“Shall I do something about the woman?” Mattie asked as she knelt beside the still-unconscious blonde.
“Straighten her legs, perhaps, to assist with the circulation,” Simon offered. “Otherwise, she’ll come to eventually.”
Luthor glanced toward the sheet covering the body and frowned. “For the work of a single man, it certainly had a devastating effect.”
Simon nodded. “It had the desired effect, I would assume. The vast majority of patrons refuse to travel to Whitten Hall. Lesser government officials most assuredly wouldn’t continue their trip. It’s only through the bad luck of the bastard under the sheet that he chose to attack a train with an Inquisitor on board.”
Mattie pulled the woman’s legs from beneath her and straightened them, granting the unconscious woman some semblance of dignity. “Surely this wasn’t the work of just the one man. The logistics alone seem far more than a person could manage on their own.”
“You are correct in that regard, Miss Hawke. Someone put this man up to the task of impersonating a vampire, someone, I would presume, who lives in Whitten Hall. I very much look forward to having a stern conversation with that man upon our arrival.”
“Have you seen the other cars?” Luthor asked, as he returned from the loo.
Simon pushed aside the reports he’d been reading, his interest suddenly piqued by the unexpected attack by the false vampire. “I can’t say that I have. There isn’t another issue, I would hope.”
“Not an issue in the traditional sense. Simply that the once filled train car is now a veritable ghost town. Those that are still on board seem hesitant to even make eye contact with one another. It’s disconcerting.”
Simon dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “They’re paranoid without reason. The culprit has already been proven to be nothing more than a simple man. A dead simple man, I might add.”
Luthor took his seat beside Mattie. He glanced briefly at the paperwork before Simon but immediately looked away, having already become intimately familiar with its contents.
“What they ought to be doing, instead, is enjoying the scenery as it passes,” the Inquisitor continued.
Luthor gazed out the window as the wooded countryside slid past the train. The forest was dense with untended undergrowth. To the side of the train, it fell away toward unseen ravines and crevices in the rock. The only visible breaks in the wood line occurred when the loose soil gave way to rocky gorges, filled to capacity with large rocks and a winding maze of footpaths.
Mattie followed his gaze out the window. “It doesn’t look like a land on the cusp of a revolution, does it?”
Luthor shrugged. “I would hardly expect cannons and musketeers lining the edges of the train tracks.”
“I would,” the redhead replied. “Whitten Hall has ceased shipment of raw iron to the capital. If I were them, I would expect an army to appear on the next train.”
Despite his blasé attitude, Luthor recognized the wisdom in her words. “Perhaps they know something we don’t.”
“That should frighten you,” Simon added. “Any time we don’t understand all aspects of the situation at hand—”
“We’re caught unaware by a demon in our midst,” Luthor concluded, though he doubted Simon would have finished his sentence in such a fashion.
“We don’t think that another demon is truly a possibility here, do we?” Mattie asked, her fear evident.
Their encounter with Gideon Dosett in Haversham hadn’t ended well for any of the trio, all of whom left with injuries that required nearly the entirety of the zeppelin journey to heal.
She discreetly turned her gaze to Luthor, who politely shook his head.
“I would very much doubt a return of a demon like we encountered before,” the apothecary said, attempting to set her mind at ease.
“Can we be sure? We are dealing with an outpost that, for reasons we have yet been able to surmise, ceases iron shipments. This is a town that, from all accounts, was a loyal subject to the crown prior to this inexplicable change of heart.”
Luthor nodded. “You’re rightfully concerned that the denizens of Whitten Hall have been coerced, much like Dosett had done to the citizens of Haversham.”
“And to me,” she added.
“I can say with some confidence,” he began, before sharing what he hoped was a knowing glance with her, “that another demon has not arrived so soon after we dispatched the first.”
“Never discount a possibility until it has been definitively disproven,” Simon said without looking up from the papers. “That adage is as true for demons as it is for epidemiological outbreaks.”
The Inquisitor stacked the papers neatly and slipped them into the folder from which they came. Reaching to the edge of the table, he retrieved his top hat, placing it on his head at his traditional, slightly canted style.
“Regardless, our questions will soon be answered,” he said, as the whistle blew from the train’s engine and the passenger car lurched beneath them. “We’ll soon arrive at the Whitten Hall station.”
The engineer applied the brakes, and an ear-piercing screech of metal permeated the cabin. The trio flinched at the sound even as they clung to the edges of the benches for support. The train cars rocked, first forward as the brakes were applied and then backward as the engineer released the brakes and the train rolled smoothly into the station.
In contrast to the relative elegance of the Callifax train station, the Whitten Hall station was little more than a raised platform set upon the remains of a dusty wagon trail, long since degraded from disuse. A single ticket office sat upon the platform, its counter and glass partition both coated in dust. A printed sign in the window read, “Out to Lunch. Back in:” though the hands of the printed clock face beneath it were missing. Simon doubted they had been present in some time.
