by Darrell Pitt
‘Not at all,’ Ignatius Doyle said, grabbing the arm of a figure in the exhibit. ‘The thief has been standing here with us the whole time.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jack’s mouth fell open as the saw the mannequin—or what he had believed to be a mannequin—spring to life. The small man had been so silent, so motionless, that he had blended in perfectly. He was slim and shorter than Jack, with dark skin and cropped black hair. Over his shoulder hung a bag that could only contain one thing—the Broken Sun.
When Mr Doyle went to grab him, the stranger delivered a kick to the detective’s abdomen. Mr Doyle slumped to the floor. Inspector Greystoke came next, arms outstretched, but he was knocked into the display, sending mannequins everywhere. The thief sprinted away.
‘Stop him!’ Mr Roylott yelled.
Jack gave chase, leaping from the diorama and racing across the room. The stranger was lithe and unbelievably fast. An alert police officer tried to grab him, but the thief slapped him to the ground.
He flew out the main doors of the museum. I can’t believe he’s so quick, Jack thought. He’s like an athlete.
Outside, it had started to rain. Jack followed the thief down a side lane, slipping. The little man also slid and fell, giving Jack a chance to close the gap before the stranger disappeared from sight.
Jack reached the end of the lane, breathing hard. Ahead lay a dilapidated street. A railway line cut across the end. This part of town, like so many in London, was slated for demolition. The rain fell harder, sending the few people on the street racing for cover.
He must have ducked into one of the buildings. But which one?
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Jack said to a passing man. ‘Did you see—’
The man ignored him, hurrying past.
Jack spotted a small boy with red curly hair sitting on a nearby doorstep.
‘Did you see a man run down the street?’ he asked.
The boy said nothing.
‘I’ve got some candy. Would you like a piece?’
The boy nodded. Jack produced the wrapped piece from his green coat and held it out. Just as the boy reached for it, Jack pulled it away.
‘Did you see a man run by here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did he go?’
The boy indicated a building across the road. Jack handed him the sweet and ran to the house. The house was sandwiched between brick terraces, most of them burnt out, and its front windows were boarded up, the door secured with a bolt and padlock, the bottom panel broken.
Jack peered through the gap to see a pair of legs scuttling up a flight of rickety stairs. He squeezed through the door. Mould covered the carpet in large charcoal patches and paint peeled from the walls in great strips like flayed skin. The place smelt of mildew, the plop plop of dripping water echoing along the hall.
Jack’s heart pounded, his face hot and flushed. It wasn’t just from the pursuit. He was afraid. The man knew he was being followed. And he was dangerous. Jack paused, wondering if there might be a better method than confrontation.
‘My name is Jack Mason,’ he called up the stairwell. ‘All I want is to get the artefact back to the museum.’
He strained to hear, but the rain was falling so hard the man could have been dancing a jig for all he knew.
‘I’m not interested in taking you to the police. Just give me the piece of the Broken Sun and you can go free.’
More silence.
Jack began up the stairs. The first floor landing opened out onto three doors. Two were open to rooms lined with more peeling wallpaper, and rotting floorboards. A pile of beer bottles lay in one. The other contained a broken kerosene lamp. Water poured through holes in the ceiling.
I guess that only leaves number three.
Slowly easing it open, Jack saw another empty room, but this time the window was open. As he stepped forward, someone grabbed him from behind.
Jack bit back a scream and jumped half a foot into the air.
‘Scarlet!’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Taking a walk in the park! What do you think I’m doing?’ She looked like she’d taken a dip in the Thames. ‘Where’s the thief?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Jack said. ‘Wait here.’
He crossed the room. With every step the floor shuddered. The building was ready for demolition. Too much weight on these floorboards might bring the whole place down.
Jack reached the window. The little man could not have escaped through it. There was no ledge to gain a foothold. Carefully tiptoeing back, Jack said, ‘This isn’t safe. You shouldn’t be here.’
‘You’re right,’ Scarlet said. ‘I’ll go home and take up knitting.’
‘All right, but be careful.’
‘I can look after myself.’
The next floor was identical, except the pressed-tin ceilings of the rooms had been removed, exposing the joists and rafters. The sound of the rain hitting the slate roof was even louder.
The rooms were also empty. Shooting Scarlet a glance, Jack cautiously eased open the final door. Inside the window was wide open, rain driven in by a howling wind.
He must have escaped onto the roof.
Scarlet pushed past. Jack told her to stop, but she didn’t hear him. She was halfway across when the floor gave a violent shudder. It groaned, shook and began to collapse.
‘No!’ Jack yelled.
