The Steampunk Detective (3 page)

My bathroom, Jack thought. I have a bathroom.

He staggered over to the door and pulled it open. A toilet, shower, hand basin and bathtub filled the interior. Black and white tiles decorated the floor. A vase with a small bunch of posies sat on the basin.

“I hope you don’t mind the flowers,” Mr Doyle said, looking slightly embarrassed. “They were Gloria’s idea.”

Jack found it hard to speak.

“The flowers are fine,” he said finally.

Mr Doyle continued his tour through the huge apartment. At one point they stopped before a closed door leading into another anteroom. After looking at it silently for a moment, Mr Doyle moved on and pointed out another experiment on the top of a filing cabinet – this one was being carried out to discover the life cycle of maggots into flies.

“Uh, Mr Doyle,” Jack started.

“Yes, my boy.”

“What exactly is it you do?”

“What do I do?” Mr Doyle raised his eyebrows. “Why, I thought you knew.”

“Not really.”

“Why, I’m a consulting detective,” he explained.

“And what exactly is a consulting detective?” Jack asked cautiously.

Mr Doyle led them down the far end of the chamber. An archway led to a balcony overlooking the Marylebone district and Regent’s Park. Lines of airships criss-crossed the sky. Smoke rose from a thousand coal fires. A steam train chuffed between buildings to their left as horns sounded distantly from the river Thames. The older man settled his thin frame onto a wrought iron chair and indicated for Jack to sit down. He took another moment to pack a triple chambered brass pipe with tobacco and lit it thoughtfully.

“The world has changed, Mr Mason,” Mr Doyle said. “And so have the criminals. The police are good enough when dealing with the run of the mill scoundrel. Such a vagabond will often be caught in the act or will simply confess when confronted by a burly constable.

“But what can the police do when they are forced to deal with a criminal matching their own intelligence? Or an adversary of greater intelligence?” Mr Doyle leant forward. “Such people can literally get away with murder and that cannot be allowed to happen. When the police are at a loss to discover the guilty party or are simply unable to make sense of the events, they call upon me.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t keep up with the news, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you.”

“I’m sure you have not,” Mr Doyle nodded. “I am not keen to attract attention and the police are equally sparing with their recognition.”

“But how do you solve these crimes?” Jack asked.

“I use the powers of observation and deduction,” Mr Doyle said. “People frequently look, but rarely do they see. It is the role of a detective to collect the pieces of the jigsaw and assemble them into a comprehensible picture.”

Jack glanced back into the apartment and noticed a sepia photograph on a small coffee table near the door. “Mr Doyle. Is that who I think it is?”

Mr Doyle glanced at the picture. “Only if you think it is Queen Victoria. If you thought it was a hump backed gorilla you would be mistaken.”

“And you’re standing next to her!”

“I had assisted Her Majesty in a small matter involving a diamond necklace.” The detective shrugged. “The case involved the theft of the necklace, a dwarf with a limp, a plum pudding and a cat with only three legs.”

“That sounds amazing.”

“Oh, I have solved much more interesting cases.” Mr Doyle waved the pipe airily. He stood and slowly paced the balcony. “That was in my younger days.”

The great detective fell silent. “Of course, I’m not the man I was. Oh, mentally I am. Probably more so. No, it’s my body, Jack. I’m not as fast, not as strong and certainly not as sprightly.”

Jack sat silent.

“That’s where you come in,” Mr Doyle said. “That’s why I need you.”

Jack Mason tried to think of how he would be of assistance to the detective. “You mean, to run messages…or…”

“More,” Mr Doyle said. “Possibly much more. I need someone to be my partner. Someone who can stimulate my imagination when I become stale. Someone who can go places where I cannot.”

“Uh, Mr Doyle. I am only sixteen.”

“I know,” the detective jabbed his pipe into Jack’s direction. “A younger mind. A fresh perspective! And your legs –”

“My legs?”

“I need someone with legs far more capable than my own. I cannot run as fast as my younger self and I certainly cannot climb as fast. And I understand you come from a family of circus performers.”

“Yes.” Jack felt a stab of pain at the memory. “We were trapeze artists in the circus. The Flying Sparrows. We were very good.”

