The Firebird Mystery

by Darrell Pitt

  Jack was still dubious, but there was no denying their achievements.

  The airship rose above the West End, revealing the entire horizon of London. The new mega structures, all built since the Great War, lay before them—the new Parliament House, the new Art Museum and the new Buckingham Palace. All three buildings climbed over two hundred storeys in height—but what drew the eye was the pièce de résistance of British engineering.

  The London Metrotower.

  ‘Terrafirma is changing the world,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Without it, the metrotower would not exist. Nor a hundred other advances in the last few years. Scientists are even talking about putting a man on the moon.’

  A man on the moon? Jack thought. What a daft idea.

  They seated themselves around the small bridge and travelled in silence as they continued to ascend. London lay beneath them, smoke and steam rising up from it, blanketing the city in a shifting grey cloud. Mr Doyle manoeuvred the Lion’s Mane in the same direction as other airships.

  Jack noticed almost all of the ships were passenger or transport vessels with their company emblems emblazoned on the side. Only a few of them bore individual markings like the Lion’s Mane.

  ‘That’s the Highbridge,’ the detective pointed out. ‘Belongs to the Queen’s nephew. And there’s the Musgrave. Belongs to that industrialist fellow, Beets.’

  The sun broke through the cloud cover, dousing their vessel in patches of warm light. Jack leaned against the window, took a breath and exhaled. For a moment—just a moment—the pain of his parents’ deaths seemed to evaporate. Sometimes he felt their absence so keenly he wanted to burst into tears, but mostly their loss was like a lead weight strapped to his chest. The sensation was always there, a stifling heaviness that never left. Now, as he looked from the window, the burden seemed to dissipate.

  Maybe this can be a new life, he thought.

  Mr Doyle adjusted their trajectory and they started their descent to Camden, drifting through the smoke and fog until a sea of roofs lay beneath them.

  ‘Can you see your home yet, Scarlet?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Why yes, yes I can!’ she said. ‘I believe we can land in the street outside.’

  ‘I’ll bring us down,’ Mr Doyle said.

  They descended towards the footpath. A few curious bystanders watched them drift down. They landed with barely a bump and Mr Doyle climbed out to secure the vessel to a lamppost.

  Miss Scarlet Bell’s residence was an apartment at the top of a three-storey building in a quiet backstreet of Camden. Jack and Mr Doyle followed her up the stairs. By the time they reached the final landing, Jack noticed Mr Doyle favouring his poor leg.

  Scarlet opened the door and looked in. ‘Father, are you home? Oh!’

  Her exclamation brought Jack and Mr Doyle after her. They found themselves in a long narrow hall. A small side table lay overturned and the contents of its drawer flung onto the floor. The apartment had been ransacked. Every drawer had been emptied. The insides of cabinets were flung everywhere. Cutlery and crockery had been unceremoniously scattered all over the kitchen.

  ‘I assume this is not your usual standard of housekeeping,’ 47 Mr Doyle said.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Scarlet was flushed with anger.

  ‘I’ll make tea,’ Jack offered.

  ‘Good man,’ Mr Doyle said.

  By the time Jack had poured tea into cups, Mr Doyle had searched most of the apartment.

  ‘It seems you may be correct in fearing for your father,’ he said, patting the poor girl’s shoulder. ‘Whilst there is nothing to indicate he has been harmed, someone was certainly searching for something.’

  ‘I wonder if they found it,’ Jack said, sipping his tea.

  ‘It is impossible to say. They may have been unsuccessful. Scarlet, does your father own a safe?’

  She sat up. ‘Yes, how foolish of me. I should have checked it.’

  They hurried to her father’s bedroom. A safe lay open in a wall behind a curtain. Only a few pages remained inside it. Other papers had been thrown over the floor, some of which lay under bedding that had been strewn about during the search.

  ‘It seems they did not find what they were seeking,’ Mr Doyle said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jack asked.

