by Darrell Pitt
Now there’s just me, he thought. He remembered the tarantula. Well, me and Bertha. He hoped the lid on her glass enclosure was sealed tight.
Forcing the image of the spider from his mind, Jack surrendered to sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jack stirred himself from a deep slumber. He had been dreaming of a mine in India where he was forced to toil with cheese as his only food. The overseer had just approached him with a deadly-looking whip when he was saved by the sound of knocking.
He sat up groggily. Light streamed through the window. The clock on his bedside table read ten o’clock.
‘Come in,’ Jack called.
Ignatius Doyle appeared in the doorway with a slab of toast jammed between his teeth.
‘The game’s afoot,’ the detective said.
Jack blinked away sleep. ‘You want to play football?’
‘No, no,’ Mr Doyle assured him. ‘That’s just an expression. We have a client in the outer office. I need you ready in five minutes. Chop chop, old chap.’
Mr Doyle disappeared. Jack washed and dressed himself. The clothing provided by the detective was clean and new. Jack put on a pair of dark trousers and a blue-and-white striped shirt. They were the best clothes he had ever worn.
He ran a comb through his unruly hair before navigating the apartment to find the detective at the sitting-room table surrounded by plates of toast, condiments and tea. Jack buttered the bread and slapped on jam while Mr Doyle explained.
‘There is a young lady outside,’ he said. ‘She arrived quite early without an appointment so I asked her to wait until you were ready.’
‘Sorry,’ Jack said through a mouthful of toast. ‘I must have been tired.’
‘Understandable, dear boy,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Shall I call in the client?’
Jack nodded and sipped at his tea. He felt as if he were in a foreign land with someone asking him for directions. In the brief time since he had woken, Jack had begun to wonder if Mr Doyle was perhaps quite mad and Jack’s role was actually to keep him under control. As Jack moved his feet beneath the table, his leg knocked against something and he heard a discordant cry. He looked down and saw a piano accordion. But before he could think anything more about this, the door opened and the most beautiful girl Jack had ever seen walked into the room.
She had a pixie face, clear green eyes and fair skin. Her long hair was as bright a red as the colour on the Union Jack. She wore a slim-fitting white dress and a black leather bustier. A blue, short-sleeved bolero hung over her shoulders. Her face looked strained and she studied Ignatius Doyle before shifting her eyes to settle on Jack. He swallowed.
‘Please come in,’ the detective welcomed her. ‘I’d like to introduce you to my associate, Mr Jack Mason.’
‘I…I’m pleased to meet you,’ Jack stuttered.
‘This is Miss Bell,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Miss Scarlet Bell.’
‘Hello, Mr Mason,’ she said.
‘Call me Jack.’
She attempted a smile. ‘Jack.’
Mr Doyle led her to a seat. He offered her tea, which she accepted with a wan smile. ‘You’ve already had a long day. I notice you started early this morning from the Camden line.’
Scarlet looked surprised. ‘However do you know that, Mr Doyle?’
‘I observe you have the stub of a rail ticket protruding from your right pocket. It bears the colour blue, indicating your point of origin. You carry an umbrella, yet it is dry. It rained most of the morning, only stopping an hour ago. Hence, you departed home early.’
‘That’s marvellous, Mr Doyle.’
‘Nothing to speak of,’ the detective replied. ‘How may we be of service?’
‘My father’s name is Joseph Bell. He is missing.’ She wrung her hands together. ‘He has been gone for two days.’
‘How old are you, my dear?’
‘I am fifteen.’
‘And where is your mother?’
‘She died when I was very young.’
‘I am sorry. And is your father in the habit of disappearing?’
‘Not at all. He is a very responsible man. He always tells me where he is going or he leaves a note for me. However…’
‘What is it?’ The detective studied her face. ‘You must tell me the truth or I cannot help you.’
She looked down into her cup. ‘He is my father and I love him dearly, but he does have a secretive side.’
‘Secretive? In what way?’
