by Darrell Pitt
‘Are you sure?’ Mr Doyle queried. ‘My friend who comes here buys it in sheets double this size.’
‘Not from us.’
‘Aren’t you the only paper shop that carries this brand?’
‘We are. It is made by a small company in Somerset and we are their sole outlet.’
‘Then how could someone acquire a piece bigger than this?’
‘Only from the manufacturer,’ Mr DeGroot said genially.
‘Are you sure?’
Mr DeGroot frowned. ‘I have been in this business for fifty-three years. I may be old, but I know paper. If your friend has sheets of Cambershire Royal larger than this, then they purchased it directly from the maker.’
‘Would you be able to give me the name of the maker?’
The old gentleman smiled. ‘I’m afraid that would not be good for my business, would it?’
Mr Doyle slid a ten-pound note onto the counter. ‘Would this improve your business?’
The man shrugged. ‘It’s been a slow day.’ He wrote down an address. ‘They’re located in a town called Moll’s Pond. They’re not hard to find.’
‘Thank you,’ Jack said.
‘A pleasure doing business with you, good people.’
Mr Doyle led the others from the shop. ‘This is a stroke of luck. The maker may lead us to M.’
‘Mr Doyle,’ Scarlet said. ‘I do believe you bribed that man.’
‘Did I?’
‘I have become the consort of a scoundrel!’ she said, smiling.
The Lion’s Mane was sailing over the city in minutes. Jack watched London as the houses became fewer and the fields more numerous. The roads out of the city were choked with traffic.
‘Busy down there,’ Jack said.
Mr Doyle peered at the landscape. ‘The prime minister must have ordered his evacuation.’
‘Will everyone leave?’ Scarlet asked.
‘Most people will. But not everyone will believe a threat exists.’
‘Even if the warning comes from the prime minister?’
Mr Doyle shrugged. ‘Who would think a single bomb could destroy an entire city?’
Jack was overwhelmed with sadness. ‘I’m sure Mr da Vinci did not intend this to happen.’
‘It is a shame the Phoenix Society developed their inventions in secret,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Knowledge should be shared. Their efforts have perverted the course of human history. Everything has got jumbled up.’
Scarlet peered back at the mighty steam-powered city. ‘I wonder where we would be if the Phoenix Society had never existed.’
Ignatius Doyle nodded. ‘A single drop of water in a pond can cause ripples in an entire waterway. Who can calculate the effects of the Phoenix Society? I would never have imagined a power source greater than steam.’
‘Like that electrical energy?’ Jack said. ‘That’ll never catch on.’
‘It looked very dangerous,’ Mr Doyle agreed.
They continued across the landscape as Mr Doyle consulted charts. He made calculations using a compass and sextant, and aimed the airship towards a small town to the south-west.
Mr Doyle brought the vessel into land outside the town. He tied the ropes of the airship to a fence around a field filled with cows. Jack was alarmed to see the cows were the oversized variety developed by the Darwinists. They looked more like rhinos than milk-producing bovines.
‘I’m sure they don’t bite,’ Scarlet said to Jack, seeing the worried look on his face.
‘They don’t need to,’ he said. ‘They can swallow you whole.’
A passing boy stopped to stare. He appeared to be about ten years old with red hair and freckles. He wore farming clothes.
‘What’s your name?’ Mr Doyle asked him.
‘Toby.’
‘Have you ever seen an airship close up before?’
‘No.’ He stared in wonder at the balloon. ‘It’s big!’
‘Would you care to make some money, young man?’
Toby nodded, turning his foot in the dirt.
‘Could you keep an eye on our flying machine?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘Yes.’
‘A farthing now,’ Mr Doyle offered, handing Toby the coin. ‘And a farthing when we return.’
They walked the short distance into town. The village of Moll’s Pond was a tiny affair; Jack found it difficult to believe it even rated a mention on the map. Three or four streets cut across the main road. There were a few shops—a general store, a baker, a butcher and a pub on the corner. Terrace houses squeezed together until they came to an abrupt halt where the roads met farms bordering the town.