Though Simon hardly anticipated a fanfare upon his arrival, he was dismayed to see the platform nearly empty of people. A few dirty gentlemen stood idly by one end. They had the appearance and demeanor of foremen and would most certainly be welcoming the new laborers.
The only other person on the platform was a porter, holding a small sign that read, though Simon had to strain to see its small script and poor penmanship, “Royal Inquisitor Whitlock”.
“There, sir and madam, is our welcoming entourage,” Simon remarked flatly.
“It’s a bit underwhelming, sir.”
“Indeed it is. Come. Let’s gather our things.”
They stood from the bench and retrieved the small personal effects they wished to keep upon their person. Mattie carried nothing, though both men knew she was more than imposing without any additional armaments. Luthor collected his doctor’s bag, filled as it was with vials and jars of assorted healing herbs and extracts. Simon gathered a single square, wooden box onto which had been affixed a leather handle.
They waited a few moments as they watched the laborers disembark. As a group, they were collected by the waiting foremen and led to a set of covered, horse-drawn wagons.
When Simon was confident they were the last tenants on the train, he led them to the open door leading from their passenger car.
Though the porter knew nothing of the trio aside from the name scribbled upon his card, it took no effort to recognize the Inquisitor for what he was. The porter hurried to their side and nodded respectfully.
“Royal Inquisitor Whitlock, I presume?” the young man asked.
“I am. With me are Mister Luthor Strong, apothecary, and Miss Matilda Hawke, animal husbandry.”
Mattie frowned at Simon’s joke at her expense, though the porter was none the wiser.
“It is an honor to meet you, sir. Can I take your bags?”
The porter reached for the wooden box in Simon’s hand, but the Inquisitor quickly pulled it from his grasp.
“My apologies,” the porter quickly stammered.
“No offense taken,” Simon remarked, “but all the bags currently in our possession will remain s
o. There are more than enough suitcases and such still within our cabin on the train. There is also a corpse underneath a draped sheet in the first dining car that I will need retrieved as well.”
The porter blanched as he looked to the Inquisitor. “Sir?”
Simon arched an eyebrow. “A corpse, boy. I don’t believe it is presumptuous of me to assume he was a resident of Whitten Hall before his untimely demise. Someone here should claim his body for a proper burial.”
“How… how did he die, if I may, sir?”
Simon glanced at Mattie and smiled. “Lead poisoning. A fatal allergy, from what I’m told.”
The porter nodded before turning to the train. He disappeared into the same doorway through which the three had recently disembarked. Luthor watched through the train’s window as the porter appeared in their cabin and began fumbling with the heavy suitcases stored on racks above the benches.
“Do you always arrive to such little pomp and circumstance?” Mattie asked.
“Would you believe that even Haversham provided a far more impressive welcoming committee?” Simon answered.
A suited man appeared at the end of the train station and climbed the few stairs onto the raised platform. He wore boots on his feet that were covered in dust. Steel plates on the back of the boots clicked on the wooden platform with each step. He hurried to their side before stopping and removing his hat.
“Forgive my tardiness, gentlemen and lady,” the man said.
A fine sheen of sweat stood out prominently from the man’s brow, though Simon doubted they looked much better. The humidity in Whitten Hall was far higher than he had encountered elsewhere during his travels. The man’s hair was cut close to his scalp, leaving skin visible through the thin, black hair. His eyebrows were heavy, leaving him with a stern visage that belied the pleasant smile he wore.
“My name is Tom Wriggleton. I was caught unaware that the train was arriving until I heard its whistle. I hurried as quickly as I could but, as you can plainly see, failed to meet you upon your arrival.”
“Are you in the employment of the governor?” Simon asked.
Tom shook his head. “We are a small outpost, sir, hardly worthy of an appointed governor. There’s one assigned for this region, but he so rarely makes an appearance in Whitten Hall. We have a locally elected chancellor who presides over the city council and makes decisions on behalf of the governor.”
“Is your chancellor available?” Simon asked.
“I apologize, but he isn’t, not today at least. Chancellor Whitten wanted to meet you in person upon your arrival, but business called him away at the last minute. He’s expected back tonight and, I’m certain, would be thrilled to meet with you then.”
“Chancellor Whitten, you said?” Luthor asked. “I presume it’s not just a coincidence that he shares a name with the town itself?”
Tom smiled. “Not at all, Mr.…”
“Strong. Luthor Strong.”
“Mister Strong,” Tom continued. “It was Chancellor Whitten’s family who first settled this region two generations past. His grandfather led the expedition that first entered this once inhospitable region of the continent and discovered the enormous veins of iron running just beneath the ground. Though we democratically elect our chancellors, a Whitten has held the position ever since the town was founded.”
“Then what is your capacity in Whitten Hall?” Simon asked. “Are you a council member?”
Tom cleared his throat, the smile fading from his face. “Forgive me if I seem too forthcoming.”
“There’s hardly such a thing as ‘too forthcoming’ in the course of an investigation.”
“You are, as I’m sure, aware of our tenuous current position.”
“We are,” the Inquisitor replied matter-of-factly, leaving Mister Wriggleton even more ill at ease.
