The Clockwork Dungeon: An Inspector Ambrose Story (The Inspector Ambrose Mysteries Book 4)

by I H Laking

  The Clockwork Dungeon

  An Inspector Ambrose Story

  By I H Laking

  Cover Design by Jorge Silvadoray

  Text copyright © 2017 I H Laking

  Tick tock, the racing clock.

  “I KNOW!”

  Inspector Ambrose Aramis slapped his palm against the wall. The gears whirled in a all-consuming maelstrom as the giant clock ticked on. Meanwhile, the cries above returned even louder than before. Fear and failure washed over Ambrose as he closed his eyes. Why couldn’t he solve the riddle? The evening had started casually enough, and now his sister might die due to his inaction.

  The clock ticked on, and Ambrose felt the fear overtaking his rational thoughts. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes.

  How did it come to this?

  Ambrose’s mind wandered to the beginning of the day, and the knock on his door that started this perilous journey.

  I

  Colossal raindrops once again pounded the roof of Inspector Ambrose’s two-storied terrace. In his study, surrounded by his myriad collection of books on Mechs and mysteries, Ambrose felt safe. He was warm and dry, sheltered from the beastly storm that had blown in two days prior and now seemed intent on ruining a perfectly good day.

  Though it wasn’t just the weather that seemed to be conspiring against the inspector. As he sat behind his oak desk, attempting to write a few notes on his most recent case, he could feel his stomach churning. Sharp pains would be followed by a long gurgle and a rush of cramps. It was as if his insides were marching to war, and the first battle was now commencing. Ambrose winced as he wrote in his compendium. It was his singular treasure; the collection of years of work as a detective with the Empire’s Citizens Protection Force, investigating all manner of deeds and misdemeanours, almost always involving the Empire’s prized possessions: Mechs.

  Ambrose put down his quill as a moment of nostalgia beckoned. Though he couldn’t recall the first time he had seen a Mech, he clearly remembered the first time he had investigated a crime committed with one. Though each Mech generally looked like a human in form and function, their bodies varied in shape, size, and appendages based on how each was crafted by its Artisan. The Mech in that first case had been one with three arms - a curious thing, to be sure. The Mech and its human companion had been accused of stealing from the local butchery. Although there was no sign of the pilfered meat, Ambrose had marched both down to the cells in the centre of the Empire’s capital, Traville. As the following days heated up, the stench of rotting meat had overpowered the guards. When Ambrose finally wrenched the fake third arm from the Mech, he almost passed out as a pile of steaks and offal poured out onto the ground. There was a lesson that day, though:

  When dealing with Mechs, never take things at face value.

  A cough from behind the closed study door caught Ambrose’s attention. He smiled a little, but soon returned to grimacing as his stomach did a small flip.

  “Come in, Percy,” Ambrose said, doubling over and resting his head on the desk.

  As the door opened, Ambrose glanced up to see the stout figure of his partner, Detective Percy Portland. He was carrying a small silver tray with Ambrose’s favourite drink on it: a cup of herbal tea, extra hot.

  “Thank you, Percy, you’re a lifesaver,” said Ambrose, as Percy set the drink beside him. Ambrose wrapped his hands around the tea and took a sip. Despite the study’s roaring fire, he was still feeling the chill and needed the warmth.

  With the taste of tea, Ambrose’s cares slipped away for a moment as the hot liquid warmed him from the inside out. Percy sat down beside the desk, arranging his red uniform and trying to brush out a few of the wrinkles.

  “Did you… have any trouble getting the drink?” Ambrose asked tentatively.

  “Not from Felicity, if that’s what you mean, Inspector.” Percy gave a nervous smile before turning his gaze to the floor.

  Ambrose felt his heart freeze momentarily.

  “She’s not…” his eyes shot up to his partner.

  Percy caught Ambrose’s gaze. “I’m afraid she, is Inspector,” he said, with a small shake of his head.

  “Oh, no.” Ambrose took another sip of his tea and regarded the compendium in front of him. There was little he could do about the situation, much to his disappointment.

