What Went Wrong With Mrs Milliard's Mech?: An Inspector Ambrose Story. (Inspector Ambrose Mysteries Book 1)

by I H Laking

  What Went Wrong with Mrs Milliard’s Mech?

  An Inspector Ambrose Story.

  By I H Laking

  Cover Design by Jorge Silvadoray

  Text copyright © 2014 I H Laking

  Inspector Ambrose Aramis stared deep into the bathroom mirror. He was rather concerned about something, something he couldn’t ignore. It was early in the morning, and the sound of rain dancing on the roof echoed through the halls of his two storied terrace house. As the rain pounded on the thick clay tiles, he continued to stare at his reflection.

  He couldn’t understand it.

  No, this was definitely not good enough.

  Finally, after another moment of contemplation, Ambrose reached across, drew his comb out from its neatly arranged position on the nearby bench, and tried to part his hair once again. It was now the seventh time he had attempted a perfect partition in his dark hair, and this morning it simply wouldn’t stay – a hair was always left sticking up, seemingly mocking him.

  Ambrose gently smoothed one side down, wet the comb a touch more, and slowly pulled the other side into position. Once again, the offending hair refused to stay down. Ambrose considered the situation. If he continued this battle with the foolish follicle, he would undoubtedly be late for work – but if he did not fix this unacceptable hair situation, he would arrive at work looking less than perfect, something that gnawed at him just as much. He attempted the part one final time, but to no avail. Exasperated, Ambrose let out a loud groan, and resigned himself to the reality of wearing his Inspector’s hat all day.

  Ambrose hadn’t always intended to be this neat. Something about his upbringing, however, had hammered into him the importance of all things being proper and in their place. His house reflected his dedication to order, just as much as his chosen career did. He would always insist on cleaning his house every time he had a spare moment, and would only accept minor help from his housekeeper, except in the matter of cooking (the mess that one makes whilst chopping onions and bubbling tomatoes always caused him great duress).

  Yes, Inspector Ambrose Aramis was a fastidious perfectionist who was dedicated to his work, and determined to always maintain order and dignity wherever and whenever possible. This had made his selection as an Inspector logical and easy, and he was proud to be a man with an important title and enormous responsibility.

  But for now, he had to hurry.

  With a certain speed, Ambrose twirled on his heel, and marched down the dark corridor. He was a tall man, lanky and wiry in appearance, with a shot of black hair that usually stayed in place, unlike the situation he was currently facing.

  Ambrose entered his bedroom and pulled his coat off the hanger. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, he finished his usual routine. Looking himself up and down, he checked for any signs of an out of place uniform: his black shoes were shined to perfection, his black pants and crisply ironed shirt both modelled fashion and precision. He allowed himself a small smile, but began frowning again as he remembered his hair situation.

  The final part of Inspector Ambrose’s morning ritual now began. He held up his coat to look for lint. It was a standard-issue Citizen Protection Force coat, a deep blood red colour with black trim around the cuffs and collar. On the left breast was the symbol of The Order: a black wheel with eight spokes leading out from a white circle in the middle. The Inspector flicked a piece of fluff from the emblem; it wouldn’t do to have anything covering The Wheel – people had been dismissed for less, and worse. Ambrose ran his eyes over the rest of the coat, and then carefully pulled it on, zipping it up in the usual fashion, from his left hip up to just below the middle of his neck. He adjusted his cuffs and collar to ensure all was straight and proper. Excepting his hair, everything was in perfect order.

  With his routine almost complete, Ambrose pulled on his flat-topped Inspector’s hat, which was the final pièce de résistance to his outfit. The hat was white, with a double red line running along above the brim, signifying his rank, and underlining The Wheel that seemed to float in the centre of the hat. Then with a final glance in the mirror, Ambrose headed down the corridor, grabbed his black umbrella, and stepped out the door to face the day.

  It was early in the morning, and the streets of Traville were quiet. Ambrose pulled his umbrella up above his head, and began the short walk down the road to the local tea shop, where he would meet his partner to start the day.

  As he trotted along, Ambrose looked around and considered the scene. Traville was a sprawling mass of humanity and machinery, coloured in a million shades of grey and black. There was the dark grey of the cobblestones that lined the street, and the light grey of the gas-lamps; the black hats of busy businessmen, and the pitch black of the horses that plodded along the streets, carrying firewood and supplies. The dullness of the city seemed to overtake even the people, as soot and mud covered the faces of workers from the downtown slums.

  The sun rarely seemed to shine on the capital of the Empire, but when it did, the city seemed to shrink back, unsure of what to do when brightness pierced the dark. Only down in the slums at the base of the hill would you find colour – brightly painted walls sparkling with blue and green and shades of white, alongside splashes of rouge glimpsed down dark alleyways. In Ambrose’s street however, all was dark, dreary and quiet. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour, and he had work to do.

  Trudging along the footpath through the puddles of rainwater, Ambrose considered how much he hated being late, and hoped that the rest of the day would be more ordered than the start had been.

  Within a few minutes, Ambrose arrived at the tea shop. He stepped inside, out of the gloom, and into the warmth and bustle of Tilly’s Tea Emporium.