He threw himself at Scarlet, dragging her towards the window. They both reached for the sill just as the floor disappeared.
It slammed into the floor below. And the floor below it. The sound was like an avalanche and dust choked the air. The racket subsided, replaced by the sound of the pouring rain. Jack pulled himself up, dragging Scarlet after him. They balanced on the sill. The front of the building still stood, but the interior had been reduced to rubble.
‘Oh dear,’ Scarlet said, looking at the debris. ‘What a nuisance.’
‘If facing certain death can be called a nuisance, then I suppose it is.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She punched him in the shoulder. ‘Still, thanks for saving my life.’
‘That’s all right. You can help rearrange my stamp collection later.’
Jack looked across the adjoining roofs. The man was long gone, but the demolition had brought people into the street. Jack called down, ‘Would you mind getting the police? And the fire brigade?’
An hour later Jack and Scarlet were back at the British Museum. Mr Doyle admonished them for risking their lives.
‘Did you not hear me calling after you?’ he growled. ‘You must stop taking these terrible risks. We know very little about these people. You might have been killed.’
Jack and Scarlet promised to be more careful.
‘Where do we go from here?’ Scarlet asked.
‘Home. I have sent for some information and I believe it will be there when we arrive.’
‘Information?’
‘You’ll see.’
They hailed a steamcab and
headed back to Bee Street. After Jack and Scarlet had changed, they had a lunch of cucumber sandwiches prepared by Gloria in the sitting room. A message arrived and Mr Doyle read it.
‘We’ve had some success,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I have the addresses of the other two men who first discovered the Broken Sun.’
He picked up a parcel that had also been delivered, removed a book and leafed through it.
‘What is it, Mr Doyle?’ Scarlet asked.
‘This is what Professor Clarke had hidden in the safe at the hotel. Scotland Yard were kind enough to forward it on.’
‘That might be what the thief was looking for,’ Jack said. ‘Is it helpful?’
‘Hmm.’ The detective raised an eyebrow. ‘You tell me.’
Jack started reading. Scarlet peered over his shoulder and stifled a laugh.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘That’s most unexpected.’
‘Asparagus soup,’ Jack read. ‘Shortbread, lasagne, tomatoes stuffed with mushroom and garlic risotto.’ He looked up. ‘It’s a cookbook.’
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘It seems the professor is rather a keen chef. At least we still have the other men from the expedition.’
‘Do you think their lives are in danger?’ Scarlet asked.
‘Undoubtedly. Whoever stole the Broken Sun from the museum will be after the other pieces. The closest is in Scotland, held by Professor Richard Stein. We will leave shortly.’
Gloria appeared. ‘She’s ready and waiting,’ she said.
‘She?’ Jack said.
Mr Doyle smiled. ‘Who do you think?’
He led them to the far end of the building, which opened out onto a balcony. A set of stairs took them to the roof where they found an airship moored—the Lion’s Mane.
The vessel had been badly damaged after they had pursued one of the world’s most deadly assassins, a man known as the Chameleon.
The Lion’s Mane was thirty-feet long with a gondola made from brass and timber. Steam propelled the airship from two tubes beneath the gondola, and beneath these were four other pipes that discharged smoke from the engine and a pair of skids for landing.
‘She looks wonderful, Mr Doyle,’ Scarlet breathed.
‘As good as new,’ Jack echoed.
‘Better,’ said the detective. ‘I’ve made some improvements. There is now a refrigerator on board.’
‘A refrigerator?’ Jack said. ‘That’s amazing.’
Mr Doyle nodded. ‘Refrigeration is one of the wonders of the modern age,’ he said.
‘Will you be using it to preserve forensic samples?’ Scarlet asked.
The detective looked surprised. ‘What a wonderful idea,’ he said. ‘I just thought it would store cheese.’
The engine had already been brought to the boil.
‘I need both of you to pack bags,’ the detective said. ‘We will be away for a few days. And Jack, can you see to Bertha?’
Jack headed to his room, a neat and tidy chamber with an en-suite bathroom. Back at the orphanage, he had shared a room of this size with a dozen other boys. A duck egg sat in the middle of his bed; Mr Doyle was always leaving items in his room to test his powers of observation.
Jack had fallen into the habit of keeping a small bag packed with a change of clothing, which he grabbed before retrieving Bertha from the kitchen. He walked through to reception where Gloria was typing.
‘We’re going to be away for a few days,’ he told her. ‘Will you be able to—’
‘—look after the girl?’ Gloria said, smiling. ‘Of course.’ She placed the cage on her desk. ‘Looks like it’s you and me, my dear.’