  His sister, Felicity, was experimenting in the kitchen again.

  Ambrose found Felicity’s visits to be trying at the best of times, but since she had decided to turn her hand to cooking, things had gotten diabolical. This time, Felicity was staying for several days, and had told the housekeeper not to bother with meals for the duration of her visit.

  “Look on the bright side,” said Percy. “I’m sure the lean diet will be good for your figure.”

  Ambrose knew Percy meant well by his comment, but it didn’t make it any less galling. Felicity was in no uncertain terms, one of the worst cooks in the Empire - capable of both undercooking and overcooking different parts of a meal whilst concurrently robbing the ingredients of any flavour. Never one to make a scene, Ambrose had been doing his best to ignore the protestations of his stomach and soldier on.; it was only after four days of gastronomic torture that his gut had finally run up the flag in protest and refused to take any more.

  And now another meal was on its way.

  “Do cheer up, Inspector.” Percy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stack of papers. “Perhaps we can go over the letters again?”

  Ambrose sat up in his chair; Percy was masterful in the art of the well-timed distraction. “Yes, let’s,” said Ambrose.

  With a broad smile, Percy laid the four letters from his pocket on the desk as Ambrose closed his compendium and pushed it aside. He opened the first letter, reading aloud from the stained parchment.

  Dear Inspector,

  The Empire has something of mine, and I intend to retrieve it. The Sword of Barnabas is not The Order’s to keep, and I shall relieve them of the burden of it. You are fools to put the sword on display as you have, and I will gratefully accept your gift.

  Sincerely,

  The Unseen Hand

  Ambrose put down the letter and proceeded to skim through the others, each furthering the threats of the thief who called himself the Unseen Hand. The letters had started arriving a few days ago, each sent from a different corner of the Empire and personally delivered to Ambrose’s house.

  “Have you found out anything else about this burglar?” Ambrose asked Percy.

  “Nothing since we last discussed it, Inspector. I am certain this is the same suspect who's been burgling the provinces since the last Freeze. Missing treasures include the Sparkling Crown of Hoi-Ahn, the Genie's Revenge, and the legendary Disappearing Diamonds.

  "What happened to those?" Ambrose asked.

  "They disappeared one night."

  "Naturally."

  "All told, the Unseen Hand has absconded with twelve priceless antiques. No system has been complex enough to defeat their skill as a burglar. The Unseen Hand is so careful that we don't even know the thief's gender."

  "But how do we know the Unseen Hand is even behind these crimes?"

  "They leave a glove behind. Shape and size varies, but it's always propped up where the missing artefact was."

  "So we have a thief on the loose who has never been captured, let alone seen.” Ambrose pinched the bridge of his nose. "And now this thief is threatening to take one of The Order's most precious possessions."

  "Pretty much," said
Percy.

  "Do we have any leads at all, Percy? A thread of hope that might pull us in the direction of what might happen next?"

  "Well I have been analysing the handwriting.” Percy leaned forward and pointed to the looping letters with his pudgy finger. “It seems this person studied calligraphy at some stage, which makes me wonder if they’re from the East. They teach those skills there.”

  “I suppose it's better than nothing.” Ambrose took another swig of tea. “The sword is still securely on display, of course?”

  Percy nodded. Much to Ambrose’s annoyance, someone in The Order had responded to the Unseen Hand's threats by placing the Sword of Barnabas on public display within the Grand Rotunda, a prominent building that sat on the far edge of Traville’s Central Square. So smug was The Order's belief that no one could steal the sword from the centre of the Empire’s capital.

  And worst of all, Ambrose was in charge of the sword’s security. He drummed his fingers against the side of his mug and racked his brain.

  What if it’s simply someone pretending to be sophisticated?

  “Have we been through the usual suspects from the slums?” Ambrose asked, sipping his tea thoughtfully.

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Pilfering Pete?”

  “He’s still locked up for that mess he made during the Freeze.”

