A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) (5 page)

“You just sit tight here, Ma’am. I’m gonna get a hold o’ one them boys and see if we can’t get some answers to what these villains are up to.”

“Run along then, Mr. Temperance. I shall see to releasing myself from bondage.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I run back to my collection of bad guys and gal. The two male druids and two remaining uninjured pirates are struggling to load the low, stone pedestal aboard a dolly. The injured parties are examining their wounds.

“Hold it right there. You all got some ’splainin’ to do.”

“Get the
Cubus of Ascension
to safety! I shall dispose of the interloper.”

The nightmare nun in the Monasterical hooded habit steps to an ancient artifact. A great stone crocodile guards this wing’s exhibit. The beautiful piece of art must be thousands of years old. The cloaked woman places a hand on the stately old reptile. She breaks a necklace free from around her throat. This necklace holds a large and unusual jewel. The hooded priestess holds the gem to her mouth in a long kiss. Hugging the stone to her chest, the druidic dame begins a low song and then places the fancy rock atop the statue’s head. The diabolical druidess quickly chants a deeply disconcerting spell.

Now it is this example of stone that crackles with electricity. A blue pearl of light glows into life within the gem of the necklace. A glowing pulsation of the blue-tinged light source swells with power and completely illuminates the vast hall. After several searing seconds, the light collapses again into a bubble that strangely engulfs the granite gator.

The window panes of the museum rattle violently as the massive building is suddenly being buffeted in a stiff wind. It was a clear night outside a few minutes ago, but from out of nowhere a storm is raging. Lightning flashes blind us and vibrate the building as they try to blast their way in. Streamers of blue energies crackle up and down the length of the stone crocodile.

Bolts of lightning assault the roof. Lightning now plunges through the roof to seize the crocodile in a shocking frenzy. The crocodile should explode under the continuing onslaught; instead, however, it absorbs the high voltage. A massive energy surge rises back up from the stone creature to meet and combine with the atmospheric onslaught. The crocodile chameleon changes color. The lightning creates the illusion that the monster is animated. The lightning casts fantastic shadows that appear to bring the reptile to life. The illusion is believable to the point that I could swear that the statue is moving. It even appears to have jumped from its pedestal.

“Great Godfrey’s ghost, the monster is alive!”

Eee-Aye-rRoark!!!

Roars the creature as it lets a flesh-settling shudder pass through its enormous body. It only takes a fraction of a second before its horribly intelligent eyes rest upon me and it is in pursuit, almost before I can react.

“Miss Plumtartt! Run!”

There is no deterring the five ton behemoth. It vibrates the floor as it chases me through the museum. I would never have thought that a building of this proportion could be shaken by wind or beast, but I have been shown to be wrong on both accounts in the past two minutes.

It does not matter if the display is large, small, rare, or priceless, everything is shattered before this lumbering battering ram.

“You got to run faster, Miss Plumtartt!”

“This is a difficult thing to accomplish while my hands are tied behind my back, eh hem?”

“Gee, I reckon I should have untied them when I had the chance, hunh?”

Helping Miss Plumtartt along, trying desperately not to let her fall without actually dragging her, we skid around a corner with the overgrown Egyptian river dragon on our heels. We do not have the luxury of choosing our path. We have to run to wherever his snapping jaws of piano swallowing dimensions are not. I pull us into the first passage that offers itself.

Oh, drat! It is indeed a relatively narrow hallway which serves to funnel us before the angry amphibian. What a relief to break into an actual outdoor environment at the end of the short hallway, but then I remember how these creatures enjoy the advantage in that arena, also.

This is a squared courtyard with a tremendous circular building in the middle. Miss Plumtartt starts to try running for the open spaces but instead I pull her into the building. As I had thought and hoped, it is the same library that we had first entered from the subterranean passage.

Once we are in and among the many desks and chairs, I feel it safe to release Miss Plumtartt’s arm. This does momentarily confound the beast, but being the monster that he is, he is quite up to the task of maintaining pursuit upon us both though we are on opposite sides of the room.

“The balcony, Miss Plumtartt! Go up that there twirly steel staircase while I distract this gobbling goblin gator!”