Altogether, Jack thought, a tiny village in the middle of nowhere.
‘Do you think M is here? It seems too quiet for someone like him.’
‘You don’t think master criminals live in small towns?’ Mr Doyle smiled. ‘I imagine Moll’s Pond represents only one strand of M’s empire.’
‘M may be masquerading as a respected member of this community,’ Scarlet mused. ‘He may even be the local parson. I will fix him with a fierce stare if we see him.’
‘And if he’s not M?’ Jack asked.
‘You may say I am your demented sister and he should excuse my behaviour.’
They followed a winding street to a home at the far end. A barn and a water mill lay beyond it. As they drew close, Jack could hear the sound of the water and a clanking from within the mill. Mr Doyle checked his weapon, but left it in his pocket.
The door to the mill lay open. It was very noisy. Three men laboured in different areas. One of them filled boxes. Another cut paper with a huge guillotine. The third, a tall man with fair hair, adjusted a control on the side of a huge machine.
The mechanism was a marvel of complexity. A tub of liquid, containing a slurry mixture of wood pulp, fed in at one end. The pulp was pressed and dried with steamers and smoothed out into sheets that were excreted at the other end.
‘It’s a type of Fourdrinier machine,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘It has a wet end where the pulp enters, the section in the middle where it is pressed, a drier section and a calendar section that completes the process.’
Jack was not so interested in the workings of the device. ‘Are those M’s men?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Mr Doyle answered. ‘Let’s find out.’
Mr Doyle waved his hand and the blonde man lifted his head. He finished what he was doing and crossed to them.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked.
‘I’m looking for Professor M,’ Mr Doyle announced. ‘Is he here?’
Jack and Scarlet almost fell over with shock at the brazen question, but the man stared at them blankly.
‘Who?’
‘Professor M.’
‘Never heard of him,’ he said.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes, sir. Don’t know the man.’
‘Are you the owner?’
‘No, I’m Tom Wilson. I manage the factory.’
‘Who is the owner? I was told it was M.’
‘This place is owned by Mr Bezel.’
‘Can you describe him?’
Wilson shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen him. He lives up at the manor house in Mossley. Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve come from London,’ Mr Doyle explained. ‘I run a publishing company. We love your paper.’
‘Which one?’
‘Which publishing company?’
‘No. Which paper?’
‘The Cambershire Royal,’ Mr Doyle told him.
‘Aye, that’s a good product. Our best. Might be a bit expensive for publishing, though.’
‘Could I see a sheet?’
Tom Wilson led them to a bench where reams of paper were stacked. He selected a sheet and handed it to Mr Doyle. The detective shot Jack and Scarlet a look. The piece was the same size as the notes from M.
‘This is larger than I usually see,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘We trim it before we ship it out,’ the man explained.<
br />
‘Strange. I’m sure I’ve seen this size of sheet somewhere else.’
‘Wouldn’t be ours,’ Wilson said. ‘We supply to no-one but DeGroots.’
‘Are you sure? Couldn’t you fellows take some home if you wanted? I don’t see a lot of security here.’
Tom Wilson’s face turned red. ‘What are you accusing me of?’ he spluttered. ‘Are you saying I’m stealing?’
‘Not at all.’ Mr Doyle adopted a conciliatory tone. ‘Now that I think about it, the page I saw was a little darker. My apologies for the misunderstanding.’
Tom Wilson gave a curt nod. ‘That’s fine, sir.’
‘How do I find the Bezel estate? It’s in Mossley, you say.’
‘It is,’ Tom Wilson said. ‘The name on the gate is Featherwick. It’s at the far end of town. A large house on a big estate surrounded by pine trees. A bit rundown.’
‘You’ve never been there?’
‘No, the postman told me about it.’
‘Thank you for your assistance. I’m not sure I can spare the time to see Mr Bezel. We are just passing through.’
