by Paul Crilley
The automaton took her through the busy streets, passing horses pulling hackney coaches and slow-moving omnibuses snaking their ways around corners like steam-driven caterpillars. She noticed that someone had vandalized the automaton, scratching rude pictures into its metal casing.
The cab stopped outside the red-brick building of New Scotland Yard. Octavia slotted the correct change into the automaton's casing then hopped off and headed up the stairs and through the front door.
She mimicked Tweed's confident walk. She'd liked that walk when she saw it earlier. It made him look like he belonged. Unfortunately, her stride faltered slightly as she passed into the main offices of the station. It was chaos. Bobbies hurried everywhere, some pinning their blue cloaks on as they left the station, others taking off helmets and flopping down before badly cluttered desks. Shouts and conversations buzzed around her as people struggled to be heard above the mayhem.
A large central desk raised on a dais dominated the room, behind which were four policemen trying to deal with the crowds vying for their attention.
Octavia decided not to ask anyone here where the old records offices were. They would probably just kick her out. Instead, she slipped along the wall and down a corridor, walking aimlessly, poking her head into offices and rooms as she went.
Tweed had said the room was downstairs, as was the records room at the paper. Records were always stored in cramped, dimly lit rooms that no one else wanted to use.
She found the stairs and descended. A faded sign on the wall told her which way to go, and she followed its directions. The passageway she found was dark. No gas lanterns, no candles. Nothing. Her footsteps echoed on the creaking floorboards as she walked to a black door at one end.
She hesitated, then pushed it open, only to be confronted by an automaton slightly shorter than she was. The construct's face had a mask on it, carved to resemble one of those disturbing ventriloquist dummies. The wide eyes stared at her, the clacking mouth opening and closing as if it wanted to bite her.
“Hold,” she commanded. The construct's mouth stopped moving. “Give me space.” The automaton responded to her commands and moved back and to the side, the huge eyes moving to stare at her as it did so.
A moment later she came face to face with another odd sight: an ancient man about the same height as the construct, with wild white hair that burst from his scalp like dandelion fronds. A thick, bushy beard hid half his face while two rheumy eyes glared at her.
“Who're you? What you want?” he demanded.
“A little respect will do for starters,” said Octavia.
The man's eyes widened. “Whassat now? Respect? Ye want respect? I've worked here nigh on fifty years, Missy, I give no one respect.”
“It's fine, Bertie. She's with me.”
The man immediately changed his demeanor. His face crinkled into a smile, and he turned and bowed as a tired-looking Tweed approached.
“I thought you didn't give anyone respect,” said Octavia.
“Exceptin' Mr. Tweed here. He's a good'n. Clever.” He tapped his head. “Has brains in here, you know.”
“As opposed to having them somewhere else?”
Bertie frowned. “Whut?”
Octavia sighed. “Nothing. So, may I enter?” she asked.
“Aye, in you come, then. But no funny stuff, you hear?”
“Bertie, I think I can promise you without a shadow of a doubt that there will be absolutely no ‘funny stuff.’”
Bertie narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then stepped aside so Octavia could enter. She looked around the dim chamber. This wasn't just the Archives. It seemed as though the room was used as a storage room for everything that was unwanted upstairs. Ten automata stood up against the wall, all of them with ventriloquist dummy masks tied to their heads.
The room was stacked with row upon row of floor to ceiling shelves, the shelves themselves filled with labeled drawers. Tweed led her to a desk littered with loose paper and leather-bound files. He pulled up a second chair and slumped into the one he must have been using all morning.
Octavia sat down. “Any luck?”
Tweed glanced over her shoulder to make sure Bertie wasn't in hearing range. “Nothing,” he said in a frustrated tone of voice. “I've been over every single attack and murder over the past year. Do you realize how much work that is? I haven't found one single official mention of Moriarty, or his gang, or the strange masks they wear. Nothing.”
