by I H Laking
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today,” began Ambrose. “I trust that you’re all aware of the seriousness of the situation with Mrs Milliard.”
“Well we’re aware that something’s wrong, but without more information we’re not going to be of much use to you,” Mrs Trump immediately butted in. “When are you planning on telling us exactly what’s happening? We’re up to our ears in people here, and it seems like no one knows when it will end!”
Mrs Trump gave her husband a mighty thump on the chest, and he started to life in his chair. “Yes! Yes, how long will it take to mend?” he blustered, shaking off his sleepiness. “We can’t tell you exactly what the issue is at present,” Ambrose patiently replied, as Percy began to scribble in his notebook. “But you can certainly help to speed things along. Have you seen anything suspicious in the past few days? Anyone that you didn’t recognise roaming around the place?”
Mr Trump raised his voice over the din. “No idea, but if you’re looking for suspicious characters, there’s the man to start with!” He thrust an accusing finger in the direction of Bernie, who looked at him with an expression of faux-shock.
“Me? Why Mr Trump, I would have thought you’d have learnt to trust me by now! I’ve been a loyal customer of yours for years!” Bernie held his hand to his heart and smiled broadly. “Alas, I’ve been out of town on business. I only agreed to come to this meeting as a sign of good faith. We at the residents association do appreciate a good pie, and are awfully fearful of what could become of this street without Mrs Milliard making her famous pastries.”
Ambrose regarded Bernie with a sideways glance. Here was a petty criminal, who like so many of the low-lives walking the downtown back alleys wouldn’t part with information without a fee being levied. For Ambrose, this meant there was little to be gained in pressing the issue – and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to bribe anyone, it went against his standards. Still, something about this pickpocket was a bit off. Ambrose couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but…
Mr Button joined the conversation. “Well I, for one, would be ruined without Mrs Milliard’s business. She draws in the crowds from around the neighbourhood, and they often drop in to my shop to get garments fixed and altered – not to mention the money my wife makes from cleaning out pie stains from people’s clothes.”
As he went over the reality of the situation, Mr Button seemed to become more distraught. “There’s not a single clothes merchant near this place. Without the famous Milliard drawcard, people will simply leave their garments at Quince’s Taylorshop in the Garment District. I’m afraid that I won’t last long once the buzz dies down.” He thrust his hand dramatically around the room. “All these people will be gone in a few days, without the drawcard of the pies – no offence to your cooking, Mrs Trump.”
The teahouse shopkeeper shot Mr Button an icy look, but replied sweetly. “No offence taken, I’m sure.”
Ambrose was finding himself getting more uncomfortable in the midst of the crush of people pouring in for their lunchtime feed. He quizzed the group one more time.
“So has anyone actually got any information that could help us get to the bottom of this mystery? Any comings and goings, anything out of place or unusual?” Blank stares greeted Ambrose’s question.
“Very well then, sorry to waste everyone’s time.”
Ambrose stood up to leave; nothing was going to be achieved here. As he turned to go, he heard Percy pipe up.
“Any of you employ someone strong enough to lift some heavy machinery?” Ambrose froze.
Oh no, Percy, you can’t give away Mrs Milliard’s secret.
Ambrose tried to hide his feelings as he looked back at the group. Everyone simply shook their heads, but Mrs Trump did have one suggestion. “What about the tall bloke Mrs Milliard employs to keep the crowds under control whenever it gets busy? He’s a walking mountain he is, wouldn’t surprise me if he could lift something heavy… what was it you think he’s done anyways?”
Before Percy could answer, Ambrose cut him off. “Nothing, we just need to see if someone was capable of breaking into the shop. It would take a lot of strength.”
Ambrose laid his hand firmly on Percy’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.”
As much as Ambrose didn’t like Mrs Trump’s nosiness, she might have had a point – perhaps the tall man did have something to hide. Ambrose looked out through the crowd as they pushed their way to the exit.
