by Darrell Pitt
PRAISE FOR THE JACK MASON ADVENTURES
‘A fun story, easy to read and full of action… Bonus points for being the first kids’ book of its kind I’ve come across that gives mention to the suffragettes!’ Books+Publishing
‘Lots of mechanical mayhem and derring-do—breathless stuff.’ Michael Pryor
‘Non-stop action, non-stop adventure, non-stop fun!’ Richard Harland
‘Set in a fantastical London, filled with airships, steam cars and metrotowers stretching into space, this fast-paced adventure and homage to the world of Victorian literature and Conan Doyle offers an enjoyable roller-coaster read for fans of Artemis Fowl and the Lemony Snicket series…[A] rollicking who-dunnit that will keep young Sherlocks guessing to the very end.’ Magpies
‘Charming, witty and intelligently written… This series no doubt will be a huge hit for early teens, the writing is intelligent and Darrell Pitt has created characters that challenge and provoke readers to invest in the storyline.’ Diva Booknerd
THE JACK MASON ADVENTURES
Book I The Firebird Mystery
Book II The Secret Abyss
DARRELL PITT began his lifelong appreciation of Victorian literature when he read the Sherlock Holmes stories as a child, quickly moving on to H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. This early reading led to a love of comics, science fiction and all things geeky. Darrell is now married with one daughter. He lives in Melbourne. His debut novel was The Firebird Mystery, Book I in the Jack Mason Adventures.
DARRELL PITT
A JACK MASON ADVENTURE
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © Darrell Pitt 2014
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in 2014 by The Text Publishing Company
Design by WH Chong
Cover illustration by Eamon O’Donoghue
Typeset by J&M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Author: Pitt, Darrell
Title: The secret abyss: a Jack Mason adventure / by Darrell Pitt.
ISBN: 9781922147967 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781922148964 (ebook)
Target Audience: For young adults.
Subjects: Detective and mystery stories.
Dewey Number: A823.4
This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
To Cleo
THE SECRET ABYSS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
SNEAK PREVIEW OF THE BROKEN SUN
CHAPTER ONE
‘And can you tell me the meaning of this, Jack?’ Miss Bloxley paused. ‘Carpe diem.’
No, I cannot, thought Jack Mason. Because I forgot to do my homework.
But he did not say it. Miss Bloxley, Jack’s tutor, did not share his sense of humour. He wasn’t even sure she had one. Latin was Jack’s least favourite subject and he doubted he would ever understand it. Miss Bloxley might as well have been chatting to him in goldfish.
Jack looked desperately to Scarlet Bell, the other occupant of the tiny classroom. Scarlet was fifteen years old, with fire engine red hair, green eyes and a pixie face. She was also the most beautiful girl Jack had ever seen—but he had never told her. Not even when they faced certain death at the hands of Professor M in their recent adventure with Ignatius Doyle, the famous detective and now their mentor.
Jack’s expertise was more in acts of the body than the mind. He was fourteen years old and had brown hair and blue eyes. Having spent most of his life as a circus acrobat, he was quick and agile. After being orphaned, he had only just become Mr Doyle’s assistant when Scarlet sought their help to investigate her father’s disappearance. By the end of that incredible escapade, she had joined their detective team.
Scarlet was smart. Jack could tell from her wide eyes that she knew the answer to Miss Bloxley’s question. But short of telepathy, Scarlet could do nothing with their tutor glaring at them.
The classroom was like the rest of the top floor of 221 Bee Street: a cross between a second-hand shop, a theatre-props room and a zoo. Jack glanced about to see if anything would give him a clue about the Latin. A number of strange items lay within reach: the engine of a M22 Morris steamcar, the complete works of Shakespeare in Russian, a fish tank filled with giant mushrooms, the stuffed body of an owl, and a marble bust of Napoleon Bonaparte.
None of this helped. Through a distant window, morning sun began clearing the winter mist. Lines of airships streamed in and out of London. Many of them were headed towards the Metrotower, an enormous building soaring all the way into space.
What I wouldn’t give to be on the London Metrotower right now, Jack thought. Take a flight on a space steamer heading to some far off—
‘Jack?’ Miss Bloxley interrupted.
‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Carpe diem.’
Through a strange quirk of biology, Miss Bloxley, being short and round, bore an unhappy resemblance to a frog. Jack would not have been surprised to discover her squatting happily on a lily pad with a greedy eye on the local insect life. He was about to open his mouth and confess his ignorance when a loud scream cut the air.
‘That came from reception,’ Scarlet said.
‘It sounded like Gloria!’ Jack said, referring to Mr Doyle’s receptionist and housekeeper. Leaping to his feet, he waved at Miss Bloxley. ‘Better go. Seize the day and all.’
Jack and Scarlet sprinted through the maze of paraphernalia to reception, where they found Mr Doyle—dressed in his usual black coat, brown chequered cape and bowler hat—kneeling beside a boy on the floor.
