by Ash, C. B.
Conor stared at Lydia’s limp form with a sour, regretful look, then rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Fine, fine.”
Beneath the stairs, William squinted to make out who was on the wheelbarrow. It was useless. The silhouettes of the two figures gave nothing away as to their actual identities. Frustrated, William eased out from beneath the stairs, crawling through long shadows until he stopped behind a stack of crates four feet away from the resurrection men.
He glanced up warily at the tarnished steel gears precariously balanced above him. Satisfied that they were not about to fall on him, he slowly leaned down and peeked around the rough-hewn crates for the two Irishmen and their burdens.
William strained to make out any details, but the shadows were just too dark. Then, just before the young tracker was going to try and move again, Liam picked up the wheelbarrow by the handles and slowly wheeled it forward a step. In a shaft of dim light, William could see the two figures, a young boy whom he did not recognize and an older woman. It was the woman that made William’s heart thud in his chest.
It was Mrs. Givens, the flower grower whom he had spoken with just the other day. William shivered from a rush of nerves and cold sweat.
Liam set the wheelbarrow down to rub his sore hands again. “At least that bloody cap’n’s out of the way. By now he ought to be gone, or at least getting ready ta shove off.”
Conor chuckled evilly, “oh, I’d be sayin’ so!”
Liam gave his partner a nasty look, “What did ya do?”
“What?” Conor asked in surprise. “I didn’t do nothing, ‘cept leave the note with the body of the boarding house woman ta scare off that Cap’n.”
“Ya bloody damn fool!” Liam exploded. He balled his hands into fists, nearly striking Conor, but stopped himself with obvious effort. “Ya were only supposed ta be doin’ that if he didn’t leave Edinburgh!” The Irishman ran a hand though his greasy hair, “bugger me dead, he’ll never leave now.”
"But he wasn't leavin'!" Conor protested.
"Ye didn't know that any more'n I did, cause there wasn't time for the plan to be workin'!" Liam sighed heavily, “all right, well, get the girl to the workshop. I’ll drop these off at the larder with rotten cabbage to cover the smell of dead bodies if either of 'em kick off before we can do ’em in later. We need ta speak to the doctor and see what she’s got planned for these three we've caught. Though, she'll likely kill us now, thank ye very much!”
Conor looked away, red with embarrassment. “Ya, all right, all right.” He shifted Lydia’s weight, which prompted her to grunt slightly as they both vanished into the darkness.
Meanwhile, Liam, muttering angrily under his breath, hefted the wheelbarrow by the handles and quickly hauled it through the shadowy gloom.
William watched the pair leave in opposite directions. He glanced after Conor, then Liam. He could not fight both at once, but separately … perhaps so.
Searching about, he crept out of his hiding place and quickly located a three foot length of wood. Once satisfied with his grip, he turned after Liam who was the closer of the two. William eased quietly up behind the big Irishman.
Liam, from a combination of preoccupation with his own anger and the dull throbbing of machinery overhead, never heard William approach. He never even heard the whistle of the wood, but definitely felt the moment of pain when it struck. The man’s knees buckled under him and he collapsed to the floor, dazed and nearly unconscious.
William quickly set his wooden club aside and checked Mrs. Givens, then the young man in the rough, patched clothing. They were breathing as if deeply asleep. “Some drug o’ some kind, I suppose. You'll be fine here for a few minutes, but that big bugger, I gotta put him somewhere.”
He looked around and spied a rotten door nearby. Running over, William threw open the latch and yanked hard. The hinges squeaked once as the door swung wide. It was a storage pantry partially filled with old wooden planks. William knew it would not hold Liam for long once he had regained his senses, however it just had to hold him long enough. The young man grabbed the Irishmen by his heels, huffing and puffing while he dragged him into the pantry.
Once he had deposited Liam inside, William shut and bolted the door. Quickly, he ran back to the wheelbarrow. He grabbed the handles and, all too slowly, wheeled it out of sight behind some crates. He studied his handiwork while wiping the nervous sweat from his hands.
“You two’ll keep fine here. Now, I just gotta find the other one,” William said quietly, walking away from the wheelbarrow to recover his wooden club.
