The Firebird Mystery

by Darrell Pitt

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jack woke to the smell of frying food. He sat up to see Mr Doyle, already dressed, making breakfast. The galley was a small area located just behind the engine. The detective had unfolded a bench to reveal a cooktop and a small icebox. A cupboard at eye level revealed a selection of utensils. Mr Doyle pushed bacon about in a pan and cracked eggs.

  ‘Wake up, my boy,’ he said, smiling. ‘Breakfast is almost ready.’

  Jack threw his clothes on. He felt something heavy in one of his coat pockets and pulled out a wind-up duck made from tin. He sat it on the benchtop next to the hotplates.

  ‘Mr Doyle?’

  ‘Just testing your powers of observation.’

  Scarlet called from beyond the curtain. ‘Is everyone decently attired?’

  ‘We are, Scarlet,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Please enter.’

  Scarlet Bell removed the screen and appeared looking refreshed.

  ‘I’m afraid I am wearing the same clothing,’ she said.

  ‘As are we,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘But at least none of us is malodorous.’ He placed bacon and eggs onto a plate. ‘With the exception of Jack.’

  ‘Mr Doyle!’ Jack cried, but Scarlet laughed.

  They ate breakfast around the table, chatting about the events of the previous day. Once again, Jack was reminded of his parents. Life at the circus was hard, but at breakfast they could relax together and talk. After the meal, they would help the others prepare for the performances that day or practise their routines.

  Mr Doyle made no comment about their conversation regarding the war and Jack wisely did not raise the subject.

  ‘What do you think Paul Harker’s involvement is in this matter?’ Scarlet said.

  ‘It is impossible at this point to say,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘Although if we extrapolate the events from yesterday, it is fair to say his life may be in danger.’

  ‘When will we arrive at the metrotower?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Within the hour,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We are already drawing quite close.’

  They finished their meal and grouped around the bridge window. The metrotower already filled most of the glass. The structure was made of iron, stone and—of course—Terrafirma. Much of the exterior was a checker board of square windows and brass cross struts, but these were separated every hundred feet or so by a band of olive-green looping.

  ‘Structurally reinforced Terrafirma,’ Mr Doyle pointed. ‘The tower wouldn’t last a minute without it.’

  Far below Jack saw power stations dotting the landscape around the base. Columns of smoke poured from them as they turned coal into steam to power the building. Along the length of the structure, airships of all shapes and sizes were arriving and departing from docks jutting like branches lopped off with shears. Reinforced Terrafirma supported the underside of the docks; the upper sections were curved glazing and brass.

  Jack had read everything he could about the two-hundred-mile-high structure: a book at the orphanage had been filled with pictures taken from the first groundbreaking ceremony to the metrotower’s completion. Measuring some twenty miles across at the base, the tower narrowed as it rose all the way into space, spanning only a mile at the top.

  It was ten thousand floors in height. Over five million people lived or worked in the building. It was said it would take a lifetime for a person to visit every single room. Jack could well believe it.

  ‘I’ve heard our metrotower is the largest of all,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘I wish that were true,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘As a matter of fact, ours has slipped some way down the list.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. One of the American towers is larger. Even the Berlin Metrotower is bigger now that the war is over and their renovations complete.’

  ‘General Churchill says the next war will be fought in space,’ Scarlet said. ‘Does that mean we are already on the back foot?’

  Jack had heard of Winston Churchill. He had been in command of the British Expeditionary Force during the war.

  A shadow crossed Mr Doyle’s face. ‘General Churchill is too zealous for battle. I would have hoped he and others would have learnt their lessons. Mr Kitchener is rather more circumspect,’ he continued. ‘However, I must agree that airships made all the difference in the Great War. I imagine dominance over space will, in fact, decide the next.’ He turned away from the window. ‘Jack, would you be so kind as to wash the dishes? I will prepare our docking procedure.’

