The Curious Case
of the Werewolf that Wasn't, the Mummy that Was, and the Cat in the Jar
by Gail Carriger
Wilberforce Ink
Copyright © 2013 Gail Carriger
First published in The Book of The Dead, edited by Jared Shurin, published by Jurrasic London, 2013
All Rights Reserved
Book Design by ArtisticWhispers
Digital painting “Alessandro” © 2014 Pete Venters, used with permission
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.
Dedication
To my Readers:
Thank You
The Curious Case
of the Werewolf that Wasn't, The Mummy that Was, and the Cat in the Jar
Gail Carriger
Egypt, 1841
"Yoo-hoo!"
Alessandro Tarabotti's forehead crinkled under his gray top hat. Was that some peculiar birdsong?
"You-hoo, Sandy!" No, it was a voice hallooing at him across the broiling humanity of the bazaar.
Mr. Tarabotti was so thoroughly distracted upon hearing such a name hollered at him in such a place and voice, that he relaxed his grip. The place was Luxor. The voice was just the kind that bled the inner ear, trumpeting out a nasal ode to abundant schooling and little attention toward the details of it. His loosened grip allowed the scrubby native boy with terrified fly-ridden eyes to rip himself away and scuttle down a convenient alleyway, vanishing round a pile of broken pottery.
"Well, that's torn it." Alessandro threw the scrap of material he was left holding onto the dirt street. He squinted into the alley, eyes adjusting slowly to the slatted light that crept through reed mats stretched far above. High houses and narrow streets – who would have thought Egypt a child of shadows and shade?
"Sandy, old chap!" The voice was getting closer.
"Who knows you here, sir?" asked Floote.
"More to the point, who would dare yoo-hoo at me?" Mr. Tarabotti turned away from the empty alleyway to glare at his valet as though the greeting were somehow Floote's fault.
Floote pivoted and gestured softly with his right hand. His left was occupied holding onto a large glass specimen jar.
The yoo-hooer hove into sight. Alessandro winced. The man wore the most remarkably bright blue frock coat, double breasted, with brass buttons up the front. He sported a pair of Rumnook's stained-glass binocular spectacles perched atop his tiny nose, and a limp cravat. In Mr. Tarabotti's world, nothing excused a limp cravat, even the dead heat of Egypt at high noon.
"Do I know that repulsive-looking blighter?"
Floote twisted his mouth slightly to one side.
"Quite right, quite right. Someone from my early days. Before I cultivated a brain. School, perhaps?" Mr. Tarabotti awaited his fate, brushing a non-existent speck of dust from the sleeve of his own gold frock coat. Single breasted, mind you, with pearl buttons and a deceptively simple cut.
"Blasted English, blemishing about the world. Is nowhere safe?"
Floote, who was, himself an Englishman, did not point out that Alessandro Tarabotti, of a similarly unfortunate over-education as the man approaching, dressed and spoke like an Englishman. He didn't actually look like one, of course, boasting a long line of ancestors who had invested heavily in being dark, hook-nosed, and brooding.
Mr. Tarabotti continued grousing, right up until the yoo-hooer was in earshot. "I mean to say, Floote my man, what are your countrymen about these days? You'd think they'd leave at least one small corner of the planet to the rest of us. But no, here they are, shiny as all get up, ever expanding the Empire."
"We have benefited considerably from integration of the supernatural."
"Well it's hell on the rest of us. Do stop it, will you?"
"Very good, sir."
"You-hoo, you-hoo!" The man came to a wheezing halt before them, sounding like an exhausted steam engine, trailing some species of suitable young lady in his corpulent wake. "Sandy Dandy the Italian? By Jove, it is you! Fancy, fancy, fancy!"
Alessandro, who did not like the name Sandy Dandy the Italian, lifted his monocle and examined the man downwards through it.
The man said, to the monocle, "Baronet Percival Phinkerlington. How d‘you do?"
At least he had the good grace to introduce himself. Mr. Tarabotti put down his eye piece pointedly. Really, what a thing to do to one's cravat.