  ‘This bedding has been thrown over a few of the papers taken from the safe, so the search of the apartment continued after the safe was opened.’ The detective was lost in thought. ‘This leads me to two conclusions. One, that the perpetrators will continue to search for that which they seek. And two…’ He turned to Scarlet. ‘I’m afraid you may be in some danger, my dear.’

  A distant rumble of thunder sounded overhead, as if to emphasise the great detective’s words.

  ‘Danger?’ Scarlet said, surprised.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Mr Doyle responded. ‘I believe the criminals have tried to extract information from your father without success. Then they have conducted a search of your lodgings. The next logical step is to see if you can furnish them with what they need.’

  ‘But I know nothing!’

  ‘We know that. They do not.’ Mr Doyle stared into space before turning again to Scarlet. ‘I must ask you to remain in the parlour for a few minutes while we conduct our own search.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘It means we will have to search your own private effects.’ Mr Doyle blushed. ‘Even your clothing.’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ she said. ‘I am a modern woman.’

  Jack and Mr Doyle spent the next hour peering under furniture and inspecting every last item in the apartment. Jack pointed out how difficult it was to find the object of their quest when they were unsure what it was.

  ‘We will know it when we see it,’ Mr Doyle said.

  After some time Mr Doyle started tapping the walls of each room. He called Jack into Joseph Bell’s study.

  ‘My boy,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to pace out the length of this chamber?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jack started at the far end where a bookcase ran along an entire wall.

  ‘Seven paces,’ he said.

  ‘Now come to the next room,’ Mr Doyle instructed.

  They walked down the hall to the adjacent room, which was Scarlet’s bedroom. Jack measured the room and found it to be ten paces in length. Mr Doyle took him back to the hallway and asked him to walk the distance of the two rooms.

  ‘Twenty,’ Jack said.

  ‘I thought so,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Either the builders did not know their maths or something is not right.’

  They returned to the study. Every book had been ripped off the shelves. Mr Doyle picked one up and glanced at the cover.

  ‘The Sign of Four. A fine novel. You should read it sometime.’

  They cleared the floor. Mr Doyle stood in front of the bookcase, pulled out his goggles and examined the shelves.

  ‘This seems solid enough. And this.’ He climbed a chair to appraise the top edge. ‘Now here’s something.’

  A click sounded from the bookcase and it moved towards them an inch.

  ‘A secret room!’ Jack said.

  Mr Doyle pocketed the goggles. ‘Not anymore.’ He climbed down from the chair. ‘I suspected as much.’

  He pulled on the edge of the bookcase and it swung open like an enormous door. Scarlet chose that moment to enter the chamber.

  ‘What have you… Oh!’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ Mr Doyle said.

  The room measured three feet deep by six feet across. It contained shelving and a single unlit lamp. Mr Doyle turned it on. The space was empty except for an item sitting on the middle shelf. A small painting.

  While Jack was no judge of art, he could tell good from bad. The painting showed a small group of men on horseback in the midst of battle. The scene was so vivid Jack felt he could step right into the heart of the action.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ he breathed.

  ‘Amazing is an understatement,’ Mr Doyle said
. ‘It’s an oil sketch of a painting called The Battle of Anghiari by Leonardo da Vinci. The original has been lost for centuries.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘I’m as certain as I can be,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘The brush stroke is Leonardo’s. The only known versions are a few sketches and what was to be the final finished work—a fresco in the Hall of Five Hundred in Florence, Italy. That work has since been lost. This must be a previously unknown version painted by the master. Possibly he painted it in preparation for the final picture.’ He donned the goggles again and examined the surface. ‘This is unexpected. There is a bird in the sky above the battle.’

  ‘What type of bird?’ Jack asked.

  ‘It is surrounded by flames. A firebird. I believe it is a phoenix.’

  ‘Isn’t that a mythological bird?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘It is. It bursts into flames at the moment of death only to be reborn in a blaze of glory. It has come to symbolise renewal.’ Mr Doyle removed the goggles. ‘I don’t know why it’s in this painting.’