Mr Doyle bade him farewell and they departed. Jack glanced behind them as they made their way down the street. No-one was following.
‘What do you make of all that, team?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘I don’t think those men are involved,’ Jack said. ‘They just seem to be workers in the factory.’
‘They don’t seem to be evildoers at all,’ said Scarlet, sounding disappointed.
‘I agree,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Possibly some pilfering is going on, but if we follow Ockham’s Razor...’
‘Whose razor?’ Jack asked.
‘A Franciscan friar, Father William of Ockham, in the fourteenth century said that when selecting competing hypotheses pick the one with the fewest new assumptions.’
‘Mr Doyle.’ Even Scarlet appeared perplexed. ‘Are you speaking a foreign language?’
He laughed. ‘Think of it this way: the simplest explanation is often the correct one.’
‘That I understand,’ Jack said. ‘I think.’
‘The solutions in mystery novels are often quite complex,’ Scarlet said. ‘The killer turned out to be a zebra with an icicle in one of the Brinkie Buckeridge books.’
‘Really?’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I’ll make a point of frisking any zebras I encounter, just in case...’
They returned to the Lion’s Mane. Toby had fallen asleep at the foot of the suspended airship. Mr Doyle smiled and woke him.
‘Not asleep on the job, I hope?’
‘No, sir.’ Toby jumped up.
Mr Doyle handed him a coin. ‘Thank you for your help, young man. I’ll use your services again if I return this way.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The team climbed into the airship. A minute later it was airborne, and they drifted away from Toby and Moll’s Pond. Jack and Scarlet gave the boy a final wave.
Mr Doyle spent a few minutes checking their direction. ‘Should be there shortly. I intend to land a little east of Mossley.’
‘So M doesn’t know we’re on our way?’ Jack said.
‘More or less.’ Mr Doyle reached across to a drawer and produced a sheet of paper. ‘I’d appreciate your thoughts on this.’
The page was stained with a bloody handprint. Jack asked Mr Doyle how he came across it.
‘I found this at the crime scene where Paul Harker and the soldiers were killed.’
‘So this is the killer’s handprint?’
‘I believe so,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘It’s a small hand, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ Scarlet agreed.
‘What do you think of this?’ Mr Doyle pointed at a few compacted lines running across a finger. They puzzled over it.
‘It looks strange,’ Jack said.
‘Could it be a deformity?’ Scarlet wondered. ‘Or a scar?’
‘Possibly,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We shall see.’
The detective returned to the bridge. The ship coasted over a large field before he brought it in to land among some trees. After securing it, Mr Doyle led them over a fence and they followed a lane around the northern edge of the town.
Thick pine trees bordered a large property half a mile from the village. A rusted metal gate, set into sandstone posts, closed off the access road from the lane. The name Featherwick appeared faintly on brass plaques on both sides of the iron gates. Elm trees lined the driveway. Mr Doyle stopped, studying the terrain.
‘We will climb over here,’ he said.
‘What if someone’s home?’ Jack asked.
‘That is unlikely,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Look here.’
He pointed to the earth road.
‘I don’t see anything,’ Jack said, crouching to examine the ground.
‘Exactly. It last rained in this part of the country two days ago and no tracks lead into the estate.’
‘Of course,’ Jack said.
‘Why did I not realise that?’ Scarlet asked.
‘Don’t feel badly,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘First we learn to see. Then we learn to observe.’
They climbed over the fence and followed the road. A bullfinch sang somewhere in the undergrowth. The sun lay low in the sky and the first chill of night seemed to grip the air. Time was running out. M had told them he would detonate the bomb at midnight.
Jack listened for sounds of movement from around the estate, but heard nothing. The driveway curved towards an old manor house. Some of the windows were broken.
‘We’d best knock on the door,’ Mr Doyle said.
He gripped the knocker and banged it three times. A minute passed. He knocked again and the building remained silent.
