by Ian Doyle
Looking over my shoulder, I saw the wooden face plainly in the window. The blue eyes looked forlorn. I shuddered to think what Simon must have been going through, seeing himself in a house he could not now enter.
“Wretched, wretched thing!” Vivian Delhalm screamed again, starting toward the window with the poker clutched in her fist.
The face disappeared from the window, but I didn’t know if Simon would be able to affect a proper escape.
4
Vivian Delhalm’s voice drew her husband’s attention. He rushed from the study and James was behind him.
“There!” she shouted to her husband, pointing at the window where the wooden face had been but a moment ago. “It’s back, Courtland!”
Her husband cursed and raced for the door, pausing only long enough to pick up a shotgun from the locked closet. “Why haven’t the guards dealt with it?”
James threw open the door and bounded outside. I knew he was trying to save poor Simon, though our host and hostess didn’t.
I followed, easily outrunning Vivian Delhalm who obviously didn’t want to encounter the wooden boy. In seconds, we all stood out in the snow-covered yard. James and Mr. Delhalm’s breath stained the night air as they searched for the wooden boy.
Trying not to be noticed, I crossed over to our rented coach. I looked up at Edmond, who was a coach driver my husband frequently employed while on his investigations. He is a slender man of indeterminate years, with ragged black hair and stubbled cheeks at all hours. Bundled into his winter clothes, he looked at me and gave an imperceptible nod.
I walked to the coach and peered in. Simon was a tight ball of odd angles and slats under one of the seats. He peered up at me fearfully, his knees and elbows clacking against the coach’s bottom.
“I couldn’t help it,” he pleaded. “I just wanted to see. You were gone for ever so long.”
“It’s all right,” I told him. “Just stay put this time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I returned to the coach beside Edmond.
“I didn’t see ‘im climb out, mum,” he whispered. “First I knowed of ‘im not bein’ in ‘is proper place was when the missus set up such a fuss inside.”
“It’s all right, Edmond,” I told him. “He’ll stay put now.” I watched while James and Mr. Delhalm searched the yards and the dead gardens. Mr. Delhalm called the mechanical men to aid them, cursing them the whole time for not having seen the intruder.
Later, after they’d given up the search and I’d signaled to my beloved that all was well and that Simon was once more where he should have been, we stood once more in the foyer.
“Well, that’s a nasty bit of business,” Mr. Delhalm said. “I came home only this evening to hear my wife’s story about that possessed puppet trying to break into the house. That’s why I had the mechanical men patrolling the grounds.”
“But you mustn’t hurt Mr. Jinx, Papa!” the fake Simon cried.
I, of course, knew that whoever possessed Simon’s body was only trying to play the son to the hilt for Mr. Delhalm.
“There, there, my boy,” Mr. Delhalm said as he knelt in front of the boy and took his shoulders in hand. “We have to be quite careful at the moment. Someone has put a hex or a curse on Mr. Jinx, obviously turned him against us. I will put things aright. I give you my word.”
“Come, Simon,” Vivian Delhalm said, taking the boy by the hand. “You’ve had a frightful scare from that horrid thing. Let me tuck you in.”
For a moment, Mr. Delhalm watched his wife and young son re-enter the home. His love for both shone in his eyes.
“I didn’t see what we were pursuing,” James said. “You say it was a puppet?”
“Yes.” Mr. Delhalm sighed. “Evidently someone – an enemy, perhaps, or a business rival – has magicked Simon’s puppet, Mr. Jinx, and given it instruction to do us harm. Mrs. Delhalm told me about it when I arrived home earlier this evening. She found it awaiting her here. It attacked without warning, and she said she was very lucky to have escaped with her life.”
“That’s horrible,” I said, because I was a woman and was expected to say something like that under the circumstances.
Mr. Delhalm regarded me and nodded. “I’m quite certain, Lady Gallatin, that you’ve seen much worse, what with accompanying your husband in his endeavors, but Mrs. Delhalm is very sensitive.”
