The Steampunk Detective

by Darrell Pitt

  Jack decided to remain silent. He looked straight from the window without letting his gaze stray to Mr Doyle’s face.

  “Our Prime Minister, Mr Kitchener, is rather more even minded,” Mr Doyle admitted. “However, I must agree that airships made all the difference in the Great War. I imagine dominance over space will decide the next.” He turned away from the window. “Jack, would you be so kind as to wash the dishes? I will prepare our docking procedure.”

  Jack quickly cleaned the kitchen utensils as Mr Doyle focused on bringing the Lion’s Mane in to land. It seemed for some time they would never arrive. The side of the metrotower appeared as chequerboard from a distance, almost like looking at hundreds of fields laid upright. As they drew closer they realised each level was determined by alternating levels of brown and white brickwork. Along each level hundreds of windows looked outwards at the view beyond.

  Above them they saw clouds enclosing the upper levels. Through gaps in the haze the metrotower continued upwards and out of sight.

  “The figures are staggering,” Mr Doyle recounted. “Tens of millions of individual bricks used in its construction. Millions of panes of glass. Over a million people live in the structure. Thousands of offices. Hundreds of new towns occupy levels at various intervals.”

  “How are we going to find Mr Harker?” Jack asked. It all sounded so enormous he wondered how anyone found anyone else.

  “Thankfully we know his address,” Mr Doyle said, smiling. “Otherwise we would never find him. It has been said a person could start at the ground floor and search every room and die of old age before they reached the top.” He adjusted the helm. “At the centre of the structure are over a hundred lifts. They operate at all times of the day and night.”

  “Where does the power come from?” Scarlet asked.

  “The metrotower’s steam mills are located a mile away from the base. They provide the power for the building. Airships deliver food and water, although much of it is provided by the tower itself.”

  “In what way?” Scarlet asked.

  “Water is collected from the storms and showers that regularly drench the exterior of the structure. Food is grown on several levels, making full use of the light entering the windows.”

  “It makes one wonder why anyone would ever leave,” Scarlet said.

  “Some people don’t,” Mr Doyle said. “There are a number of people who have been born on the tower and have never departed.”

  Jack tried to imagine what it would be like if he had to live inside a building for his entire life. It sounded like jail. “That sounds terrible.”

  Mr Doyle shot a smile at him. “Not everyone shares your love of adventure, Jack.” He looked back out the window. “Here we are, almost ready to land.”

  The Lion’s Mane edged closer to the structure. A number of larger vessels were before them, but as it turned out they were being directed to other moorings. Mr Doyle directed them towards a line of smaller airships. Each vessel came into land at a dock that jutted out from the side like a huge tongue. As they pulled in to land, a door slid across, keeping out the cold. After they dropped off their passengers, they departed almost immediately.

  “Some are returning to their place of origin,” Mr Doyle said. “Others, especially those owned by aristocrats, have their own docking bays further down the building.”

  “I do not believe in class structure,” Scarlet said, tightening her fist. “One day I hope there will be no such distinction.”

  Mr Doyle gave her a look of mock astonishment. “Ah, a suffragette and a follower of Mr Marx.”

  “I do not follow the teachings of Mr Marx,” Scarlet said. “I merely believe as the Americans do, that all are created equal.”

  “I agree,” Mr Doyle said. “We are created equal. A shame we do not live as such. Ah, here we are. Time to dock.”

  The previous vessel had just docked and flown away. Mr Doyle brought them into land. A man in what appeared to be a lightweight diving outfit stood outside, signalling them to remain stationary until the outer doors had closed.

  As the doors slid shut, he held up a sign. It read:

  One minute till interior heating completed

  They waited. Finally he gave them a thumbs–up symbol and they slowly climbed out. The interior of the docking bay was freezing, despite the warm air being pumped in. Jack found his legs felt like jelly. Scarlet stumbled against him and his heart rose up into his throat as she clasped his shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack,” Scarlet said, looking embarrassed. “I have jelly legs.”

  “Me too.”

  He felt rather sorry when she released him.

  “It’s like being on a ship for long periods,” Mr Doyle explained, handling the solid ground rather better. “We’re already used to the sway of the Lion’s Mane.”

  The dockman put up the visor on his round helmet. “Do you have a private mooring here, sir?”

  “I have a place put aside for me on the King’s level.”

  The dockman checked his roster. “There is a place. Mr Doyle, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ll look after your vessel,” he said. “It will be on level one twenty–four when you need it.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “Just follow the corridor through to the internal hub,” the man said. “The way is signposted from there.”

  They went down a corridor, passed through two acclimatisation doors and found themselves in a room not unlike the concourse of a railway station. Men and women came and went in all directions. Luggage porters shifted bags from one place to another.

  “There’s the Duchess of Derbyshire,” Scarlet said. “And the Baroness of Essex.”

  “I thought you were not impressed by class distinction,” Mr Doyle said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I simply like the fashion,” she said.