  Jack made quick work of the washing up before joining Scarlet and Mr Doyle back on the bridge. They peered through the window as the detective adjusted their angle of approach. It seemed for some time they would never arrive. Features that were indistinct from a distance became more detailed. Rivets the size of men grew recognisable. Above them they saw clouds enshrouding the upper levels. Through gaps in the haze the metrotower continued upwards and out of sight.

  ‘How do we find Paul Harker?’ Jack asked. He wondered how they would ever locate anyone in such an enormous building.

  ‘We’ll land and take an elevator. Paul Harker is famous. No doubt the operator will know his location.’

  ‘The tower must require huge resources,’ Scarlet said, peering at the distant ground below.

  ‘Not as many as you might think. Airships deliver some supplies, but much of the tower is self-sufficient.’

  ‘In what way?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘Water is collected from the storms and rain showers that regularly drench the exterior. There are even farms on a number of floors.’

  ‘It makes one wonder why anyone would ever leave.’

  ‘Some people don’t,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Some are born on the tower and never depart.’

  Jack tried to imagine what it would be like to live inside the metrotower for his entire life. It sounded like jail. ‘That would be terrible,’ he murmured.

  Mr Doyle shot him a smile. ‘Not everyone shares your love of adventure, Jack.’ He looked out the window. ‘Here we are, almost ready to land.’

  The Lion’s Mane edged closer to the tower. A number of larger vessels were being directed to nearby moorings. Mr Doyle steered towards a line of smaller airships. Each ship approached a different branch of the protruding dock. The flat end irised open and the airship disappeared inside. After a time, the dock opened and the vessel departed.

  ‘Some aristocrats have their own docking bays,’ Mr Doyle said.

  ‘I do not believe in class structure,’ Scarlet said, tightening her fist. ‘One day I hope there will be no such distinctions.’

  Mr Doyle gave her a look of mock astonishment. ‘Not only a suffragette, but a follower of Mr Marx.’

  ‘I do not follow the teachings of Mr Marx,’ Scarlet said. ‘I merely believe, as the Americans do, that all are created equal.’

  ‘I agree,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We are created equal. A shame we do not live as such. Ah, here we are. Time to dock.’

  The previous vessel had just flown away. The hatch opened and Mr Doyle brought them into land. A man in what appeared to be a lightweight diving outfit stood outside, signalling them to remain stationary until the outer doors had closed.

  As the hatch shut, he held up a sign. It read: One minute until interior heating completed.

  They waited. Finally he gave them a thumbs-up sign. Mr Doyle jammed on his bowler hat and they climbed out. The docking bay was freezing, despite the warm air being pumped in. Jack’s legs were like jelly. Scarlet stumbled against him and his heart rose up into his throat as she clasped his shoulder.

  ‘Pardon me, Jack,’ Scarlet said. ‘I have jelly legs.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He felt rather sorry when she released him.

  ‘It’s like being on a ship for long periods,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘We’re already used to the sway of the Lion’s Mane.’

  The dockhand put up the visor on his helmet. ‘Do you have a private mooring here, sir?’

  ‘I have a place put aside for me on the King�
�s level.’

  The dockhand checked his roster. ‘Mr Doyle, is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We’ll look after your vessel,’ he said. ‘It will be on Level 124 when you need it.’

  ‘Where do we go from here? We are seeking the elevators.’

  ‘Just follow the corridor through to the internal hub,’ the dockhand said. ‘From there you can go to any part of the tower.’

  The trio went down the passageway, passed through two more acclimatisation doors and found themselves in a chamber not unlike the concourse of a railway station. The ceiling was a cloister dome reaching almost a hundred feet above their heads. A mural of trumpet vine flowers decorated it. The walls were red brick interspersed with imitation windows to give the illusion the viewer was looking out.

  Men and women came and went in all directions. Jack had never seen such a group of well-dressed people. Men wore dark frock coats and chequered trousers. Most of them had top hats or bowlers. Some carried canes. The women were more prettily dressed—the majority wore pinstripe walking skirts and blouses. Their hats were something to behold, most a mass of feathers or bows. Some were both.