“Have you notified the police?” James asked. “They have wizards and spellcasters in their employ.”
“Not yet,” Mr. Delhalm said. “But I shall. First thing in the morning.”
Good, I thought to myself, knowing that James and I would have the rest of the night to search without tripping over the police. But that time would pass swiftly.
Mr. Delhalm shook his massive head. “After losing my first wife in such a tragic mishap, I try to be very careful with my second. And with Simon.”
After a few more minutes, we took our leave. I was in a hurry to discuss my thoughts with James.
*
“I’m sorry,” Simon said from under the coach seat once we were underway. “I worried that something had happened to you.”
My husband extracted the wooden boy and sat him on the seat across from us. He patted Simon on the head.
“It’s all right, lad,” my beloved told Simon. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.” He touched his heart. “Upon my honor as a gentleman, I pledge this to you.”
James is not free with his pledges, and I knew that even though the boy didn’t.
“Thank you,” Simon whispered.
“Just give us a little more time,” James said. “We’ve only just begun this investigation.” He smiled confidently. “Lady Gallatin and I are quite skilled in these matters, you see.”
Simon nodded and his wooden head squeaked as it bobbed.
James turned to me then. “What did you think?”
“The imposter smokes,” I said. “He had a fleck of tobacco on his lip and I smelled smoke on him.”
“Obviously he can’t give up his vices,” James said. Then he grinned and looked at Simon. “Unless you’re the one who smokes.”
The puppet’s painted eyebrows climbed almost to his woolen hairline in consternation. “No sir!” Simon exclaimed. “I would never!”
“There’s a good lad,” James said. “Tell me, though, do you tie your own ties?”
“I do, but I’m not very good at it.”
My husband nodded and I wondered at what he had seen. Even though he hadn’t spent much time with the imposter, I knew my beloved had noticed something.
“Did your father teach you to tie your tie?” James asked.
“Yes sir. He and the valet.”
“Were either of them in the military?”
Simon thought for a moment. Unconsciously, his little wooden hand came up to scratch at his knobby wooden chin. “No sir. Not that I can remember.”
I looked at my beloved. “Why do you ask about the military?”
“Because,” he answered, “the boy’s tie tonight was knotted in military four-in-hand that’s taught at the Veritas Military Academy. Not many people know how to tie them.”
Over the years, James has made a study of esoterica. Inside our big house, he keeps rooms full of paraphernalia that he believes might come in handy someday. Soil samples, fabric swatches from the textile mills, bottles of preserved lizards and snakes, stuffed and mounted birds and animals, all add to the bizarre collection he has managed.
I don’t think anything about his excesses, but I’m afraid many of our acquaintances would not be so inclined. Once, the Drummond Police inspectors even took umbrage over a mummified body my beloved had shipped in from far-off Safrik where ebony-hued warriors are rumored to be cannibals who devour their enemies. Of course, those inspectors were much more lenient when that body solved a missing person report they had been stymied on. Especially when James had also tracked down the murderer.
“But you do.” I smiled.
He took my hand and kissed it, then grinned mischievously. “But of course I do.” He continued holding my hand and I felt the warmth and strength of him. “So we know a little about the imposter from Simon’s description of him. He’s tall and powerfully built, with red hair and a goatee. He has passing acquaintance with magic and the military, as evidenced by the spell he used on Simon and the tie he wore tonight. To that list, we can add the tobacco.”
“The tobacco?” I asked.
My beloved nodded. “I smelled it on him. It’s an exotic blend. Not something you can just buy off the shelves at even a well-stocked tobacconist’s shop. The blend is from the Confederacy of Ishplen, taken there during the Dragon Campaigns, when mankind finally succeeded in enforcing a peace with dragonkind.”
That peace was a tenacious thing. If the dragons’ numbers hadn’t been so severely cut during those vicious battles, the proud creatures would never have agreed to peaceable surrender. Still, these days dragons walked among mankind – as many monsters do – looking quite human.