‘He has never disappeared before, but sometimes he has gone away for days at a time on business.’
‘That can’t be too unusual,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘It’s not. He says he is in the import and export trade.’
‘But you doubt this? Why?’
‘He…he…’ Scarlet burst into tears.
Mr Doyle looked embarrassed. Jack was unsure what to say so he produced a handkerchief and gave it to the young lady.
‘Thank you, young man,’ said Scarlet.
‘Uh, actually, I’m fourteen,’ Jack said, trying to draw himself up to full height.
‘Quite grown up.’
Jack set his jaw. ‘Quite.’
‘I do apologise,’ Scarlet said. ‘My father has tried to shelter me from the world and I have lived much of my life in books.’
‘I enjoy reading too,’ Jack said.
‘I am a great fan of the Brinkie Buckeridge books,’ Scarlet said, brightening.
‘Brinkie who?’
‘Brinkie Buckeridge,’ Scarlet said, ‘by Baroness Zakharov.’
‘Ah.’ Mr Doyle turned to Jack. ‘They are a series of romantic adventure books. The heroine, Brinkie Buckeridge, invariably faces her nemesis, and sometime love interest, Wilbur Dusseldorf.’
‘I have just finished reading The Adventure of the Five-Headed Duck,’ Scarlet said. ‘Have you read the books, Mr Doyle?’
‘Not as yet,’ he said. ‘Now...back to your father.’
Scarlet sighed. ‘It’s a terrible thing to doubt your own father, but I have always suspected him of leading a double life.’
‘What brought you to that conclusion?’ asked Mr Doyle.
‘He often comes and goes at all hours. Sometimes he is absent for days and weeks at a time, yet he keeps up an illusion of it all being part of his business.’
‘And you think it is not?’
‘On more than one occasion I have checked his passport and not found any stamps indicating travel to other countries. He has received visitors at odd hours. Whenever I ask my father about his late-night callers, he denies their existence.’
Jack was beginning to feel like a loose cog. ‘Blimey. That does sound strange.’
‘He came home last week with a cut above his eye. He told me he had fallen and hit his head.’
‘And you did not believe him?’ Mr Doyle said.
‘It’s always possible,’ Scarlet admitted. ‘But after the incident he began to take other precautions. He placed extra locks on all the doors and windows and told me not to go out at night.’
‘Miss Bell,’ Mr Doyle began.
‘Please call me Scarlet.’
‘Scarlet, it is important you do not jump to conclusions. There may very well be a logical explanation for everything that has occurred.’
‘Such as?’
‘Your father may have formed a relationship with a woman and not told you for fear of hurting your feelings. They may have argued—possibly violently. It has been written that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He feared for your safety, hence the new locks on the doors.’
‘All the more reason to worry about his absence,’ Scarlet said. ‘Oh please, Mr Doyle. Please help me. The police have given no assistance at all.’
‘I will help you.’ Mr Doyle bowed his head. ‘We will journey to your home today.’
Scarlet Bell thanked him. The detective turned to Jack.
‘Can you pack a small bag for yourself, in case we are gone overnight. I have one ready. We will meet on th
e balcony in five minutes.’
Mr Doyle left to speak to Gloria about rearranging his diary. Jack gave Scarlet a quick nod and hurried to his room. Packing his bag only took a moment. He found a long dark-green coat in his drawers and threw it on. It seemed to have a multitude of pockets. He put the compass and picture of his parents into one. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
Mr Doyle entered with a small box in his hand. ‘I just remembered something I needed to give you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Have a look inside.’
The box contained a piece of string, a curious rubber object, a lump of something that looked like wax, and a metal device with a series of springs and cogs measuring about three inches. It had a trigger on it the same as a gun.
‘Every detective must own a piece of string,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘String has a thousand uses and I know you will find it invaluable.’ The detective picked up the metal object. ‘This is a lock pick. A very handy device on occasion.’
Jack took it from him carefully.
‘A rubber nose,’ Mr Doyle said, showing him the next item. ‘I shall explain later how it is applied.’
