrew above her head, the ship starting to climb much faster than before.
“Victoria!” shouted Inspector Vaillant form the ladder above, “You are too far away! You need to lower the ship again!”
“It will explode if I do!” shouted Victoria, “But don’t worry about the distance. I am fine.”
“Easing on the red, Victoria.” Said Romney in her mind, but you are nearing the end of your reach. Better move quick!”
She did not even reply, but tensed herself and then leapt through the air, catching the ladder some forty feet above her as she jumped. She steadied herself on the rope and began to move the ship faster into the air, also turning it away from the flames of the house now below them.
“Amber and falling from mid to low.” Barked Romney, “Nicely done!”
“Thanks!” replied Victoria as she hung onto the ladder, watching the house burning below as she guided the ship away from the fire that was now engulfing the whole mansion. As the ship ascended she watched as the flames finished with the King’s tower, the tower collapsing as she watched, the main entrance and the east wing also now engulfed in flames, and what was left of the west wing now being ravaged by fire as well.
“There’s going to be nothing left.” Said Romney, “The whole house is aflame.”
Victoria sighed as the ship continued to climb. She was alone on the ladder now, though as she looked up she could see Inspector Vaillant calling to her from the open hatch above. The wind took away what he was saying. She could have adjusted her hearing with her augmentations and she considered it for a second, but she knew that he was almost certainly exhorting her to climb the ladder. With one last glimpse at the fire below and turning the ship south with her Babbage controlled computational engine, she hastened to oblige and climbed up the ladder rapidly, closing the hatch behind her as she did so.
***
Viktor moved the flower vase one inch to the right and then placed it back down on the table. He stood back and sighed, picking it up again and putting it back where he had got it from.
“Viktor.” sighed Victoria, “Do you think you could leave the flower vase where it is and pour the Inspector and I a cup of tea please?”
“Ah yes.” said the butler dreamily, picking up the teapot and beginning to pour, “Ov course. My apologies.”
Victoria sighed as the tea was poured and her butler left to no doubt re-arrange something else somewhere else in the house.
“So the police recovered two bodies from the remains of Harrington Hall?” she said and Inspector Vaillant nodded somberly.
“Indeed. Three in fact, when you count poor old Royston. The location of the other two are in accordance of where seen last and are no doubt the remains of Charlotte Harrington and Nigel Cavendish. It would appear that the results of their deception earned them their just rewards.”
“Inspector!” said Victoria, “It is a horrible way to die, surely?”
“No better or worse than swinging on the end of a noose I should imagine.” he said, “At least it saves Her Majesty’s government the expense of a trial.”
“Poor Lady Harrington. She has lost everything and remains blameless as far as I can see. What shall become of her?”
“I have heard she has relatives in the Africa’s that have called upon her to travel there.”
“A complete change will no doubt aid her and her family’s recovery.” said Victoria, sipping at her tea.
“No doubt.” said Vaillant, “A gracious lady who has been brought low by those she thought she could trust.”
“Indeed.” said Victoria.
“Are they roses in that vase that the Inspector has brought you?” said Romney in her head.
“Yes they are.” Replied Victoria in her thoughts.
“Nice.” scoffed Romney, “Want me to go out for a walk?”
“Can you do that?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well then.” said Victoria.
“The department have instructed me to pass on our thanks and your numeration is no doubt sufficient to compensate for the loss of any of your time.” said the Inspector, pulling a cheque from inside his pocket and passing it to her. Victoria glanced at the long row of zeros at the end of the figure written on it and raised an eyebrow. It looked as if the local cat’s home was going to get yet another new wing. They would be running out of cats to place in it soon, she thought.
“Very kind.” she said, placing the cheque face down on the table. “Though of course your department’s thanks and gratitude are much more rewarding than any financial compensation. Of course I still have to take a closer look at the company from which Mister Cavendish purchased the clockwork spider, and the carbon acid.”
“What was their name again?” said the Inspector.
““Roland Topping’s Minituarisations””. She smiled, “Romney and I will pay them a visit in the near future. If I find anything that causes me concern, then you will be the first person to know.”
“Very kind.” he said, “Very kind indeed. No doubt we shall have need to call upon your… unique talents again in the future.”
As she smiled Mister Tibbs entered the room and stalked across the carpet towards them.
“Oh I say!” said the Inspector, “How wonderful! A tin cat?” Slowly Mister Tibbs stopped in front of him, its head turning to take him in, the twin mounted lasers spinning in his direction.
“I wouldn’t stroke him if I were you.” said Victoria
nervously.