Gloria Scott stood next to him. Pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes, she pointed in dismay.
‘He stumbled in here and collapsed.’
Jack looked down. The helpless victim was about the same age as himself. Blood poured from the wound in his stomach where a knife had been jammed in to the hilt. Jack felt the colour drain from his face; he would never g
et used to the sight of blood.
‘Gloria,’ Mr Doyle said, ‘go for the doctor!’
The detective applied pressure to the wound. He turned to Jack and Scarlet with a grim expression. ‘His injury is serious,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how he made it this far.’
Scarlet glanced towards the corridor that led to the elevator. ‘There’s a trail all the way to our door.’
Averting his eyes from the growing pool of blood, Jack examined the boy’s face. He was freckled with round cheeks and sandy hair. He looked like living outdoors was as natural to him as a bird in a forest. A jagged scar ran under one eye. There was something familiar about him. Jack had known someone…
He gasped. ‘That’s Frankie Shore!’
‘You know him?’ Scarlet said.
‘We were in the circus together!’
Frankie and his older sister, Helen, had performed a clown routine, while at the same time helping their mother operate a knock-’em-down stall. Their father had been the circus strongman. One day he had argued with the ringmaster about wages. A fight had followed and he grabbed their belongings, and the four of them had disappeared from Jack’s life.
Until now.
‘Frankie.’ Jack knelt next to his old friend. ‘It’s me. Jack Mason.’
‘Jack.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘I heard you’d done all right, old chum…after what happened to your parents.’
Somehow Frankie must have heard that Mr Doyle had taken Jack in after his parents were killed. News among circus people spread faster than fire.
‘Who did this to you?’ Jack asked. ‘Who stabbed you?’
The boy struggled to speak through the pain. ‘Chameleon…’ Frankie coughed, blood appearing on his lips. ‘Going to kill…the eagle…’
‘What?’
Mr Doyle shook his head. ‘Not now, Jack. He needs to conserve his energy.’
‘The doctor is on his way.’ Scarlet laid a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Just hold on.’
Frankie’s lips moved, then he said distinctly, ‘A whip of fire…liberty…’
‘A whip of fire?’ Jack repeated the strange words.
Frankie then whispered, ‘Two doors,’ and fell silent.
Gloria hurried through with the local surgeon, and Scarlet and Jack moved out of the way as Dr Budd set to work. Frankie’s eyes found Jack and his shaking hand signalled him closer. Jack placed an ear against Frankie’s lips as he said, ‘Mother,’ and then said no more.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Budd sighed, wiping his brow. ‘He could not be saved.’
‘Gloria,’ Mr Doyle said, ‘will you be so kind as to find a constable?’ He drew Jack and Scarlet away from the body. ‘I’m so sorry, Jack,’ he said. ‘This must be terrible for you.’
‘Are you all right?’ Scarlet asked.
Jack was light-headed with shock. ‘I haven’t seen Frankie for years,’ he said. ‘But he was still a friend.’
‘I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘Yes?’
‘What was Frankie saying to you about the whip of fire and so forth?’
‘I have no idea.’
The words were still bouncing around Jack’s head like echoes in a cavern.
Two doors
Chameleon
An eagle
A whip of fire
Liberty
None of it made any sense.
Mr Doyle thanked the doctor and asked him to make the necessary arrangements. When Dr Budd departed, Mr Doyle searched Frankie’s pockets, pulling out a train ticket, a ball of string and three marbles.
A constable appeared in the doorway with Gloria. Mr Doyle explained the circumstances to him before turning to Jack and Scarlet. ‘Grab your coats,’ he said. ‘We must leave immediately.’
‘Leave?’ Scarlet asked. ‘For where?’
‘I will meet you at the Lion’s Mane,’ he said. ‘And don’t forget Bertha!’
Bertha? Jack groaned. Not that dratted tarantula!
Mr Doyle hurried away with a limp, an injury he had sustained during the war. Jack headed in the other direction, towards his bedroom, a clean and tidy chamber with a chest of drawers, a bookcase and an en-suite bathroom. It was a luxury hotel compared to Sunnyside Orphanage where he had lived after his parents’ deaths. He threw on his green coat over his blue-and-white striped shirt and dark pants. The coat’s pockets were filled with items he took everywhere, including a disguise kit, string, dried food and a lock pick.
Jack retrieved his goggles from a drawer. They doubled as binoculars for distance vision as well as magnification. The last object he scooped up was the dome-shaped cage sitting on his bedside table.
Bertha, Mr Doyle’s pet tarantula, lurked inside the wire mesh. Miniature plants and climbing ladders crisscrossed its interior. It was a fine home, but Jack would have been happier if Bertha had been living in her native Laos, half a world away. One day Jack had made the mistake of confessing his fear of spiders to Mr Doyle and Scarlet.