Octavia frowned. “How is that possible? We know it happened. We've seen it with our own eyes. You saw them murder those people only two days ago.”
Tweed leaned toward her. “Harry said he thought the police were trying to keep it hush-hush. That they don't want word to get out because of the panic it would cause. He may be right.”
Octavia shook her head. “They couldn't just ignore it, could they?” She looked around the dilapidated room. One of the automata walked past with a jerky gait, pulled open a drawer, and took out a long box of files. It then took the box to a desk pushed up against the wall, where Bertie was busy working.
“There must be other records. Kept somewhere else. You know. Sensitive stuff? Top secret?”
Tweed looked slightly disappointed that Octavia had come up with that suggestion. “I was coming to that,” he said testily. “I asked Bertie about it. He says there's another records room upstairs, for restricted files. I've been coming here for five months now and it's the first I've heard of it.”
“So, how do we get in?”
“That's the hard part.” Tweed slid a piece of paper across the desk. Octavia picked it up and scanned it.
“It's a requisition form,” she said.
Tweed nodded. “I got it from Bertie's desk when he wasn't looking. If someone needs records from upstairs, Bertie has to formally request them. It needs to be approved and signed off by a senior officer.”
Octavia slumped back in her chair. “We're never going to get that. Can't Bertie just ask?”
“No. He doesn't know I have an ulterior motive for coming here. He thinks I enjoy it, enjoy helping him.” A look of guilt slid across Tweed's face. “Thing is, I do enjoy it. All the records and stuff. And Bertie's fine when you get to know him. But…”
Octavia understood. “You don't want him thinking you used him.”
Tweed nodded.
“So we somehow need to get one of the inspectors of New Scotland Yard to approve a request for any files they have regarding Moriarty and his gang? Files they have stored in their top secret records room because you reckon they don't want anyone knowing about them. Is that about the gist of it?”
“That's the gist of it exactly.” Tweed grinned. “And now that you're here, we can put my plan into action.”
Octavia studied his eager face. Why did she suddenly feel so worried?
Tweed had always been proud of his plans. He was good at them. For enjoyment he used to read about the crimes happening throughout the world and would then lie back on the couch and come up with alternate ways of carrying out the robbery, the investigation, the murder, whatever. And invariably, he would come up with a better way of doing it.
The point was, he thought himself quite clever.
So he was slightly disappointed with what he'd come up with to try to get a signature out of one of the senior officers. Admittedly, he'd only had an hour or two, but still. It wasn't witty. It wasn't clever. Barnaby would be very disappointed. He could just imagine him shaking his head. “For shame, Tweed. I taught you better than that, didn't I?”
“Let me get this straight,” said Octavia. “You want me to distract a police inspector by getting all hysterical, and then you'll get him to sign the form, which you will cunningly—and I use the word advisedly—conceal beneath another form so he won't know what he's signing. Is that right?”
Tweed flushed with embarrassment and glanced over his shoulder to make sure Bertie wasn't listening.
“I know, I know. It's not brilliant, but—”
&
nbsp; “You're being too kind,” said Octavia. “I think it's very, very far from being brilliant.”
“Fine. It's far from brilliant. But can you come up with anything better? We can't forge a signature. We can't break into the records room. We can't just bluff our way in. It has to be done properly.”
“I suppose you've got a point,” said Octavia reluctantly.
“Then you'll do it?”
“I didn't say that.” Octavia leaned back in her chair, draping one arm over the back while studying Tweed through narrowed eyes. “Tell me, do you think the only way I can distract a man is by acting hysterical? Is that what you think of women? I'm surprised you didn't just tell me to undo a few buttons and flash my cleavage at him. Would you like me to do that, Sebastian Tweed? Hmm?”
Tweed swallowed nervously, locking his eyes fiercely on Octavia's. Don't look down, he ordered himself. Do. Not. Look. Down.