  Luggage porters shifted bags from one place to another.

  ‘There’s the Duchess of Derbyshire,’ Scarlet said. ‘And the Baroness of Essex.’

  ‘I thought you were not impressed by class distinction,’ Mr Doyle said, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I simply like the fashion,’ she said. ‘They say what is worn in the London Metrotower in the morning dresses those on the city streets in the afternoon.’

  They exited the terminal into a corridor leading to a market. Apart from the enclosed walls and ceiling above, the market could have been anywhere in London. The floors were lined with cobblestones. Steamcars trundled along the streets. Even a horse-drawn buggy carried sightseers through the heart of the market. Terraced structures ringed the outer edge.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Jack said, peering upwards. The roof had been painted blue with a mural of billowing clouds. ‘It’s easy to forget you’re inside a building.’

  ‘You can see why some people never leave the tower,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘This is their whole world.’

  They followed signage down a street, walking a few blocks until they reached a series of circular structures that ran from the floor to the roof. Mr Doyle explained these were the elevator tubes. There were many from which to pick.

  ‘First class, second class and passenger carriages,’ Mr Doyle pointed. ‘And then we have express and all stations.’

  They’re like trains, Jack thought. Except they move up and down.

  Mr Doyle directed them to the first-class sections. He showed his card as they passed through a barrier.

  ‘Mr Harker is expecting us,’ Mr Doyle told the operator.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ the man replied. ‘Please follow me.’

  He led them to a rather luxurious elevator at the rear of first class. The doors opened to reveal an attendant wearing a suit and an interior clad in mahogany. Gold-leaf trimmings decorated the ceiling. Mirrors lined the three walls.

  ‘Bazookas,’ Jack said. ‘This room is probably worth more than half the houses in London.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘The Harker residence, please.’

  The elevator attendant hit a button and a moment later the cabin started to ascend. Jack tried to imagine the mechanics involved in raising the contraption through the building, cogs and gears and shafts pushing and pulling to make the thing rise, all being driven by steam power. His mind whirled.

  ‘Must take a long time to reach the top,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘Several hours,’ the operator replied.

  ‘And you would have to change elevators many times to reach it,’ Mr Doyle remarked.

  ‘Very true, sir. If you were to travel by elevator all the way from the ground to the top, you would change elevators sixteen times. A single elevator could not easily travel that distance.’

  ‘Is power the problem?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘Not at all. There would be too much friction along the curvature.’

  ‘Friction along the curvature?’ Scarlet repeated.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ the man said. ‘I’m not sure a lady would understand.’

  Jack stifled a smile as Scarlet pursed her lips.

  ‘Perhaps you could try,’ she said.

  ‘The metrotower is built to withstand tremendous forces,’ the man explained, oblivious to Scarlet’s anger. ‘The structure sways to cater for the velocity of the wind. If it were rigidly built, it would shatter and collapse.’

  ‘The Chinese have a saying for that,’ Scarlet said. ‘The strongest branch is the one that bends in the wind.’

  ‘Here we are.’ The elevator came to a halt and the operator announced, ‘The Harker residence.’

  Mr Doyle gave him a tip and they exited to a reception area. Two uniformed security men stood at either side of a door, while a woman sat at a desk with a typewriter before her. A model of one of the space steamers filled the centre of the room.

  Jack could not stop himself. He raced over to the side of the enormous replica.

  ‘It’s the Victory!’ he cried.

  Jack had read a lot about the Victory. The largest space steamer ever constructed, it was the pride of the British space fleet. It measured half a mile in length and was coloured bronze above what would have traditionally been the water line, and green below. The Victory resembled any other battleship, except the main deck was free of protuberances barring its long, flat bridge. It was here that the ship’s only windows were visible; these were like a pair of eyes peering out from under a cap.