‘You must confront your terrors,’ the detective had thundered. ‘I want you to bring Bertha with us wherever we go. Only through familiarity with our Cobalt Blue friend will you grow to admire her as I do.’
Jack found it hard to believe he would ever admire Bertha. Fear her, certainly. But admire her?
Pigs might fly.
To make matters worse, Scarlet seemed to delight in treating the spider like a baby rather than the terrifying monster from Hell that she was!
Jack sighed, and began to make his way to the roof where the Lion’s Mane was docked. A lozenge-shaped cabin hung beneath the gold balloon. The picture of a lion and the registration number—1887—decorated the bow. Rectangular windows ran about the top of the gondola. Tiny iron rivets held the craft together.
Steam poured from its propulsion tubes beneath the living quarters. Below these lay a pair of landing skids, curved upwards at each end. The rear door, a triangular hatch, was already open. Jack stepped through, shutting it behind him.
A round table and chairs stood in the centre of the room. Curtains, decorated with red and blue cogs, were tied against the sides; these could be drawn to create separate sleeping quarters. Beds were folded into the timber walls. A glass partition divided this section from the engine room and bridge.
Jack placed his bag down and entered this next room to find Scarlet feeding coal into the firebox. She was now dressed in a slim-fitting blue dress and a crimson leather bustier. She slammed the firebox closed. Beside her, Mr Doyle pressed a button that automatically disengaged the mooring cables, and the airship started to ascend. The detective pulled a few levers on the semicircular control panel before taking charge of the wheel.
The Lion’s Mane was a masterpiece of bronze, iron and timber, a present to Ignatius Doyle from a grateful client. To Jack it represented the peak of human engineering.
Steam power, he thought. Nothing beats it.
Scarlet pushed back her red hair, spotting the cage in Jack’s hand. She leaned in, pouting. ‘There’s my little cootchy-coo.’
‘Scarlet,’ Jack said. ‘I’m not sure what’s more frightening. You or the spider.’
‘Jack!’ She was shocked. ‘You mustn’t be like that. She’s a little scaredy-cat.’
‘There are no cats in our neighbourhood,’ Jack informed her. ‘They have all been eaten—by Bertha!’
‘Now, now.’ Mr Doyle spun the wheel. ‘Bertha is quite harmless.’
‘So are lions,’ Jack said, ‘as long as they stay in Africa.’
Jack hung Bertha’s cage on a hook overlooking the console where the tarantula could enjoy the view.
‘Mr Doyle,’ Scarlet said, ‘you have not explained what we are doing.’
‘I thought you’d never ask. We are travelling to Colchester Prison.’
‘Colchester Prison?’ Jack caught Scarlet’s eye. The detective might as well have suggested a trip to the moon. ‘Why?’
‘To prevent a terrible c
rime.’
CHAPTER TWO
The Lion’s Mane rose, merging with a line of airships as the city fell away beneath them. Much of the old metropolis was being torn down or rebuilt. Terrafirma, a special mould devised by the Darwinist League, made it possible for buildings to be constructed to enormous heights, several almost a mile high. The Metrotower—reaching all the way into space—dwarfed everything.
The streets, packed with steamcars, were drowned in smoke and fog. Most vehicles on the road were Stephenson 78s, with a chimney, a barrel-shaped steam chamber and a six-wheel chassis for both city and country driving.
Jack sunk his hands deep into his pockets. He had forgotten to check for his compass and locket, but they were there. The locket contained the only photograph he had of his parents, and they had given him the compass just before their deaths. They were Jack’s most treasured possessions.
Ignatius Doyle adjusted the bronze steering wheel and increased power. ‘You are familiar with the assassin known as the Chameleon?’ he asked.
Jack raised an eyebrow. Who didn’t know the Chameleon? He was a deadly killer, linked to the murders of fifteen people, including the Prime Minister of India. He was called the Chameleon because, like the lizard that could change colour to mimic its surroundings, he was able to disguise himself to look like almost anyone. His skills in makeup and impersonation enabled him to draw close to his victims before taking their lives.
No-one knew his real name. He had started as a standover man for local gangsters in the East End of London, extorting money from shopkeepers and killing those who would not pay. He moved on to murdering rival gang leaders, always working for the highest bidder. Then he advanced to the big leagues, charging larger and larger fees for high-profile killings.
Within a few years he had become one of the most infamous—and unrecognisable—men in the world. It was said he could blend into any environment without being noticed.
But this had changed when he was captured last year and his face appeared on the front page of every newspaper in the world. The Chameleon was, in fact, a thin man, clean-shaven and completely bald; he didn’t even have eyebrows. His face in the photograph was oddly blank, not the sort of face that anyone would think about twice. It was easy to see how a wig and makeup would enable him to conceal his true identity.