He wasn't used to girls speaking to him so plainly. Actually, he wasn't used to girls his own age speaking to him at all. Truth to tell, it was entirely possible Octavia Nightingale was the first girl his own age he'd actually had a proper conversation with. When he rescued Barnaby he'd be having some severe words with the old man. What had he been thinking, keeping him from socializing with others his own age? It was a whole level of knowledge he was deficient in. He hated that.
“Of course not,” he said. He hesitated, then leaned toward Octavia. “And just so you know, I don't think women are the weaker sex. I don't think men are stronger, or cleverer, or any other number of ludicrous beliefs some men hold. As I may have mentioned before, the female influence in my life has come from a number of rather…bohemian friends of my father's. And not a single one of them was a wilting wallflower. I may not know much about girls my own age, but I know that women—” he stared up at the ceiling for a second while he tried to order his thoughts, then looked down again—“women are every bit as capable as men at being devious, clever, wonderful, stupid, surprising, sad, brilliant and—” he waggled his fingers—“whatever.” He grinned and raised a finger into the air. “But I'm also aware that many others of my gender don't share my enlightened views. Which is why I suggested the plan.”
He stopped talking, suddenly realizing he'd gone on a bit of a speech. He looked up at his finger, then lowered it. The sound of slow clapping echoed from the far corner of the room. Tweed glanced over Octavia's shoulder to find Bertie on his feet applauding.
“Brava, young sir,” he said. “Always knew you were a good ’un. My mother'd love you, she would. Disguised herself as a lad and went off to fight in the war when she was sixteen, she did.”
“Yes, thank you, Bertie,” said Tweed. And when Bertie carried on applauding, he added. “Please stop clapping, Bertie. There's a good chap.”
Bertie winked at him, then sat down again. Octavia stared at Tweed with an odd, calculating look on her face.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. You just…surprise me, that's all.”
“Oh. Good. Surprising people is much better than being boring, don't you think? Can't abide boring people. Now, shall we be off?”
Tweed decided to look for an inspector called James McLeod. It wasn't that he was the most senior officer, or the friendliest, or even the stupidest. Just that Tweed had spoken to the man once or twice before when McLeod had ventured into the archives looking for records, so it would make the ruse more believable.
Tweed also knew where his office was, which made it a lot easier than wandering around the building looking lost.
He sat down on a bench in the hallway just around the corner from the inspector's office, carefully arranging the papers. The top piece was a standard office supplies requisition form from the archives. Tweed had found piles of them lying around. But he had neatly folded the bottom half of the form underneath and laid it over the top of the form he really wanted signed, the request for information from the high security records room.
He had used a tiny amount of glue to stick the pieces of paper together. Not much, just enough to hopefully hide the seam. He held it up and looked at it critically. It would never work. He could still see the join just above the empty spot marked for a signature.
Tweed sighed. Nothing for it, though. There was no other plan forthcoming. Not in the amount of time they had.
He stood up and arranged his shirt into untidy folds, twisting his suspenders around to give himself a scruffier appearance more in keeping with someone who worked in the archives.
He slumped his shoulders, mirroring the defeated posture of the terminally employed, and halfheartedly knocked on the door.
“Come!” barked a Scottish voice.
Tweed pushed the door open, bowing and bobbing into the room in the same manner Bertie assumed when talking to his superiors. Subservience and groveling. A combination guaranteed to get people underestimating you.
MacLeod's office was tiny. Just enough room for a set of wooden filing cabinets, a chalkboard, and his black-painted desk. The man himself sat squeezed between the desk and the back wall, wreathed in a cloud of pipe smoke. He squinted at Tweed through the haze. That was handy. Perhaps the smoke would obscure the subterfuge.
“What is it?” asked McLeod. “You're Bertie's helper, yes? The records boy.”
That's right, thought Tweed. Keep thinking that. I'm just the records boy.
