The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (9 page)

The Grand Inquisitor opened the folder and turned it toward Simon so that he could read the report. “There is an outpost far to the east of Callifax, called Whitten Hall. It is the primary supplier of iron ore to the capital but has recently ceased all shipments.”

Simon frowned, knowing his mission had suddenly grown even more dismissive. “Sir, this is a problem for the Minister of Trade, not the Royal Inquisitors.”

The elder man nodded and gently closed the folder. “Under normal circumstances, I would agree with you, but the ministry already sent tax collectors to Whitten Hall.”

Simon leaned forward in his chair, feeling that the crux of this assignment would now be revealed. “What did they find?”

“Nothing,” the Grand Inquisitor replied.

Simon felt the man’s answer to be highly anticlimactic.

“Nothing,” his mentor continued, “only because not a single tax collector actually arrived in Whitten Hall. Every one reported encountering supernatural occurrences on the train long before their actual arrival in the outpost.”

“Supernatural?” Simon asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Men emerging from the smoke, attacking the passengers on board. It may be nothing, you must understand, but the Minister of Trade respectfully asked that the Inquisitors investigate these reports.”

Simon took the folder and flipped quickly through the attached eyewitness accounts. Clipped to the back of the folder were three train tickets. The departure date was written boldly across each ticket. Simon frowned as he recognized the rapidly approaching departure. “When do we leave?”

“Immediately.”

Simon looked up at the elder man, and his frown deepened. He had just returned and only recently reconnected with Veronica. Now, after settling back into his quiet, romantic life in Callifax, his world was about to be upended once more.

“Is there a problem, Inquisitor?” his mentor asked, though Simon knew it was a loaded question. There was only one proper answer.

“Of course not, sir,” Simon replied with a sigh. “I couldn’t be more excited about this assignment.”

“Excellent. Then gather your companions. The armory and pantries here are, of course, at your disposal. Take what you need. As always, send word upon your arrival and report any of your findings. Perhaps this time, if you please, report with a bit more punctuality than you did in Haversham.”

Simon nodded and stood. The Grand Inquisitor didn’t offer his hand or wishes of good luck, nor did Simon expect any. He walked across the room and passed quickly out of the office.

Ambrose and the others were still in the sitting room, laughing heartily at stories of investigations gone awry. Simon pushed aside his sour demeanor and reclaimed his seat amongst the jovial men.

The charismatic Inquisitor noted the folder clutched tightly in Simon’s hand. “You haven’t already been reassigned to another case, have you?”

Simon nodded toward Ambrose. “Sadly, I have.”

“You’ve only just returned,” one of the other Inquisitors stated.

The dark-skinned Inquisitor smiled. “Heroics can’t be confined to a life of quiet introspection, like he would find here in Callifax. Fortune favors the bold.”

Simon forced a smile as smarmy insults raced through his mind. “If you are somehow managing a fortune doing this job, please tell me your secret.”

The other Inquisitors laughed, knowing their pay was a mere pittance. As they had discussed earlier, they were Inquisitors because of dubious backgrounds that offered them little other recourse. There were only a few Inquisitors that came from a life of opulence and chose this occupation due to a sense of honor and duty.

“I knew they wouldn’t keep you here long,” Ambrose said. “Where have you been assigned?”

Simon glanced at the cover of the folder in his hands and read the town’s name. “Whitten Hall, apparently.”

Ambrose furrowed his brow. “Where is that, exactly?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Simon replied, shaking his head. “Though I do know that it’s a train’s ride away.”

“A train’s ride?” one of the Inquisitors asked. “You must truly be a black sheep if they’re sending you somewhere even a zeppelin won’t go.”

Ambrose smiled apologetically toward Simon. “Even Burtons Grove has an airship dock.”

Simon sighed, not at all surprised by this turn of events. A zeppelin would have been a far quicker mode of transportation, which means he had been assigned to Whitten Hall simply because it would take him from the capital city for a longer period of time. He truly was being dismissed.