  The Emporium consisted of a large square space with extraordinarily high ceilings, lit by a giant chandelier that hung low in the middle of the room. A counter was situated in the right hand corner, and booths stretched out around the edge of the room from there, surrounding the tables that dotted the centre of the Emporium.

  Tilly’s Tea Emporium was the meeting place for many of the city’s elite – a constant mill of bankers, politicians, society ladies and occasionally for Ambrose, a ruthless conman or helpful informant. A dull hum would always emerge from the booths and tables, occasionally pierced by the ring of the bell positioned about the door, which would elicit the inquisitive looks of a few faces that would turn to see who had just arrived. Yes, the Emporium was a wonderful place for both spies and high society people alike, and it was also the place where Ambrose and his partner started every workday with a cup of herbal tea, to clear the mind and sharpen the senses.

  Ambrose paused just inside the door and scanned the room for his partner. He looked around at the general mill of people, and though he could make out the occasional red coat, he couldn’t see the man he was looking for. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one who was running late this morning.

  I’ll have to talk to–

  Ambrose’s thoughts were interrupted by the clanging of the doorbell, and in an instant he found himself sprawled on the floor as someone barrelled into his back.

  “Oh I’m so sorry!” stammered his assailant “I was in such a hurry and I didn’t – oh! Inspector!”

  Ambrose recognised the voice, and simply gave a resigned sigh as he picked himself up from the floor and dusted himself off as best he could. Before him stood a rotund man, dressed in a red coat, sweating profusely, and completely drenched. I
t was his partner, Detective Percy.

  Ambrose fixed Percy with a steely gaze. “Good morning, Detective Percy. Your lateness is as habitual as a kleptomaniac’s arrest record, and equally concerning. On the other hand, I only just arrived here, so for this morning, all is forgiven.”

  Ambrose dropped his façade of displeasure and gave Percy a small smile. Despite the infuriating nature of his partner’s constant lateness, Percy’s dependability and devotion more than made up for his many character flaws. Seeing his partner smile a little, Percy relaxed, as he had clearly feared today was the day he had finally pushed his senior partner over the edge.

  If there was ever a contrast to Inspector Ambrose, it was his partner of three years, Detective Percy Portland. No one in the Citizen Protection Force was ever able to understand how Percy remained a detective, for his fitness would never have allowed him to pass a physical challenge if one ever arose. Percy was, quite simply, obese. His roly-poly belly filled out his red coat so much that one would think it could burst at any moment. His face, perennially red from exertion, was covered in freckles, and his brown hair was always unkempt and greasy, hanging down around his ears in great clumps. If looks alone were the measure of a man, then Percy would be caught short by some distance.

  But as Ambrose had discovered, beneath Percy’s laughable exterior lay a man of unshakeable convictions – endlessly positive and attentive, and with a deep sense of faith in The Order. This faith in the established system of beliefs that governed the C. P. F. helped to cut through the scepticism that Ambrose found himself dwelling in, and though Percy’s beliefs could at times be tiring (“Faith in The Order helps us keep order.” Percy would often quip), it was a reminder of how deep the rotund young man’s convictions ran.

  The partners made their way to the counter and picked up their usual order: two herbal teas, extra hot. Tilly’s Tea Emporium was equally famous for its outstanding tea as it was for its convenience as a meeting place, and no visit was complete without trying the herbal varieties.

  Ambrose and Percy moved to the nearest booth, and began the morning in earnest, with Percy bringing news of the day’s assignment from the C. P. F. Head Office. Ambrose sipped his tea and watched as his partner pulled out his ever-present notebook from his pocket. Ambrose couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t witnessed Percy filling up the pages of his books with notes and thoughts about cases they had uncovered. Each morning he would add the title of the day’s case, and they would proceed accordingly; very little escaped the young man as he enthusiastically scribbled away. Ambrose smiled to himself. It was always good to know good people.

  “So, what’s it going to be today?” Ambrose asked.

  Percy shook his head. “A terrible thing today I’m afraid, Inspector.”

  “What do you mean? Has someone been beating up children in the slums again?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s a problem of a different magnitude to that. It’s Mrs Milliard.”

  “Oh! From the pie shop down in district four?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Seems Mrs Milliard’s run into a bit of industrial espionage of some sort, and we’re all going to be the worse for it,” said Percy, shaking his head as he took a sip of his tea.

  Ambrose nodded. He knew that the only thing that matched Percy’s love of The Order was his love of all things to do with food. In fact, Percy was quite a competent chef himself, but mostly his passion for edible things was limited to consumption. With this in mind, something was clearly happening to Mrs Milliard’s supply of delicious pies – pies for which no one knew the recipe, except her head baker.

  “So something’s happening with the pies, I imagine?” enquired Ambrose.

  “That’s correct, the pies are no longer coming out right,” said Percy, flicking over a page.

  “Raw, horrible things have been produced by the kitchen for the past few days. Mrs Milliard called in to the Central Station yesterday afternoon. Given the nature of the case, we’ve been requested to complete a thorough investigation. Our expertise will be most useful in the kitchen, of course; human staff are only involved in serving the pies, not their production.”

