The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  ‘No, Lord Cherleten, I do not.’ Jim stood. ‘I have no reason to doubt any of you gentlemen, but I have never encountered an Othersider who could be trusted. They have spent their lives learning how to infiltrate us… Even if Miss Furnival has no superiors to report to on the Otherside, that does not make her trustworthy.’

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said Sir Toby. ‘And take my advice: you had better make it good. You are on thin ice.’

  ‘It is clear in the short time that I have known her that Miss Furnival mistrusts – no, hates – the very idea of the Nightwatch. I believe that she would do anything to put a stop to the experiment.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Miss Furnival interjected, her words hot and angry. ‘But I didn’t even know about the experiment until now, not for sure. I didn’t think anyone here would be fool enough to do it.’

  ‘That’s quite enough, Miss Furnival,’ Sir Toby said. ‘You shall have your chance – let Captain Denny say his piece.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Toby,’ Jim said. ‘Miss Furnival may claim she knew nothing about the Nightwatch, but she seems privy to other secrets ostensibly known only to Sir Arthur, so it seems reasonable to assume she also discovered this one.’

  ‘A bold claim,’ Sir Arthur interrupted.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said Sir Toby. ‘What proof do you have that Miss Furnival has had access to confidential information?’

  ‘No proof, Sir Toby, except the confession from her own lips.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘She did. Miss Furnival met me the evening of Saturday last, and told me as much.’

  ‘Why, you snake!’ Marie Furnival leapt to her feet, and glowered at the side of Jim’s head. He did not meet her gaze this time. ‘To think I saved your life today.’

  ‘Sit down!’ Sir Toby snapped.

  ‘Sit down be damned,’ she snarled. ‘The cat’s out of the bag now; no point playing these games any more. I’m not some delicate English rose to be ordered around.’

  Sir Toby rose slowly, placing his fists upon the leather top of his desk as he leaned forward. ‘No, you certainly are not,’ he said. ‘But in this place, you will do me the common decency of obeying my command, or I shall have you removed.’

  ‘I am no traitor, to my people or to yours,’ Miss Furnival said, remaining on her feet. ‘I’ve fought my own battles in my own way while the war was raging. If anyone should feel betrayed, it’s me.’

  ‘How so?’ Jim asked, facing the girl at last.

  ‘Because I’ve been lied to by a man I treated as blood kin. Who is blood kin, in a roundabout sort of way.’ She turned to Sir Arthur. ‘Uncle, you can’t pursue these experiments with the Nightwatch. You’ll damn us all.’

  ‘The proper measures are in place to prevent any repeat of what happened on the Otherside,’ Sir Arthur said.

  There was a tremor to his voice; Jim could not work out if the baronet was afraid of his niece, or ashamed at what he had done.

  ‘The measures won’t be enough,’ she said. ‘I warned you… and you lied to me.’

  ‘Sir Toby,’ Jim said, still unconvinced. ‘Miss Furnival does not deny gathering classified information from her uncle, or attempting to discuss that information with me outside the permitted disclosure of an assignment. Ambrose Hanlocke was an agent here for six years, with no one realising his true nature… can we really be sure that Miss Furnival is to be trusted? She probably understands the Nightwatch better than Sir Arthur, or any of our best scientists. It would be easy for her to falsify –’

  The slap took Jim by surprise, so hard and sharp that he staggered sideways. He turned to see tears in Miss Furnival’s eyes, her cheeks rose-pink with ire.

  ‘You cur,’ she snarled.

  Sir Arthur and Lord Cherleten were soon on their feet, each with hands on Miss Furnival’s arms, though not roughly.

  ‘I…’ Jim started. ‘It’s alright, gentlemen. Time will tell whether or not I deserved that.’

  ‘Damn right you deserved it,’ the woman scowled.

  ‘Well, well,’ mocked Cherleten. ‘Striking an officer. If this was the army she’d be up for court martial, right, Captain Denny? It is unheard of in these hallowed halls for sure… Perhaps we should place the girl under arrest after all. I have cells in the armoury that could hold her.’

  ‘This is no time for jests, Lord Cherleten,’ Sir Toby said, appearing exasperated at the turn proceedings had taken.

  ‘Only half a jest, Sir Toby.’