“Hey! What’re ya doin’ loose!” A deep Irish voice growled from the darkness .
William spun on his heels, grabbing his club in a swift motion. Behind him, Conor – lacking any sign of Lydia now – grabbed a brass tube of equal length to William’s plank and rushed forward. The two closed the gap between them like a pair of ancient swordsmen, William, his wooden club held low, and Conor brandishing his pipe high over his left shoulder. Conor swung, William ducked, sidestepping to the man’s left. The Irishman’s pipe whistled overhead as William rammed the end of his club forward and up.
Conor grunted as the air exploded out of him in a rush. Staggering forward, he grabbed the edge of a crate and steadied himself before turning around. William was on him in a flash, swinging the shaft of wood down against Conor’s right thigh - the exact spot William remembered kicking the Irishman in the leg before.
Hissing and swearing in pain, Conor collapsed as his leg buckled. William swung again, but this time Conor managed to get his pipe up in time to block the blow. The dry wood finally shattered from all the abuse, breaking into several pieces and ending its usefulness. William immediately tossed a hand-sized chunk of his destroyed club at Conor’s face then bolted away, heading back the way he came.
“I gotta find Miss Olivander and get us all outta here,” William said with a gasp, “or get out and get the constables! Right now, I’d take either.”
He raced on through the basement, searching frantically for any sign of stairs or a door. Anything that would lead him to Lydia or a way out. In his headlong run through the darkness, straps and bolts of cloth battered into him, slowing his progress and his search.
Finally, in the bleak, shadowy gloom he saw the outline of light shaped like a door. Racing over, he ran his hands along the wooden surface, locating the handle. He turned it, jerking the door open in haste. The room inside, and its contents, stopped him cold.
The room beyond was small, perhaps only five feet on a side and ten feet across, at best. Cabinets and shelves, heavy with countless jars, large glass batteries and a few books made the room seem compact and terrifyingly close. However, it was the middle of the room that chilled his blood.
A lone table comprised of nothing more than rusted metal legs and a bloody wooden top dominated the room. Leather straps dangled from the table like tendrils from a sleeping squid. Atop the dirty, stained surface lay the still form of Lydia Olivander.
William slowly walked in, his mind rushing to cope with the horror before him. All around him, diagrams hung from shelves and cabinet doors. Designs and drawings detailed autopsies and mechanical devices of all kinds. Jars filled with light and dark oily fluids decorated the shelves, sagging their thin wood from the weight. Just to his right, a series of mason jars each held a heart suspended in some yellowish liquid. One of the hearts was attached to a set of wires and a small, crowfoot glass battery equally as large as the mason jar.
Next to the hearts, a long jar was set apart. It held the same yellowish fluid, but inside floated a round brass ball with a set of cables that dangled out the back. William took a step closer. Suddenly, the brass cover split open revealing a clockwork eye! He jerked back, stumbling sideways in his haste. A cold chill ran along his spine when the eye watched him, and blinked.
William looked quickly away, then jumped in fright. A smaller table that was out of sight of the door supported a dismembered clockwork dog, only partially covered i
n fur. Cables and springs hung loose like severed tendons, giving the body a surreal and grotesque appearance. The young man grabbed the edge of a counter, taking a long deep breath to steady his ragged nerves. He glanced over at Lydia. Much to his relief she was breathing softly as if asleep.
“Get away from her!” Conor roared, lunging into the room.
William spun in surprise, immediately ducking as Conor swung his pipe at the young man’s head. The two danced about the table, Conor swinging one way, then the other while William dodged, keeping the brute just out of arm's reach.
Desperately, William reached out, blindly selecting a random jar from a shelf. Without a second thought, he hurled it at the Irishman’s head, bolting for the open door.
Conor batted the jar aside with a snarl only to have it shatter, depositing its bluish fluid all over his right arm. He lunged for William, latching onto his shirt collar. William twisted in the big man’s grasp, swinging frantically for Conor's bad leg. Only this time, Conor was prepared.
“Not again!” Conor snapped, slamming a hard fist across William’s mouth before the young man could land his own blow. William’s head jerked abruptly to one side and his body twitched. His mind fought like a wild animal against the unstoppable darkness while his body flailed about weakly trying to defend itself. Conor struck the young man repeatedly until William sagged to the floor.