  “Five-Lives Freddy?”

  “Dead. The Assassins Guild finally caught up with him. He’d used the other four lives, apparently.”

  “How about Long-Fingered Larry?”

  “Do you honestly think Long-Fingered Larry would be capable of a cross-Empire crime wave, Inspector?” Percy sounded as though he wasn’t keen on recounting all the criminals they’d captured around the slums over the past decade working together. “We need to consider the possibility that a syndicate of some sort is looking to steal the sword,” said Percy. “It’s an exceptional treasure, after all.”

  “Indeed,” Ambrose took another gulp as his stomach churned a little more. “I imagine it could be a group of Easterners looking to steal it back. It’s not as if The Order asked their permission to take the sword of their former Hero.”

  “If it’s a group of Easterners, Zhan might be able to shed some light on it,” Percy said cheerily.

  “There’s not much chance of that happening in the immediate future.” Ambrose shook his head and looked over at the book his Eastern friend had left him on a recent visit. “Zhan’s not coming back this way any time soon; he’s staying in Khalím for a while to recover from the unpleasantness at Mansfield Manor.” Even as he mentioned the manor’s name, Ambrose could picture the pale face of Mrs Mansfield, and the scheming smile of her murderer.

  “It’s a shame, that,” said Percy. “I know Felicity was taking lessons from him on Eastern culture; she must be disappointed.”

  “Yes, I never got to find out the nature of those lessons,” said Ambrose.

  Percy shrugged the topic off and had just proceeded to launch into an exposition on the best place to find a thief when the study door burst open. A whirl of peach, white, and brown flew through the door, stopping in the middle of the room.

  “The door! Ambrose, he’s here, and he’s not supposed to be!”

  Felicity threw her hands on Ambrose’s desk, her hair a mess of tangles, and her usually playful demeanour totally absent.

  “Our mysterious thief? Here?”

  “What? What are you on about? Amby, this is serious!” Felicity pounded her fist on the table. “He wasn’t supposed be here so early, and I’m not ready! You have to stall him!”

  Ambrose froze for an instant, his empty cup halfway between the table and his mouth. His train of thought was now derailed, and the intensity of his sister’s emotion had once again got the better of him.

  “Who?” Was all Ambrose could manage.

  “Ethan! The boy I’ve been talking about ever since I arrived? The one who grew up down South and moved here recently to study.”

  Ambrose was still struggling to get his thoughts in order.

  “Ah, Inspector?” Percy popped into view from behind Felicity. “I believe Felicity is trying to say that the young man from the South is at the door. I’ve heard a few polite taps on the glass.”

  “OH!” Ambrose finally understood. “You have an outing today, don’t you?” he said, trying his best to ignore Felicity’s scowl. “And he’s here far too early, so you need us to stall him while you finish getting ready.”

  “YES!” Felicity threw her hands in the air and made for the door. “You know, for a famous detective, you’re pretty poor at picking up clues!” She turned the corner, her dress floating out of view.

  “Why not just answer the door?” Ambrose called after her. “You’ve never been one for etiquette.”

  Felicity’s head popped around the corner. “True, but he doesn’t know that,” she said, before vanishing once more.

  “Well, then.” Ambrose drained the final drop of cold tea from his cup and made for the stairs.

  I shan’t be sad when this visit is over, he thought as he reached the entrance hall.

  A shadow loomed in the stained glass of Ambrose’s front door. He could make out a top hat against the dull grey clouds, and as he flung the door wide Ambrose found himself looking at a well-dressed young man with a cheeky smile and a week’s worth of stubble standing in contrast to his expensive tailcoat and leather shoes. The rain was pouring down behind him, and he was shaking out a black umbrella under the awning.

  “You’re not Felicity,” the man said.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” said Ambrose, doing his best to not grow an immediate dislike for the young suitor before giving him a chance. He was, after all, the latest in a long line of young men competing for Felicity's attention.

