The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  Jim followed. As he heaved himself over onto the roof a shot rang out. John’s hat flew off, and the colonel fell to the ground. He still had the wherewithal to shoot back.

  Jim saw two men ahead, one in a plaid suit and ill-fitting bowler, another all in black, with cape and hat. The man in the bowler fired again. The bullet struck barely a foot wide of Jim’s head. Both suspects turned and ran across the rooftops, slipping as tiles skittered away from their tread. Jim was in the lead now, moving as fast as he could. He fired a warning shot, but the men did not stop.

  The man in the bowler stopped and turned, aiming at Jim. It was a clear shot. Jim crouched, but knew he could not miss. The man in black caught up with the other, and Jim swore he nudged him. His arm jerked up, the gun fired, and the shot went high.

  The two men exchanged some angry look, but Jim cared not. He returned fire. The bowler-hatted man spun around like a top, clutching his side. He collided with the man in black, who fell awkwardly, grabbing a spiked lead finial as he went, snagging his cape, and hanging on for dear life as his associate slid from the rooftop, stone dead. They were four storeys up, hard cobbles below. They had lost one suspect now, but there was no escape for the man in black.

  Jim moved as quickly as he could, seeing the man’s cape tear. He was indeed well dressed, with dark hair protruding beneath his hat, and a scarf pulled around his face like a bandit’s mask. As Jim reached him, the man lost his grip, supported now only by his cape, which began at once to tear. The fugitive snatched again at the finial. It creaked, bent, and gave way. Jim grabbed the man’s scarf, slipping on the roof tiles as he did.

  The scarf came away in Jim’s hand. He stared upon a pale face, one that he knew. Familiar, dark eyes stared back at him imploringly. Jim grabbed the man’s hand, and for a moment feared they might both go over the edge. He felt the hand slipping from his grasp. And then, through disbelief, through anger, through fear; through a hundred emotions that defied definition, Jim slackened his grip. Those dark, handsome eyes widened in shock, hanging in the air just for a moment. Then the man fell.

  Jim stood dumbly, the pale face etched on his mind. He had been betrayed. But it was more than that; much more. He let the black scarf fall from his hand, and it snaked away on the cold air, down to the street, where its owner lay dead.

  * * *

  Thursday, 14th January 1892, 9.15 a.m.

  SANDRINGHAM HOUSE

  When death came to the young lion, it came not with a roar, but with a whine. Not his own, of course, for Albert Victor had long been rendered insensible by drugs before the end, even if his royal bearing had failed him. Nor was the whine that of his mother, Alexandra, who held a dignified silence by her son’s bed, a slight moistening of the eyes the only betrayal of her feelings. No. The whine came from the prince’s nursemaid, who had raised him from a cub, and now found herself outlasting her royal charge.

  Sir Toby Fitzwilliam – right hand of Apollo, spear of the Empire – bowed respectfully, and left the room. There would be hell to pay for this, that much was certain. If only half of Sir Toby’s suspicions proved accurate, rules writ in blood centuries ago had been disregarded; treaties as sacred to him as those carved upon tablets by the hand of God had been sundered.

  Outside the open door, a line of aides and potentates waited solemnly for confirmation that the heir apparent was dead. Those near the front could see this for themselves, but in the royal household no one would accept a fact until it came by official declaration. Near the head of the queue, just five places down from the Queen’s private secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby, stood Lord Cherleten.

  Sir Toby’s eyes met Cherleten’s, and the spymaster nodded to him. Sir Toby leaned forward, peering further down the line until he met the gaze of Sir Arthur Furnival. The psychic nodded also. They all knew what was to come.

  * * *

  Sir Toby closed the door of the private room quietly, and turned to his colleagues. Lord Cherleten’s face shone a ghastly yellow momentarily in the flare from his match. He lit his cigar, took three good puffs on it, and shook out the lucifer.

  ‘So it is true,’ Sir Toby said.

  ‘It is,’ replied Cherleten. ‘The prince did not die a natural death. Indeed, one could say his life was not altogether… natural.’

  Sir Toby tried to ignore Cherleten’s salacious tone, and the needling quality of the man’s papery voice.