  ‘Miss Furnival,’ Sir Toby said sternly. ‘A serious allegation has been made against you, and must be investigated. Despite my learned colleague’s opinion, you will not be placed under arrest, given your exemplary record in service to the Crown. However, I ask that you return home with Sir Arthur and remain there. Consider it confinement if you will, but for your own good. Sir Arthur – you shall see to it that Miss Furnival does not wander before we have the opportunity to speak further.’

  ‘I will, Sir Toby.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Miss Furnival shrugged Sir Arthur and Lord Cherleten away, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. With no further word, she allowed Sir Arthur to guide her gently from the room.

  Only when she had gone were Lord Cherleten and Sir Toby seated once more.

  ‘Sit down, Captain Denny,’ Sir Toby said, his tone one of supreme annoyance. ‘Now, I shall say this to you but once, so pay attention. You are an agent of Apollo Lycea, and a man of honour, and as such we shall investigate your claims thoroughly and by the fullest extent of the rules of the Order. But, and I say this as fair warning, I do not believe for one moment that Miss Furnival is guilty of the accusations you have levelled at her.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I told you to pay attention, Captain, and that means you will listen without interrupting.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Shall I tell you how Miss Furnival came to be in our employ? While the Othersiders were plotting to take over our world, Marie Furnival was fighting a war of her own. Not against us, but against these… vampires. She was trained as an agent by Apollo Lycea on the Otherside, but turned her back on the Order when she discovered that they themselves were making peace with the vampires. A step too far, in her eyes. You see, in her world, Sir Arthur Furnival was slain in a most brutal manner by one particular vampire, and Miss Furnival has been hunting that creature ever since. Ah, I can see this strikes a chord.

  ‘As the Lazarus Gate opened, she came by intelligence to suggest that the monster had crossed to our side in secret, and so she followed. That creature, she believes, is still at large today, here, in our world. If there is any evidence to support the theory, it can be found in the nests of ghouls that on occasion spring up in the city.

  ‘The girl turned herself over to her uncle almost as soon as she arrived. She has been interrogated by the army, studied by the finest alienists in London, tested by physicians. She has endured, Captain Denny, rather severe treatment, after which we could only ascertain that she told the truth. Eventually we gave her an assignment to test her loyalty, and ever since she has passed every such test. The only thing that would ever seem to shake her fealty to the Order is the matter of the Nightwatch. Thanks to you, that particular bugbear has been revealed, for good or ill.’

  Once Jim was sure Sir Toby had finished, he ventured a reply. ‘Sir, if my accusations prove false, I shall offer Miss Furnival a full and sincere apology.’ He doubted his own mind now. The creeping sensation he felt rising from the pit of his stomach was, he was certain, shame. It was a feeling with which he was not unacquainted.

  ‘At the very least,’ Sir Toby scolded.

  ‘But, might I say, it was not I who revealed Sir Arthur’s experiment to her. Even when she asked me outright, sir, you have my word as a gentleman that I said nothing.’

  ‘Ah. Tsun Pen – or, rather, his mysterious lackey.’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘Is there nothing else you remember that might help us to ident
ify this woman?’ Sir Toby asked.

  ‘She had a foreign accent – not much of one. I could not even identify it, so I’d guess she’s lived in England for a long time. I don’t think she was from the Far East, sir, but beyond that I could not say.’

  ‘One of the European enemies that she warned you about, perhaps? Russian?’

  ‘Perhaps so. Come to think of it, yes, she could have been Russian.’

  Sir Toby exchanged a strange glance with Cherleten.

  ‘It would explain how she knew so much,’ Jim went on, unsure what was passing between the aged spymasters. ‘If Tsun Pen is now working with a foreign power, as suggested –’

  ‘If Tsun Pen is alive at all,’ Cherleten interrupted. ‘We have not seen him. These paintings Denny saw could very easily be fabrications… Besides, it is very easy to make “predictions” when you have engineered what is about to happen, is it not? If the tong are arming Britain’s rivals with etherium, then war becomes inevitable, not prophecy to be averted.’

  ‘With all due respect, Lord Cherleten,’ Jim replied, ‘our encounters with Tsun Pen’s men so far have seemed rather… personal.’