“I say, I like that. First I must avoid a metropolitan embodiment of Sobek, in all his crocodilian glory, and now these tightly wound stairs, all while having my hands bound behind my back is more than a little uncomfortable!”

“I’m sorry ’bout that Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. I’m gonna cut you free just the first chance I get.”

I start pitching heavy editions of the Encyclopaedia Britannicanana at the reptilian refugee of the Upper Nile in reverse order. I am down to ‘D’ before the brute
finally
turns from Miss Plumtartt and focuses on me.

Books, desks, chairs and railings prove to be of little to no obstacle to an enraged 10,000 pound crocodile. That boy chases me around the room twice before I manage to climb the drapes to safety. I just get a grip on the balcony when he tears down the window dressings in an attempt to nibble my toes. My feet are just barely out of his jumping and snapping reach as I scramble up and onto the upper level.

Eee-Aye-rRoark!!!

Our indignant companion voices his displeasure in a voice capable of bursting the Dewey Decibel System.

His twenty foot tail sweeps the library floor clear as he angrily runs back and forth in the confined space in a fury of impatience. Fed up with finding an easy way up, he decides to follow Miss Plumtartt’s example and use the stairs. Though these are too narrow for the fellow to use in the customary manner, they do provide a pole that he can balance on as he eats through the balcony floor. Down on the main floor, behind the horrible lizard, we can see the five assassins and the three druids passing the heavy block down the hole in the middle of the floor on which we entered the museum. The last druid down the hole gives us a jaunty salute before disappearing down the escape hatch.

“Now might be a good time to free my hands, Mr. Temperance.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The newly reborn reptile Egyptian display has shown quite the determination in our pursuit. He has swiftly chewed a substantial hole in the floor granting himself room to gain our platform. He wriggles himself through this alligator aperture with some alacrity as he sees his goal of having us for dinner within reach. The contoured snout of the carnivore struggles to take us in.

“Ohm...”

“Excuse me, Miss Plumtartt? Did you say something? Are you making a reference to a measurement of electrical juice?”

“Ohm... Shush! I am trying to concentrate! Ohm...”

“Sorry Ma’am. I reckon you must be trying to focus your concentration so that you can use the amazing power within you. During a strange, scientific experiment, there was an accident and explosion. You were bathed in an elemental beam which bequeathed uncanny powers upon you on top of the charmed family bloodline you carry and an outrageously elevated intelligence from the Revelatory Comet’s pass.”

“... Ohm... Yes, quite so. Ohm...”

Eee-Aye-rRoark!!!

Standing straight and true, Miss Plumtartt steps forward with her left foot as she thrusts her hand toward the balcony crasher.

“
At you!
”

A red light of energy bounces up and down her splendidly figured frame before settling on bursting out from her hand.

A flaming cherry sparks into life about an inch from her palm. This burgundy bubble expands to several feet and then collapses back to a point of crimson kineticism before a dozen scarlet energy spheres shoot into the gaping maw of the attacking
ancient artwork.

FAH-WAH-BUH-
BOOM
!!!

FAH-WAH-BUH-
BOOM
!!!

FAH-WAH
-
BUH
-
BOOMITY

BOOM!!!BOOM!!!BOOM!!!

B
O
O
O
O
O
M
!!!

I don’t think that this or any library has ever had this much noise in it before. When the drifts of paper from the exploded books eventually start to die down, Miss Plumtartt turns to me with a playful smile:

“I told you England was lovely this time of year.”

University Laboratory. London, England.

The alkaloid base does indeed appear to be separating the different soils from one another, though it is taking a deucedly longer amount of time than I should like.

This experiment has run on much longer than I could have anticipated. The only light in the laboratory is from the kerosene lamp and this single Bunsen burner. Though the only person left in this wing of the building, I am determined to see this problem through to the end.

Professor Gillette Cushing has commented more than once on my unusual amount of perseverance. I must agree with his assessment. My fellow schoolmates lack the diligence to stay with a project long enough to detect and objectively observe the slightest variations over an extended amount of time. I believe my patience makes it appear easy to my fellows, whereas it taxes my restless energies to no end. This process shall prove most useful to me, though, in the analysis of crime scene particulars and, hopefully, court presentable evidence. I intend to bring the same tenacity to this separation process as Trevor’s Bulldog had upon my calve last December.