"You knew my brother, I believe."
The face above the unfortunate neck cloth did have a familiar something about the eyes and mouth. "Good lord, old Pink's kid brother?"
The man grinned and doffed his top hat. "Right you are! Fancy I was a bit smaller back when you knew me last!"
"Practically half the man you are now."
"You remember our sister?"
The lady in question went red under Mr. Tarabotti's indifferent glance. He didn't bother with the monocle. She bobbed a trembling curtsy. Ladies always caught the blush-and-flutters upon meeting Alessandro Tarabotti.
He bowed. "Miss Phinkerlington."
"Leticia, you remember Sandy? Mr. Tarabotti, I should say. Italian chappy, went to Oxford with Eustace. Used to bowl for New College. Toddled down for a stopover one term break. The same time Daddy had himself that whole werewolf pack visiting." He turned back to Mr. Tarabotti. "Fancy meeting you here. In Egypt of all places!"
"Indeed." Alessandro tried to remember why he would bother visiting this man's family. Had it been an assignment? Investigating the werewolves? Or had he been there to kill someone? Perhaps just a mild maiming?
Baronet Phinkerlington leaned in conspiratorially. "You ought to see to your man there, Sandy. You realize, he's got his arm ‘round a jam jar of dead cat?"
"Mmm, yes, preserved in some of my best formaldehyde."
The baronet gave a nervous laugh. "Always were a bit peculiar, Sandy. Eustace seemed to like you well enough. I say, this may be Egypt, but trailing about dead cats – not the done thing."
"I have an eccentric Aunt," replied Mr. Tarabotti, as though that were explanation enough.
"Don't we all, my dear fellow? Don't we all?"
"It's her cat. Or it was her cat, I should say."
Miss Phinkerlington noticed the valet with the glass jar full of cat for the first time. She colored a muted sage and turned away, pretending interest in the bustling natives ebbing and flowing around them. A proper Englishwoman must find it a spectacle indeed, that tide of humanity in its multicolored robes, veiled or turbaned according to sex, loud and malodorous regardless.
"Floote," Alessandro used Miss Phinkerlington's discomfort as an excuse, "shove off, will you? Find out what happened to our young friend. I'll see you back at the hotel."
Floote nodded and disappeared across the bazaar, cat in tow.
Baronet Phinkerlington seemed to take that as an end to the business. "Well, well, well, what
a thing to see you here. Been a while, old chap. Came for the climate, myself. Wettest winter in a dog's age, decided on a bit of a change. Thought Egypt might suit."
"Imagine England having a wet winter, remarkable."
"Yes, yes, well, Egypt, here, a bit, eh, warmer, you understand, than I was expecting. But we've been taking the aether regular-like. Haven't we, Leticia? Keeps a body cool, that." The baronet jerked his head up at the three large balloons hovering high above Luxor. They were tethered by long cords to a landing platform dockside. Well, that explained the man's abysmal choice in eyewear. Tinted spectacles were recommended for high floating.
The Baronet persisted in his social niceties. "And are you having an agreeable trip?"
"Can't stand travel," replied Mr. Tarabotti, "bad for the digestion and ruins one's clothes."
"Too true." Phinkerlington looked suitably somber. "Too true." Moving hurriedly on from a clearly distasteful topic, he asked, "Staying at Chumley's Inn, are you, Sandy?"
Alessandro nodded. It was the only place to stay in Luxor. Alexandria and Cairo provided a number of respectable hotels, but Luxor was still provincial. For example, it boasted a mere three balloons, and only one with a propeller. It was a small village, really, in an almost forgotten place, of interest primarily to those with an eye towards treasure hunting. Which didn't explain why Phinkerlington and his sister were in Luxor. Nor, of course, why Alessandro Tarabotti was.
"Catch a bit of a nosh later tonight, old man?"