“Have you told Luthor?” Ambrose asked.

“I’ve only just found out myself.”

“Do you think he will take the news well, since I’m certain he’s only just settling back into his normal life as well?”

Simon thought about having to tell both Luthor and Mattie and cringed. “No, I can most confidently state that he will not take the news well.”

Ambrose stood and nodded toward Simon. “Well, I shouldn’t take any more of your time, since I must prepare for my own departure, not to mention find a zeppelin pilot willing to fly somewhere as remote as Burtons Grove.”

Simon stood as well, followed by the rest of the gathered Inquisitors. “Take care of yourself, Ambrose.”

Ambrose glanced at the folder in his hands and shrugged. “I’m sure it will be nothing. We’ll both be back here before you know it, and we’ll share another bottle of scotch.”

Simon shook the charismatic man’s hand. “I look forward to it.” He turned toward the other Inquisitors. “Gentlemen, do take care of yourselves.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Simon,” the dark-skinned Inquisitor replied.

“Will you walk me out?” Ambrose asked, gesturing toward the door.

Simon nodded, and the two men took their leave of the sitting room. They were silent as the valet retrieved their coats and Simon’s top hat. Together, they exited the building, stepping into the day’s warm sunlight. The day had warmed considerably since his morning departure, and now Simon regretted having his coat.

“It’s beautiful days like these that I’ll miss once I leave Callifax,” Ambrose remarked.

“Especially since you’ll be spending the next few weeks in a putrid swamp.”

Ambrose sighed. “Please don’t remind me. I look forward to finishing this assignment, completing my report back here in the capital, and then returning south to my house. I can only imagine the state of disrepair into which it has fallen with me gone for so long.”

“It’s the salty air,” Simon explained. “You should have never built so close to the ocean. It does terrible things to the stones and mortar.”

“I forget your unrealistic fear of water,” Ambrose chided.

“It’s not unrealistic,” Simon explained. “It’s very human to be afraid of drowning.”

“Most people just avoid such outcomes by learning to swim.”

“A wasted effort if ever I’ve encountered one,” Simon retorted. “It’s far easier just to not find myself perched above a three-hundred-foot-deep body of unforgiving ocean.”

Ambrose patted Simon firmly on the back. “I will miss our talks once I’m gone.”

Simon turned toward Ambrose, his expression suddenly quite serious. “Be careful on your assignment. Don’t approach it with your general sense of levity.”

Ambrose smiled, though it was with understanding rather than mirth. “I will, though mark my words, this assignment will be nothing more than a neighborly dispute.”

“Need I remind you that I believed the same of Haversham, and we all know how that turned out.”

A taxi pulled to the curb, and Ambrose stepped toward it. “This would be my ride. We can share, if you feel so inclined.”

A part of Simon wanted to accept Ambrose’s offer, but a much larger part knew that the walk would do him some good and give him a chance to devise a way to tell both Luthor and Mattie the unfortunate news.

“Thank you for the offer, but no,” Simon said with a wave of his hand. “Take care of yourself, Ambrose.”

“You as well, Simon,” the ponytailed man said as he climbed into the taxi. The driver closed the door behind him and pulled away from the curb, leaving Simon standing alone on the sidewalk.

Though Luthor prepared the tea wordlessly, Simon could see the disdain evidenced by his demeanor. Mattie likewise was quiet, though her expression was far more steeped in confusion than frustration.

“It wasn’t my idea, if that helps at all,” Simon offered.

Luthor gently placed the porcelain lid to the teapot in place and carried the tray into the study. “It doesn’t. I still don’t understand how we’ve even received another assignment so quickly. Shouldn’t we have been much lower in the queue? Shouldn’t we have, at the very least, been offered some weeks or even months to recuperate before sending us on another investigation?”

Simon waited for the tea to be poured. He took a satisfying sip before placing his cup back onto its saucer. “Don’t be trite; it’s unbecoming. Besides, you already know the answer to that question.”