“And your acrobatic skills?”

“I’m a little rusty,” Jack admitted. “But I’ve kept in practice when I could. Still, I can’t help but wonder if you wouldn’t be better with someone older. An adult –.”

Mr Doyle interrupted. “An adult can do many things, but you can do so many other things an adult cannot. Sometimes a young person may ask questions or go places without fear or favour, all the while wearing a mask of innocence.

“I think you will be perfect for the job.” The detective paused, looking slightly embarrassed. “If you’re interested, that is.”

Jack looked out at the skyline. Darkness had begun to fall and the first chill of night filled the air. Jack thought of the children back at the orphanage. They would be eating their evening meal right now. An hour of free time would follow, followed by bedtime. Tomorrow would follow the same pattern. And the day after.

“You don’t have to decide immediately,” Mr Doyle seemed to sense his hesitation. “I’m sure you’ve had an enormous day. You must eat and rest.”

Jack nodded wordlessly.

“Would you like some cheese?” the detective asked. “I think I have some in another cupboard.”

“No thanks, Mr Doyle.”

The detective led Jack back to his bedroom. He paused outside the door. “I have arranged a tutor for you. Miss Bardle. She will teach you maths, French and Latin, history and politics.”

“Ah yes, Latin,” Jack said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Yes, I always hated Latin too.” The detective motioned towards the chest of drawers. “A selection of clothing is in the drawers. I hope it fits. I checked your size with Mr Daniels at the orphanage. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it and see you in the morning.”

Jack nodded. He closed the door and changed for bed. The pyjamas were a little large, but very comfortable. Before he turned off the lamp, he reached into his pocket and took out the picture of his parents. It was the only one he owned. It showed the three of them in their costumes. Above them hung a banner – The Flying Sparrows.

He missed them. He missed the fun and the laughter and everything that made up their small family. It was always The Flying Sparrows versus the world. Outside he heard the sounds of London; horse drawn carriages, steam cars, men and women walking the streets. The faint glow of the gas lit streets cast faint shadows across his walls.

Now there’s just me
, he thought.

He remembered Bertha the tarantula.
Well, me and Bertha.
He hoped the lid on her glass enclosure was properly closed.

Forcing the image of the spider from his mind, he finally surrendered to sleep.

Chapter Four

Jack stirred himself from a deep sleep. He had been dreaming of a mine in Saudi Arabia where he had been forced to work until overcome by exhaustion. Cheese had been his only food source. The overseer had just approached him with a deadly looking whip when he was saved by the sound of knocking.

He sat up groggily. Light streamed through his window. The clock on his bedside table read ten o’clock.

“Come in,” Jack called.

Ignatius Doyle appeared in the doorway of his room with a piece of toast jammed between his teeth.

“The game’s afoot,” the detective said.

Jack blinked away sleep. “Uh, what’s that? You want to play footy?”

“No, no,” Mr Doyle assured him. “That’s just an expression. We have a client in the outer office. I need you showered and ready in five minutes. Chop chop, old chap.”

Mr Doyle disappeared. Jack quickly showered and dressed in only four minutes. The clothing provided by the detective was all clean and new. Jack put on a pair of dark trousers and a blue and white striped shirt. It was the best quality clothing he had ever worn. He discovered the detective at their living room table surrounded by plates of toast, condiments and hot tea. Jack Mason buttered the bread and slapped on jam while Mr Doyle explained.

“There is a young lady outside,” he said. “She arrived quite early without an appointment so I asked her to wait until you were ready.”

“Sorry,” Jack said though a mouthful of toast. “I must have been tired.”

“Understandable, dear boy,” Mr Doyle said. “Shall I call in the young woman?”

Jack nodded and sipped at his tea. He felt like he was in some foreign land with someone asking him for directions. In the brief time since he had woken, he had begun to wonder if Mr Doyle were perhaps quite mad and Jack’s role was simply to keep him under control. He had already decided to ask Gloria to confirm this when the door opened and the most beautiful young girl Jack had ever seen walked into the room.

