The Secret Abyss

by Darrell Pitt

  ‘It’s the first Brinkie Buckeridge book!’ Scarlet enthused. ‘The Adventure of the Grinning Glockenspiel.’

  ‘Uh, isn’t a glockenspiel a musical instrument? How can it grin?’

  ‘Exactly! Even the title is evocative!’

  Jack was touched. He agreed to guard the volumes with his life. When Scarlet was gone, he laid the books on his bedside table, turning his light out. Snuggling under the blankets, he thought of the garish cover. Brindie Buckelin, he mused sleepily. How does a person end up with such a name…?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jack woke early to find Ignatius Doyle and Scarlet Bell in the sitting room huddled around a pair of enormous books. The weighty tomes were filled with names, numbers and addresses. ‘It’s the registry for British airships,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Every airship in Britain has a registration number.’

  ‘The Chameleon’s airship was marked NQ34,’ Scarlet said. ‘I memorised it before he shot at us.’

  ‘And very well done, too,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Unfortunately there is no airship listed with that number.’

  Gloria arrived with a tray of toast, kippers and tea. Jack and Scarlet devoured the food as Mr Doyle sat back thoughtfully, sipping his tea.

  ‘What will we do now?’ Jack mumbled through a mouthful.

  ‘I suggest we visit a friend of mine at Scotland Yard. You can leave Bertha behind. She’s probably still a little waterlogged from our last adventure.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Jack said. ‘She told me she wanted to go out for ice-cream.’

  ‘Very droll.’ The detective laughed. ‘You will be fabulous friends in no time.’

  Jack donned his green coat, Scarlet a blue day dress and burgundy bustier, while Mr Doyle threw on his usual coat and bowler hat. Fifteen minutes later they were in a steamcab heading across town. The London streets were clogged with steamcars and horse-drawn cabs. People were everywhere; women were shopping, men travelling to work, children on their way to school.

  A new vehicle on the road was the Kirby 88 Transit Bus. Cylindrical in shape, it carried up to thirty passengers. The engine at the front looked like a small locomotive. The driver sat in a cabin at the rear.

  The steamcab carrying Jack and the others rounded a corner. As they weaved towards Westminster, Scotland Yard came into view. Jack had only ever seen the famous police headquarters from a distance. An enormous stepped pyramid, the building covered three city blocks. Clad in bronze and copper, it shone in the late-morning like a beacon. A mighty sword, fifty feet tall, rose from its apex. Covered in silver, the sword pointed towards heaven like a flash of lightning. Two enormous brass lions stood guard on each side of the stone steps.

  The steamcab arrived and they entered, crossing a vast marble floor beneath a concave ceiling, and climbed into an elevator. They stepped out again on the thirtieth floor, which was crammed with busy police constables. Jack and Scarlet looked about in amazement—they had never seen so many uniforms in one place.

  Soon they were sitting before a lanky bald man with the bushiest eyebrows Jack had ever seen. Folders were piled high on both sides of his desk. His nameplate, a bronze plaque, identified him as Inspector Greystoke.

  ‘Ignatius.’ The man shook hands with Mr Doyle. ‘And you’ve brought some friends.’

  Mr Doyle introduced Jack and Scarlet as his assistants. They settled themselves around the desk.

  ‘What brings you here to the heart of justice?’ Greystoke asked.

  Mr Doyle explained what had happened since Frankie’s death. Greystoke listened in silence, his face darkening. ‘You’re mixed up in some troublesome business,’ he said. ‘Possibly even you don’t know the network you’ve stumbled into.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mr Doyle asked.

  ‘You said the building in Norbury was owned by Ashgrove Importing?’

  ‘That was the name above the door.’

  ‘Charles Ashgrove is an American,’ the inspector said. ‘He has been living in England for the last year. We recently received intelligence about him from the American Secret Service.’

  ‘Is he a criminal?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Ashgrove has been linked to a terrorist group operating within the United States. It has claimed responsibility for several attacks over the last decade.’

  ‘I assume you mean the SLA.’

  ‘You would be correct.’

