The Mysterious Case of Mr. Strangeway

by Karina Cooper

  The lanterns were brighter near this station, the oil kept plentiful and the panes in each glass lamp cleaned daily to provide ongoing illumination. It afforded me much opportunity to watch them what passed, to hear the tangled threads of conversation.

  I saw many jovial faces, but more tired. It seemed to me as if there were many who were children, both older and younger than I, whose faces were black and hands rubbed raw. I saw twisted limbs, severe enough to force a care but not so mangled as to halt a working day or refuse a wage.

  More than a few displayed sores and lesions around the mouth, a hint of phossy from the match factories.

  And still they worked, still they rose every day and took what pay they could. A pang of anger struck, and beside it, one of guilt. For I had been a child working upon the street, risking life and limb beneath the circus tents, all for whatever coin I could. I had been there, and I had been freed.

  I sighed. To think that I might consider the cost of that escape to be too high, that I should fret beneath the gilded bars of the life I’d been pinioned into, even as I studied the working men and women who would toil harder than I ever would again. It was, I think, the first time I really felt out of place everywhere. I was no heiress by raising, and no kinchin cove by birth. Born wealthy, raised poor, a criminal long before I was ever a lady.

  I was no more a part of London’s streets than I was a part of my mother’s Society. A deucedly lonely position, were I to let it haunt me.

  I wouldn’t. Where the wealthy could not reach and the impoverished did not aspire, I would flit in between. A collector between two worlds. Aye, it would suit right enough.

  Mind, I would be woefully dishonest if I did not admit to briefly pondering the temptation of a pocket or two. Yet just as quickly, I discarded the notion.

  I had already exercised my luck there, it would take something much fleshier than a workingman’s fogle to get me to try another draw.

  Such as a familiar face.

  Particularly a familiar face with no name.

  He stood on the pedestrian walk just down the street, the opposite side of the station’s entry. Though working class folk streamed between him and I, it was no trouble to recognize him. He was too fine for his own good, and that dark skin only gleamed in fresh opposition to the gray togs he clad himself in. His greatcoat was pale gray, showing only a hint of discoloration from the fog. His trousers were darker charcoal striped by narrow bands of dove gray, his shoes unseen from my vantage point and his animation emphatic.

  The light above his dapper bowler framed him in a corona. I leaned against my shadowed wall, squinting as the devil-fog strummed a watery sheen across my straining eyes, and struggled to make out the face of the man he spoke to.

  His was not a face I recognized.

  The man was broader than his handsome companion, not quite as fine in face or figure, yet of a sturdy, respectable mold. His bore the features of a man who may be considered trustworthy.

  His clothing bespoke the same carelessness with which money was spent. Perhaps more so, for the tailoring was fitter, the colors peeking from beneath his great coat bolder, and the top hat he wore jauntily was decorated by a flash of gold at the band.

  He was taller than his companion, and unlike the other man, he wore no fog preventatives to keep the sting away. His eyes were heavy-lidded as if he were already soused at near half-past-seven, or simply too filled with the ennui of the terribly elite to truly consider the world about him.

  He reeked of wealth, and my filcher fingers twitched.

  Perhaps this, then, was the handsome man’s employer. He seemed a lord, at first blush.

  If so, he was a strange sort, to be outfitting his servant in the same finery he wore himself.

  Even stranger was that they were both below the drift, and one without the fog protectives I expected from a gentleman.

  They split as I watched, coughing absently into my gloved hands. The man in the bowler seemed to make for the station entry. The other, his top hat perched just so, had turned in my direction.

  Divided, and for what?

  I was not so foolish as to consider this a mere coincidence. Which would I follow?

  I pulled the brim of my cap down low, affecting a lean I’d learned from loiterers of a far better class than I; just another street boy taking refuge from the crowds. Or, as was more often the case, giving the crowds a refuge from emptied pockets.