Jack looked into the box at the last item—the odd-shaped piece of wax.
‘My apologies,’ Mr Doyle popped it into his mouth. ‘I was wondering where that cheese went.’
Jack tried to remember when he had last received a gift and realised it was that final Christmas with his parents. His mother had given him the compass. She showed him how to use it to find the right direction.
You’re still with me, he thought. Showing me the way.
‘Thank you, Mr Doyle,’ Jack said.
‘You’re most welcome, my boy. Oh, and I’ll give you a few of these too.’ He withdrew some wrapped squares from his pocket. ‘Beef jerky. Hardly a meal, but sufficient in an emergency.’ Jack pushed them into one of the many coat pockets as Mr Doyle pointed at his chest of drawers. ‘And don’t forget your goggles. They can be used as a magnifying glass or as binoculars. I’ll see you on the balcony.’
Mr Doyle exited and Jack picked up the goggles.
These are cracking good, he thought. Very stylish.
Looking through them experimentally, he manipulated the small sliding switch on the side that made it possible to magnify things. He also tested them at a distance. The far wall zoomed into focus. He returned the goggles to their normal setting and placed them in another pocket.
Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Jack thought he looked rather spiffy. Glancing about his room one more time, his eye was caught by something sticking out from under his pillow. Frowning, he went over to it and dragged out—a fork.
Shaking his head, he sat it on his bedside table. Mr Doyle had said he would be testing his powers of observation. He went to the balcony where he found Scarlet Bell leaning on the railing, looking out at the city.
‘It’s a beautiful view from here,’ Jack said, desperate to make conversation. He had never spoken to a girl as beautiful as Scarlet. In fact, he had never envisioned a girl as beautiful as Scarlet could even exist. She made the girls back at the orphanage resemble hedgehogs and walruses.
‘It is, indeed,’ Scarlet said. ‘Have you been Mr Doyle’s assistant for long?’
‘Er, no, not very long,’ Jack stammered. ‘Lovely day out here. Might be some rain later.’
‘And what exactly do you do for Mr Doyle?’
‘Just assist him, you know,’ he said airily. ‘General, like.’
‘I see.’
Mr Doyle appeared. ‘Just this way, thank you.’
He started climbing up an iron ladder that led to the roof. Jack had not noticed it before. Scarlet went next, so Jack was the last to reach the top. His mouth fell open in astonishment.
An airship.
Bazookas, he thought. He has his own airship.
Even Scarlet looked impressed.
‘She’s called the Lion’s Mane. A gift from a grateful client,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘It was a case involving a broken watch, an octopus and a... Well, never mind. Shall we board?’
The vessel was as sleek as a fish. It measured some thirty feet and was half as wide. The cigar-shaped balloon was gold with six silver braces running along the length of it. Manoeuvring fins were attached to the upper part of the balloon on both sides of the stern. The lozenge-shaped gondola clung to the underbelly like a limpet to a rock.
The gondola was brass and timber with large square windows. Underneath it lay twin tubes that shot steam behind the vessel to propel it forward. Beneath these were four horizontal pipes to discharge the smoke from the engine, as well as a pair of landing skids. A stylised profile of a lion decorated the bow with the registration number—1887—appearing underneath.
Mr Doyle led them around to the rear of the airship. He disengaged a handle situated where the gondola connected to the balloon. A puff of steam spat out as the entire end, attached by two straps, dropped down to reveal steps.
The vessel swayed as they entered the interior. It had two chambers. A glass wall divided the living room from the engine and bridge. This first area had a number of curtains secured against the sides. Jack realised they could be untied to create individual rooms. A small galley lay at the front and a round table in the middle surrounded by revolving armchairs attached to the floor. Foldaway beds lined the sides of the chamber. Handrails were attached to the walls.
I’m in paradise, Jack thought. Covering his mouth, he hoped Scarlet didn’t notice him grinning like a loon.
If the other children at the orphanage could see me now!
