Blood Royal

by Jonathan Green

  Ulysses scanned the road and alley openings ahead of him, swerving to avoid a collision with an omnibus.

  He was heading south, towards Chelsea Bridge Road. To his left, behind the tight-packed tenements lay the tracks leading out of Victoria station; if he could just lead the automaton onto the rails, just as a train was building up a head of steam as it left the platform...

  Ulysses quickly dismissed that idea; it was far too risky, and could well put innocents at risk.

  Reaching the end of Buckingham Palace Road, he steered the velocipede into a narrower, and much less busy, thoroughfare. If he kept going this way, he’d soon be at Chelsea Bridge and the Embankment. Perhaps if he could somehow trick the killer into following him into the river...

  Ulysses had enjoyed more dips in the turgid Thames than was really healthy, but if that was what it took to stop the thing...

  He was suddenly aware of the fact that the galloping automaton was no longer chasing after him. Where had it gone? Ulysses eased back on the throttle.

  The clockwork killer landed with a crash on the road in front of him, in a tangle of telescoping limbs.

  Ulysses reacted instantly, pulling sharply on the handlebars and throwing the velocipede into the nearest alleyway. The contraption rattled and jolted over the cobbles and collected detritus that strewed the way ahead, only travelling another ten yards before it hit a discarded hod of bricks.

  Ulysses found himself flying unceremoniously through the air, the world spinning around him, as the velocipede’s impact with the obstruction launched him out of the driver’s seat. He landed on his back amidst a pile of what smelt like rotting cabbages, but was on his feet again in seconds.

  Behind him the automaton scampered along the alleyway after him. He could hear it spitting in annoyance, its feet splashing through puddles of foetid water and the ring of its finger-blades as they slid across each other.

  Unsheathing his sword-stick again, Ulysses turned to meet the assassin.

  The alleyway ahead of him was empty.

  “But not for long, I’m sure,” the dandy muttered to himself.

  Water dripped onto his forehead, startling him and making him look up.

  Crawling down the damp, grey bricks of the wall next to him came the cyber-organic assassin.

  “Slice and dice, Mr Scaredy-man,” the killer burbled with glee.

  Dropping to the floor of the alleyway, it scuttled towards him, forcing him further along the passage.

  An insidious whirring of clockwork underlay its syrupy giggles. “Tick-tock! Tick-tock!”

  It was toying with him. It could have pounced and finished him in an instant, but it was enjoying protracting the moment, wringing every last drop of fear from its victim; only it didn’t know Ulysses Quicksilver that well.

  Ulysses risked a glance behind him and saw the solid wall at the end of the passage not ten yards away. He had taken shelter within a dead-end. Rusted iron fire escapes clung to the sides of the buildings around him. If he could just lure the thing beneath one of them, leap up and pull the ladder down on top of it, he might at least be able to pin it down long enough to put his blade through whatever passed for its brain and be done with it.

  As the semi-automaton, semi-human, and wholly sadistic, killer reared up again on its hind-legs, dagger-claws bared, Ulysses lashed out with his trusty blade.

  It rang from the monster’s metal limbs – the gleaming steel rods deadening the force of Ulysses’ strikes – just as it did from the gleaming carapace of its robotic torso.

  The hideously smiling, acid-etched face leaned in close and Ulysses could smell engine oil, sour meat and formaldehyde.

  One clawed hand slammed against Ulysses’ right wrist, pinning it to the wall. It exerted pressure against the joint, forcing his fingers open and the sword-stick fell from his grasp.

  “Now, let’s open you up and see what makes you tick,” the creature giggled, reaching for him with its other hand, one claw extended, the tip of the stiletto blade mere inches from Ulysses’ throat.

  Ulysses stared into the creature’s glassy eyes and, for a moment, saw himself reflected within the black oblivion of its dilated pupils.

  ELSEWHERE, OTHER INTERESTED eyes studied the face on the grainy monitor feed.

  “Sir? It’s locked on to another target.”

  The other was at the technician’s side in a moment. His striking attire – green frock coat, silver-embroidered waistcoat, and gold silk cravat – were at odds with the lab-coated technicians clustered within the monitoring station.

  “Quicksilver,” he said, slapping an ebony cane into the palm of his hand. “When did he get involved?”

  “He turned up at the house. The assassin had been instructed to wait there and see if anyone else turned up.” The technician pointed at the face on the screen. “He turned up.”

  “Shit!”

  “What shall we do?” The man turned anxious eyes on the steely face at his shoulder, the agent’s greying hair slicked back from a pronounced widow’s peak, giving him an even more sinister appearance.

  “Call it off.”

  ULYSSES TOOK A deep breath, steeling himself.

  And then, the killer froze. A frown stole the insane smile from its face and it shook its head, as if something had wormed its way inside its steel skull and was bothering it.

  Hissing like an angry cat, it leapt clear of the alleyway, landed on the wall behind Ulysses and raced right up it, disappearing over the parapet twenty feet above.

  And then it was gone, leaving Ulysses alone and in a state of shock.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Proof Positive

  ULYSSES QUICKSILVER HAD come close to death on more occasions than he cared to remember, but he had never felt so helpless as he had at the moment when he stared into the soulless, smiling eyes of the cold-blooded killer.

