by Sean Little
Clarke’s father had always told him to let the bullies know they’d been in a fight. Even if you know you’re going to get beat bad, you send one of ‘em home with a reminder of where they’ve been. Fighting seemed to be his only chance. Clarke suddenly wished he’d had the foresight to grab Rat-Face’s knife. The trio of thugs approached slowly. They had him cut off. He couldn’t run around them. He couldn’t run through them. All three grinned like sharks about to feed. Clarke was truly stuck.
“Good afternoon, fellas!” Clarke hailed them putting on his biggest, cheesiest grin. “Terrific weather we’ve been having.”
“We got someone who wants to see you,” said the middle thug. “Says you ain’t got no choice. He said not to rough you up too much, unless you didn’t want to come quiet-like.”
“Well, tell him to call my social secretary and make an appointment. I believe I have some openings for lunch after Cotillion.”
“He says you ain’t got no choice,” repeated the middle thug.
Clarke made a theatrical sigh. “Fellas, I consider myself much more a lover than a fighter.”
“Not what he says,” Middle Thug said. “He says you were something of a warrior of legend back in the day.”
“Emphasis on ‘back in the day,’ I’m afraid,” said Clarke. “It’s been years since those days, and I’ve been rather content to let them go.”
“You can come quietly or we can make you quiet,” said Left Thug. “Your choice.” His voice was surprisingly high-pitched. Perhaps he was a eunuch.
“Hit him!”
Clarke and the thugs all froze. The voice had come seemingly from the aether.
“Sock him!” the voice called again.
The thugs looked behind them. There was no one on the roof. Clarke heard the steady chk-chk-chk of an engine. It seemed to be coming from above them. Clarke looked up and saw the massive body of a long, steel-gray zeppelin moving toward him, dropping out of the sky slowly as gigantic steam engines powered its steering propellers. In the gondola suspended beneath, a middle-aged man in a bright red woolen officer’s coat was leaning over a railing and yelling through a megaphone. “Punch him, man! For god’s sakes, if I was your age I wouldn’t need to be told this!”
The thugs saw where Clarke was looking. All three looked up and gaped at the zeppelin. It took Clarke the span of a second to realize the man in the zeppelin was providing a distraction for him. He snatched the sap out of the hand of left thug while simultaneously delivering a vicious punch to the man’s throat. He whirled in a half-circle and glanced the sap off the middle thug’s temple. The thug fell face-forward. The right thug tried to catch him by instinct, and that was all the time Clarke needed to clobber Right Thug square on the point of his jaw with the sap. Three men down. Two unconscious, one incapacitated and spitting blood. Not bad for a moment’s worth of work.
The zeppelin was nearing. The man on the railing kicked a coiled rope ladder over the side. It fell quickly, unfurling as it did. “Climb up!” shouted the man. “I’ll have tea waiting!” Without waiting for a response, the man opened a door and disappeared inside the gondola.
Clarke could have escaped then. The man in the zeppelin was clearly not interested in abducting him, only providing him an escape. The men in front of him had tried to abduct him and failed. What was to keep him from running down the fire escape and heading straight to the train station? He had enough money in his pocket to get out of Philadelphia. However, it wasn’t as if strange men in zeppelins dropped out of the sky and offered him a ride every day. Maybe he could finagle a ride to Ohio or Indiana, maybe the Kansas territory if he was lucky.
The rope ladder was swaying temptingly in the breeze, almost fluttering toward him. When it came within his grasp, Clarke hesitated for a half-second, and then grabbed it. He stepped into the rungs and the zeppelin turned skyward, climbing out of the steamsmog of Philadelphia and into the clean evening sky above. Clarke hurried up the ladder. At the edge of the gondola’s exterior walkway, a tuxedo-clad butler offered Clarke a hand to help him up the tricky transition from rope ladder to solid path.
“His Lordship awaits you in the study,” said the butler in thick British accent.
“You have a study on a zeppelin?”