“The blend has a mild narcotic in it,” James went on. “An herb called dreamweed. Something less strong than the opium that the Siahnean have brought to our shores, but still not something most smokers would use. As a result, few tobacconists keep the blend in stock. I happen to know of only two places in Drummond that carry it.”
I smiled at him. “If it is a unique blend, especially one that contains contraband, we can find out who he is,” I said.
“I believe so.” James leaned back in the seat. “There is also the matter of the custodian. Mr. Edgar Chalmers. I should think I’d like to talk to him as well. To find out how deeply this conspiracy runs, and what the ultimate goal is.”
Before he could say anything further, the horses bolted sideways in the street and Edmond’s harsh voice rang out as he tried to control them. James threw his arm out to steady me, but I already had myself in hand and was holding onto poor Simon.
The coach came to a halt. James opened the door and peered out. The coach light lit him squarely and I saw him reach into his pocket for his pistol.
Naturally, I could not let him face alone whatever danger lie ahead. I opened the coach’s other door even as he bade me stay inside.
Ahead of us, only a few feet from the rearing coach horses, the sewer cover suddenly shot away and a monstrosity heaved itself from the ill-smelling depths.
5
Covered in muck and slime, the Shambler stood ten feet tall, the height even made more impressive because of its slim build. Shamblers come in all sizes and shapes, each according to its maker’s wish and ability, but the core materials for such an undertaking come from the unburied remains of a murder victim. Sometimes men who died on battlefields can be raised.
Vengeance burns in the remains of those victims, and the wizard or necromancer who brings a Shambler to life employs those leftover feelings to fill the creature with rage. Unfortunately, such a resurrection generally drives the afflicted party totally mad, and little control remains. This one had been sent for us, for it charged us at once. (They have a keen sense of smell, like that of a bloodhound, but after traveling through the sewer, I wonder as I set these events to page now how that thing could smell anything!)
James lifted his pistol and fired. His bullets struck the Shambler, erupting in small explosions of blue sparks and tearing away melon-sized pieces of the creature. My beloved has his bullets blessed and charmed so they are proof against most creatures, normal flesh and blood as well as supernatural. Given time and sufficient ammunition, I was certain the pistol would bring our opponent down.
But the Shambler was determined that we wouldn’t be given that time. It went at James with flailing fists the size of nail kegs, missing him because my beloved is quick on his feet, and knocking potholes in the cobbled street.
Shoving his empty pistol back into his coat pocket, James drew forth the Ikari fighting knives he carried sheathed at his back. Both knives were fifteen inches long with razor-sharp double-edges, also blessed and charmed. He is a master of the blade.
He went at the Shambler, ducking and weaving, raking the cruel knives along the beast and carving out hunks of it. The Shambler growled in pain, its huge round face – like that of a puffer fish, only dark green – ballooning up as it did so.
James liked to fight, but I feared for him and could not remain still. I seized the nearest lantern from the coach, then vaulted on top of the horses, running across them, then dropping to the street. I attacked the Shambler from behind, for I do not have the same honorable compulsions as my beloved and don’t feel the need to face my enemy when I strike.
I swung the lantern as hard as I could, which was considerable, and caught the back of the creature’s head. Hammered by the blow, the Shambler stumbled and fell to its knees. Oil from the broken lantern cascaded down it. James struck again and again.
“Beloved,” I called out to him. “Back away, please.” When he was far enough away, by which time the Shambler pressed its knuckled fists against the street and once more heaved itself to its feet, I spoke a Word and threw out my hand. The heat of the spell (one of the few that I know because magic doesn’t come easily to me – or to most for that matter) coursed along my arm, then poured from my palm. Green flames leapt for the Shambler, igniting the oil and covering the creature at once in a hungry blaze.