  The gentleman came closer, and from under the brim of my hat, I saw that he bore facial hair of a brown shade, trimmed neatly about his mouth and chin. It was reddish in the street lights, a glint of it here and there. He walked with a swagger that seemed to indicate he cared less than a toss for those who might be walking with him—or behind him, for purposes malicious or otherwise. His trousers were pressed, his greatcoat in a deeply fashionable navy and worn with that particular brand of carelessness that only the toffs I’d seen above could successfully affect.

  Most assuredly a gentry cove, then, or at least a wealthy sort from above. Yet why was he not affected by this accursed fog in the same way as I?

  “Strangeway!”

  The call came from behind him. I strangled on a choke, and when I was forced to bend double to clear my throat of my own surprise, turned to face the wall lest my reaction earn suspicion.

  It didn’t seem to. The man had turned when I risked a glance.

  Whatever words had been exchanged, I’d missed it. I heard a laugh, and a drawled, “You worry overmuch, Smoot.” The accent bore a lilt, a rounded one, the kind that suggested he’d spent more years in Ireland than England.

  The other’s was a dialect both shorter in tone and flatter in enunciation. An American, affecting that drawl they seemed to delight in keeping among civilized folk.

  “You don’t worry enough,” came Smoot’s rejoinder. “Be on that train, or so help me...” The threat was left unspoken, though I could not be sure if it was a serious one.

  “I wouldn’t leave you to fend for yourself,” promised Mr. Strangeway, who turned away, adjusting his coat. “Not that you could say the same, you pirate.”

  “I heard that!”

  As did I.

  Mr. Strangeway’s chuckle was informally unconcerned, and I suspected Mr. Smoot had been meant to hear it. I was forced to re-evaluate my initial impression, for they did not operate as one might expect a lord and servant. Instead, to my astonishment, they seemed equals. Friends, no less.

  And co-conspirators of something that sounded rather like a plan.

  But a plan for what?

  So it was that I stumbled across the quarry of my first-ever collection, a man who was both everything I had expected and somehow not at all what he seemed. For what reason had Mr. Strangeway appeared at the site of a Fenian threat, as carried by a collector in metal armor?

  He passed the alley mouth, but not without remarking upon my presence. “Clap your jaw,” he said, doffing his cap, “there’s a fine lad.”

  I could only stare, forcing my mouth closed, as he strode away. It was a full minute before I summoned enough presence of mind to follow.

  Chapter Seven

  For a gentleman, Mr. Strangeway had a rather keen ability to fade into crowds. I’d lost him twice, all in the space of a few minutes, and only found him again by chance.

  The third time he gave me the slip, I found myself across the narrow tracks from his friend, the striking man called Smoot.

  Frustrated beyond measure, I stayed where I was, even after the ear-shattering whistle and rush of steam announced the train’s arrival. I knew they both would board, so why fluster myself any farther?

  The folk jostled aboard, finding standing room amid the cars, clutching baskets, cases, other such tools and remains of the day. I had no troubles getting on, for many of London’s working class rode the daily trains to get from borough to borough, and I fit in.

  I was nervous, gripped with an anticipation for the strange and mysterious. So it was with great disappointmen
t that I walked the car I had insinuated myself into and found sign of neither Mr. Smoot nor Mr. Strangeway.

  Two boys pushed past, clad in a school uniform I did not recognize—although I would be more shocked if I had. One carried a box as if it were the proudest possession he owned, the other devoured the remains of a pasty. Neither seemed inclined to give me an eye, for which I was grateful. Although most adults wouldn’t bother looking at me too hard, children could be bleeding clever when it came to their own kind. I remained still until their boyish laughter faded.

  When I attempted to continue my search, hands closed over my shoulders.

  I stiffened, prepared to strike back, but I was dragged behind a partition of boxes and crates, warm fingers folded over my mouth to steal my cry of surprise. Tucked into a narrow corner, I found myself staring into earnest dark eyes set in a now-familiar face. The fine-crafted goggles he’d worn now occupied a place about the band of his jaunty bowler, winking in the dim light of the train’s interior. “And who are you, little sparrow?” the man called Smoot demanded, his voice low and pitched as though I were a cat to be won over.