  “Dunsheen’s the name. Ethan Dunsheen.” The young man removed his wet hat, revealing a mop of curly blond hair as he thrust his hand into Ambrose’s.

  “Inspector Ambrose.”

  “Sorry I’m early,” Ethan said, with a firm shake, “but it’s not every day I get the chance to spend time with someone as lovely as Felicity. Is she ready?” He stuck his head through the door, looking around. Ethan was already halfway into the house by the time Ambrose could mutter a brief “Won’t you come in.”

  He’s a rude one.

  The pair made their way into the downstairs sitting room, where Ethan began busying himself admiring Ambrose’s collection of Mechanical marvels. The sitting room hosted a few of Ambrose’s favourite knickknacks and contraptions he had come across during his time as a detective.

  “I say, this is quite something isn’t it?” Ethan picked up a small brass device from the mantelpiece and inspected it.

  With his heart skipping a beat, Ambrose leapt halfway across the room to return the piece to its allotted space. “It’s a device for listening to conversations from a distance,” said Ambrose as he speedily placed it back on the brickwork.

  “Fascinating.” Ethan tapped his hat in his hand as he walked around the room, peering at the machinations with interest. He was about to pick up a piece from the wall when he froze.

  “I say,” he said, “you’re not… the Inspector Ambrose, are you?”

  “Unless there’s another, yes.” Ambrose buffed Ethan's fingerprints off the listening device.

  “So that’s what Felicity was hiding from me!” he said, his smile beaming as he slapped his knee. “She refused to tell me your name, just that you were with the Citizens Protection Force! Oh, you must have the best stories to tell at parties.”

  “Can’t say I attend many parties,” said Ambrose. “Would you care for a seat, Mr Dunsheen?”

  “I’m fine standing, thanks.” Ethan looked over to the door as Percy appeared. The young suitor walked over with an extended hand, and was soon shaking Percy half to death as he looked pleadingly at Ambrose. “You must be Detective Percy!” Ethan exclaimed.

  “Y-yes, I am.” Percy gave a weak grin. “How’d you know?”


  “Truth be told, I’ve wanted to meet you both for quite some time,” said Ethan. “You’re famous for solving cases involving Mechs around the Empire. Personally, I’ve had a fascination with Mechs since I was a little boy. My uncle was also something of a Mech fanatic, amongst other things; he always dreamed of becoming an Artisan, but never made the cut.” Ethan swung his attention back to Ambrose. “I heard so many stories about your exploits from my uncle over the years. Whenever you solved a new mystery, he would let me know the ins and outs of what happened.”

  “I'm embarrassed to admit it, but you’re both heroes of mine.” Ethan blushed a bit as he looked down at his hat.

  “I wouldn’t say we fit the bill as heroes particularly.” Ambrose threw a glance towards Percy. “Your uncle wouldn’t know the laborious work that goes into every case. We don’t get it right straight away - and we make mistakes. Still, I’m flattered that he follows our work so closely.”

  “Followed, Inspector. My uncle passed shortly before the Freeze arrived.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” said Ambrose, feeling a little sheepish.

  “You weren’t to know,” said Ethan.

  As silence fell, Ambrose was relieved to hear Felicity’s footsteps rushing down the stairs. She almost tripped as she hit the bottom step, and stumbled into the sitting room with a loud curse.

  “Hello, Ethan!” she said cheerily, but her smile soon fell as she caught the atmosphere in the room. “Amby! What did you do?” she said, arching an eyebrow in her brother’s direction.

  “It’s nothing, Felicity.” Ethan cheered up at the sight of the resplendent figure before him, and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek. “We were discussing work, that’s all. I mentioned my uncle, and then you arrived.”

  “That’s superb news! Are you going to help, Amby?”

  “Help?”

  “No, no, I wasn’t asking about that.” Ethan shook his head profusely. “Now, are you ready to go?”

  “Oh, come on, Ethan!” Felicity grabbed his hand. “Now you know who my brother is, you might as well ask him. There’s far too much at stake to leave it alone!”