  A clap of thunder rumbled as Jack stared at the masterpiece. He heard the soft static of rain as the storm began in earnest.

  ‘But how did the painting get here?’ Scarlet asked, her face turning almost as red as her name. ‘How did it come into my father’s possession?’

  ‘Well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it?’ The detective tilted his head. ‘It reminds me of a case I once had involving a sketch by Rembrandt, a South American shrunken head and a baby elephant.’

  Jack interrupted. ‘Is it valuable?’

  ‘Valuable?’ Mr Doyle mused. ‘Hmm. Jack, you understand the value of a pound? You know what you can buy with it?’

  Jack had never had so much money. ‘Yes. A lot.’

  ‘Well, you would need more than a million of them to purchase this masterpiece,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Possibly a great deal more.’

  Jack’s mouth fell open. ‘For a painting?’

  ‘Leonardo’s works are exceedingly rare. Only a handful of them are known to exist.’

  They stood in silence looking at the amazing piece. The half-light of the chamber seemed to give more authenticity to the battle scene. Jack had not seen many paintings in his life, and most of them were of men and women standing around in rooms looking like they wanted either to drink tea or break into a ballroom waltz.

  This painting was different. The firebird was a bright, flaming creature arcing across the sky. It seemed almost alive.

  Mr da Vinci knew a thing or two about painting.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘There is something else.’

  ‘Another picture?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Something that may provide us with a lead.’

  A writing pad lay on one of the lower shelves. None of them had noticed it before because of the gloom.

  Mr Doyle picked up the pad. ‘I think we need to examine this properly.’

  They exited to the main parlour. Mr Doyle held the first page up to the light and threw on his goggles. He activated the magnification switch. ‘I can make out some impressions. They appear to be an address, a date and a time. Scarlet, could you assist me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mr Doyle continued to peer at the page. ‘A pencil should bring out the impression on this piece of stationery.’

  Scarlet sneezed.

  ‘Bless you, my dear,’ Mr Doyle said.

  ‘It’s turned right cold,’ Jack said.

  ‘It has rather, hasn’t it?’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Is the front door open?’

  They turned to see a figure in the doorway. He wore a long ebony cloak with a high-backed collar that shielded most of his face. The rest of his clothing was unremarkable: black pants, white shirt and red vest, a charcoal slouch hat pulled low across his brow. Only upon closer examination did Jack realise he was not looking at a human face but at a porcelain mask.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The mask was perfect in every detail. It was not a handsome face. Nor was it ugly. It had a plain nose. The lips were ordinary. At a glance, it looked like any other face on the street. Slits in the porcelain would allow sight and speech, but the mask would have allowed the wearer to blend with any crowd. He was hidden in plain sight.

  ‘Give me that!’ he said.

  The man had a gravel voice. He did not wait for a reply. Instead, he moved like lightning, crashing into Mr Doyle and grabbing the page. The detective fell to the floor as the assailant turned and ran.

  ‘The paper!’ Mr Doyle yelled. ‘We must not lose it!’

  Jack gave chase. The assailant headed down the stairs two and three at a time. Jack matched him step for step.

  He’s so fast, he marvelled. The man moved like an athlete as he reached the bottom and sprinted towards the street.

  Outside, Jack saw the thief moving at great speed. The storm had now broken and the rain fell in a mighty downpour. Jack splashed through enormous puddles, spraying water in all directions. The man raced through a tunnel ahead. An old drunk wandering in the opposite direction got in his way and the thief gave him a shove, sending him flying.

  Jack willed himself to run faster. The thief had assaulted Mr Doyle and the detective had been so kind. Now he had to repay that kindness.

  The thief raced up a set of stairs. Jack followed him. The stairs led up to a railway platform. The thief pushed his way through a crowd recently disembarked from a train. A whistle sounded up and down the platform.

  No! The train was due to depart!

  Jack would not make it through the gate in time. He only had one chance. Building up speed, he sprinted towards the metal railing. With a single leap, he pulled himself over the top and landed lightly on the other side, just as the automatic steam-powered doors of the locomotive slid shut.