“Is he a mouser?” he laughed.
“Mice seem to have abandoned the place.” she said, “He spends his time these days shooting down gnats and flies.”
“Wonderful.” said the Inspector and Mister Tibbs stayed quiet as he turned and left the room, his silence saying all that needed to be said as far as he was concerned. The Inspector looked around the room one more time and then placed his empty tea cup back down on the table.
“Well I must be returning back to work.” he said, “As always a pleasure to see you.”
“You too Inspector.” said Victoria, “You really must call in for tea if in the area.” she smiled and Vaillant beamed as he stood and walked to the door.
“I will do that.” he smiled. Victoria considered calling Viktor to show the Inspector out, after all that was one of the primary reasons she had employed him after all, to answer the door and show guests out, but purely out of habit she walked the policeman to the door and opened it for him.
“Good day Miss Neaves.” said the Inspector and Vaillant strode off down the garden path and with a cheery wave he crossed behind the large privet hedge and disappeared from view.
Victoria stood one hand on the door for a second or two, looking out into a grey sky overhead that threatened to bring rain with it shortly. Sighing softly to herself she pushed the door closed but as it was about to close completely she stopped it and pushed it open again. Then she slowly began to close it. Then she pushed it open one last time and then finally closed it, stopping just before it was fully shut.
“Viktor!” she called down the hall, “Viktor!”
“Yes, mistress?” came a voice from down the hallway from the direction of the kitchen. “Vot is it you vant?”
Victoria stood tapping her foot impatiently as Viktor poked his head around the door to the kitchen, one eyebrow raised almost to the top of his head.
“I don’t know what you have put on this door to make it creak like that Viktor.” Said Victoria, “But please remove it if you will.”
“Remove it?” protested the butler, “But it makes for a cheery velcome I feel.”
“Take it off right now.” she said sternly, and leaving the door open she strode back into the sitting room leaving Viktor to scrabble around in a cupboard for a can of oil he knew was there somewhere. Eventually he found it and he strode up the hallway sulkily, dragging his feet as he did so. Having reached the door, he began to oil the hinges with the can of oil.
“Vot a performance.” he muttered wearily under his breath, “Every von is a critic. Every Von.” He sighed once more and then closed the door loudly.
This time it did not creak at all.
The Cinder Path
To those who knows me (and also to those who don’t), I goes by the name of Jacob Marley. Not the Jacob Marley out of that ghost story thing I have been told is in the penny dreadfuls, no. I am a different Jacob Marley than that, though if it was said that we share a name, then that would be true.
Another thing that’s different between me and the Jacob Marley that I am not is where I am from, because I read (well someone read it to me - I don’t have letters. Not much need for them stuck at the wrong end of a rake) that the Jacob Marley comes from London, and I don’t, you see. I am from Little Markham, and that’s not London at all. Oh no. That’s Berkshire is that. I live in the grounds of the house of Lord Markham. Always have done, man and boy.
Is he a good man Lord Markham? To be telling you the truth I don’t really know. I’ve never seen him to speak to as such, and if I have seen him and not noticed then he certainly has never introduced himself. Not that he would do though, I imagine.
I do see lots of toffs and bigwigs highfalutin it up at the hall, but if they get too near then I just disappear into the woods that surround the house and wait until they have gone. They rarely venture out into the grounds these days, but when they do they won’t find me standing around staring at them, that's for sure.
Which brings me to what I, Jacob Marley, do at Markham Hall. I won’t make it fancy or call it something it isn’t. I am not that kind of man. No. I am Jacob Marley from Little Markham, and that makes me the Jacob Marley that looks after the cinder path.
Now what’s a cinder path I hear you ask, and I am not surprised to hear you say that, what with all these flying machines and horseless carriages and worse out and about on the roads these days. I think perhaps the old ways have gone now and maybe won’t ever come back. A little while ago (well perhaps a few years ago, I lose track of time these days), they came and rounded up all of the staff at Markham Hall and said they were needed elsewhere. Took them away in funny looking wagons they did. Never seen them since. Of course I was out deep in the woods coal burning and gathering the cinders to spread on the path. Nobody knew I was there. I think maybe they still don’t, and if they did then they would send a truck for me too.
Once the staff had gone I saw Lord Markham less and less. I still see him from time to time, perhaps glancing out of a window at nightfall, a candle in the window, or early in the morning staring out across the dew sodden lawn. Keeps himself to himself though, and I make sure that I do my duties as well as I can so that if he ever does stray back my way then I will have completed my task and all would be ready for him to use.