“His Lordship only travels in the utmost of comfort,” said the butler. “Please, follow me.”
The butler led Clarke out of the windy evening and into the warm, luxurious confines of the gondola. It was a long, lavishly decorated compartment. Two pilots steered the airship from a small cockpit at the front of the gondola, but beyond that was a heavily furnished apartment with small bedrooms in the rear that could comfortably sleep several people.
The butler walked through a main room, decorated with a gaming table, small dining area, and a sitting area with plush wing chairs, to a narrow hallway beyond it. The whole apartment was adorned with drape and velvet, rich textures and deep colors. It was one of the finest rooms that Clarke had ever been allowed to enter. At the first door of the hallway, the butler paused, knocked twice, and opened the door. “Mr. Nicodemus Clarke is here to see you, sir.”
“Excellent! Show him in! Show him in!” the man’s voice was jovial and energetic.
“How did you know my name?” asked Clarke. The butler said nothing and stared straight ahead with dead eyes.
The butler stepped aside and Clarke walked into a study with couches, a roll-top desk stuffed with maps and letters, and several bookcases with all the books anchored to their shelves with cables drawn across their spines to prevent them from falling if the zeppelin had to make evasive maneuvers. The walls were wallpapered a deep green with little fleur-de-lis adornments scattered evenly over the paper. Thick velvet curtains were drawn back from a small porthole window with golden cords. The floor was carpeted in dark brown with small-napped shag.
At a pair of chairs separated by a small coffee table, the man in the red wool coat was pouring tea from a fine porcelain pot into matching teacups. “Sugar? Lemon? Something stronger than tea, perhaps?”
“Lemon is fine. Coffee is better, if you have it.”
“I most certainly do not!” the man’s voice was sharp, but still friendly. “Coffee is the drink of odorous, backwoods, uncultured heathens and Americans—which some would argue are quite similar in nature. We drink the drink of civilized folk on my ship, the drink that fueled an empire. Tea it will be.”
“Tea is fine,” said Clarke. “Thanks for the rescue.”
“Oh, it was nothing at all,” said the man. “I was looking for you anyhow. Those were my men you escaped from, you know. I had sent them to find you. You did me a great favor by being on that rooftop. It saved me the hassle of parking my ship at the aerodrome and taking a cab to find you.” The man picked up the two cups of tea and held one out for Clarke. “Welcome to my dirigible, Endeavour.”
“Nice boat. How did you know where to find me?” asked Clarke, accepting the saucer and cup from his rescuer. The tea was rich and strong. It was a finer quality brew than anything he had ever tasted.
“I have eyes where I need them to be,” said the man. “I’ve been watching you for some time, Mr. Clarke.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know many things!” the man sat in a wing chair and made a barely perceptible gesture with his index finger. The butler closed the door.
Clarke felt uneasy, like he was walking into a dream. “Who are you?”
The man took a sip of tea, moistening the edge of his fine mustache with it. “My given name is Hastings, but you probably have heard me called Lord Bobbins.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Madman in the Red Coat
“I take it from your expression that you have heard of me, then?” Bobbins said. There was an amused smile on his face. It rested there easily, as if that was his permanent expression.
It was impossible not to have heard of Bobbins for a man in Clarke’s line of work. Bobbins was something of legend with wild tales of his many ex
ploits spun behind closed doors. He seemed like some sort of hero out of literary serials, a jackdaw rampant. Some stories put him as something of a heroic avenger himself, a Dumas-esque Musketeer. Others made him out to be a high-ranking lord with fingers in multiple pies and holding the ear of the royal houses in England, France, and Germany, a Machiavellian schemer. Clarke had never had the pleasure of seeing him before, but he’d been in a few places shortly after Bobbins had been there and had done some mop-up work.
“Heard some things, I guess” said Clarke playing close to the vest. “Tall tales, mostly.”
“Tall tales? Me? My dear fellow, I abhor tall tales. If you heard a tale with me involved, I assure you that it was most certainly true.”