She had clear green eyes and fair skin and looked to be about eighteen years old. Her long hair was bright red, like the colour on the union jack. She wore a slim fitting white dress, a black leather bustier and aviator goggles to protect her eyes from the sun. A black, short sleeved bolero encompassed her shoulders. Clutching a handbag in one hand and an umbrella in the other, her clothing looked expensive.

She was a beautiful girl, but her face looked strained with worry. Her eyes studied Ignatius Doyle before shifting to settle on Jack.

Jack swallowed.

“Please come in,” the detective welcomed her. “I’d like to introduce you to my associate, Mr Jack Mason.”

“I…I’m please to meet you,” Jack stuttered.

“This is Miss Bell,” Mr Doyle said. “Miss Scarlet Bell.”

“Hello, Mr Mason” she said.

“Please call me Jack.”

She attempted a smile. “Jack.”

Mr Doyle indicated a seat for her. As she sat, he offered her tea. “You’ve already had a long day. I notice you started early this morning from Flinders Park.”

Scarlet looked surprised. “However do you know that, Mr Doyle?”

“I observe you have the stub of a rail ticket protruding from your right pocket. It bears the colour blue, indicating the Flinders Park line. You carry an umbrella, yet it is dry. It rained most of the morning, only stopping an hour ago. Hence, you departed your home early.”

“That’s marvellous, Mr Doyle.”

“Nothing to speak of,” Mr Doyle replied. “How may we be of service?”

“My father’s name is Joseph Bell. He has gone missing.” She spoke with a tremor in her voice. “He has been gone for two days.”

“Is he in the habit of disappearing?”

“Not at all. He is a very responsible man. He always tells me where he is going or he leaves a note for me. However…”

“What is it?” The detective studied her face. “You must tell me the truth or I cannot help you.”

She looked down into the cup. “He is my father and I love him dearly, but he does have a secretive side.”

“Secretive? In what way?”

“He has never disappeared before, but sometimes he has gone away for days at a time on business.”

“That can’t be too unusual,” Mr Doyle said.

“It’s not. He says he is in the import and export trade.”

“But you doubt this? Why?”

“He…he…” Scarlet suddenly burst into tears.

Mr Doyle looked embarrassed. Jack was unsure as to what to say so he grabbed a box of tissues and offered them to the young lady. She took one gratefully.

“Thank you, young man.”

“Uh, actually, I’m sixteen,” Jack said, trying to draw himself up to full height.

“Oh,” Scarlet shot him a smile. “Quite grown up.”

Jack set his jaw in as adult a manner as possible. “Quite.”

“I do apologise,” Scarlet said. “It’s a terrible thing to doubt your own father, but I have always suspected him to lead a double life.”

“What brought you to that conclusion?” the detective asked.

“He always tells me when he is going away. Or he will leave me a note. He never simply disappears. Having said that, he often comes and goes at all hours. Sometimes he is gone for days and weeks at a time, yet he keeps up this illusion of it all being part of his business.”

“And you think it is not?”

“On more than one occasion I have checked his passport and not found any stamps indicating his travel to other countries. At other times he had received visitors at odd hours. I have asked my father the next morning about his late night callers and he has denied their existence.”

Jack was beginning to feel like a loose cog. “That does sound unusual,” he said. “Anything else?”

“He came home last week with a cut above his eye. When I asked him about it he told me he had fallen and hit his head.”

“And you did not believe him,” Mr Doyle said.

“It’s always possible,” Scarlet admitted. “But after the incident he began to take other precautions. He placed extra locks on all the doors and windows and told me not to go out at night.”

“Miss Bell,” Mr Doyle began.

“Please call me Scarlet.”

“Scarlet, I think it is important you do not jump to conclusions. There may very well be a logical explanation for everything that has occurred.”

“Such as?”

“You have not mentioned your mother.”

“She passed away many years ago.”

“Your father may have formed a relationship with another woman and may have not told you for fear of hurting your feelings. They may have argued – possibly violently. It has been written that Hell has no fury like a woman scorned. Possibly he feared for your safety, hence the new locks on the doors.”

“All the more reason to fear for his absence,” Scarlet said. “Oh please Mr Doyle. Please help me. The police have given no assistance at all.”

“I will help you,” Mr Doyle bowed his head. “We will journey to your home today.”