William grabbed the leg of the table on which Lydia rested, struggling to rise as he could dimly see Conor preparing to hit him again. Suddenly, a beefy hand grabbed Conor’s arm, blocking the attempt.
“That’ll be enough o’ that!” Liam snarled. “Remember, he’s gotta stay alive till Hunter’s outta the way. Even then, he belongs ta her.”
At last William’s strength gave way. He sighed once, and with a half-frustrated sob, glanced up at Lydia’s sleeping form, “Bloody hell, I’m sorry,” he mumbled through swelling lips, "I tried … I really tried.”
Then, the soothing bliss of unconsciousness claimed him.
Chapter 29
It was an hour after the remains of Mrs. Vivan Carpenter had been recovered from the White Hart Tavern and taken to the mortuary. Within that hour, once again the blue-coated constables had descended on the Grassmarket, only to leave no better informed than when they had arrived. As the undertaker's coach carrying her body wound its slow path to the morgue, a constable arrived with a message for Captain Hunter, Moira, Thorias and Rodney. It was from Detective MacTaggart, urgently requesting their presence at the police headquarters.
Inside his office Detective MacTaggart, suit rumpled and coat unbuttoned, paced like a man possessed. His hands were folded behind him, clutched tightly together, knuckles white with emotion. The detective’s brows were furrowed, his eyes flashing with an intense anger, although, this time it was not directed at his guests.
“Despite havin’ every lad Ah can spare out beatin’ the bush for these mongrels, they be a solid step ahead.” The detective stopped in mid-pace, staring furiously at a citation for bravery in the line of duty awarded to him the previous year. He glared at it, as if it were mocking him.
Detective MacTaggart spun on his heel as if insulted by very the sight of the award, and stalked slowly across his office. “Despite havin’ a good, solid lad at the door – a lad Ah'd been trainin’ meself, Ah might add – they slip inside to make off with what may be their next victim. And that’s before ye get to the young boy, ye man William, or depositin’ the late Mrs. Carpenter, bless her shade.”
“What I don’t understand,” Rodney, standing not far from the door to the Detective’s office, folded his arms over his chest and idly considered the thin, herringbone gear in his hand, “Was how they managed to get Miss Olivander away and leave the body?”
Moira leaned back in her chair and whispered to Rodney, “I heard some constable’s talkin’, they found a door in the back standing open. It led right to a storeroom with a rickety old ladder. They said it woulda been simple to scamper up that, then go across the roof to both rooms. They even found where the ladder was stuck in the ground outside.”
The young inventor raised his eyebrows, “now that is devious. Most often don’t look up, what with the buildings here being so tall.”
The detective stopped next to his desk, staring angrily down at an innocent folder that lay there, stuffed with papers. The ink from the servitor scribe was barely dry. MacTaggart picked up the folder and looked as if he might throw it across the room. “Now Ah be getting’ a report that a flower grower, a Sarah Givens, be gone missin’. Ah be well past tired of these bloody buggers bein’ just a step ahead!”
“I agree. I wholeheartedly agree,” Captain Hunter said in a hard, dangerous tone. His eyes smoldered while he stared out the only narrow window of the Detective’s office. The clouds had begun to gather overhead, slowly boiling in preparation for one of the usual Edinburgh storms. In the distance, Hunter watched a pair of ravens chase a clockwork servitor, this one a messenger owl, while it flew quickly on whatever errand sent it across Edinburgh.
Behind his back, Hunter clasped Jimmy Quick’s woolen cap securely in his right hand while his artificial clockwork left hand flexed in a tight fist. “So far we’ve been racing to catch up to them. There must be something we’ve overlooked. Something we can do.”
Dr. Thorias Llwellyn sat in a chair next to the Detective’s desk, his face drawn into a thoughtful frown. “Indeed, there must be. We’ve been over the trail of evidence for the past half-hour. We know from young Rodney here that Miss Newt stumbled across two suspicious characters carting off something in the dead of night. When she went to tell someone, again young Rodney, she was unable to do so before she vanished.”
