Authors: Sharon Joss
Greenslade muttered something around a mouthful of mash and peas.
Simon ignored him, concentrating on the crispy crust around his
pie.
“I said, I’ve got my
eye you, Atters.”
Simon glanced over at him, but Greenslade had his eyes glued to
his plate. Like hell you do, he thought. I’m going to steal the Queen’s jewels
right out from under your nose and make sure you end up taking the blame for
it. Just see if I don’t. A little something left behind in the royal safe. That
blasted silver toothpick, perhaps.
He answered with equal venom, keeping his voice low so Welsie
couldn’t hear him.
“Game on, bloke.”
Police Constable Owain Stackpoole hated patrolling the southern
part of the island at night.
The deserted stretch of Ferry Road between the southern edge of
the Millwall docks and the Steam Dog Tavern was isolated and barren; and at
night, positively eerie. The winds always blew stronger here than anywhere else
on the island. And when it whooshed across the marsh grasses, there was
something in the landscape that made it sound like voices wailing. It was
almost as if all the sadness and despair of the island pooled and congealed along
this stretch of road at night. There was a
badness
out here that made him quicken his pace every time.
He gave a wide berth to the fairy cairns of stones lined along the
road; markers obviously meant to appease the spirits of the land for putting
this road through their territory. Gran used to say that in Wales, the elders
piled stones over offerings of blood and flesh or above cairns of the dead in
order to contain them and keep the marsh tides from expelling them to wander
the night as wraiths. Stay clear of the stones, she’d tell him; lest the faerie
music beneath them catch your ear and bewitch you and draw you
closer—close enough to snatch a man from his world and imprison him in
the faerie realms. And don’t touch them, she’d scold; not even a stone, else
the lonely dead latch onto you and drag you down. Silly, but on night like
this, her words nagged at him.
And every time he walked out here, he imagined he could hear
wolves growling from somewhere behind him. Or maybe it was the ghosts of wild
dogs. It was probably dogs, since that was what the island was named for. Whatever
the source, it never failed to give him the shivers—even though
he knew
there was nothing there.
And the stink of raw sewage and the rendering plant were always
worse along this stretch of road, where there were few trees or buildings to
keep even the lightest drizzle from feeling like a pounding rain. No matter how
well he buttoned up his overcoat, by the time he finished his shift, his
uniform would like as not be soaked around the collar and shoulders, and his
trousers below the knee.
The clatter of hooves, sharp against the pavement, caused him to
turn to face the oncoming carriage. He waved his lantern in a wide arc and
stood his ground, ready to dash to the side of the road if the drunken driver
refused to stop, or more likely, was too drunk to see him.
It’s coming too fast
. The thought crossed his
mind that Billings might have faced this same driver when he was run down. He’d
stepped in at the hospital on his rounds earlier. The poor lad looked very bad.
The nurse told him that they were worried about pneumonia. Poor Billings had
lain on the road for hours before anyone found him.
Superintendent Wickes had passed the word. No more racing out on
the roads at night, and Stackpoole was determined that he would not be the one
who let this one go by. Put a proper stop to it, he would.
He moved to the middle of the road, and opened the aperture of his
lamp as wide as possible, and swung it in a great arc that, if nothing else,
would give the horses pause.
At the very last possible moment, when he was about to make a wild
scramble for the side of the road, the horses pulled up. The pair were in a
lather, and although he did not consider himself an expert, they seemed to be a
very fine and flashy pair of matched blacks as he could ever recall seeing. Something
familiar about them, too.
“What’s the hurry,
then?”
Stackpoole grabbed the bridle of the nearest horse, noting the
fancy harness and blinders. This was not some slop cart. The carriage, was nice
piece; elegant once, if a bit past regular maintenance. The black paint was chipped
and dinged, but otherwise in good condition. And although he didn’t recognize
the driver, he was very familiar with the pasty-faced lad seated next to him.
“I say, Twitch, is that you? What are you doing about this time of
night, lad?”
Twitch stared straight ahead, not saying a word, as the driver set
the brake. He was a big fellow, dark-haired, and already climbing down. A very
big fellow.
Instinctively, the constable’s hand went to his truncheon.
“Identify yourself, sir.”
The door to the carriage opened, and a well-dressed gentleman
stepped out onto the pavement. “He’s my driver, Constable.”
Stackpoole recognized Sir Magnus Vetch immediately. Everyone knew
the Millwall councilman.
“Er, good evening, ah, Sir Magnus.” Millwall was sponsoring the
upcoming airshow. No doubt Sir Magnus was involved with that. Probably coming
from some function at the airfield, although it was quite late for a proper meeting.
Stackpoole thought about Billings again. And the attacks at the
hangars and outside the docks. Come to think of it, Sir Magnus’s home was one
of the few occupied homes between the ferry and Millwall. What would such a
gentleman be doing out at this time of night?
As an officer of the law, he was duty-bound to demonstrate
impartial service to the law without regard to social standing. Yet, Sir Magnus
was of a class well above him, and he wasn’t certain of the customary protocol
for addressing former royal wizards.
“If you would sir, please state your business.”