  Blooming hell!

  A station attendant yelled at him, but Jack ignored him as he ran towards the train. It was a Vincent 700 locomotive, a new class that could carry up to a thousand passengers. Steam and smoke billowed out from underneath as it started to pull away from the station. Jack raced to the nearest set of sliding doors.

  Landing on the narrow ledge, he pulled hard at one of the handles and the door drew back a few inches. It shut again—steam pistons and cogs were designed to keep the doors closed during transit. He pulled back on the handle with all his might and this time it opened enough for him to push his shoulder into the gap.

  Open up!

  Calloused fingers gripped the edge of the door. ‘What’re you up to, mate?’

  A big factory worker, clad in blackened overalls and a cap, jerked the door open, allowing Jack to spill into the vestibule. ‘In a bit of an ’urry?’

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  Breathing hard from the chase, Jack stumbled past the man and peered down the aisle. He was in second class. Rows of brass-trimmed timber seats, decorated in blue-and-red floral upholstery, faced each other all the way down the carriage. His heart pounding, Jack navigated the aisle.

  What would he do when he saw the man? Grab him? Try to wrestle him to the floor? What a ridiculous idea. Maybe he could cause a ruckus. Tell everyone about the theft and start yelling for someone to call a constable. Jack swallowed hard. Would they believe a kid, or would they think he was crazy?

  A door slammed shut behind him.

  Jack spun around. The thief stood at the far end of the carriage. His blank face communicated nothing, but seeing Jack he took a step back.

  Do something, Jack told himself.

  But instead of launching into some sort of daring plan that would bring the villain down, Jack found himself gazing dumbly at the man. An instant later the thief turned and disappeared.

  Bazookas! Jack cursed himself. I’m an idiot!

  Jack raced after him. A woman started to rise from her seat and Jack tumbled into her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he grunted.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Jack hurried on. He reached the end, slid the door across and stepp
ed onto the open walkway leading to the next carriage. The path, made from metal planks, swayed as the locomotive screamed along the track. Jack gripped the chain-link handrail on both sides for balance as he crossed. He stumbled into the vestibule of the next carriage just as the thief disappeared through the far door.

  Too late. Again.

  Jack sprinted down the aisle, surprised faces staring after him. He was halfway across the swaying gangway leading to the next carriage when the door opposite him flew open. A fist appeared out of nowhere and slammed into his eye. Jack cried out, dazed, and fell against the chain handrail. His assailant grabbed the seat of his pants.

  ‘No!’ he screamed. But the rattling of the steam engine swallowed his cry as he was tipped headfirst over the edge.

  He grabbed blindly. One hand caught the base of the metal bridge as his assailant escaped, banging the carriage door behind him. Jack brought his knees up to his chin. As he reached up with his other hand, he began to slip.

  No!

  His other hand grabbed the gangway and for a long moment nothing else existed—not the chuffing of the engine, not even the thunderous rattling as the train charged along the tracks at full pace.

  I will hold on, he thought. I will not fall. I will be all right.

  His head may have believed it, but his heart was still pounding so hard it felt ready to burst from his chest. He glanced upwards. His hands were secure. Jack judged the distance to the swaying handrail and reached up with his free hand. When he knew his grip was steady, he pulled himself back onto the metal gangway.

  He was alive. But he had forgotten how to breathe. Now he sucked in lungfuls of air as his legs threatened to collapse under him. He thanked his parents, wherever they were.

  ‘Practise, practise, practise,’ his father had told him. ‘One day it will save your life.’

  Today was that day.

  Jack slid the door open. His legs were still shaking as if he was staggering about on stilts, but he was more determined than ever to catch the assailant. Looking across the rows of timber seats, Jack spotted the man, sitting alone in the seat furthest away, the porcelain face effectively hiding his identity. He was staring straight ahead into space, seemingly contemplating his cleverness at throwing a fourteen-year-old boy under the wheels of a moving train. As Jack entered the carriage, the man’s head jerked backwards with shock.