Detective MacTaggart dropped the file back onto his desk with a heated sigh. “Ah be of some acquaintance with Hiram Jones, and Lydia Olivander. Hiram, rest his soul, went and had the misfortune to be findin’ a storage place for smugglers. Likewise he and Mrs. Carpenter had been courtin’.”
Moira sat up straight in her chair, causing the wood to squeak, “Which probably means he’d been around ta call on Mrs. Carpenter.” She shrugged, “just a guess mind ya. But that means he’d have met Maggie Campbell and Lydia, too.”
Rodney looked around at the others in the room, “but how does that connect to the kidnappings? Might the smugglers be a coincidence?”
Captain Hunter shook his head, “I sincerely doubt that. I’m convinced it was Conor and Liam after Hiram’s journal. We know by Dr. Belker’s admission, Conor and Liam were involved with the kidnappings, among other morbid dealings.” Anthony paused for a slow deep breath, then exhaled slowly while he reined in his temper.
“What about that Monkhouse bloke runnin’ that textile factory?” Moira asked curiously. “Didn’t they work for him? Why wouldn’t he know where they are or what they been up to?”
“Textile factory,” Rodney muttered to himself thoughtfully, “why does that ring chimes?”
“He might,” Detective MacTaggart said grimly, not hearing Rodney’s mumblings. “Ah'd better send a couple of lads around to be havin' a chat with him. Maybe lay hands on his business records."
“The man’s repulsive, but he didn’t seem capable of planning murder,” Hunter said sternly, “not murder on this breadth. Likely as not, those two might easily be preparing to vanish into the slums or even leave Edinburgh itself.”
“We’ll have the devil’s own time finding them, then,” Thorias lamented darkly, then glanced over at Detective MacTaggart. “Wait now … they’re obviously cleaning up loose ends behind them, save for most of you here and Benjamin. Detective, tell me again what Benjamin told you about how he purchased the bodies?”
“Between his ravings, he described a place just south of the Leith Docks. Near an old fishin’ boat tied up near a shack havin’ only one black shutter.” Detective MacTaggart replied tersely.
“Which was close enough to where Hiram located that hidden stash he wrote about. I can’t call that coincidence,” Hun
ter interjected. “We need to get at Conor or Liam. At least one of them. Separated, they might more easily confess.”
The Detective shook his head, “Ah can bring ’em in, but the best we have is the fight yeself was in with them, and that’d be no more than a stiff fine. Anything more would require Dr. Belker, and what with him comin’ down with that case o’ madness, no court would allow anythin’ he’s said.” MacTaggart sighed wearily, “What we need is to catch either Conor or Liam out in the open.”
“Then lets give ’em some bait,” Moira said suddenly with a bright grin. “This’ll sound bad, but hold the course with me. They gotta get rid of the bodies, right? Let's go an get one from 'em."
All eyes in the room turned to look at Moira curiously. Hunter spoke up first, the wheels already turning behind his eyes. “Moira, are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“If yer thinkin’, ‘put out some money to try and purchase a body from ’em’, then sure.” She replied quickly.
The room immediately exploded in a torrent of shouts and arguments. It was Rodney who broke through the conflicting conversations by saying, “It’s madness, but I think I understand … it's … brilliant. Would it even work? I think it just actually might.”
“Preposterous!” MacTaggart sputtered, pushing his glasses up from the end of his nose. “It’ll be encouragin’ them to kill again! Ah’m supposed ta stop the killin', not go off and hire ’em to kill more!”
“Not if we put out the money now,” Moira pleaded. “Don’t give ’em time to do anything, leave a note sayin’ its a rush order. Just something. Say we’re willin’ ta pay double if’n they’re only banged about and not dead, or somethin’ like that. They’re really greedy, otherwise they wouldn’t have been doing any of this in the first place. So of course they’ll fall for it.”
Hunter watched Moira carefully, “This one's tricky, Moira, neither Conor or Liam are entirely stupid. They could easily kill one of the victims before delivering them to us." The captain looked out the window thoughtfully while the wheels in his mind turned, "We'd need someone who can play the part of a desperate medical researcher. However, we can't use Dr. Belker, he's too ill to rely upon.”