The dog bite. It is still sore, even now. Rubbing the wound, I think back to the series of events to which it led. This past holiday season I spent down in Norfolk had an unexpected effect, and direction on my career. I really should give credit to Trevor’s father, that old, broad country rogue, for putting me on a path to developing my most singular of professions.

I must leave my calf alone and massage instead, this nice sum of funds in my vest pocket. Ah, the tinkle of silver wealth brings a smile to my lips. An ability to be master of controlling distance with one’s opponent in combat I learned here at university with lessons in the single stick. Applying this mastery to the London brawling arenas in the play of fisticuffs has proved fruitful monetarily. Though the martial skills of boxing and fencing that I have directed my physical energies to here at university have done well to keep me in cab fare, I look forward to earning my way through the efforts of my mental capacities. The soreness in the temporomandibular joint at the base of my jaw, reminds me of my encounter with ‘the Giant Rat of Sinatra’, Extinctinizer McDodo Saturday last. Getting in the ring with McDodo may not have been my most clever of moments, but the monetary incentive was too great to resist. I hope that is my last descent into the fighting pits of London in search of the Prizefighter’s purse. I have seen the results of entering that fray for too long, or too often, or from climbing into the dangerous, depressed stage with the wrong chap. Yet here again, it is my ability to detect discrepancies of the most nominal measure that reward me with an advantage. His consistent habit of dropping his right shoulder would warn me before his punching with that arm. Between the tell-tale dilation of McDodo’s pupils, and the shift of his weight from one foot to another that so easily allowed me to time his movements, a distinct measure of control was maintained throughout the fight. I may even be so bold as to say I brought a certain amount of artfulness to that particular bout.

Blast it, I know more preparation and study is required before embarking upon my investigative pursuits. I need further research into human anatomy. More specifically, I confess to a wish
de dissectione partium corporis humani.
The hospital is always in need of laboratory technicians. A job there may also grant me access to the raw material of corpses that I requ...

Hello, what’s this? The Bunsen burner is flickering madly. The room’s ambient temperature has just noticeably dropped. The outside transoms are open and a sudden suction through the high, vents has extinguished the burner. Turn the gas-cock to cut off the flow and hurry to lever the windows shut. The high, open aperture is threatening to pull every loose paper in the room through its opening. There must be a vacuum creating loss of pressure. Hurry to the opposite wall to check the instruments mounted there. As expected, I can visually track the falling mercury of the thermometer and can see the needle of the barometer move in a counter-clockwise direction indicating a dramatic drop in barometric pressure.

There is a flash of light outside, stark and brilliant. The source is from the South and my vantage is to the East. I must get to the windows at the end of the hall! Here is an unobstructed view Southward to the city. What I see is an impossibility. A tremendous thunderhead is churning and broiling outside, though with the meteorological improbability of extreme localization. It is confined to and strictly in one place. The cloud feeds upon itself in a frenetic display of roiling purple and red lights. How peculiar, the lightning discharges are striking the same spot! One after another the small thunderstorm is expunging vast amounts of violent destruction in a single, and precise location.  A tremendous thunderclap signals the conclusion of the destruction and the cloud quickly dissipates.

“Experiment be hanged! Something extraordinary is afoot!”

Flinging my lab smock to the floor, I run for the most immediate exit without a thought for hat or coat. Leaving through a side portal, I join many other people who are turning out for their own curiosity. Forsaking a cab, I estimate that I can get there by foot just as fast since the university and the approximate scene of this calamity are but a few blocks parted. I run as a rugby player across the school playing field and vault the fence that separates University from St. Apostollo Chapel in the rear. Scrambling the wall from there gets me to the long run of Gowers mews. I continue my mad dash across Tarrington and through the Keppels. The shops here are all closed and I have a clear run of it. A mob has already formed by the time I get to Montagu where I can get a look at the lightning’s place of impact. The British Museum is the apparent victim in this activity, as I see smoke rising from her rooftops. Police have already moved to secure the premises.

“I beg your pardon, Constable, do you know what has happened here?”