  The base of the Victory was flat and its bow was sharp. One hundred and fifty guns ran down each side of the ship in rows of three. These were exposed in the model, but Jack knew that square hatches closed them off in normal flight. Mighty engines fired steam from underneath and behind to propel it through space. Its boilers alone were larger than the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. The prime minister had nicknamed it ‘Death Afloat’. It was easy to see why.

  The secretary looked up from her desk. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We need to see Mr Harker,’ Mr Doyle said.

  The girl wrinkled her brow. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘There was no time to make an appointment. It’s an issue of grave concern.’

  ‘Mr Harker is very busy at the moment,’ the girl said. She leafed through an appointment book. ‘He might be able to fit you in some time in July.’

  ‘That’s five months away,’ Scarlet snapped. ‘We have already told you this is a matter of life and death.’

  The two guards approached the desk from their position at the door.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ one of them said. ‘We can’t have any threats made here.’

  ‘I’m not making a threat,’ Scarlet said, glaring at them. ‘But we have reason to believe Mr Harker’s life may be at risk.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  ‘We have not,’ Mr Doyle said. He reached into his coat and took out a card. ‘Please give my card to Mr Harker. It’s very important.’

  The door opened behind the guards. An attractive woman in her mid-thirties stepped through. Her face wore a perpetual frown. She had short black hair and piercing grey eyes, and was dressed in an ebony bustle skirt and white blouse. She rounded the desk and took the card from Mr Doyle’s hand.

  ‘Ignatius Doyle,’ she read in a voice as clear as a flute. ‘Consulting detective. I appreciate your efforts, but any information you have must be forwarded to the police.’

  Jack had listened to enough twaddle. ‘Mr Doyle is better than the police. You should listen to him.’

  ‘Better than the police?’ An amused smile danced across her lips. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘My dear,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘You should keep an open mind. You are, after all, well travelled, having been to Europe in the last few mo
nths.’

  The woman’s jaw dropped. ‘But how…how did you…?’

  ‘You were born into a poor household, but its wealth increased as you grew older. You were raised by your father. He tried to teach you the finer details of being a lady, but you rebelled. You sewed for a number of years, but you did poorly and hated it. You also danced as a child. You did better as a dancer, but you enjoyed the sciences, specifically chemistry. You are in good shape; you enjoy the new fad of running. I imagine you picked it up while you were overseas.’

  By now the woman was speechless.

  ‘Having said all that, your real love is music—the violin, to be precise. You are a lady of leisure—your father having done very well later in life—but you have high aspirations.’ Mr Doyle stroked his chin. ‘And one last thing. You were in love, but it ended badly. I’m sorry, my dear.’

  An expression of fury flashed across the woman’s face. She swallowed hard as she struggled to suppress her emotion.

  Mr Doyle took a step closer to the woman. ‘My dear, will you let us speak to Mr Harker? I promise you it is extremely important—his life may depend on it.’

  The woman looked down at the card and sighed. ‘Follow me.’

  She crossed to the door and opened it. They strode along a passage that led to the outer edge of the tower. Jack looked out the window and felt dizzy. He had lived on the trapeze for most of his life yet he had never seen anything like this. Neither had the others. Even Scarlet seemed transfixed by the sight of miles and miles of countryside receding into the distance. Jack could see the coastline where it met the channel. He could even see France!

  ‘You can see the entire continent from the top,’ the woman said.

  They entered a large living area with books lining the walls, while more shelves of books were found in the middle of the floor. A curving staircase led up to a mezzanine. A slim man in a black suit and tie appeared at the top of the stairs and scowled at them.

  ‘Explain yourself, sir,’ he said as he started down the stairs.

  Jack realised the man must be Paul Harker. He reminded Jack of a lion—moving, even, as if he were king of the jungle. Aged about sixty, Paul Harker had receding white hair, parted on one side, and wore a neat moustache and a beard that came to a point. Jack had seen a few sepia pictures of the famous astronaut, but Harker had clearly aged since the photos were taken.