Alessandro decided it was probably better for his image to be seen dining in the company of British tourists, than to be observed too frequently about his own private business. "Certainly. But now, I'm afraid, I must beg to be excused. My man, you understand, is gadding about Egypt with a dead cat."
"Of course, of course."
Mr. Tarabotti bowed to Miss Phinkerlington, who pinked once more at such direct attention. Not a bad looking chit, really.
As he walked away, he heard the baronet say, in tones of deep censure and insufficient softness, "Really, Leticia, an Italian is most inappropriate. You must stop blushing at him so significantly."
Mr. Tarabotti found Floote exactly where Floote ought to be, at the center of a milling whirl of dark limbs and bright fabric, engaged in a protracted bout of fisticuffs. It was unsurprising that Floote, who had fought werewolves in Scotland and vampires all along the French Riviera, was holding his own. What was surprising was that he did this while still clutching the jar.
Alessandro removed his jacket and laid it atop a low mud brick wall. He rested his hat carefully alongside. The jacket was tailored to perfection, flaring with just under enough fullness so as not to be thought dandified. It had three sets of invisible pockets in the lining, each housing a collection of sharp little sticks: silver, wood, and peppermint. The silver was for werewolves, the wood was for vampires, and the peppermint was for Mr. Tarabotti. Mr. Tarabotti was rather fond of peppermint. He was also fond of that jacket; it wouldn't do for it to be harmed, and he wouldn't need the weaponry, not in the middle of the day. He did transfer the letter of marque from the jacket to a waistcoat pocket next to his monocle and his miniature antikythera device, for extra security. Then he dove into the fray.
Alessandro was not burdened with Floote's sentimental British predilection towards proper violent comportment. When Mr. Tarabotti fought, he used both his fists and his feet, drawing on some spate of skills he'd learned in the Orient. He would have been summarily thrown out of White's, for his technique was, it must be admitted, most ungentlemanly.
He enjoyed himself immensely.
Mr. Tarabotti had always been fond of the occasional pugilistic endeavor, ever since he was a boy – reveling in that delicious slap and crush of flesh against flesh. He relished the heated blood buzzing through his brain, numbing all senses but those vital to security – sight and touch. Any pain was a boon, a reminder of watchfulness that he must keep his mind in play only so much as it did not hinder.
It was almost too easy. Floote's attackers were ill prepared for Mr. Tarabotti's sudden appearance. Soon enough, the swirling mix of appendages and colorful flowing robes resolved itself into three local malcontents: one fallen and two running away.
While Floote recovered his equanimity, Mr. Tarabotti sat astride the fallen man. He grabbed at the man's arms, pressing them to the ground.
"Who hired you?" he asked in English.
No response.
He repeated himself in Italian.
The man only looked up at him, dark eyes wide. He writhed about in the dirt, shaking his head frantically back and forth as though in the throes of some fit. Then, before Floote could put down the cat and render assistance, the man surged up, shook Alessandro off, and dashed away.
When Floote would have gone after, his master stayed him with a touch.
"No advantage in following. We won't extract any information from the likes of him – too frightened."
"Of us?"
"Of whoever paid them to engage the foreigner brandishing a dead cat."
"Hired by your contact, sir? Perhaps he changed his mind about notifying the government."
"No, no, I think not. There is someone else in play. Or several someones. Deuced inconvenient. Not to mention, insulting. As if I would gad about town dressed like a manservant."
He went to retrieve his jacket and hat.
"Who might be looking to stop you, sir?" Floote came over and straightened his master's lapel, checking the fit of the shoulders for good measure.
"Much good that blasted cat has done us. I thought it would provide quite the excuse for visiting Egypt. Now it's just making us easy to identify." The cat had caused quite the flutter at customs. Officials were used to dead animals being transported out of Egypt, usually of the mummy variety, but not in. Luckily for Mr. Tarabotti's aunt, gold worked regardless of country, and Mr. Tarabotti had the gold. The cat had served its purpose, until now. After all, why else would a rich Italian gentleman be traveling to Egypt during the high season of 1841?