“No idea, sir. You’ll have to step back sir, and make way for the fire brigades and municipal agencies descending upon the scene.”

A squared, utilitarian, and cheerless wagon forces its way through the thick crowds. The painted symbols of metropolitan authority are emblazoned on its sides. One of Scotland Yard’s senior detectives exits. This, I think I may safely assume, will be the leader of the investigation.

As it is that I recognize the fellow, and admittedly, he is one of the better examples of this city’s detective force, I call him by name, “Hello, Detective Wrathebone!”

Detective Sergeant Basel Wrathebone turns his supercilious eyes upon me. From beneath ponderously languid lids and over the Gibraltar-like extension of his nose, the official investigator peruses his accouter.

“Mmm-nnn-y-y-y-e-e-e-sss, I know you. You’re that amateur sleuth who keeps snooping around on our city’s crime scenes. Pray, stay back young man. Do not interfere with the official force and the execution of our duties. This is an official investigation and not fodder for your ceaseless curiosity.”

“Yes, of course, Detective Wrathebone, I merely wished to avail myself of the opportunity to study under the wing of a master such as yourself. May I please accompany you on this investigation? My crude talents may actually prove useful to you.”

“Ah, hem. Yes. But no. Perhaps on another occasion. In the mean time, I am afraid I must instruct my officers to block you from trespass with a promise of incarceration if disobeyed. Goodnight, young man.”

The detective from Scotland Yard turns away to follow his own thoughts and gather what clewes he may. Three of his lackeys, John E. LeMillner, Jimmie Mason, and Judy Lawhe all look as if they would very much enjoy a chance of playing sport with me in an arresting action.

I move to another vantage point.

I do not wish to let this conundrum go! Boredom is a deadly thing to me. I must be ever wary lest I let it consume me. It is for my very life that I must look into this mystery or tedium will crush me asunder. Wrathebone be hanged, I shall pursue this matter on my own recognizance.

Circling the building, my initial observations conclude that all entrances are intact. The phenomenon witnessed came strictly from within and above.

I come close to despairing the advancement of any more evidence when I happen to spot an immense treasure trove of helpful information.

“Lukey!”

A walking collection of loose-jointed, split-lathes, the blond-headed urchin turns towards the sound of my voice. He has to tilt his young head all the way back to view me from under his unshorn hair.

“Lukey Priscus! Come here my lad, I wish to speak with you.”

The artful scooter dodges over to me with speed.

“’allo, Meestuh ’olmes. Noice to sees ye, guv. ‘ow’s moight Oi be of suh-vice?”

“Though your hair protects your face and eyes like a sheep dog’s, you have a particular gift for knowing what goes on upon the streets of London. Tell me, Priscus, what disturbs our city’s slumber this fine summer night?”

“A violent little thunderstorm blew up out o’ nowhere and attacked the museum. That was soon after the other accident. There seems to be a bit of excitement all about the city tonoight, suh. Kind of a coincidence that they should both ‘appen so’s close to’s one uhnuvvuh.”

I am not one to go in for coincidence.

“Yes, Lukey. One might say that it is a funny little co-winky-dink, as it were. So, I think I am relatively up to speed as concerns the museum; can you tell me more of the other incident?”

“Oh, yes, suh. There was a gang of quinty-quinty tufters gone an’ started a stampede on ‘aih ’olburn tonoight. A band of pirates commandeered a carriage and led a sprung up ‘orse on a cobbie-cracker. The dreadnoughts wracked half the flower carts on New Oxfuhd.”

“Pirates you say, Lukey?”

“Yes, suh! You can asks me mates. ‘ey, lads. Come over ‘ere an’ tell dis gennleman wha’ ye seen on New Oxfuhd tonoight. It was a bloodthusty band of pirates, roight Morey?”

Morey Arty wipes his nose and shakes his head. “Naw, Lukey, it was a tribe of ‘a’-patchee Norffe Amerwican Injuns, wudn’t it, Augie?”

Augie MillChuck screws his face up in concerted concentration. “No, no, fellas, ’twas deadly dervishes from distant desert digges, ain’t dat roight, Tommy Tonguh?”

“Skooblat-bluogh-blah. That is, Oi thoughts dey wuz Auwiental see-kwet assassins.”