  ‘Who sanctioned the operation?’ Sir Toby asked. ‘If this is your doing –’

  ‘It certainly was not! And although the War Office and the Admiralty perhaps have cause, they would not be so bold. My informants tell me it was the Russians.’

  ‘Russians? Why?’

  ‘There has been increased activity from their agents in London. I believe they received the same intelligence regarding the prince that we did, and reached a similar conclusion. Do not do anything rash, Sir Toby – while this is the most likely explanation, we still cannot entirely rule out an… internal affair.’

  Sir Toby had considered this. The prince had been involved in one too many scandals, and there were many within even his own family who had openly looked for a way to remove ‘Young Eddy’ from the line of succession. Some whispered he was engaged in immoral activities, and had unnatural appetites that extended even to murder. He had even called out the name of a former lover on his sickbed before finally being driven insensible, raising eyebrows in the royal household.

  ‘The manner of the killing though…’ Sir Toby said. ‘I very much doubt one of the family would do such a thing.’

  ‘Given the circumstances, they may have seen it as their only choice. Mercury poisoning is the only surety against… them. Unless of course one wishes to use more violent means. And remember, the prince was not… exactly dead when he was carried from this house. But our people have performed the necessary action to finish the job.’

  ‘Decapitation, and burning,’ Sir Toby muttered. He stared into the flames of the crackling fire beside his chair. He suddenly felt like an intruder at Sandringham at this delicate time, but there was no avoiding his duties to the family. ‘If the Russians are behind this, there will be consequences.’

  ‘My people are gathering evidence as we speak. If it is there, they will find it.’

  ‘Good. Have the press been informed?’

  ‘It is in hand. The Palace statement says that the prince died of influenza after a lengthy fever. There will be a period of national mourning, naturally. I put a few shillings in the apron-purses of the chambermaids. Some will spread rumours that the prince was syphilitic; others that he was assassinated due to fathering an illegitimate child while touring India last year. The usual stuff.’

  Sir Toby glared at Cherleten.

  ‘You know it is a necessary evil,’ Cherleten shrugged. ‘The more scandalous the theories, the less inclined anyone will be to investigate the truth, at least for as long as you and I live. And after that, who’ll remember Alfred Victor enough to care?’

  Sir Toby sighed. His own feelings towards the royal family made it impossible for him to besmirch the good name of even one such as Prince Albert Victor. Cherleten had no such qualms, which was just as well, because he was entirely right.

  ‘You’re sure the Queen has no idea?’ Cherleten asked.

  ‘I am certain. And it had better stay that way.’ Sir Toby picked up his whisky. If the Queen had even an inkling of what Sir Toby had heard rumoured, she may well have given the order herself, had she not first died of shock. Sir Toby looked across at Sir Arthur Furnival. The noted clairvoyant had remained silent throughout the discussion. ‘The warning we received, Sir Arthur. Do you now believe it to be genuine?’

  Sir Arthur cleared his throat. ‘There is no way to be certain, not yet. It could be that the Artist has returned – and given the prince’s, ahem, “condition”, we can no longer rule out any possibility, however fantastical it may appear.’

  ‘He means the wily devil might have come back from the dead,’ Cherleten grin
ned. ‘Bloody knew it, eh? You put too much stock in Hardwick, Sir Toby.’

  ‘There is also the chance,’ Sir Arthur continued, ignoring Cherleten, ‘that whoever sent you that painting forewarning of the prince’s death was also the person responsible for the crime. It is not prescience simply to foretell one’s own deeds. And it’s rather clever, if the killer knew no one would believe the warning.’

  Sir Toby shifted uncomfortably, causing the leather of his armchair to creak. He had already considered this, but Sir Arthur’s insightfulness served only to highlight his possible lapse of judgment.

  ‘Now that we know for certain they are among us, these… creatures,’ Sir Toby said. ‘Now that we know what they are capable of… can you stop them, Sir Arthur?’