Clarke rolled his eyes. “You went to the center of the Earth?”
“Dreadful place.”
“Under the sea?”
“Much too damp for my liking.”
“The moon?” Clarke arched an eyebrow.
Bobbins deflected deftly. “We could discuss my travels until we were both blue in the face. I’ve invited you here for more important matters. I’ve been keeping tabs on you, and I think perhaps that I might have an offer you cannot refuse, Nicodemus Clarke.”
Clarke set the teacup and saucer on the low table in front of him. “How in the blazes do you know my name? And how did your butler know my name? It’s a little disconcerting to have you show up literally out of the clear blue and start talking to me like our fathers were old friends.”
Bobbins frowned slightly. “I never met your father, I’m afraid. If he was anything like you, I’ll bet he was a pistol!”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Bobbins set his cup and saucer on the table next to Clarke’s. He rose from his chair and walked to the roll-top desk, rifling through papers and files for a moment. Selecting a thin file of paper, Bobbins sat back in his chair, withdrew a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez from a pocket in his coat, and perched them on the end of his nose. “You are Nicodemus Clarke, born in Virginia, raised in West Virginia. Father deceased. Mother: unknown.”
“She left when I was a young’un. Don’t remember her,” said Clarke.
Bobbins made a noise through his nose that Clarke could not decipher. Sympathy? Apathy? Bobbins continued, “Attended a rural public school until you were thirteen. Dropped out to serve in the U.S. Army. You were formerly a scout sniper with the 141st Blues Brigade. After the war, you became a mercenary of sorts. Some missions with England. Some with the Germans. Then a stint in the French Foreign Legion! You fought with the French in the Madagascar Expedition, correct?”
“So far,” said Nicodemus. He was starting to wonder if he should have just run. Lord Bobbins knew an excessive amount about him for a foreigner.
“Your commander in Madagascar, a Captain Lafayette, recommended you to Queen Victoria herself for a mission of high secrecy.”
“I’m not allowed to comment on that,” said Clarke.
“Pssh!” Bobbins rolled his eyes. “My dear boy, whom do you think recommended you to me? Vicky and I have quite a history.”
“Are you telling me that you were one of her consorts?”
“Heavens, no. Partner in crime, yes. Consort, no. What is it about you Americans that you always jump to the worst possible outcomes? Suggest that you knew someone when you were younger and the Americans always assume that we were comparing the color of our knickers.”
Clarke felt himself blush. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”
“I’m not offended, m’boy, just shaking my head at your whole situation in America. Dreadful country, really.”
“It ain’t so bad.”
“I have to wonder why the Queen sent me here as an attaché; it makes no sense to me, but that is neither here nor there,” said Bobbins with a wave of his hand. “Back to you, Mr. Clarke.”
“Some call me ‘Demus. You’re welcome to do so, as well.”
“Mr. Clarke,” Bobbins said ignoring the offered nickname, “my sources tell me you’re a man who can get things done.”
Clarke shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Maybe I was once, but those days are in my past. I am just looking to become an honest man, get out of Philadelphia, and go someplace quiet.”
Bobbins clucked his tongue. “What a waste! If half of what Victoria told me about you is true, you’d be wasting some considerable talents.”
“I’ve seen enough and done enough. My talents are ready to be wasted.”
Bobbins leaned forward conspiratorially. “I can offer you that life, Mr. Clarke. I can get you someplace where no one will know you from Adam and you can be as anonymous as you please.”
“I’ve heard deals like this before, Mr. Bobbins,” said Clarke.
“Lord Bobbins.”
“Lord Bobbins,” Clarke corrected himself. “Usually these deals go south pretty quick. Once Party A gets what they want, then Party B is told to politely go do something that for most men is anatomically impossible.”
Bobbins squinted at Clarke. “Do you not take me for a man of his word?”
“No offense intended, Lord Bobbins—it’s just I’ve heard this sales pitch before.”