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” Mattie asked.

Simon nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to the disheartening effect it had on the redheaded woman. “Of course it’s because of you, Matilda. The Grand Inquisitor needs time to process your very presence in Callifax.”

“So the best way to process her presence is to not have her present,” Luthor concluded.

“Precisely. I’m positively thrilled that we’ve all arrived at the same conclusion. It saves us endless hours of cyclic conversation about who’s at fault and who’s to blame.”

Luthor frowned. “It’s not cyclic, sir. The answer is you on both accounts.”

Simon refused to be baited into the debate. He used his cup of tea as an excuse to not reply, as he took another sip of the scalding fluid. Upon realizing there would be no debate, Luthor resumed his seat at the oaken table.

A lighted lantern in the center of the table illuminated the square room. Bookshelves lined the walls on all sides, broken only by the sole doorway leading in and out of the room. The shelves were full of assorted tomes of knowledge, collected not only from Simon and Luthor’s travels throughout the kingdom, but also from the apothecary’s extensive studies prior to their business union. Entire shelves overflowed with tomes on herbal remedies and medicinal plants of the assorted regions.

Luthor motioned toward the folder that was still closed before the Inquisitor. “Please, sir, tell us what you know thus far.”

Simon opened the folder. Despite the sheaf of papers stacked neatly within the tan folder, Luthor’s eyes drifted to the train tickets affixed to the back cover.

“Would those be the tickets for our passage?” the apothecary asked curiously, since they were clearly not airship passes.

“Indeed they are,” Simon replied. “Train tickets for the three of us. Our transport departs first thing tomorrow morning.”

“A train?” Mattie asked surprised. “Why not by airship like to and from Haversham?”

“It’s the region,” Simon explained, recalling the heartache Ambrose felt when realizing he would have to convince a zeppelin pilot to fly to the remote swamps to the north. “Zeppelin routes are intermittent at best. Larger cities or those with important resources can often afford not just the cost of the docks themselves, but also the rather hefty payments necessary to assure inclusion on pre-established airship routes.”

Mattie furrowed her brow. “I understand, but didn’t you say that this outpost…?”

“Whitten Hall,” Luthor said.

“Of course. Did you not tell us that Whitten Hall was a supplier of iron ore? Couldn’t they afford the cost?”

“Indeed they could, a hundred times over,” Simon agreed. “However, it’s the physics of the situation that hinders airship movement. Raw iron ore—or even processed ore for that matter—is excessively heavy and moving tonnes worth of the raw material simply cannot be accomplished on a vessel that’s expected to remain airborne. Load any majorly impressive amount of ore onto an airship and the cabin will be scraping the ground shortly after liftoff.”

“Therefore,” Mattie concluded, “the iron and thus the passengers are all moved by train?”

“Exactly.”

Mattie smiled wistfully. “I’ve never been on a train.”

Simon patted her hand affectionately. “Then you, my dear, are in for a treat.”

Mattie turned her attention to Luthor. “How long will the trip take?”

Luthor stood and walked to one of the bookshelves, pulling a tall, leather-bound book from the shelf without hesitation. He carried the heavy tome back to the table and set it before him. Mattie slid her chair closer so as to watch. As Luthor lifted the lid, she could see the pages within were covered with assorted hand-drawn maps.

The apothecary flipped pages with practiced ease, finding the map he wanted with only the slightest hesitation. He ran his finger along the page until his nail settled on a star, underneath which was written “Callifax”.

“Here we are at the capital,” Luthor began. “Whitten Hall is annotated by this small circle, some distance away. I would expect by train for it to take upwards of four to five days. However, sir, this begs the more pertinent question—why is an Inquisitor traveling to Whitten Hall?”

Simon nodded and sorted through the topmost papers in the folder before him. “It seems that Whitten Hall has recently decided to cease all shipments of iron to the crown, a silent coup, if you will.”