Ignatius Doyle led them to the bridge. Here was the heart of the Lion’s Mane: a big barrel-vault steam chamber made from cast iron. The coal for it sat stacked in a box. Before it lay the steering wheel, a brass and timber construction with twelve handles around the outer edge. The device attached to a pedestal that disappeared into the floor.
The control panel matched the steering wheel. More brass and timber. It was a sleek arc of polished wood with an inlay of dials and navigational aids. Jack had no idea what they did. The only one he recognised was a compass. He pulled out his own and checked it against the Lion’s Mane.
Right on target, he thought. Not out by a skerrick.
Mr Doyle pushed a few buttons on the main control panel. ‘I started the boiler earlier, so this shouldn’t take very long.’ The vessel shuddered as steam mushroomed from beneath. The needles on a dozen dials wavered to attention. ‘Now I will release the mooring cables. First the front. Now the rear.’
Jack looked out the bridge window and saw the cables fall away; they had a claw on their ends that snapped open from the clamps anchored to the roof of the building. The Lion’s Mane started. Within moments it had drifted away from the roof and along Bee Street.
Jack turned to his mentor. ‘What a time to be alive!’
‘Steam.’ Mr Doyle shot him a smile. ‘Where would we be without it?’
CHAPTER FIVE
The airship sailed over the city. ‘I had to apply for a passenger pilot’s licence,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘I’m now qualified to fly an airship containing up to sixteen passengers.’
‘You’re a man of many talents,’ Scarlet said.
A thought occurred to Jack. ‘Were you in the war, Mr Doyle?’
‘I was.’
‘And what did you do?’
Mr Doyle did not answer for so long that Jack thought he hadn’t heard. He turned away from the view and looked into the man’s face. He saw a frozen expression, as if the detective were staring into the past.
‘I commanded a regiment in France,’ he finally said. ‘Many men served under me. Young men. Good men.’ He said the words stiffly, struggling to put the sentences together. ‘We fought many battles. Some we won. Others we lost.’ He looked down and tapped his leg. ‘That’s where this happened. A piece of shrapnel, courtesy of the Kaiser. Still in there.’
Scarlet was frowning at Jack. He didn�
�t know why. ‘Do you have any medals, Mr Doyle?’ Jack asked.
‘There is a time and a place for that question,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘This is neither.’
‘London is changing.’ Scarlet peered out over the landscape. ‘The city is growing all the time. The old buildings are being torn down and replaced by new.’
I’m an idiot, Jack thought. The older girl had been quicker to sense that Mr Doyle felt uncomfortable discussing the war.
‘Milverton’s invention of Terrafirma has changed everything,’ Mr Doyle said.
Jack was lost. Who was Milverton? ‘Ah yes,’ he said, regardless. ‘Milverton’s Terrafirma. Good old Milverton. And that Terrafirma. So terrible. So firm.’
Both Scarlet and Mr Doyle were looking at him.
‘All right,’ Jack shrugged. ‘I give up. What does it do?’
‘Terrafirma was created by Douglas Milverton, a member of the Darwinist League,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Engineered in a lab in Surrey, it has a strength two hundred times that of steel. The compound can be used to coat individual bricks, stonework and other materials to build structures far larger than anything ever thought possible.’
‘Aren’t the Darwinist League...’ Jack started.
Mr Doyle looked at him.
‘…witches? I mean, giant cows and fish that breathe air? How can that be real?’
The detective laughed. ‘Their inventions do seem strange, but they’re no more a witch than I am. They’re evolutionary scientists working at the cutting edge of biological knowledge.’
‘So what’s it made from? Terrafirma, I mean.’
‘It’s actually a type of mould,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘Mould? You mean like on bread?’
‘Rather less tasty, I’m afraid.’
‘I understand the league’s research is strictly controlled by the government,’ Scarlet said.
‘It is,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘And many of their inventions have been amazingly successful. Cows are now twice the size they once were. Wheat is three times the height. Trout and other fish are now air breathers, making them easier to breed and take to market.’