  ‘Do not look to him!’ Cherleten snapped. ‘It is the armoury that has been developing the tools with which to fight them. You know as well as I that purebloods only come from one place. And where there is one, there will be others. There must be a portal, and you know what that means. We must divert more resources to Otherside research. Let me arm our agents, Sir Toby. We have the means –’

  ‘No, Cherleten.’ Sir Toby rubbed at his lined face. Cherleten had wanted this for a long time; to finally put to use the Otherside technology that he had spent over a year collecting and studying. If he had his way, he would build a gate of his own and start raiding the Otherside. Thankfully, the means to do so had thus far eluded Cherleten. ‘I spoke with the Prime Minister on this matter only last week. We shall not turn our agency into an armed militia. We deal with this as we always have: quietly, and with guile. Sir Arthur, I asked you a question. Can you stop them?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Sir Arthur replied. ‘My department is, as you know, uniquely equipped to deal with such threats. And if our man is indeed back from the grave, I believe my methods can counter him also. Or at least find him, which is half the problem.’

  ‘The armoury will, naturally, assist Sir Arthur in every way possible, if that is what the Order decrees,’ Cherleten said.

  ‘For now, we have no choice,’ Sir Toby agreed. ‘Sir Arthur, when we leave here tomorrow you are to go directly to the facility at St Katharine Docks, and prepare your subjects for field trials.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Toby. And the… other matter?’

  ‘It is in hand, Sir Arthur. Your ward has proven her value to the Order, and Lord Cherleten agrees that any potential threat she poses has been more than offset by her expert knowledge of the creatures we face. Given today’s events… well, let us just say that her amnesty has been a long time coming, but it is granted at last.’

  ‘You have my heartfelt thanks.’

  ‘It is not your thanks we need right now, Sir Arthur; it is results,’ Cherleten remarked with his customary indelicacy. ‘We face the greatest threat since the Lazarus Gate, and it would appear that our best hope is your collection of freaks… your “Nightwatch”. Let us pray they prove effective.’

  ONE

  Friday, 29th September 1893, 11.30 p.m.

  ROYAL ALBERT DOCK, LONDON

  ‘Right, lads, you know what to do.’

  Jim Denny gave an encouraging grin to the policemen before him, who at once scattered in all directions across the deck of the clipper, Glarus, lanterns bobbing along in the darkness like fireflies.

  The two constables nearest Jim immediately set about the largest crates on the deck with jemmies and hammers, prising nails and splintering wood with gusto. Jim winced as a box of fragile crockery fell from its protective layer of straw, and smashed upon lime-washed planks. A policeman looked at him for permission to carry on. Jim shrugged and nodded, and marched along the deck as pottery, machine parts and textiles spilled at his feet. If the intelligence were wrong, this would be an expensive night’s work for Apollo Lycea. If it was correct, however, then someone would very likely hang. Jim’s business was a grim one; there were no half-measures when dealing with smugglers in Otherside artefacts.

  Jim had become accustomed to commanding the police rather than his old cavalry battalion. Ever since a certain Special Branch copper named Boggis had betrayed the orders of John Hardwick three years ago, Apollo Lycea now took direct control of joint police operations. Special Branch weren’t too happy about the arrangement, but with the Prime Minister on the side of Sir Toby, what could they do? Jim’s transition from Horse Guards officer to agent of the Crown had been easier than John’s; gradual, such that he had barely noticed it happening.

  Jim hadn’t thought of John Hardwick for a long while. Perhaps it was the setting that had triggered the memory; it was on a ship that Jim had almost died, and John Hardwick had saved his life. It was in a Thamesside warehouse such as those that he now looked upon that he had held Ambrose Hanlocke captive, and launched the opposition to the Otherside invasion. Those few who knew about it called it ‘the Battle of the Thames’, because apparently these things had to be named. The recollection caused a dull ache in Jim’s left hand, which he exercised now, opening and clenching a fist. His leather glove creaked. The cold weather always played bally-ho with the hand, ever since Hardwick’s sister – his Otherside sister – had impaled it with her boot heel.

  With a shudder, Jim pushed the reminiscence from his mind. He turned the collar of his coat up against the cold, and took a long draw on his cigarette. Jim’s eyes scanned the warehouses, still dark and quiet. Despite all signs to the contrary, Jim had a feeling he was being watched. It was an instinct that he’d learned to trust.