"We must get rid of it, Floote."
Floote shifted his grip on the jar. "Shall I leave it in the street, sir?"
"Good God, no. Aunt Archangelica would never forgive me. Find someone to fix it up as she demanded, and quickly."
"Very good, sir."
Sunset found Baronet Phinkerlington and Miss Phinkerlington awaiting Mr. Tarabotti's presence at dinner in the hotel dining hall. Some crosses were meant to be suffered during one's lifetime, Alessandro supposed. He joined them with a tight little smile, and helped himself to a glass of the mostly empty bottle of wine.
"Sandy, evening!" the baronet squawked.
Miss Phinkerlington blushed and nodded.
"Good lord, man." Mr. Tarabotti sipped the wine. It was cloyingly sweet. "Don't you own any other neck wear?"
The pleasantries disposed of, Mr. Tarabotti settled back languidly in his chair, waiting for the first course of what, he had no doubt, would be an utterly unsatisfactory meal. "What happened to old Pink?" He was only half interested. "I thought he was due for the title, not you."
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught someone watching him closely from a nearby table. He leaned his chair back on two legs, tilting his head about in an attitude of foppish boredom. The watcher was a military gentleman of some breed, stiff about the neck and long about the hair. The man noticed Mr. Tarabotti noticing him and returned to his food.
Baronet Phinkerlington frowned, troubled by the Italian's bluntness. "You didn't hear?"
"Married beneath his station did he? Go into trade? Die?" Alessandro tut-tutted, and declined to remark that society gossip was not his focus during those few times he'd returned to England.
Miss Phinkerlington put a hand to her brother's arm. "Don't, Percy dear."
He patted her hand. "It's all right, Leticia. Sandy here's an old friend of Eustace's. Eustace always spoke highly of him. Played cricket together. Solid fellow." He leaned towards Alessandro, his breath redolent
with the scent of cardamom and burnt eggplant. "Eustace tossed the title over. Gave it up to become claviger to some toothy old fluff of a lone werewolf."
"They always do take the smart ones from a family, don't they?"
"Mother was devastated but, between you and me, it's probably for the best. Wouldn't have gotten any grandkids out of old Eustace. If you get my meaning." The baronet waggled his eyebrows.
Mr. Tarabotti did. It also tickled his memory and explained why he'd visited the Phinkerlingtons all those years ago. Not an infiltration as it turned out, at least not an official one.
"Do I say felicitations?" Mr. Tarabotti sampled a rolled ball of some fried brown crispy substance that in appearance resembled meat and in taste resembled sawdust.
"Only if he makes it through the bite and change. You understand how it goes. Oh, silly me, you don't, do you? Poor man. Italian." The baronet shook his head sadly – demonstrating the pity of the one country that had accepted the supernatural for all the other poor ignorant countries that hadn't. Open acceptance of vampires and werewolves was the thing that kept the British Isle separate from the rest of Europe. Well, that and their cuisine.
Alessandro stroked thoughtfully at the indent above his upper lip. "Ah the English – confident in but two things."
"And what are those, Sandy my lad?"
"The supernatural and cricket."
Baronet Phinkerlington laughed heartily then stuffed his face with a number of the most uninviting-looking little cakes imaginable.
"You insulting the national pastime, old chap?" he said, fortunately after he swallowed.
"Which, the supernatural or cricket?"
"Cricket, of course. You used to bowl a nicely lethal game, yourself, if memory serves. Spinner, no?"
"Pace bowler."
The baronet nodded. "Ah yes, I remember Eustace crowing about how fast you were."
Alessandro raised both eyebrows at that, but didn't reply. Out of the corner of his eye, he observed the blond military man stand up from his table and make his way toward the door, moving behind and around the various chairs in the dining hall with precise little twists. He disappeared, not upstairs to his rooms as one might expect, but out into the cold night.
The Curious Case of the Werewolf That Wasn't, the Mummy That Was, and the Cat in the Jar (The Parasol Protectorate Book 6) Page 1