  They exited the terminal into a corridor leading to a market. Apart from the enclosed walls and ceiling above, the market could have been anywhere in London. The floors were lined with cobblestones. Steam cars ran slowly along the streets. Even a horse drawn buggy carried sightseers through the heart of the market. Terraced structures ringed the outside of the market, stretching from ceiling to floor.

  “It’s amazing,” Jack said, peering upwards. Even the ceiling had been painted blue with a mural of billowing clouds. “It’s easy to forget you’re inside a building.”

  “You can see why some people spend their entire lives within the tower,” Mr Doyle said. “For some people, this is their whole world.”

  They followed signage down a street and walked a number of blocks until they reached a series of circular structures that ran from the floor up into the roof. Mr Doyle explained these were the lifts. There were many to pick from and lines had already formed at the entrance to many of them.

  “First class, second class and passenger carriages,” Mr Doyle pointed. “And then we have express lifts and all stations.”

  They’re like trains, Jack thought. Except they move up and down.

  Mr Doyle directed them towards the first class sections. He showed his card as they passed through a barrier.

  “Mr Harker is expecting us,” Mr Doyle told the ticket inspector.

  “Of course, sir” the man said. “Please follow me.”

  The inspector led them to a rather palatial looking lift at the rear of the first class section. The doors opened to reveal a well dressed lift attendant and an interior clad in mahogany. Gold leaf trimmings decorated the ceiling. Mirrors lined the three walls.

  “Bazookas,” Jack said. “This room probably cost more than some houses in London.”

  “No doubt,” Mr Doyle said. “The Harker residence, please.”

  The lift attendant hit a button and a moment later the elevator started to ascend. Jack had never been inside a lift. He tried to imagine the mechanics involved in raising the contraption through the building, cogs and gears and shafts pushing and pulling to mak
e the thing rise, all the while being driven by steam power. His mind whirled.

  “Why did we not take a lift from the ground?” Scarlet asked.

  The lift attendant answered her. “It is possible to do so, but it would take too long, madam.”

  “I believe you have to change lifts a number of times to reach the top,” Mr Doyle remarked.

  “Very true, sir,” the man said. “In fact, if you were to travel by lift all the way from the ground to geocentric orbit, you would change lifts sixteen times. To build a single lift to take you that distance would have been impractical.”

  “Power was the problem?” Scarlet asked.

  “Not at all. There would have been too much friction along the curvature.”

  “Friction along the curvature?” Scarlet asked.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” the man said. “I’m not sure a lady would understand.”

  Jack stifled a smile as he watched Scarlet purse her lips.

  “Perhaps you could try,” she said.

  “The metrotower is built to withstand tremendous forces,” the man explained, oblivious to Scarlet’s anger. “The entire structure is constantly swaying to cater for the velocity of the wind. If it were rigidly built, it would eventually shatter and collapse.”

  “The Chinese have a saying for that,” Scarlet said. “The strongest branch is the one that bends in the wind.”

  The lift came to a halt. The lift attendant announced, “The Harker residence.”

  Mr Doyle gave him a tip and they exited into a reception area. Two security men stood at either side of a nearby door. A single woman sat at a desk with a typewriter before her.

  A model of one of the space steamers filled the centre of the room. Jack could not stop himself. He raced over to the side of the enormous piece.

  “It’s the Victory!” he said excitedly.

  Jack had read a lot about the Victory. The enormous steamer was the pride of the British space navy. The largest steam ship ever constructed, it housed over seven hundred men. It was said its boilers alone were larger than St Paul’s cathedral. Three decks of cannons lined both sides of the enormous behemoth.

  Even the Prime Minister called it ‘Death Afloat’.

  The secretary looked up from her desk. “Can I help you?”

  “We need to see Mr Harker,” Mr Doyle said.

  The girl frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “There was no time to make an appointment,” Mr Doyle said. “It’s a matter of grave concern.”

  “Mr Harker is quite busy at the moment,” the girl said. She leafed through an appointment book. “He might be able to fit you in some time in July.”

  Scarlet snapped. “That’s three months away. This is a matter of life and death.”

  The two security guards approached the desk from their position at the door.

  “What’s this all about?” one of them said. “We can’t have any threats made here.”

  “I’m not making a threat,” Scarlet said, pursing her lips. “But we have reason to believe Mr Harker’s life may be at risk.”

  “Have you been to the police?” the same guard asked.

  “We have not,” Mr Doyle said. He reached into his coat and took out a card. “Please give my card to Mr Harker. It’s very important.”

  At that moment the door opened behind the guards. An attractive woman stepped through; aged about thirty–five, she had short, black hair and piercing grey eyes. She walked around the desk and took the card from Mr Doyle’s hand.

  “Ignatius Doyle,” she said, reading the card. “Consulting detective. I appreciate your efforts, but any information must be forwarded through to the police.”

  Jack had listened to enough twaddle. “Mr Doyle is better than the police. You should listen to him.”

  “Better than the police?” the woman raised an eyebrow, an amused smile dancing across her lips. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “My dear,” Mr Doyle said. “You should keep an open mind. You are, after all, well travelled, having been to Europe in the last few months.”