  A police whistle trilled three times. Jim flicked his cigarette over the side of the ship, its ember arc flaring for the briefest moment. The whistle had come from below deck, and Jim hurried down steep iron-shod stairs into the dimly lit hold, ducking under joists and dangling ropes, where a group of three policemen stood around a large crate.

  ‘This looks like the stuff, sir,’ one of them said.

  The crate had contained rolls of delicate lace, but beneath the fabric was something altogether more interesting.

  Jim reached into the crate, and selected a glass phial from the many that were carefully lined up in a thinly padded tray. Poorly protected. Badly disguised. But unmistakeable.

  He held up the tiny bottle to the lamplight, shaking the murky brown fluid. It was what the Othersiders called ‘etherium’. There were many rumours in the club about what exactly the fluid was and where it came from, but the truth, if it were known, was guarded by those several steps above Jim’s rank. All he knew was that Sir Arthur Furnival called it the most dangerous substance on earth; the very stuff that had accelerated the Otherside towards its inevitable doom.

  He looked back at the broad tray. This was the largest cache he’d ever seen. He’d once recovered five small phials like this from a freight train travelling from Calais to Cologne, where the black market in Otherside artefacts from the Lazarus Gate – and refugees, at times – thrived. He’d been told that even such a modest haul had the potential to blow a very large hole in the fabric of reality. He counted perhaps two hundred here before him.

  ‘Is this what we’re looking for, sir?’ the policeman asked.

  Jim nodded.

  ‘Some kind of foreign drug?’

  ‘The worst kind.’ Jim placed the phial back in its place, gingerly. He’d found etherium everywhere from spiritualist meeting halls to upmarket brothels. It was a drug that altered the senses far more dramatically than any opiate and, they said, allowed one to talk to the dead. This was the first time he’d found an outbound shipment. And the quantity… it had to be more than some wealthy buyer looking to add spice to a soirée.

  This was the fourth raid Jim had been involved in this month. Each had turned up unusually large caches of Otherside contraband; everything from machine parts to electrical weapons, from strange tobacco to stranger pharmaceuticals. And the raids had been getting easier, more bountiful. It gnawed at Jim, had been gnawing at him for weeks. Something was pushing the black market to ever-riskier deals, and Jim wanted to know what was
behind it. ‘You’ve done well, Constable…?’

  ‘Beresford, sir.’

  ‘Very good, Beresford. Better see if there’s any more of this stuff in the hold. And no need for kid gloves now. Take this ship apart if you have to.’

  The policeman grinned. ‘Right you are, sir.’ Beresford turned, eager to break open more containers, but stopped abruptly, staring along the length of the dark hold, towards the prow of the clipper.

  ‘Beresford?’

  The policeman reached behind himself, slowly and without turning his gaze away from whatever he had spotted. He grasped his lantern and moved it out in front of him. The hairs on Jim’s neck stood on end; the ache in his hand became more intense, as though his very bones were telling him that something was amiss.

  Jim followed Beresford’s gaze, squinting against the gloom. For a split second, he thought he saw two pinpricks of light, iridescent in the lamplight. He received the impression of a pair of bright, bestial eyes. Rats? They would have to be very large.

  ‘Did you see that, sir?’ Beresford whispered.

  ‘See what?’ Jim’s fingers closed around the grip of the revolver in his pocket.

  ‘I… an animal. Or maybe a man. Skulking over there.’

  ‘If it’s a man, Constable, then we’d better go and clap him in irons, hadn’t we?’ Something had spooked Beresford, and Jim needed to instil some confidence into the men. He’d seen enough esoteric oddities to know that they had to be faced, though not enough to inure him to the terrors that now lurked in the dark corners of the world. He stepped past the constable, drawing his gun from his jacket pocket, and strode steadily forwards.

  ‘Bring that light, there’s a good fellow,’ he instructed.

  The swaying yellow light shone over Jim’s shoulder, causing black shadows to slide across wooden walls. Jim saw nothing, but over the creaking of the ship he fancied he heard a strange sound; sharp claws scratching rough wood.