  ‘As though he is taking revenge on his killers from beyond the grave?’ Sir Toby asked.

  ‘Something like that, sir, yes.’

  ‘Not the Artist’s style, if you ask me,’ Cherleten scoffed. ‘He never was one for vendettas – say what you like about Tsun Pen, but he always went after the biggest catch. Further evidence that it’s not him, eh?’

  Sir Toby stood, and paced across the floor, passing back and forth in front of the large window of the office. The carpet beneath the window was almost threadbare, so engrained was his habit. Lord Cherleten offered Jim the slightest of shrugs. At last Sir Toby spoke. ‘What if it is not John Hardwick he is after, but me?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir?’ Jim asked, uncertain whom Sir Toby was addressing.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Cherleten said. ‘Denny, this does not leave this room, understand? Czar Alexander is not well disposed towards us at this present time. Russian assassins were involved in a sticky business here in England last year, and Sir Toby exposed them for it to the embassy. Sanctions were issued, heads rolled, so on and so forth. The czar made Sir Toby persona non grata, eh?’ He chuckled, even at such serious business.

  ‘But, sir,’ Jim said, ‘if this was a plot to rattle Sir Toby, why start with common soldiers? Surely they would go for Hardwick and be damned, if they even had reason to suspect that John meant…’ he checked himself, ‘that Sir Toby sponsored Colonel Hardwick.’

  ‘There you go, Lord Justice,’ Cherleten grinned. ‘Told you Denny was just as good a detective as Hardwick. It’s damned fortunate he doesn’t go poking around learning all our secrets.’

  Sir Toby pursed his lips in contemplation, ignoring Cherleten as was his custom. Finally, he spoke directly to Jim. ‘I suppose there is no escaping what must be done, Captain Denny. Regardless of the enemy’s target, it would seem that John Hardwick is in very real danger. After the murder of Lieutenant Bertrand, we sent a telegram to Colonel Hardwick to establish whether or not he was safe. We received no reply, but that is not unusual given his… shall we say, “lapsed” status? Now with the murder of poor Sergeant Whittock, we must force the issue. I have decided to heed Lord Cherleten’s advice and send some men to bring Hardwick in, whether he’s willing or not.’

  ‘Returning John Hardwick to duty… is that wise?’ Jim asked, tentatively.

  Sir Toby raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘It is what I have ordered, Captain Denny.’

  ‘Very well, sir. But…’ Jim hesitated. What he wanted to say filled him with dread. ‘If it would enable me to make amends, even in part, for my lapse of judgment today, I would like to volunteer to fetch Colonel Hardwick personally. I believe I have the best chance to bring him in without any unpleasantness.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Cherleten asked. ‘Didn’t you come to blows last time he was in London? Surprised you survived that one, eh!’

  ‘I was once his friend. His only friend, some say. And it was I who discovered the deaths of his men. It is true, I… I have not spoken with Colonel Hardwick in some time. I should like to see that he is well.’

  EIGHT

  May Day, 1890

  LONDON BRIDGE, THE OTHERSIDE

  Marie ducked. The sailor’s wild haymaker flew harmlessly over her head. She shoved the barrel of her revolver into the man’s gut and pulled the trigger. Over the mayhem all around, no one heard. The man died with a look of surprise etched on his face.

  Marie ran silently across the deck of the Russian cruiser Varna, dodging behind a capstan as a dozen sailors raced past her towards the forward guns. If they saw her, they paid her no heed. Risking discovery, Marie stood, and looked along the length of the deck to where the sailors now hurried.

  Before them, London Bridge was in flames. Black smoke twisted into the air, the very mirror of the great shadow flickering against the red sky. Sparks flew from the Tesla-engineered power couplings that adorned every inch of the bridge. The amber glow of the Lazarus Gate flashed ominously. Something was very wrong.

  Behind them, more ships of the flotilla drew perilously close as the invasion fleet slowed to a crawl. Marines opened fire skywards at tatter-winged Riftborn – those ragged, shadow-like carrion that had plagued the city this past decade. The creatures swooped low, encouraged by the sight of stricken ships and men drowning in the blood-coloured waters of the Thames.