“That is a rather varied description, boys. You say this dangerous swarm came up New Oxford from High Holbern, eh? What happened when they hit the subway construction?”

“Dey kwashed.”

“Indeed, come along boys, show me what ‘appened, er, happened.”

My quartet of street scamps escorts me to the place where indeed there has been some sort of transportational disaster. Fresh scrapes gouged into the street mark where the clockwork horse slid at an outrageous speed before plunging into the ditch to its explosive demise. Signs of a crashed carriage are in a berm of upheaved soil from the ditch. The entire area is littered with remnants of the exploded clockwork device of considerable size, corroborating the boys’ tale.

“Was it another pirate/indian/poonjabi/ninja upon the mechanical horse?”

“Oh, ‘e were’nt near as interestin’ as de udders. Oi didn’t even notice ‘im too much. Anybody else?”

Negative headshakes indicate that the horse rider was of no consequence.

“‘ey! Wait a minute. Didn’t Toiney snag ‘is ‘at when the fellow fwew into de ditch?”

“No! It was me wot snagged ‘is duhby,” wails Morey. “Toiney tooked it from me.”

“His hat you say. Well boys, I just might be interested in that hat.”

“Wud dere be a wewahd involved in its wecovuhwee?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Roight! Spwead out boys. Foind Toiney Thames!”

In a short few minutes my confederates produce their lucky scavenger. Tiny reveals himself to be a rotund young man in a battered black derby.

“It’s moi hat! Oi stoles it from Morey Arty fair and square!”

“Of course you did, my new chum. I shall be happy to recompense you handsomely for the sale of your chapeau. I’ll give you a half guinea for it right now if it is truly from the nondescript jockey of the mishap.”

“Oh, it is all right, mistuh. It flew off his head just as the horsie slid into the ditch, honest.”

My skill at reading the tell tale signs of deception tell me that this grubby early teen is indeed being truthful.

“Then here you are, Tiny. And a shilling each for the rest of you for your invaluable assistance. Please allow me to call upon you again in the future.”

“Oh, thank you, suh. God bwess!”

The filthy but happy street urchins scamper away, eager to spend their unexpected loot. That money was difficult to come by, but I am hoping that its purchase will save me from a stupefying evening and point me to more interesting environs for my gray cells to graze.

Lukey and his cohorts have proven themselves useful where the official force has not. Perhaps I shall come up with an endearing phrase with which to refer to my own unofficial and irregular branch of London’s Police auxiliary.

I carry my prize into the light for a better perusal.

The only possessions of a man more telling of his personality, traits, and personal habits than his hat are his watch and footwear. This hat already has many striking details that transfer great information of its true owner. The style is one which was
en vogue
a few years back. As this hat was sold as new well since that time it puts me in mind of those scandalous shops of our city that prey upon the unwary tourista, conniving to get a top dollar rate on post fashionable styles from an innocent and naïve visitor. This is normally incurred on the great many unwashed and nouveau riche of our American cousins. The hat size is indicative of a man of moderate intelligence. This hat has received many wounds, yet still the owner clings to it. Though it is of a fine quality, the repairs outstrip the cost of a new hat. This obviously has a strong personal sentiment attached to it. I detect the scents of a hair pomade. I suspect that the frugal sensibilities of the wearer do not match the product. My deduction is that there is a feminine influence upon this male wearer. If I am correct in identifying the hair product, then my hypothesis leads me to think that this is a British female of olde money. There is evidence of a type of burn on the bowler I do not know. Its scent is totally alien to me. Here is a tiny repair done on one section of the hat that predates the scorching. Incredibly, the repair has been done in the Tibetan manner of sewing and with Llama hair thread! Another sign of abuse, if I am correct, would show that this derby has spent time in such high atmospheres of low pressures that this environment has acted to warp the hat’s brim. Another scorching is again of a burn unidentifiable to me! I have made an extensive study of this sort and it is incredible that I am unable to properly identify the source of the burns and incendiaries that would have produced these wounds. Time and time again, this fellow has retrieved his hat after many bizarre ordeals. What sort of beast am I dealing with? Moreover, where am I to locate this lead on tonight’s adventures?