  I could not strike him; he held my wrists crossed at my waist. I could kick him, but to what purpose? I had no room with which to gain solid momentum, and was sure I would only irritate him were I to try.

  This was not the position to find one’s self in, under any circumstances. Such events often landed Monsieur Marceaux’s kinchins in the nick, not ever to be seen again.

  I bared my teeth. “Let me go!”

  “And why?” asked the man, who revealed his own teeth in an even smile. “Was it a purse you wanted, or are you following my friend and I for more nefarious purposes?”

  I tried for innocent, matching his smile with a hopeful one. “I wouldn’t dare try me ‘and at your pocket, m’lord.” I deliberately called him such, hoping it would soothe an ego obviously enormous by dint of his clothing alone.

  “Clever.” His smile faded, leaving his features wreathed in shadow. “You may fool them, girl, but you can’t me.”

  I froze in his grip, my smile like brittle glass.

  His fingers eased from my wrists. “Don’t look so cracked,” he said with a sigh. “I like my calico rounder and softer.” Before I could decide if I were mortally offended by this or not, he added, “And older, at that. Come on, then, tell Captain Smoot the truth. Why are you following me?”

  Heaven save me from the charmers of this world. His softening of tone and cajoling smile would not work with me.

  “I’m not following you,” I said, honest for it.

  Honest to the letter, perhaps, but my declarations was still dodgy enough to catch an eyeful of skepticism, however, as his brow drew down. “Complete bosh. You stay out of the way. No time to handle whatever it is you’re after, so one wrong move, Bessie, and I’ll toss you from this train, you hear me?”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I assured him, but most was eaten by the shrill whistle of the very train moving beneath us.

  His glower suggested he would, and so I shut my mouth as he left me in the corner, a wary eye on my placement, and carefully upended boxes. Looking for something, obviously.

  “Can I help?”

  “Quiet.”

  I shrugged, seizing my knees and utilizing the opportunity to watch him instead.

  He moved quickly, like a man accustomed to rifling through goods.

  “You aren’t from London,” I observed.

  “Oh, really.” His tone could not have been any more sardonic, I think, than if he’d been made of Arabian sand. “What gave me away, love? Was it the lack of mustache?”

  “No,” I said mildly. “’Tis your clothing, your black skin and your cavalier demeanor. London low does not often see all three wrapped as one.”

  “It’s one of those three London doesn’t like,” he muttered. “And quicker from a guttersnipe than I’d expect. Shut up, Bessie, I’m working.”

  I lifted my chin. “I could help, you know.”

  “Unless you know the whereabouts of a few Irish girls,” he began, only to pause as I snorted a sound not at all ladylike in nature. Fanny would have been horrified.

  “I see your tastes vary far from your colonial home,” I drawled.

  “You’ve no idea,” Mr. Smoot returned. “Now hobble your lip, there’s a good sparrow.”

  That lasted for all of thirty seconds, give or take the amount of time it took me to narrow down my conversational gambits. “If you’re looking to nick something,” I started to say, only to raise my hands in surrender when he tucked his coat back behind a holster I hadn’t seen affixed to his hip. The ornate handle was not like anything I’d ever seen on a Colt Navy, securely held by a thick leather belt, and what appeared to be bullets along the band.

  The message could not be any clearer.

  The American captain, whatever he was captain of, was not inclined to field my questions.

  This complicated my collection even farther. One man was enough. Two, and at least one armed, was beyond my measure.

  Yet I could not fathom losing so soon.

  So I bided my time, and awaited my chance to make good my escape—or to incapacitate my erstwhile watcher.

  I was not made to wait long.

  The train chugged and strained beneath us, rocking gently as it followed the railway. The conversation at the front was mundane and good-natured, with many a tired yawn to punctuate the rise and fall. My strange captor’s movements grew increasingly erratic, his manner tense and strained.