  ‘Southern Liberation Army,’ Mr Doyle explained to Jack and Scarlet. ‘Formed shortly after the American Civil War.’

  ‘But that was a long time ago.’

  ‘It was,’ Mr Doyle confirmed. ‘And the United States has never engaged in another civil war. But the SLA has made trouble over the last few years, calling for a separate Southern nation.’

  Inspector Greystoke spoke up. ‘The SLA is actually several groups—loosely knit bands of radicals pushing their agenda through both peaceful and violent means.’

  ‘There have been bombings,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘And murders of political figures opposing the organisation.’

  ‘And this man Ashgrove is a member of the SLA?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘Not officially,’ the inspector said. ‘He is far too clever for that. But he is believed to be a supporter. A millionaire many times over, he has influential connections with many powerful figures.’

  ‘But why would he want Frankie killed?’ Jack asked.

  ‘How Frankie’s death fits into this is indeed a mystery,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘As is the Chameleon’s involvement.’

  Greystoke tapped his fingers. ‘Do you intend to pursue this matter, Ignatius?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘And what is your next step?’

  ‘I believe we will pay a visit to Charles Ashgrove.’

  ‘We have been keeping tabs on his movements since he arrived in Britain.’ The inspector called in a constable and asked him to retrieve a file. Mr Doyle scribbled down details from it, thanking Greystoke.

  ‘Ashgrove’s home is in Brighton,’ the detective explained as they left Scotland Yard.

  ‘How will we get there?’ Jack asked.

  ‘With the Lion’s Mane currently serving as a decorative fish ornament, we will adopt an old-fashioned method.’ Mr Doyle beamed. ‘We will take the train.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The express service from Victoria Station stopped at a few city stations before racing south towards Brighton. Jack had been peering out the window, lost in thought, when he realised Scarlet was staring at him.

  ‘Have you started yet?’ she asked.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The book.’

  ‘Oh.’ He remembered. ‘The Laughing Lemon.’

  ‘The Grinning Glockenspiel.’ She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I think you forget things to annoy me.’

  He smiled. ‘I have it with me.’ He pulled the book from a pocket in his green coat and waved it at her. ‘I was waiting for just the right time to begin.’ She looked at him. ‘A time like this,’ he added, turning to page one.

  ‘Take that, you evildoer!’ she said.

  Brinkie Buckeridge delivered a well-aimed blow to the thief’s jaw. The man slumped to the ground. Behind him, his pair of nefarious assistants fled through the castle door. Brinkie planted her hands on her hips and gave a laugh as she studied the man locked in a cell on the other side of the room.

  ‘Wilbur Dusseldorf!’ She laughed. ‘I never thought I’d see you again. And in such fine form.’

  The man stood. His shirt had been reduced to rags, revealing a muscular chest and arms. His pectoral muscles rippled in the lamplight as he pushed back his blonde locks and glared at her.

  ‘You may laugh, my dear,’ he said. ‘But I have trapped you!’

  Jack peered over the top of the book. Scarlet’s green eyes were locked on him.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘What do you think so far?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘I’ve only read half a page.’

  ‘But, so far…’

  ‘It’s…gr
ipping.’

  Jack read all the way to the coast, where they stepped from the train and within minutes found a steamcab. It wound through a tiny village to a building on the outskirts.

  Climbing from the cab, Jack gazed up the driveway. He could see a Georgian building with a doorway set into the centre. Two rows of six windows sat beneath a gabled slate roof. The surrounding gardens were immaculate.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ll have any success here.’ Mr Doyle pointed at the gravel on the driveway. ‘No-one has been here in at least a week.’

  Jack glanced about. ‘A man is coming up the road.’

  ‘Good thinking. He might know of Ashgrove’s whereabouts.’

  ‘May I handle this, Mr Doyle?’ Scarlet asked. ‘I’ve been wanting to practise my interrogation techniques for some time.’

  ‘Go ahead, my dear, but there’s no need to interrogate the man. I’m sure he’s not a vicious criminal.’ Mr Doyle frowned. ‘Though he does bear an uncanny resemblance to Samuel Gluck, the Gas Killer.’