  The woman’s jaw dropped. “But how…how did you…”

  “You grew up in a poor household. You were raised by your father. He tried to teach you the finer details of being a lady, but you rebelled. You sewed for a number of years, but you did poorly at it and hated it. You also danced as a child. You did better as a dancer, but you enjoyed the sciences, specifically chemistry, more than the social graces of society.”

  By now the woman was completely speechless.

  “Having said all that, your real love is music – the violin specifically. You are a lady of leisure – your father having done very well in life – but you have high aspirations.”

  Mr Doyle stroked his chin. “And one last thing. You were in love many years ago, but the gentleman died. I’m sorry, my dear.”

  For one brief moment an expression of fury flashed across the woman’s face. She swallowed hard as she suppressed the emotion.

  Mr Doyle took a step closer to the woman. “My dear, will you let us speak to Mr Harker? I promise you this is a matter of extreme importance – his very life may depend on it.”

  The woman looked down at the card. She glanced back at the guards. “Follow me.”

  She crossed to the door and opened it. They followed her as they walked up a long passage that eventually met the outer edge of the building. Jack looked out the window at the view. He instantly felt dizzy. He had lived on the trapeze for most of his life, yet he had never seen anything like this. Neither had the others. Even Scarlet and Mr Doyle seemed transfixed by the sight of the miles and miles of countryside receding into the distance. They could see the coastline where it met the channel.

  “On a clear day you can see deep into the continent,” the woman said.

  They entered a large living area with walls of books lining the sides. Freestanding shelves filled the interior of the floor. A curving staircase led up to a mezzanine level. At the moment a man stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at them with a scowl.

  “You must explain yourself, sir,” he said sternly as he started down the stairs towards them.

  Jack realised the man was Jon Harker. He looked to be about sixty years old. A slim man with receding white hair, parted on one side, he wore a black suit and tie. He had a neat moustache and a white beard that came to a point. Jack had only seen a few pictures of the famous astronaut and the man had obviously aged since the photos were taken.

  “I am Ignatius Doyle,” Mr Doyle said. “A consulting detective.”

  “I am well aware as to your identity,” Jon Harker said. “The moment you announced yourself at the front desk, a team of researchers were notified and started combing our files for information. I know that Scotland Yard thinks most highly of you.”

  “I have assisted Scotland Yard on one or two occasions,” Mr Doyle admitted.

  Mr Harker reached the bottom of the stairs and shook Mr Doyle’s hand. “You must explain to me how you knew so much about this young woman.”

  “It was elementary,” Mr Doyle said. “This young lady has not long returned from Europe. Her dress was not made in Britain. Her skin carries a healthy pallor. We have just completed winter, so it seems obvious she has travelled to Europe. The dress is quite new, so I deduce she acquired it on her travels abroad.”

  “And all the other details?” the woman asked. “The sewing…the music…”

  “Simplicity itself,” he said. “You have a number of scars on your fingers, specifically the forefinger of your left hand where you injured yourself with the needle. There must not have been a woman around, so you learnt to sew with only the advice of your father. The fact that there are so many marks means you worked for some time at it – without much success.”

  “When you came around the desk to take my card, you placed your left foot against the inside ankle of your right – a classic ballet step. You still do it naturally, so I assume you worked at it and enjoyed it
more than sewing.

  “Your love of the violin is obvious. As obvious as the red mark under your chin from your many hours of practice.”

  “But the science?” the woman asked. “How could you possibly know about that?”

  “Simply a matter of deduction, my dear. On the inside edge of both your left and right fingers is a callous, brought about by the use of a microscope. You also have tiny white burn marks on the palms of your hands. I assume, from the misuse of chemicals.”

  “And finally -,” the woman’s voice became as hard as stone.

  “It is not important,” Mr Doyle said.

  “It seems you know a great deal about my daughter,” Mr Harker said. “May I introduce you to Lucy.”

  Lucy Harker inclined her head. “I’m pleased to meet you. I think.”

  “But I understand you also know something about me,” Jon Harker said.

  “Mr Harker,” Mr Doyle began. “We have been investigating a case in relation to the disappearance of Miss Bell’s father – Joseph Bell. Have you ever heard the name?”

  “Lucy,” Mr Harker said. “Will you please make tea?”

  “Of course, father,” Lucy replied, leaving the room.

  “No,” Jon Harker led them to a lounge area. “I am unfamiliar with the name.”

  “You have of course heard of Douglas Milverton and James Partington?”

  “Of course. They are two of the greatest inventors of our generation.”

  “Both these men went missing during the course of the last year,” Mr Doyle explained. “We discovered their bodies last night.”

  “They were frozen in ice,” Jack broke in. “Snap frozen.”

  “Frozen?” Mr Harker was taken aback.

  “The men in possession of their bodies spoke German,” Mr Doyle said. “Are you or your daughter familiar with the language?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “The men mentioned your name specifically,” Mr Doyle said. “They said they were on their way to get you.”

  Mr Harker frowned in thought. “This is all very strange. Having said that, the disappearance of Milverton and Partington was unusual too. What do you suggest?”