  Somehow, the both of us missed the initial entry of a body at the far end of the carriage. The rush of air as the door slid open went unmarked, and the eerie echoes of spinning wheels and whistling air filled the car. That we heard more clearly. Mr. Smoot—Captain, my foot; I’d believe it when I saw the ship he claimed—turned, one hand making for the filigreed grip of the revolver at his side.

  Too late. The figure was gone, rushing out again, and the door closed. Whatever it is he saw that I didn’t, Mr. Smoot cursed what I assumed was some uniquely American colloquialism, allowing me another to store in my growing list of uncivilities to repeat. He was quicker than I, and darted after him.

  “Wait!” I called after them both, but to no avail. I made to follow over the stacked crates.

  Behind me, a report boomed, muffled as if I were under water as it happened. I heard popping, a strange kind of snapping reminiscent of fire but not quite the same, and another sound—a harsh one, comprised of varying octaves.

  I began to turn, to see what had gone so awry, when something slammed into me, a force I could not see. It stole my breath, swept me off my feet and against the crates, which toppled over me. Sharp edges and splintered corners cracked to the shuddering floor as I curled up in meager defense. A cloud of black tore through the carriage, choked the air, and as I collided with things both jagged and unyielding—as fiery streaks of pain flitted like crimson veins across my vision—I realized what it was that sounded like music.

  Voices. Strangers. The commotion of those passengers, like me, that screamed.

  My body felt weak, too heavy for my thoughts to direct. Mad chaos filled the carriage, and as I blinked the grit from my eyes, I only vaguely understood that I lay sprawled in the back of the car, a sea of splintered crates and glass and blood-tinged debris about me.

  My side hurt, in the way of a stitch when one runs for too long, and my head ached fiercely.

  A hand curled around my arm. “Up, you are,” said a familiar voice, but whose sound came muffled. My ears felt stuffed full with cotton. Tears turned to soot-congealed grime on my cheeks, and as another arm banded beneath my knees, I found myself nearly eye to eye with flinty dark green.

  Whatever laissez-faire outlook Mr. Strangeway had carried only minutes ago, it did not survive the wreckage of the train car.

  “What,” I managed, somehow between gritted teeth. Not the questioning note I’d intended. “I...” What had I intended to say? That I was hurt, per
haps, or afraid. Or, more like, that I was perfectly capable of standing on my own, despite the sticky feeling of warmth along my side.

  “Shush, there’s a lass.” I don’t know how, I think I must have faded in and out of awareness, but somehow, my own quarry carried me from the halted train. I tried to see what went on, but it was as if my head would not obey, and my whirling imagination made up what I could not see.

  “Come,” I muttered, and must have repeated it several times, for it seemed to me that it took too much effort to finish the statement. “Come...with me...fiend.”

  Strangeway shook me gently. “The devil are you on about?” I nodded, not of my own volition, and my lashes turned heavy as lead. “Here, lass! Stay awake. Smoot says you’re a sight sharper than you ought to be. What were you after? What did you see?”

  I bared my teeth. I think they were stained bloody; I remember a distinct metallic smell, and the taste of copper.

  My head lolled, until it hit his shoulder.

  “Bollocks.” He shook me again, jarring me awake. Or at least a little farther out of my stupor. “Who are you working for? Tell me what you were doing on that train! Why are you dressed as a boy?”

  That was easy, I could do all of that without baring any secrets. “Hunting,” I murmured. It took so much energy. “Was....hunting...” My eyes closed. “’M a collector.”

  There was a pause, and then, as he shifted my weight in his grasp, he sighed. “So you are,” I think he said quietly.

  I couldn’t be sure, for I was already fading.

  Chapter Eight

  I was shaking as I once more bobbed to the surface of my consciousness, dimly aware that voices spoke quietly, urgently over my head.

  Warm arms still banded about my back, beneath my knees, cradling me like I were no more than an infant, but a fierce chill had taken root inside me. Pain and fear had conspired to dip me in cold sweat, which forced my teeth to chatter beneath the strident demand of it.