  The Varna’s engines groaned their last. The boards beneath Marie’s feet juddered as the ship creaked to a dead stop. Men shouted. A foghorn blared.

  To starboard, HMS Aurora careened into the supports of the bridge, deliberately crashing to avoid pushing through the failing portal. Tesla coils flashed bright. Dislodged by mast and spar, machinery fell from the arches of London Bridge onto the deck of the Aurora, drawing panicked screams. Not just machinery – people. Cadaverous psychics, withered husks of the Nightwatch, lashed to the infernal devices powering the gate, fell to their deaths. Marie winced. She thought of her uncle. If he had lived to see this day, he would likely be one of those unfortunates, for the time of free Majestics had long passed. The thought of Sir Arthur brought with it a surge of renewed vigour and purpose.

  Through the fire and smoke beyond that vessel, Marie saw USS Helen B Jackson – half of it, at least, listing awkwardly as it sank. Howitzers roared, though she could not tell whose guns they were, or what they fired upon. Her heart came to her throat. She had never wanted any of this. She had argued against the madness of an invasion. And yet now, at the end, she could not bear to see it fail. Lazarus had called this the last throw of the dice; if that were truly the case, then Marie and everyone she knew were as good as dead.

  But there was one aboard this ship who would die before she did. Marie would at least have that satisfaction. She swallowed her despair, and looked to the upper deck. If de Montfort was here, he would be in the control room with the captain.

  Marie checked her pistol, and ran to the midsection. She took the iron-shod stairs to the control room two at a time. Reaching a narrow gantry, she raced along a short corridor towards a bulkhead door. As she approached, the door swung open. A man stepped out, puzzlement spreading across his heavyset face when he saw the slip of a girl before him. Marie did not hesitate. She cracked off a revolver round into the man’s leg and hopped over his crumpling form, through the door to the control room.

  A bearded captain confronted her, shouting something in Russian, quickly backing away when he saw Marie’s pistol. Another man stood with his back to Marie, silhouetted in red light as he gazed from the porthole at the Lazarus Gate. Marie’s heart lurched. He was tall and slender, crow-black hair hanging loose past his collar. Her hand tightened on the grip of her revolver.

  ‘You speak English?’ she demanded of the captain. The bearded man nodded. ‘Good. I’m not here for you. I’m here for him. Stay out of my way.’

  She took out a second weapo
n, her favoured Tesla pistol. Its ornate silver barrel gleamed in the red light, its mahogany handle reassuring in her hand. She flicked the switch, and the weapon hummed, tiny copper coils priming with energy. She aimed it at the dark man’s back.

  ‘De Montfort. It’s taken me a while to find you. Turn around, so I can look you in the eye, you cowardly –’

  The man turned before she could finish, and Marie’s heart sank. He was wampyr, that much was certain, but it was not de Montfort. His features were broad, his nose hooked. His violet eyes gleamed from his olive-skinned face, not yet turned to the porcelain death-mask typical of his kind. So he was young – one of de Montfort’s blasphemous creations, not as powerful as his first – Agent Hardwick – but dangerous enough. Probably some sycophant recruited to the vampire ranks purely to act as a decoy, or to fulfil a lucrative contract to the Russians. Most of the ships in the flotilla had a vampire on board, to protect against the Riftborn. It was the only thing they were good for.

  ‘As you can see,’ the vampire purred, his voice heavily accented with the promise of far Arabia, ‘Lord de Montfort is not here. My name is Orsini.’

  ‘I…’ Marie faltered.

  ‘My lord left a message for you, however,’ the wampyr said with a smile.

  ‘A message?’ She had come close to finding de Montfort several times, but she had never been sure if her quarry was even aware of her existence.

  For a second, she dropped her guard. In that second, the door behind her flew open, and someone barrelled into her. She twisted; her revolver went off, punching a hole in the viewport glass. Two Russian sailors wrestled with her, tearing the Tesla pistol from her grip. The captain joined the fray, wrenching her revolver from her, before grabbing a fistful of hair, yanking back her head.

  ‘Witch!’ he cried. ‘On this day, when we see Lazarus fall and all hope destroyed, you dare raise arms against the Russian Empire?’ The vampire stepped forward, and the captain shrank back at his approach, as though he could not stand to be near the creature.