  ‘The Gas Killer?’

  ‘Responsible for nine murders,’ Mr Doyle informed her. ‘His modus operandi was to fire a poisonous gas from a button on his coat. One second you would be chatting innocently with him—the next you were dead.’

  ‘Poisonous gas?’ Scarlet’s voice rose a notch as she eyed the stranger. ‘Good heavens!’

  ‘But you have nothing to worry about,’ Mr Doyle assured her. ‘He’s been dead for twenty years.’

  The elderly gentleman drew close. He wore a country suit and carried a worn walking stick.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Scarlet said. ‘We’re looking for the occupants of this house.’

  ‘You want to buy a grouse?’

  ‘No.’ Scarlet indicated to the building. ‘Can you tell us who lives here?’

  ‘You’re hunting deer?’

  Scarlet looked at Jack and Mr Doyle. ‘I believe this gentleman is quite deaf.’

  Jack smiled innocently. ‘Really?’

  Mr Doyle helped Scarlet communicate with the gentleman using a combination of raised voices and pantomime, which it turned out Mr Doyle was very skilled at. The elderly gentleman knew little about the household, but had a great dislike for Ashgrove.

  ‘He burnt down Laurie McClosky’s barn,’ the man said. ‘The place was over two hundred years old.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate,’ Scarlet said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s too bad!’

  ‘Yes,’ the man agreed. ‘A right cad.’

  Mr Doyle asked him about Ashgrove’s staff. He waved his walking stick in the direction of a small cottage a mile down the road inhabited by the butler, a man named Alf Dixie.

  A knock at the door of the cottage revealed an overweight man in short sleeves and worn pants. He looked like he ate lemons for breakfast; the rigid scowl on his face appeared permanent. What little hair he had was combed across his skull. Behind him lay a kitchen with a newspaper on the table.

  ‘I understand you’re Charles Ashgrove’s butler—’ Mr Doyle began.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  Mr Doyle introduced his team. ‘Mr Ashgrove’s house looks as if it’s not being used.’

  ‘Not at all.’ The man sniffed. ‘He’s just away for a few days.’

  ‘I advise you not to lie to me, Mr Dixie. I can discover whatever information I require quite easily.’

  ‘You don’t know…’

  ‘I already know you spent time in Blackmark Jail for stealing, although you were released five years ago for good behaviour. Your wife left you this time last year and now lives with her sister in Portsmouth. You have been dismissed from Charles Ashgrove’s employ because he does not intend to return. Oh, and your dog died last week. A short-haired terrier. You ran over it with your cart.’

  The man’s face had grown increasingly astonished. Now his expression changed to rage. ‘You’re the devil!’

  ‘Not even a close relation.’

  ‘But how did you know—’

  ‘The tattoo on your upper arm is of the type common to Blackmark Jail. I have done a study of such artwork. A second tattoo was started, but never completed. Why? Obviously your release happened earlier than expected. Your pants and shirt have been stitched and repaired over the years, but not recently because your wife has left you. Where? Portsmouth. There are a number of letters from that location in your letter rack hanging over the sink. They are in a woman’s hand.’

  ‘But…but…Mr Ashgrove…’

  ‘His home appears abandoned, but to confirm this suspicion I note you have recently received a bonus—a new bottle of whisky is sitting on your counter. It is not dusty and only a small portion of it has been drunk. Why? Not because the master is satisfied with your work. Your newspaper is, after all, opened at the employment section. The whisky is a bonus, or a bribe, if you prefer, in exchange for your silence.’

  ‘You can’t make me talk,’ Dixie wavered.

  ‘I can and I will. Tell me what you know or you will suffer the consequences.’

  ‘I don’t know nothin’. Mr Ashgrove closed up house and went back to America.’

  ‘Something must have precipitated his departure.’

  ‘Precip…?’

  ‘Caused! Brought about!’

  ‘There were some men who arrived the other night. Workmen from a factory.’

  ‘And their demeanour?’

  Again, the butler looked puzzled.

  ‘Were they happy or sad?’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Were there frivolities or were they sombre?’