A few minutes later Jack, Scarlet and Mr Doyle were high above the streets of London, heading north in a line of airships. Jack loved watching the passing scenery. The new Houses of Parliament were on the Thames, several hundred feet east of Westminster. One hundred stories high, they were shaped like two domed drums stuck together. The top of each was decorated with a huge brass lion.
Soon the city was behind them and they were crossing farms and green hills. Jack watched fields filled with pumpkins the size of steamcars and eight-legged horses, inventions courtesy of the Darwinist League. He pointed them out to Scarlet.
‘We live in an incredible era,’ she said. ‘But I suppose there are some things that will never be improved upon.’ ‘Like what?’
‘Steam, for example,’ she said, her red hair glowing in the afternoon sunlight.
Jack’s eyes settled on her. She really was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
‘You’re right,’ he said dreamily. ‘You can’t beat it.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Welcome to Scotland,’ Mr Doyle said.
While much of Britain was industrialised, great swathes of it still remained wild and remote. Scotland was like this, where most of its people still lived as they had for centuries. Some grew crops on small landholdings—oats, wheat and rye—tilling the ground with wooden ploughs dragged by draft horses. Other farms kept sheep and goats. Many towns were small, with no more than half-a-dozen homes, a pub and general store.
Jack had toured Scotland a few times with his parents in the circus. He felt a pang of sadness, touching the compass and picture in his pocket. They had been hard times, but some of the happiest in his life.
‘Where are we headed?’ Scarlet asked as Mr Doyle angled the Lion’s Mane towards the coast.
‘To a small town called Wick. Professor Stein was one of the experts to discover the Broken Sun. Originally from the United States, he now resides in a castle known as Castle Wick.’
‘Castle Wick in the town of Wick,’ Jack said.
Mr Doyle winked at them. ‘Let’s hope he’s not wick-ed.’
Jack and Scarlet groaned.
‘It was a ruin,’ Mr Doyle went on, ‘until it was restored several years ago. Hopefully it will still have the same fortifications.’
They travelled on in silence. Mr Doyle followed the shoreline until they were almost at the most north-eastern point of the mainland. Beyond here Jack could see only the specks of land that made up the Orkney Islands.
Mr Doyle gave a grunt of satisfaction and brought the airship down in a meadow. Castle Wick was a large square structure with battlements, perched perilously close to a cliff face overlooking the sea. To Jack’s eyes the building looked authentic; whoever had done the restoration had done a fine job of it.
Scarlet pointed to one of the windows. ‘I just saw a curtain move.’
‘They probably don’t get many visitors in this part of the country,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I hope the professor is gracious.’
The entrance was an oak door set into the stonework. It swung open as they approached and a gaunt man, reminiscent of a praying mantis, appeared. ‘State your business!’ he snapped, with the trace of an American accent. ‘My time is precious!’
‘Are you Professor Stein?’
‘I am.’
‘We believe you may be in great danger.’
‘Danger? What kind of danger?’
‘A piece of the Broken Sun has been stolen from the British Museum.’
‘That’s garbage! Impossible!’
Jack shot Scarlet a look.
And we came here to help this man?
‘I’m afraid it is the case,’ Mr Doyle said.
The professor’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see. And you think someone may be coming here to steal my piece of the map? Castle Wick is impregnable. Nothing can breach its defences.’
‘Yet you have been worried,’ Mr Doyle said.
Stein folded his arms. ‘What gives you that idea?’
‘You were cleaning your gun this morning.’
The professor blinked. ‘How the hell—’
‘It is simplicity itself. There is a distinctive mark on your left hand that results from the cleaning of a revolver. In addition, I can smell the oil used on such a weapon.’
For the first time, Richard Stein’s confidence was shaken. His eyes searched the open fields behind them. ‘I am simply being cautious,’ he said. ‘The Broken Sun is a priceless artefact.’
‘Have you checked it today?’
‘There is no need.’
‘I suggest you do so.’
‘The impudence—’ Stein almost bounced up and down with anger. Somehow he regained control of himself. ‘Wait here!’
The door slammed.
‘What a lovely man,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We must invite him for Christmas.’
‘What will we do now?’ Jack asked.
Mr Doyle sighed. ‘Helping a man who claims to not need assistance is rather problematic. It would seem—’ But he did not finish. A shot rang out. ‘What the devil!’
There was a cry, and another shot from inside. Mr Doyle pushed against the door; the professor had not bolted it. They rushed through a cloakroom into a foyer decorated with armour and family crests. Up a winding staircase, they found Professor Stein on the floor in the hallway, his face white with terror.