Now where was I? You will have to forgive me. I am old now and I forget things sometimes. Not big things. I never forget about the cinder path. Just little things. Where I put the thimble, whether I have had breakfast. That sort of thing. Never the cinder path though. Oh no. I never forget about that. Very important is the path, and I think it was that I was telling you about. Anyway, I think I still haven’t quite got around to answering your question. Forgive me if I ramble on and so on, but it’s an old man’s way, you see? Now. What was it? Oh Yes. What is a cinder path exactly?
Well a cinder path as you may have guessed is a path made of cinders. Cinders are what is left after you have burnt down coal. So where do I get the coal from I hear you ask. Well. It’s a true thing that coal is government nationalised now, and I have heard stories that the mines are places not to find yourself in these days. His lordship had huge bunkers of coal on the edge of his estate, and so it is there that I get it from. The stockpile goes down, that’s for sure, but there is enough there for a few years yet I’m thinking. Once that’s gone no more cinder path I suppose, and that won’t be a day I look forward to. Yet I carry on burning the coal and filling up my wheelbarrow with it before taking the cinders off to the path. That wheelbarrow!
Forty seven years I have been doing this. I may not know my words but I know my numbers. I started when I was thirty one, and now I am seventy eight. During all that time it has always been the same wheelbarrow. Used it all my life, really. Course the handles have been renewed a few times, same with the wheel, and I have set the barrow itself alight more than once with cinders that were not quite ready for moving, but apart from that it’s the same ‘barrow. Fits like a glove it does. The handles are worn around where I place my hands, and that’s how it should be. A good job deserves familiar tools, my old dad used to say, and he’s right enough about that.
One time I was halfway down the path when I realised that the ruddy thing was on fire! Trailing smoke with it I was, flames in the barrow itself. I had to put the handles down and wait for it to go out. I was past the top field you see and there's no ponds or the like up that way. Only way I could have extinguished that was to pee on it, and I wasn’t doing that. Oh no! Not I, Jacob Marley, curator of the cinder path and driver of the most productive wheelbarrow in Berkshire. Wouldn’t be the done thing to be seen peeing in public now, would it. Jacob Marley the ghost wouldn’t do it even if he could fly away and be done with it, and neither would I!
So. Yes. I hear you growing impatient. I know, I know. The cinder path. What is it? Have I told you about it yet? I can’t quite recall. So. Well now. In short it is a path made of cinders. The bits left when the coal has gone. Ashes I suppose, but with hard
shards of coal in it that won’t burn. One would says it’s the fires leavings, but I am neither a man to talk like that or to think that way either. To me it’s the fire’s gold, and it’s what makes the path as sturdy and weatherproof as it is if you ask me. Think on it. Rain. Soaked up by the path. Sun. Doesn’t matter to it at all. Snow. The hard rock shards break up the ice and ensure a good grip underfoot. It used to be a bridle way when there were horses at the hall, and maybe there will be again, when the hall comes back to life. I say that, but really I think it is more like if it comes back to life, and it can’t be too far away or I am not going to see it. Sooner the better I say, and that's the truth.
It’s a long path, is my cinder path. I once think I worked it out as a five mile circuit around the estate. I don’t know how I reckoned that but I did on that day have Bill the stablehand with me and he said five miles. I wouldn’t know myself, and of course Bill has long gone on the back of one of them trucks, so I can’t ask him now. All I do know is it takes a good few hours to follow its whole full length, and also that it takes an awful lot of maintaining. Course I don’t walk as fast as I did when I was young so that might make a difference. Soon as I have finished making sure the surface is newly raked and clear of obstructions then it’s on to the next bit and soon I start all over again.
Keeps me busy of course, and I can hardly complain about the working conditions as Lord Markham allows me to pitch up my lean-to in the grounds and feed myself off the game and wildlife I find there. At least I think he does. He certainly has never raised any objection but then again he doesn’t really venture out into the grounds these days. My little hut is not much of a place to hang your hat, and mark my words I am not complaining, but sometimes in the middle of winter it is very cold out in the open. Yet I survive. Good job I likes a bit of rabbit when I can get it, birds when I can’t. Yet looking after the cinder path is all that counts. That and making sure that the path is ready to use should Lord Markham require to do so at short notice.
I gets by. I mind the path and I am left alone. Sometimes I get lonely of course, but not very often. There are the animals all over the damned place and most of them are so used to seeing me and my wheelbarrow that it is almost like I am part of the landscape.
The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney Page 18