Once they made it out of the teahouse, Ambrose scanned the street. The tall man who had been standing guard earlier was gone, as the crowd outside Mrs Milliard’s shop had clearly got the message and moved on to tastier pursuits.
Frustrated, Ambrose decided they would check their last lead out immediately. He turned to Percy, who was panting away from the exertion of moving through the crowd, and finishing up his notes.
“Percy, you must be careful – we have to be extremely careful not to give away anything about Mrs Milliard’s situation and methods.”
“Sorry, I just have a theory, that’s all,” Percy said quietly.
Ambrose was getting fed up with theories and rumours. He shot back immediately: “Well that’s all well and good, but we’re acting with discretion. So for heaven’s sake, be discreet!”
Percy muttered something about being sorry, but Ambrose didn’t stick around. He turned and started walking up the hill. It was time to visit the workshop of the Aurelious family, home to some of the greatest Artisans in all the Empire, and the place where Morris had been assembled.
Ambrose looked up at the clouds passing overhead. Time was short, and so far the answers were few.
The mid-afternoon bustle of Traville was as intense as ever, making it slow going as the Detectives wound their way into the upper suburbs of the city. After a while, Ambrose and Percy found themselves cutting up side streets in order to avoid the clutter of the main roads.
Whenever he walked the streets, Ambrose was greeted with waves from those who knew him, and the general respect that being an Inspector bought. This sometimes made for tedious travel, but Ambrose’s job was to uphold the peace through the solving of crimes, and he enjoyed it immensely.
There were times, late at night, when Ambrose would reflect on the Empire, and some of the methods The Order used to maintain control of its citizens. Especially concerning were the rumours surrounding the Assassin’s Guild, who worked in many dark places. Most people who encountered an Assassin never lived to tell the tale, so great was their skill in disguise. Ambrose let his mind linger on this as he walked briskly uphill, observing the faces of Traville’s inhabitants as they passed him by.
So many motives. So many secrets.
And who knew what awaited the detectives at the top of the hill?
The streets began to widen as the Detectives walked higher, and the view out over the plains to the south became more spectacular. Ambrose charged on, his mind focusing once again on Mrs Milliard’s Mech and the task at hand. He pulled up outside the address he was looking for.
Aurelious Artisan Workshops – 200 metres ahead read the sign on the fence. Inside the property were the descendants of the great Archibald Aurelious, one of the finest minds ever to grace the Empire.
And the final roll of the dice for us thought Ambrose, as he stared through the tall iron gates at the white two storied house in front of him.
Ambrose turned around to see Percy puffing his way up the final section of the road to the house. They were now near the top of the hill, close to The Citadel. The day was beginning to wear on, and the sun had started its decent over the faraway hills. Ambrose ignored the gnawing sense that they were getting no closer to solving this mystery.
On the side of the gate to the Aurelious estate sat a butterfly, fashioned out of bronze – the symbol of the Artisan Brotherhood. Turn for assistance read the small sign above it.
Ambrose turned the butterfly and heard a loud buzzing noise in the distance. He waited, but no movement could be seen. Perc
y had arrived by this stage. “No one home?” He enquired.
It didn’t appear as if anyone was responding. Ambrose turned the butterfly again, and once more heard the buzzing in the distance. When there was still no sign of movement, he pushed on the gate, which gently swung open.
“Curious” muttered Ambrose, as he stepped into the property.
Inside the courtyard, Ambrose and Percy found themselves in what seemed to be a refuge from the outside world. Trees and vines grew along the walls, lining the outside of the area with green. Brick tiles formed a pathway to the workshop, which was built of solid white stone – a rare sight in the dull colour scheme of Traville.
As the detectives approached the house, it became apparent that no one was in attendance. The brick path led to a pair of solid wooden doors, but as Ambrose went to knock, he noticed that the door was ever so slightly ajar. He gently pushed it open, and he and Percy entered the workshop.