“What’s the expression you Americans like to use—is it cards on the table? Cards on the table, Mr. Clarke, I have a situation that requires someone of your ability, a situation that you might find intriguing as well.”
“Don’t you have royal marines or something like that?”
“I’m looking for someone more experienced in finer arts, someone with a strong mind who won’t run at the first sign of something going wrong.”
“That could be a lot of people,” said Clarke. “Why me, specifically?”
Bobbins took a sip of tea and a bite of a jammy dodger. He smacked his lips together then daintily dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. “Because of what happened in Madagascar.”
Clarke set down his cup and saucer and sat back in his chair. “I don’t talk about that. Did the Queen tell you what happened?”
“I read the mission report written in your own hand. You hit some very hairy times, Mr. Clarke. Most men would have given up their crew and just left them, but you managed to bring every one of them home.”
“Most of them were dead,” said Clarke. “I couldn’t save them.”
“Regardless, you showed guts and courage beyond the average men. You got bodies back to their families. Most men wouldn’t have done that.”
“Hardly courageous. I led my men into a trap and got them killed, Mr. Bobbins.”
“That’s not what Kendall Pierce said. Pierce said you all would have died if it hadn’t been for your courage. Mr. Pierce said that you stood toe-to-toe with savages and didn’t blink. That’s the kind of man I’m seeking, Mr. Clarke. I need a man who can stare into the darkness and not flinch.”
Clarke pushed himself out of his chair and walked to the small porthole window. He looked at the darkness beyond, faint pinpoints of starlight just beginning to show in the black of the night sky. “What’s the job, Mr. Bobbins?”
“Lord.”
“Mister, Lord, High Queen, Royal Fanny-spanker: It really doesn’t matter much to me. You obviously want something. I’m grateful that you saved me from some pretty unsavory types, even if they were in your employ, so I guess I’m in your debt. However, that debt will only extend to listening to your sales pitch, so we might as well cut through the horse-apples and cow-flop and get to it. What do you want?”
Bobbins inclined his head slightly as a bow of acknowledgment. “Fine, right to the point: Do you believe in ghosts?”
It came from so far afield, that Clarke hadn’t expected a question like that. “Ghosts? Like the Holy Ghosts, or specters that haunt the bedrooms of scared little boys?”
“Like the spirits of the dead, Mr. Clarke.”
“I guess I haven’t ever thought about it.”
Bobbins said, “How about curses?”
“Some would say that my whole
life has been pretty cursed.”
“Witchcraft?”
“I might. It would explain some of the women I tried to court.”
“What about lycanthropy?”
“What’s that?”
Bobbins rolled his eyes. “Werewolves. Man-rats. Men turning into beasts in the light of a full moon. That sort of thing.”
“Don’t buy it.”
“Ever seen anything you couldn’t explain?”
Clarke returned to his chair and flopped into it. “Lord Bobbins, are you questioning my sanity?”
“Quite the contrary, I’m seeing if you have an base knowledge of what I’m going to ask you to do.”
“Are we hunting werewolves?”
“We might be.”
“Might be?”
Bobbins finished his cup of tea and settled the empty cup back in its saucer. “Mr. Clarke, I’m saying that I don’t know what we might be doing, but I want someone who isn’t going to tinkle his britches if a werewolf might cross his path.”
“What are you telling me?”
Bobbins opened his hands like a card dealer showing that he wasn’t hiding chips. “I’m telling you that I might have a job you find very interesting. Now, can you tell me that you’ll show the same sort of intestinal fortitude that you showed in the Madagascar Expedition for me?”
Clarke drew in a long breath through his nose. “Mr. Bobbins—”
“Lord.”
“Lord Bobbins, you sound deranged, you know that?”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that, you know.” Bobbins reached into a paper folder and withdrew a black-and-white daguerreotype. He casually threw it onto the table before Clarke. On it, a man-sized creature with a wolf’s head was lying prone on the ground, several bullet holes in its chest, fine, short fur drenched in black blood.