  Still shaking, he walked briskly away from the alleyway and into the bustle of Buckingham Palace Road. The steam-wagon was still there, rusty water still trickling from the guts of the ruptured boiler. An automaton-Peeler was trying to help the vehicle’s shaken driver get the damaged truck out of the way of the traffic backing up behind it.

  The thoroughfare was heaving as people began to make the mass exodus from their places of work before sunset and the swarmings.

  No-one noticed the dishevelled dandy as he picked up his pace, heading north along the crowded thoroughfare.

  He might once have made regular appearances within the society pages of the popular press and, more recently, had his image broadcast across the nation, but out in the real world, the general masses barely gave well-known public figures a second glance. And besides, in his current condition, he would have had trouble recognising his reflection in a mirror.

  His linen suit was streaked with black water, his hair was matted with soot and ash and his face smeared with dirt. He looked more like one of London’s destitute than the man once voted Best Dressed Bachelor by The Strand.

  As he passed beneath a broadcast screen on Victoria Street, a disembodied voice boomed from the speakers.

  “Escape the rat race of the human race and start a new life on the Moon!” Ulysses paused and looked up to see an image of Earth’s satellite swell to fill the screen above him. “You’ll find incredible opportunities awaiting industrious individuals in the off-world colonies, on Earth’s most popular emigration destination. Even if you’re simply looking to get away from it all, at the Empire’s most exclusive holiday resort, with weekly flights departing from the London spaceports, let us bring you the Moon in style!”

  Ulysses had forgotten about Barty during his unnerving confrontation with the automaton assassin. Only a matter of days ago, his errant brother had quite literally taken off for the Moon, following untold others from around the world who seemed to think they could leave all their worries behind by escaping the planet.

  But Ulysses had somebody else to think about, someone else’s future to sort out now. The orphaned Miran
da Gallowglass – eleven years old and not yet able to make her way in the world – was depending on him.

  Barty would have to wait until he had resolved the current situation. Ulysses needed to find out who had set the crazed cyborg killer on the wretched Victor Gallowglass, yet spared the dandy.

  Maintaining his pace, keeping one eye on the rooftops for any sign that the assassin had chosen to come after him again, Ulysses reached inside his ruined jacket and, catching sight of himself in the glass of a shop front as he passed by, looked aghast and muttered under his breath, “Another bloody suit ruined. I’m fast going to become my tailor’s best customer at this rate.”

  He finished fishing in his inner pocket and pulled out his battered – but fortunately working – brass and teak personal communicator. Keying in a number he put the device to his ear and endured the buzzing ring at the other end of the line, his heart still pounding.

  He needed to spend more time practising the consciousness-centring relaxation techniques the monks had taught him while he had recuperated within the legendary Shangri-La.

  “Sir?” came his manservant’s voice, as Nimrod answered.

  “Are our houseguests still safe indoors?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. As per your instructions.”

  “Good. Then make sure they stay that way, will you, old chap? There’s a good man.”

  “But of course, sir. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “No. I went looking for clues and found something else entirely.”

  “Would you like me to meet you with the Rolls, sir?”

  “No. I want you to remain with the ladies. No-one comes in or goes out without my say so, is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And make sure your pistol’s fully loaded, although all things considered, an electric cattle-prod or a phlogiston discharger might be a better idea, if only we had such a thing.”

  “A phlogiston discharger, sir?”

  “Never mind. Just keep them safe, will you? And you’d best send Mrs Prufrock home while you’re about it.”

  “Very good, sir. And might I enquire as to what you are doing now?”

  “I have to see a man about an automaton assassin.”

  “Very good, sir. I shall expect you presently then,” Nimrod replied.

  “IS THIS RIGHT?” Inspector Maurice Allardyce asked, as he admitted Ulysses Quicksilver into his office at Scotland Yard. “The desk sergeant said you wanted to see me.”

  “That’s right,” Ulysses said, tight-lipped, hovering awkwardly beside the chair in front of the inspector’s desk. At least he assumed it was the man’s desk; something had to be supporting the drifts of paper that were mounded before him.

  Allardyce looked him up and down and smiled. The dandy was on edge; the man who was as happy mixing with royalty as he was passing the time of day with tramps obviously felt out of place at the police station. And Allardyce knew why. This was his territory, and the caddish rogue and agent of the crown knew it.

  “Twice in one day? People will start to talk?”

  Quicksilver flashed him a quick, unimpressed smile.

  “Anyway, what happened to you? You look a mess.”

  “Do I really? Well thank you for pointing that out.

  “So what can I do you for?”

  “As it turns out, I’ve come here to ask you for a favour.”

  “Really?” Allardyce was intrigued now. “Won’t you take a seat?”

  Quicksilver looked from his sodden suit trousers to the leather-cushioned chair and back to the inspector.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “As long as you don’t bleed everywhere. You’re not planning on bleeding everywhere, are you?”

  “I’m not wounded, if that’s what you mean, thanks for asking.”

  Allardyce smiled again. “Just your pride, eh?”

  Quicksilver scowled through pursed lips.