Inside, it looked like a storm had broken out from the middle of the building. The ground floor was one large room, around fifty square metres in total space. Papers and schematics lay strewn around the room, while copper, tin and brass sheets lay in uneven piles on the floor.
Someone’s been searching this place. Ambrose let out a steady sigh as he took in the carnage.
At the end of the room, a staircase along the wall led upstairs, to the living quarters.
“What do you think happened here?” Percy broke the stillness with a whisper.
Ambrose ignored his partner for a moment as he regarded the room carefully. He pointed to the middle of the floor. “Someone entered here peacefully enough, but it would appear that at some stage after being allowed into the workshop, they started attacking whomever let them in. You can see there’s a clear spot in the floor there – everything flew out from that direction.”
But who could do this?
Ambrose put the thought aside and pointed to the staircase. “If there’s anyone still here, they’re upstairs, and they’re staying very quiet.”
Motioning for Percy to stand close to the entrance, Ambrose headed towards the end of the room, closing in on the stairs whilst not disturbing any of the various items strewn chaotically around the room. There was a chance they might still be able to catch whoever was present unawares – and if the intruder tried to run, Percy would be able to stop them.
Ambrose could feel his heart beating faster. As he crossed the middle of the room, through the clearing, he realised that it felt intensely warm, like great energy had suddenly exploded from that point. Now was no time to find out about that though; he had to see if anyone was still in the building. He closed on the staircase. Ten paces to go.
Thump-thump went his heart. Five paces.
Thump-thump. Two.
Thump-thump. One.
Ambrose leaned around the corner and looked up the stairs towards the top floor.
The stillness was immediately broken.
The light from a window at the top of the stairs momentarily blinded Ambrose, and in that instant, a huge figure shot past him. All Ambrose had time to see was a haze of black and a shaved head as the man bowled him over. Ambrose fell back onto the floor, a pile of limbs flailing about in the midst of the chaos as paper and dust went shooting up around him. He looked up in time to see Percy’s face drained of all colour, and his mouth open wide as the man barrelled towards him at a speed that could almost be termed as unnatural.
“PERCY!” Ambrose yelled.
It was at that moment, somehow, that all of Percy’s training must have flown from his mind in the face of a giant man bearing down on him. He had left the door wide open, and instead of standing in the way, Percy was positioned to the side, allowing the perfect avenue for escape. The man closed in on the door, and was about to be out and free when Detective Second Class Percy Portland, overweight and hardly intimidating at the best of times, stuck his foot out in front of him.
The last thing Ambrose saw as he scrambled to his feet was the man tripping on the outstretched limb and flying through the air. Ambrose regained his balance, then ran as fast as he could to the door and joined Percy outside.
There, sprawled on the bricks, lay the guard from outside Mrs Milliard’s pie shop.
“Well if you didn’t do anything, then why did you run?” Ambrose demanded. He and Percy were standing in the middle of the workshop, interrogating the guard (whose name had turned out to be Cooper) about what he was doing in the Aurelious Workshops.
In the rest of the workshop, a group of four young men in white shirts were cleaning up the huge mess that still littered the floor. Ambrose and Percy had found them in a locked room upstairs, where they had been hiding from the intruder. They still looked deeply uncomfortable with the situation, but as they had explained, they were all simply assistants. It turned out that the Artisans were out of town, and the workshop was not going to be functioning for at least a month, especially considering the damage that had occurred earlier in the week, when someone had broken in and caused an even bigger mess in the basement.
“I didn’t know what was going on,” Cooper said. “I’m not from around here, and I was afraid you were going to deport me.” Cooper’s face seemed genuine, Ambrose noted, but if he was innocent, he had managed to find himself in an awfully compromising situation.
“Why were you here then? Who sent you?” Ambrose demanded – he was sick of not having answers, and this could be the break they needed to find out how to fix Morris.
Cooper looked sheepish. “It was Mrs Milliard who sent me.”
“What!?” said Percy, looking up from his notebook “But why? You expect us to believe that?”