Luthor shrugged. “Which is tragic, to be sure, sir, but hardly a reason to assign so important an asset as an Inquisitor. This sounds like a task for the Minister of Trade. He should be sending tax collectors, rather than wasting our time.”

“He has. It seems that every time a tax collector is sent to Whitten Hall, the train is attacked by monsters.”

Luthor paused from his review of the rail map. He arched his eyebrow as he met Simon’s knowing gaze. “You have my attention, sir.”

Simon picked up a hastily written testimonial, though he already knew its content by heart. “It appears that creatures appear from a mist, originating from within the train itself. These abominations have scared away every tax collector long before the men reach the outpost.”

Luthor frowned and returned to the map. “It’s a hoax,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s nothing more than a sloppy attempt to frighten away representatives of the crown.”

“Agreed. It’s been an effective ruse, though I would hardly consider it ‘sloppy’.”

“Then we shall call it half-arsed or noncommittal,” Luthor said as he removed his glasses and waved them around dismissively. “This case is solved before we even step foot on the train.”

“Again, I’m prone to agree with you, Luthor. Sadly, our assumptions, no matter how well intended, are hardly taken as gospel by the crown. We have to investigate.”

Luthor sighed. “I suppose I shall pack my things, then?”

Simon smiled. “Indeed, though try to pack your general optimism, if you could. It seems to be sorely lacking since the news of our new mission.”

Luthor slid his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and returned his wistful stare to his companion. “Sir, my morose attitude is not due to the mission at hand, though I think the whole misadventure of eight wasted days on a train just to disprove a sloppy… forgive me, noncommittal hoax is a pathetic use of our time. No, my saddened demeanor is because there are no less than four libraries, sixteen alehouses, and five new apothecaries, all of which I intended to visit during our, what I presumed to be, lengthy stay in Callifax. While I have visited the libraries and apothecaries, my patronage in the alehouses is severely lacking.”

“That is a dreadful business,” Simon admitted. “Upon our return, I’ll buy the first round. Out of curiosity, is your interest in apothecaries and alehouses in any way linked? You are known to brew some exceptional draughts, which put the intoxicating effects of alcohol to shame.”

Mattie politely cleared her throat, garnering the attention of the two men. “What shall I pack for this trip? I know nothing of the area and, though I’m sure I loathe to admit it, I simply can’t bring myself to pack another suffocating dress.”

Simon laughed. “Whitten Hall is in the forest, full of men of wilderness persuasions and occupations. A dress would be sorely out of place in the environment.”

“Thank the heavens,” Mattie replied, exhaling audibly. “If I had to squeeze my body into another corset, I’m sure I’d scream. Except I couldn’t, mind you, since the corsets in Callifax completely stop me from properly inhaling. I won’t even bore you with the uncomfortable things these corsets do to my cleavage.”

Luthor blushed. “Oh, I don’t think we’d be bored at all by that conversation.”

Simon laughed as he stood from his seat. “I shall leave you two alone as I go and pack as well.”

“Give Veronica our best, should you see her,” Luthor replied.

“Of course he’s going to see her,” Mattie chided.

“Just so long as he’s not late for our departure tomorrow morning,” the apothecary hastily added. “I don’t suppose they’d keep the train just for an absent Inquisitor, now would they, sir?”

“I shan’t be late,” Simon replied. “Ten o’clock sharp on the west platform. I’ll see you both there.”

They walked the Inquisitor to the door before shaking hands and bidding each other good night. Simon retrieved his top hat from the coat rack near the front door before stepping into the cool evening air.

Much of the day had passed between his conversation with the Grand Inquisitor and the planning of their mission to Whitten Hall. Simon walked briskly toward his home next door and packed hastily. His clothing was hardly packed with any semblance of order or thought toward its later retrieval. Instead, he considered the multitude of ways in which he could tell Veronica that he was already leaving Callifax, sent away on another mission.

For someone so brilliant at solving puzzles and crimes, Simon was at a loss for ideas.