The Shambler screamed then, for I believed the creature knew even in its animalistic mind that its second life was now at an end, and those screams ululated in the urban canyon of multi-storied buildings. It whirled and flailed to escape the flames, but those efforts were to no avail. Based in magic, though steeped in whale oil, the fire did not relinquish its grip even after the Shambler collapsed and its smoldering remains hissed in the snow-covered street.
“The Shambler was set after us,” James stated quietly as he put the Ikari fighting knives away and reloaded his pistol.
“I know.”
His face hardened, as I knew it must, for I knew in my heart what he would do. “You were endangered, Mina. I cannot allow that.” He peered harshly at the smoldering mass in the street. “I will not.”
And I knew we were in it then, and my beloved would not rest till he had punished those responsible.
*
Only minutes later, we were at the first tobacconist’s shop that James knew sold the specialized tobacco blend he had smelled on the imposter. The man lived in a small flat above his business. The neighborhood was at the fringe the Gutbucket, that part of Drummond that was equal home to the hopeless and to the lawless.
A dressmaker’s shop and a cobbler sat on either side of the tobacconist. As it turned out, the tobacconist was next door visiting with the dressmaker, and I could tell that we had interrupted them at their trysting by his nervous mannerisms and the way her protective gaze on him from her window.
Not wanting to conduct business out in the cold street, he let us into his shop and lit a lantern on the counter. The shop was small and filled with smoking accessories – carved pipes, papers, and ashtrays as well as personal humidors – and reeked of tobacco in many different scents.
“I apologize for having disturbed you at this late hour,” James said, “but the matter that brought us here is of some import. I will pay you for your time.” He handed the man five gold Stellars, which was more profit than the tobacconist would make in two months.
“Thankee, yer lordship,” the tobacconist, whose name was Mr. Byars, gasped. He made the Stellars disappear with the trained skill of a cutpurse. “But nothing I could do could earn this, even at this late ‘our.”
I knew that he suspected he was going to be asked to do something illegal. Given that five Stellars were involved, he probably believed it would be something that would find him dangling from a noose.
“I’m searching for a man with a particular taste in tobacco,” James said. “It’s from the Confederacy of Ishplen. It’s called Nocturne Rhapsody.”
Mr. Byars looked unhappy, but he wa
s five Stellars to the good, so that feeling couldn’t long prevail against any loyalty he felt toward a patron. “That’s an expensive blend, yer lordship.”
“And an exotic one,” James said, “because this one was laced with dreamweed.”
Mr. Byars hesitated at that and scratched the back of his neck. “Well now, yer lordship, dreamweed happens to be illegal ‘ere in Drummond.”
“Dreamweed is frowned upon in Drummond,” James countered, “but the local constabulary don’t often rouse themselves to jail someone for possession of it. In addition, Mr. Byars, I am not an officer of the court.”
“I ‘ave a few what pleasures themselves with such a dalliance,” Mr. Byars admitted. “I fills their orders – in an effort to keep a roof over me ‘ead.”
“Understood.” James gave a brief description of the red-haired man as we had put it together.
At that, Mr. Byars relaxed. He had no compunction about selling out this particular customer.
“Ye’re talkin’ about Mr. Martin Landro,” the tobacconist whispered.
“Who is Mr. Landro?”
“’E’s a bad ‘un, yer lordship,” Mr. Byars said. “One of them men ye’d truly be better of stayin’ away from.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” James replied. “Where can I find Mr. Martin Landro?”
“In the Gutbucket,” Mr. Byars said. “Usually he makes the rounds of the illegal sportin’ events an’ such. ‘E’s not a man for the light of day, that ‘un. Even ‘eard ‘e might not be a man.”
“You have my attention, Mr. Byars. I await elucidation.”
The tobacconist shrugged. “Just them what says ‘e’s the cold-hearted devil ‘imself. ‘E’s a killer near a dozen times over, an’ women – ” here he looked at me, ashamed for having forgotten I was there, “forgive me coarseness, milady.”