Cooper nodded. “I know that it seems strange, but she asked me to come up here because of something you said, Inspector. You asked about Morris’ Artisan, and since you were busy interviewing people near the shop, she thought I could go and have a look around here; see what I could turn up.”
Ambrose frowned. He hated to admit it, but clearly this man didn’t have the brains to be plotting something big. His problems boiled down to his job and his identity – foreigners without a well-paid job or work papers tended to not be welcome in Traville.
“Very well,” Ambrose began. “Let’s assume for a minute that you did come up here for that very reason. What on earth caused this mess? You must have had quite a struggle with someone in this spot.” Ambrose pointed to the space where they were standing.
Cooper dropped his eyes. “That’s true,” he pointed to the assistants. “These lads let me in, but when I got to the middle of the floor they suddenly set upon me. I chased them upstairs, and they locked themselves in that room you found them in. Since they were out of the way, I figured I’d just keep searching.”
Ambrose whirled around to look at the assistants. “Why in the Empire’s name did none of you mention that you had a struggle with Cooper down here?!”
One of the assistants piped up from the corner. “We were a bit embarrassed to be honest… four of us couldn’t even subdue one man! We felt lucky to even make it away from him. He fights like a beast! It’s not human!”
Ambrose couldn’t believe it. Between suspicious citizens, nosy shopkeepers, and lying young assistants, it didn’t seem like he’d even get to the bottom of this case. “Alright,” he gathered his thoughts together. “I need everyone to stop lying, and simply tell me what’s going on. I don’t care about your bruised egos,” he indicated to the assistants, who had gathered together near the centre of the room, “and I’m not here to deport you,” he said to Cooper, who looked somewhat relieved to hear that.
“But I am here to solve this case, and to solve it quickly. So who can tell me what’s going on?” Ambrose waited for an answer.
One of the assistants, who introduced himself as Anthony, talked Ambrose and Percy through the events of the past week. It seemed that someone had broken in overnight about six days ago and ransacked the lower part of the building. Nothing appeared to have been taken, but
equally so, the Artisans kept nothing of value in the workshop.
“And if I was looking for something of value, where would I be best to look?” Ambrose enquired.
“In the vault,” Anthony said, nodding towards the back of the workshop. “The entrance is through a trapdoor there, but only the assistants know the location of the key.”
As Ambrose listened carefully, Anthony proceeded to detail the work the assistants had put in to try and clean up the workshop and restore their dignity before the Artisans returned home. They had nearly cleaned up the mess when they ran into further trouble with Cooper, and now they were all concerned about how things could look for them with two break-ins happening so close together.
“Very well,” said Ambrose, who was by now quite sick of hearing about the worries these young men held for their respective careers, “have you done a thorough check of the vault?”
Anthony looked perplexed. “Why would we? It’s mostly just Mechs down there. And even if someone figured out how to get into the vault, how would they get a Mech out without us hearing it?”
Ambrose didn’t dignify the assumption with an answer.
“Show us the vault.” He ordered.
The young man led Ambrose, Percy and the begrudging Cooper out around the back of the workshop, to a large trapdoor that was covered in leaves. It was muddy around the back, as very little sunlight pierced the boughs of several tall trees that hugged the rear fence near the building. Ambrose took the scene in whilst Anthony went to retrieve a key.
Ambrose paused. “When would you say you last checked the vault?” He called to Anthony, who was negotiating a tree branch.
“Oh, probably a few weeks ago. We don’t go down there without the Artisans. It’s just too spooky in the darkness with the Mechs.” Anthony removed a large brass key from a cavity in the trunk and started walking back.
Ambrose didn’t bother to formulate much of a response; he simply waited for the assistant to look up. Anthony stopped, almost dropping the key as he realised what he was seeing. There was no need to unlock the trapdoor; Ambrose had already opened it. The lock had been smashed, and there were muddy footprints leading down inside.