‘Let’s go around the back,’ Mr Doyle suggested.
They rounded the house. Jack saw more of the windows were cracked. A pane was smashed on the first floor. It was deserted.
‘Doesn’t look like Professor M’s a very good housekeeper,’ Scarlet said.
‘Too busy being a criminal, I imagine.’
Reaching the rear door, Mr Doyle gripped the handle. It didn’t budge. Through the window they could see a dusty kitchen.
‘We need to look inside.’ Mr Doyle turned to Jack. ‘Do you have your lock pick with you?’
Jack handed it over.
‘I’ll teach you later how to operate this device. It’s really very clever.’ Mr Doyle inserted the tool into the lock and swivelled it around, but after a moment he withdrew the implement. ‘Now that’s odd.’
‘You can’t open it?’ Jack asked.
‘No. And this device will open most locks. There’s more to this place than meets the eye.’
He stepped back and examined the windows. Then walked around the outside of the house. The downstairs windows were barred with a lock. Once again, Mr Doyle tried to unlock the front door without success.
‘I’d prefer not to break a window,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘We won’t need to,’ Jack replied. ‘I’ll climb up.’
‘I’ll follow you,’ Scarlet said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘In that dress?’
‘Perhaps not.’
Jack crossed to a vine trailing up the corner of the building. He jammed a foot into the hardy growth and started to climb. When he got to the first floor, he reached through a broken pane and unlatched the window. He pushed it upwards.
‘Be careful,’ Mr Doyle called.
‘I will,’ he promised.
He placed his knee on the sill and pulled himself into the room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw ivory-coloured wallpaper, an ornately decorated ceiling and a disused fireplace. The room was large and dry, with no furniture.
He descended the stairs, opening the back door to see Scarlet and Mr Doyle’s relieved faces.
‘This might be Mr Bezel’s home,’ Jack said. ‘But one thing’s for sure.’
‘What’s that?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘No-one lives here.’
They examined the place f
rom top to bottom. Apart from a fine layer of dust on the mantelpieces, every room was clean, and empty. There was not a single piece of furniture. The kitchen cupboards were bare.
By the time Jack and the others had finished searching, the sun sat low behind the trees and the air had turned cold. Evening birds started their song. Jack found himself shivering.
‘This is a mystery,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘The owner of the mill supposedly lives here, but the building is empty.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Too empty.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Doyle?’ Scarlet asked.
‘The fellow said the postman made visits, but there’s no evidence of it.’
‘Do you think he was lying?’
‘No. I checked the letterbox at the front gate. It appears to have been in use. No, I think this property is inhabited, but not the house.’ He held up a hand. ‘Wait! Do you hear that?’
Jack listened. He heard the chuffing of a faraway steam vehicle. ‘I think it’s getting closer.’
They escaped through the back door, pulling it shut behind them. Racing over to a clump of bushes, they hid themselves just as a steamcar came bumping along the driveway. Two men climbed from the car and spoke to each other. They were too far away to be heard. One of them crossed to the house and grabbed a piece of the stonework. A low rumble came from the ground.
A section of land about thirty feet across began to rise up from the earth. Jack stared in amazement as he realised the lawn was, in fact, the roof of a much larger structure—an enclosed metal building, the rear walls of which now faced them.
The men spoke again. One of them entered the enclosure. Jack heard the banging of a car door and then a steamtruck with a canvas-covered tray eased its way out of the garage.
‘It’s imperative that we follow the truck,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We must return to the Lion’s Mane at once.’
The other man drove the car into the garage and activated the control to sink it back into the ground.
‘They’re going to leave,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We must hurry.’
They ran down the avenue of elm trees. Climbing over the front gate, they heard the steamtruck change gears as it barrelled down the driveway behind them.
‘Quickly,’ Mr Doyle said.
They took refuge in a thick shrub just as the truck stopped at the gate. The passenger opened it, waved the vehicle through, and closed the gate again, climbing back aboard before it headed on down the road.