  ‘There was a party. Sort of a celebration, like.’

  ‘So everyone was jolly.’

  ‘Yeah, mostly—except for one bloke.’

  ‘His description?’

  ‘A foreigner. Slim, dark-haired.’

  ‘Would his name have been Olinka Slate?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You will tell no-one of our visit,’ Mr Doyle instructed. ‘If you do, I will have you arrested for the stolen goods in your possession.’

  The man paled. ‘I’ll say nothin’. I promise.’

  ‘Good.’

  They returned to their ride and climbed in. Mr Doyle told the driver to return them to the railway station. He regarded his young protégés.

  ‘You both look ready to burst through the roof.’

  ‘Mr Doyle!’ Scarlet yelled. ‘That was amazing! All that information about Alf Dixie and his wife!’

  ‘Merely observation and deduction.’

  ‘But his dog?’ Jack said. ‘How did you know…?’

  ‘Oh that.’ The detective smiled. ‘He had terrier hair on the cuffs of his pants. A splash of blood on the wheel of his cart and a corresponding depression in his front yard revealed its recent sudden death.’

  ‘And the stolen goods?’

  Mr Doyle laughed. ‘A complete guess on my part. He had a guilty face.’

  They arrived at the station, grabbed a meal and boarded a train to London. By the time they reached Bee Street, it was night and Gloria was dozing at her desk.

  ‘Thank you for waiting,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘You should have gone to bed hours ago.’

  ‘A message arrived for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A small boy brought it late in the day.’

  She handed over an envelope. Mr Doyle examined it before reading the note inside. He gave a grim smile.

  ‘Mr Doyle?’ Jack said.

  ‘We must be on the right track,’ Ignatius Doyle said. ‘It is a warning. It says, Busybodies know when to leave well enough alone.’

  ‘You think it’s from Ashgrove?’

  ‘Him or one of his cronies.’

  ‘How will we proceed?’ Scarlet asked.

  ‘I think we need to go on a little trip.’

  ‘Where to?’ Jack asked.

  ‘We will go across the pond,’ Mr Doyle replied. ‘To America.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘The Challenger,’
Mr Doyle said cheerily, ‘is one of the largest airships in the world. The Lion’s Mane is a gnat by comparison.’

  Jack did not argue as they disembarked from the packed passenger train at Portsmouth Airship Yard, the biggest terminal in the country. Hundreds of airship hangars were scattered across the tarmac. Vessels of all different shapes and sizes were arriving from or departing to every continent of the globe.

  Located close to the port was the largest hangar of all. It contained only one airship: the Challenger. Jack had always loved airships and had a particular interest in this one. The Challenger was the greatest carrier ever built. Over seven thousand passengers and crew members could be housed on it. Half a mile in length, it made the crossing from Portsmouth to New York in five days.

  Jack watched the vessel pull into its hangar after a long journey across the Atlantic, his heart pounding with excitement, his face red. Scarlet said something, but he didn’t hear. All fell to silence as he gazed upon the giant ship.

  The gondola of the Challenger was copper-coloured and flat on top, curving down into a great half circle beneath. It had fifty decks with thousands of windows. A silver cigar-shaped balloon supported it, attached by a multitude of fine lines. Two great paddle wheels, as would be seen on a traditional river steamer, were on either side of the bow. These propelled the vessel forward. Between them lay the unseen engine room where hundreds of men worked, shovelling coal and feeding the furnaces to power the engines. Meanwhile, the top decks were open to the air and people could walk about and admire the view.

  Smoke and steam belched from two pipes at the rear and the Challenger had left a sooty trail in its wake. At the bow lay the bridge, curved timber and bronze surrounded by windows. Jack leaned in, trying to make out the figures at the controls, and saw possibly the greatest airship captain of them all—Philias Haze—commanding the vessel. He had been responsible for some of Britain’s greatest aerial victories during the war, although he was also known as a kind philanthropist, donating his time and wealth to good causes: the War Widows Guild, the Disabled Airman’s League.

  ‘There are no female airship captains,’ Scarlet said to Jack. ‘Did you know that?’