“That's right, sir. Bertie sent me up, if it pleases you.” Careful, Tweed. Less of the country farmer routine. “He asked if you'd sign this,” said Tweed, waving the paper through the air, stirring up the smoke so that it moved sluggishly around the desk. Tweed leaned over the pile of books and placed the paper down, just out of reach of McLeod.
“What is it?” asked McLeod, leaning forward.
“Requisition form, sir. For more ink.”
McLeod was just leaning forward to read the form, plucking his pen from the holder, when Octavia stormed into the room.
“I demand to see the inspector!” she shouted, slamming a hand down on the desk.
Tweed and McLeod blinked at her in surprise. Surprise that was certainly not feigned. This is how she distracts someone with hysterics? thought Tweed.
“Erhm, I'm the inspector, young lady. What can I do—?”
“Don't you ‘young lady’ me! I'm a member of Her Majesty's free press.”
She flashed a small piece of card before them both, waving it under their noses. Tweed moved his head back to get a clearer look. It was a Times identification card with Octavia's photograph on it. Tweed was impressed.
“I demand to know what's being done about this outrage.”
McLeod and Tweed exchanged bemused glances.
“What outrage is this?” asked McLeod. “Forgive me, I've been working on a case—”
“Hiding away from reporters is more like it!” snapped Octavia. “And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I am, of course, referring to the forced eviction of the poor on Finch Street. Just in time for the visit of the Tsar Nicholas II. Trying to pretend London doesn't have any slum problems? For shame, Inspector.”
“Madam, I assure you, I have no idea what you are referring to. The Metropolitan Police does not take part in any form of slum clearances, I assure you.”
“A likely story.” She paused and looked at Tweed with an expression of disgust. “I'm sorry, but who is this…this boy?”
Tweed bowed. “Just a humble records assistant, madam,” said Tweed.
“Can you please deal with him so we can discuss this properly?” said Octavia to McLeod.
“Um…of course.” McLeod turned his attention to Tweed. He actually felt a bit sorry for the man. He wasn't a bad sort, as far as he could tell.
“What was it again?” asked the inspector.
“Just your signature here, sir,” said Tweed, leaning over and pointing at the form, keeping his hand down over the join of the two papers. “For Bertie. Ink and stuff. Supplies.”
“Of course, of course. Bertie.”
McLeod hastily scrawled his signature on the paper. Tweed whisked it away before he could look any closer.
“Thank you, sir. And good luck.” Tweed turned and bowed at Octavia. “Madam, don't worry. I'm sure you'll find a husband someday.”
Octavia's superior smile faltered. “I beg your pardon?”
“It's just, I saw you weeping in the hallway earlier on. Heard you talking to one of the tea ladies about how your fiancée had left you because—now what was it you said?—because he thought you a crushing bore with the spiky personality of a hedgehog. Horrible thing to say, madam. Horrible. As I say, I'm sure you'll get lucky someday. And if not, it's not the end of the world, eh? Spinsterhood is still an…acceptable alternative. Lots of free time to play with cats, I imagine.”
Tweed scurried from the room before he burst out laughing. The look on her face! Tweed was sure he was going to suffer for it later on, but oh, it was worth it.
It turned out getting into the restricted records room wasn't the hardest part of the plan. The hardest part was actually finding the crime reports he was looking for once he was in.
The door was answered by a young man with spectacles so thick his eyes looked about three sizes too big. When he saw the signed form, he nodded Tweed in and returned to his desk against the far wall.
The room was about half the size of the archives downstairs, but a lot more modern and a lot cleaner. It looked more like a library in one of the toff's houses where Tweed and Barnaby did their cons: posh leather chairs, mahogany reading tables, wood-paneled walls, and the clerk who kept a watch over it all from his desk.
Tweed didn't have any idea where to start. The walls were lined with wooden filing cabinets with strange codes and numbers stamped onto the drawers. He pulled one open at random and flicked through the files before closing it again with a sigh. It looked as if he would just have to ask.