  Percy lifted his eyes from the notebook and fixed his gaze on his partner.

  “The preparation of the pies, including baking, pastry making, and the very recipes themselves, are tasks performed by a Mech.”

  Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s news. I always assumed that they had a human baker back there. Fascinating.”

  Ambrose sat back at the table and considered Mrs Milliard’s plight. The secrecy surrounding her pies was so great that no one except a few trusted staff members knew how they were made. For her to release even the tiniest amount of information about her methods showed her desperation.

  “Is she expecting us soon?” Ambrose looked out at the gathering light on the street.

  “Indeed, first thing. Mrs Milliard won’t be able to open the shop until she gets to the bottom of this.”

  Ambrose drank down the last drop of his tea and carefully placed his empty cup on the table. “No time to waste then,” he said.

  “Let’s see if we can’t find out what’s got this Mech going off the rails.”

  Ambrose and Percy set off at a quick pace down towards Mrs Milliard’s pie shop. The city of Traville was set on the side of a huge hill, and ran down from the sprawling headquarters of The Order, known as The Citadel, which sat like a spider atop the hillside, silently watching all that went on in the city.

  Near the top of the hill were rich housing estates and mansions, and as one travelled further down, the quality of both housing and citizenry tended to deteriorate (at least in the opinion of those living at the top). At the bottom of the hill were the slums, stretching out for miles over flood plains until they reached the mighty Boer River, which was the main source of trade to the city.

  Visitors arriving from the river are struck by quite an intimidating design as they wind their way towards the capital. The Citadel gleams white during the day, and is lit by gas lamps that burn a deep red at night. Out from its base, the city is set in a circle, with eight great roads leading out from the centre, in which rests White Square, the giant gathering place for citizens from around the Empire.

  All who come to the city and view its design can easily spot that it is set in the shape of the eight-spoked wheel of The Order – a reminder of who built the city, and who keeps it running. Those living in the slums are always quick to remind visitors that at least Traville is open in its intentions – the filth literally runs downhill, and it’s easy to know one’s place in the great capital simply from where you’re standing.

  Thankfully, Mrs Milliard’s pie shop was located at the heart of the downtown shopping area, just below White Square. Ambrose always found himself captivated by the sheer volume of people that were crossing the square at any given time. Not only was it home to the Central Station of the Citizen Protection Force, but it was also the place where every piece of the Empire seemed to collide.

  Ambrose looked at the faces of those scurrying along, trying to pick up clues as to where they were heading. Bureaucrats from the Scholar’s Guild headed past with piles of books, while politicians from The Order did their best to pretend they enjoyed mingling with the general public.

  Once, when the four Guilds had struggled for control of the Empire, White Square had been the centre of their conflict. Now it was simply filled with the citizens of a united Empire.

  On the surface, the Empire is a sea of serenity.

  Ambrose watched a slick-looking man in a shop suit accosting a politician, before a guard stepped in and moved the man on.

  But underneath, it roils with tension.

  Turning away, Ambrose contented himself by looking at the visitors milling around investigating various attractions, and beggars seeking help from those going about their daily business.

  It wasn’t long before Ambrose and Percy found themselves outside the Mrs Milliard’s shop, staring at a
crowd of curious onlookers who had come to see why their favourite pie shop was closed.

  Mrs Milliard’s shop was a local institution, and although the gathered masses were calm, they were clearly not happy about the situation.

  Percy, panting from the exertion of keeping up with Ambrose’s long strides, cleared a path through the crowd.

  “C. P. F. here folks, excuse us.”

  “Oh! It’s the C. P. F.!”

  Percy pushed past, closely followed by Ambrose.

  “Excuse me”

  “Could you get a pie for me while you’re in there?”

  “Pardon me”

  “’ere – I want to talk about my pie from the other day! It was all bloody and raw!”

  “Yes, yes, pardon us”

  “I hope you can fix this! I’ve had to eat cakes all week so far! Think of my figure!”

  “We’ll sort it folks, can we get through there?”

  Suddenly Percy and Ambrose stopped. In front of them was the biggest man that Ambrose had seen in his life. The gentleman towered over him (which was saying a lot, considering Ambrose’s considerable height).

  The man was blocking the door, clearly acting as a bodyguard of sorts.

  “Do you mind if we, ah, squeeze through there?” asked Percy meekly.

  The man regarded Percy and Ambrose with a suspicious look – his hard face and shaved head gave him a particular style of scowl that appeared to make Percy rather anxious.

  “And who sent for you?” the man asked, in deep tones that sounded like a bellow of thunder.

  Ambrose fixed him with a cool gaze. “We are here at the request of Mrs Milliard herself. I doubt she would be impressed by any hold up in our arrival.”

  The man stood still for a second, as if considering the statement. He then slowly stepped aside, and beckoned them to enter with a wave of his arm. The detectives moved inside, ready to start their investigation.

  Mrs Milliard’s pie shop was a small, dark place. Without the aid of gas lamps, it relied on candles to light the interior, and they were a poor alternative. Ambrose had been in the shop many times, though he was not nearly as familiar with the outfit as Percy was.