“As one of the senior businessmen in town, I have been recruited as an advisor to the chancellor. With my help and the help of other members of town who have a vested interest in seeing an end to this circumstance in which we find ourselves, we hope to find an amicable resolution.”
Simon arched his eyebrow. “The crown won’t offer an amicable solution, not when their very livelihood and wealth are being held captive.”
“To be honest, sir,” Tom replied, “we had hoped you might be able to assist with that capacity.”
“I think you misunderstand my purpose here,” Simon said.
Tom fumbled with the brim of his hat as uncertain men are prone to do. “Perhaps this is something better discussed with the chancellor. In the meantime, I can show you to the rooms we have reserved for your stay in Whitten Hall, if you would prefer.”
“In lieu of other options, please lead the way.”
They walked down the few steps that led from the wooden platform to the dusty unpaved road that wound through the town. From the end of the train station, there was little of Whitten Hall left to the imagination.
The main thoroughfare ran parallel to the railroad tracks, with the storefronts and homes all facing the tracks. The single road was broken only by narrow alleyways between the buildings, through which Simon could see that the more elegant storefronts were merely facades, plastered upon the fronts of poorly constructed buildings for mere aesthetic value.
The forest clung to the backsides of the buildings, branches heavy with leaves hanging over the rooftops and draping like ivy down the sides of the structures.
Mister Wriggleton led the group across the dusty street. Hitching posts had been constructed in front of the majority of storefronts, though few horses were present in the town. Fewer still were the people of Whitten Hall. Simon noted a few faces peering at the Inquisitor and his companions as they mounted the porch on the front of a general store, but a second glance showed empty windows where once people had been watching. For a town of one hundred and fifty citizens, Whitten Hall felt very much like the train on which they had arrived—a veritable ghost town. It was hardly a bastion of rebellion, full of citizens refusing iron shipments to the crown.
Near the end of the short row of buildings was a combination of pub with an inn occupying the majority of the second floor. The door swung open with a creak of age and exposure to dust and humidity. The interior was quite a bit cooler, though the humidity still clung to the air like a blanket.
Tom didn’t bother with introductions to the few men sitting haphazardly about the room. The bartender, a burly man with a long, handlebar moustache, paused briefly as he wiped the dingy bar with an equally dingy rag before going about his business.
Tom led the group up the stairs, which ended on a long, ill-lit hallway. Lanterns were mounted sporadically between closed doorways, but the meager light provided by the candles within hardly illuminated the hall.
Walking down it, their guide opened doors one after another.
“My apologies,” he said, turning toward Mattie. “We were originally only expecting two of you; we had no idea that the Inquisitor had such an entrancing traveling companion. However, as you could easily surmise, we’re not quite at our maximum occupancy. There are plenty of rooms available for your stay, though I will need to send someone up with fresh linens at once. Again, my apologies for the delay.”
“There’s no hurry,” Mattie replied. “It will do me some good to stand and walk after such a long train ride.”
Tom turned his attention back to Simon. “The chancellor is eager to meet with you upon his return and, I believe, will do his best to answer your questions. Until then, please make Whitten Hall your home. If you need anything at all, Gregory… forgive me, the bartender you passed as we entered, will be able to provide whatever you need. I do hope you enjoy your stay in our humble town.”
Simon tapped his chin with his index finger as though deep in thought. “I do have one question before you depart.”
Tom bit his lip nervously but nodded.
“How long is it until the next train departs for Callifax?”
Tom’s nervous d
emeanor turned to relief. “The next train will be arrive in two days. I would presume that’s the train on which you will be departing?”
“That is our intent,” Simon replied. “I would hate to take up more of your time than absolutely necessary.”
“Excellent, sir. Then I will leave you to your work and will come by later once the chancellor has returned. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. If you can’t find me here in town, my house is just outside the opposite end of the town proper. Good day, gentlemen and ma’am.”
They watched Tom depart down the stairs before turning toward one another.
“You truly can’t be done with this mission soon enough, can you, sir?” Luthor asked, irritated.
“There are a thousand things I’d rather be doing with my life than exploring the meager offerings of a backwater mining outpost. Four days to arrive, two days of waiting, and four days in return is more than enough time for the Grand Inquisitor to make a decision pertaining to our and Mattie’s predicament. That is truly why we were sent here in the first place, was it not, to provide ample time to make a difficult decision?”
“There is more to Whitten Hall than meets the eye,” Luthor responded.
“All of which a Royal Inquisitor, an apothecary, and a tribal woman from the frozen tundra are ill suited to investigate. This is, again, a task best suited for the Ministry of Trade, not the Inquisitors. Don’t take yourself too seriously, Luthor, it’s bad for the circulation.”
Luthor sighed and turned away, choosing to enter his room rather than continue the conversation. Simon smiled broadly at Mattie before entering his room as well.
His luggage was still in transit from the train, having not yet arrived with the porter. Therefore, he had little to do other than examine the small confines of his hotel room.
The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) Page 13