  “So, what’s this favour you’re after?”

  “It’s concerning the murdered prostitutes.”

  “Oh yes, friends of your –”

  “Don’t, Allardyce,” the disgruntled dandy snapped. “Just don’t, alright?”

  “Alright. So, what do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about the murders.”

  “Over Whitechapel way?”

  “Yes.”

  Allardyce looked at the dandy, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

  “What does this have to do with Galeglass, or Spyglass, or –”

  “Gallowglass!”

  “Yeah, so like I say, what has this got to do with what I let you in on this morning?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  “Very well.”

  Allardyce moved a teetering stack of card folders, bulging with everything from crime-scene snapshots to witness statements, making room amidst the paper drifts.

  “How many have there been now?” Ulysses asked, eyeing the pile of case files.

  “Four to date, at least that we know of. The first one was Mary Parks.”

  “I need details.”

  “Killed on the twenty-fourth of last month,” Allardyce replied, opening the folder at the top of the pile and skimming the paperwork within, “found behind the ragged school off Commercial Road at 5.56am the next morning by a milkman doing his rounds. Time of death was put at between eleven and midnight the previous night.”

  “No, I need details. Tell me everything.”

  “There isn’t much more. Twenty-three years old, a whore, worked the Shadwell Basin area normally.”

  “No, you idiot. I mean, how did she die?”

  Allardyce gave Ulysses a disapproving look, but for once decided to keep his mouth shut.

  “Her killer gutted her like a fish. Pathologist’s report says that she had her liver, spleen, and half her intestines removed, along with her womb. We don’t know what he did with them, they were never found. Quite possibly kept them as trophies. Could’ve eaten them for all I know. Take a look for yourself,” he said, passing Ulysses the file. “Go mad. There’s pictures too, if that’s your thing.”

  “And the next?” Ulysses asked, studying a black and white photograph, a grim expression on his face.

  “Elspeth Pritchard.”

  “And what did he do to her?”

  “Slit her open from her gizzard to her navel, took her heart and her kidneys but left her lungs spread outside of her body for all to see.”

  Ulysses took the second file from Allardyce and began to peruse its contents.

  “So, Allardyce, tell me. Ignoring everything else you suspect about this case, just going by our killer’s peculiar... tastes – his modus operandi – if you were a betting man, who would you say killed these women?”

  “Well, that’s easy,” the inspector began and then stopped.

  “No, go on.”

  “Very well. Every copper worth his salt would say the same thing. These murders are textbook Ripper. But I know that’s impossible.”

  “Jack the Ripper.”

  “Of course, bloody Jack the Ripper.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” the dishevelled dandy said, smiling for the first time since entering the inspector’s office.

  “But I’m not an idiot, whatever you might think. What are you trying to get me to say, eh, Quicksilver? I know it can’t be the Ripper. That would be impossible.”

  “Would it?”

  The dandy detective rose from his chair and leant across Allardyce’s desk, helping himself to another card-bound file.

  “Here, do you mind?” the inspector challenged.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “And in case you hadn’t noticed, you smell like something the cat threw up. Anyway, you never said what happened to you.”

  “Then let me tell you,” Ulysses said, shaking off his sodden jacket and taking a seat.

  To his credit, Allardyce didn’t interrupt once as Quicksilver described the assassin that had
attacked him, although he couldn’t hide the scowl of mocking disbelief that formed on his incredulous face.

  “So, in short,” Quicksilver concluded, “I believe the bastard you’re looking for is a semi-automaton assassin, between six and eight feet in height, dressed in a cloak, and with flick-knives, or something very like it, for fingers.”

  Allardyce looked at him, mocking derision writ large on his features.

  “You have got to be bloody kidding me.”

  “No, I am not bloody kidding you,” Quicksilver said with forced patience, in the tone of a man who has had enough and is trying very hard not to lose control, “and I would remind you of what we both witnessed in Whitby.”

  Allardyce’s expression morphed from one of laughing disbelief to shameful embarrassment.

  “And you think that your attacker is the same psycho who butchered those East End whores?”

  “There is no doubt in my mind that the thing that attacked me, and Gallowglass’s killer, are one and the same. And having seen what it did to the late doctor, and from what you’ve shown me this evening, I would say that it was our knife-fingered friend who did for them too.”

  “So you want me to circulate your automaton assassin’s description.”

  “Semi-automaton. Cyber-organic, I believe. And no, I don’t want you to. It’s up to you whether you circulate its description, but I think it would probably be a good idea if you want to catch this villain.”

  “But why Gallowglass and a bunch of shilling whores? What could they possibly have in common, unless of course the good doctor sought a release from his worldly worries outside of the marital home.”

  “He was a widow.”

  “But doesn’t he have a live in housekeeper.”

  “Governess,” Quicksilver harrumphed, cheeks reddening. “And, of course, what you say is highly possible. Your Whitechapel whores met their ends not far from where Gallowglass died. However, his body was not found at a well-known pick-up spot, and his behaviour on the night in question does not suggest that he was looking for diverting entertainment. But I’ll admit that it’s possible. Why don’t you stick some manpower on the case, and leave the leaps of logic to me.”