Sir Magnus laughed. A loud, mirthless sound. “My business? Why,
I’ve
built a pirate ship and I’m planning to use my crew of undead to snatch the
Queen from her yacht and hold her for ransom. What do you think of that,
Constable?”
The driver gave a low, deep, chuckle, and even
Sir Magnus seemed to find this quite amusing.
Stackpoole gave a little chuckle of his own,
just to be polite. “Very funny, Sir. Might I take a quick peek inside?” He
pointed to the carriage.
“Why yes of course, Officer.” Vetch stood
aside and opened the door to the carriage.
Stackpoole shone his lantern into the cab. A
man slumped over on the seat, his head against the window, his eyes closed. Drunk.
Something familiar about him. The constable prodded the fellow with his
truncheon and leaned in to get a better look.
The bloodless, flaccid flesh told him he was
looking at a corpse. Then, the eyes fluttered, and a blue gleam glittered
beneath grey lids.
Stackpoole jerked back, not quite believing
what he’d seen, and slammed his head against the door jamb. “What is the
meaning of this,” he demanded. The pain and fear made his words sharper than
he’d intended.
Sir Magnus appeared unconcerned.
The growling he’d heard earlier sounded louder
now.
Damned dogs.
Sounded like they
were right behind the carriage. Stackpoole glanced back--.
They weren’t dogs. At least not like any he’d
ever seen before.
He managed to grab his truncheon before the
first one hit him, but the impact knocked him to the pavement—the air driven
from his lungs. Stackpoole gasped for breath as one monster tore at his neck
while the other bit at his thigh.
It
doesn’t even hurt
, he marveled.
The last sound he heard was the driver’s low,
deep chuckle.
PART II
It was well after midnight when Simon, barefoot, braced
himself against the corner of the building and used the copper drainpipe to
help him climb up the side of a red brick Georgian estate. He used every part
of his body, fingers, toes, and back to creep to the sill of a second floor
window. He paused, listening for sounds from inside.
Nothing.
In Luxembourg, Benoit had made him practice scaling the rough
stone walls and drainpipes of the manor house to gain access to the estate’s
upper floors from the outside. Most people, Benoit told him, bolted the front
door before going to bed, but never thought about locking the windows on the
upper floors.
Using a narrow sliver of steel, he slipped it between
the metal window casement and lifted the lever, which locked the window from
the inside. With infinite patience, he slowly swing the window open. The hinges
were well-oiled, and made no protest. The only sound, a loud snore from
somewhere deeper inside the house.
He stepped inside and brought up a low green flame to
the fingertips of his right hand. He was standing in a small library or study;
orderly and neat, the walls lined with bookshelves. Thick carpet felt plush
against his bare feet and cushioned his tread. A heavy, masculine desk sat to
one side of the window, dominating the room. The bottom drawers held nothing of
interest save for a few French postcards and a lady’s garter. Good. No wife or
children to wake.
His thoughts strayed to Welsie and he quickly pushed
them down. Bad enough she was married; but that blasted inspector seemed to
think of her as his personal property.
What
a prig.
Simon shook his head. It felt good to be standing here
in a stranger’s house, knowing the inspector would eventually be called to
investigate the theft. He took his time scanning the papers on the desk. The
gentleman of the house seemed to be a business man, the owner of a cable
factory in Millwall. A council member. A man of his station would have live-in servants.
A cook. A maid or housekeeper. Probably a manservant as well.
Some nights, he and Benoit found nothing of
value in the safe, but that made no difference to Simon. The money was only as
part of what drove him to steal. The thrill was the real thing of it, and he loved
every minute.
Simon held up his glowing hand; allowing the flames to
grow and illuminate the room as he made a brief search. No paintings. No phony
bookshelves.
There
. Covered by a
tablecloth, the massive safe was disguised as a table.
He lifted off the tablecloth and smiled as he
recognized the maker. It was an older model, but Chubb was one of the most
popular safe makers in Europe. This one was almost identical to the safe he’d
first learned on ten years ago. Benoit
had amassed a collection of nearly two dozen
safes and combination strongboxes, including nine prized Chubb & Sons
safes. The old man confessed to Simon he’d paid several thousand pounds to a
man at the London Exposition, who demonstrated his ability to crack any Chubb
& Sons manufactured safe, and who offered to teach him the skill.
Simon reached beneath his shirt and extracted a pair
of picks from the waist wrap be wore beneath his shirt. In less than a minute,
the cylinders clicked into place and he opened the safe. By the summer of his
fifteenth year, he’d become every bit as good as Benoit at cracking a Chubb
& Sons Safe.
The inside was empty, except for
a boxed set of matched
dueling pistols with rosewood grips. Very nice. Taking them would alert
Greenslade that he had a safecracker on his hands. Probably
not a good idea until
after
he had
the Queen’s jewels. Yet so very tempting…
He exited the study and moved down the wide hallway toward the
sound of deep snores. The door to the master’s bedroom was ajar, and as he
slowly nudged it open, the scent of alcohol fumes rose to greet him from the
sleeping snorer. The green glow from his fingers showed him the man’s wallet
lying on top of a dresser near the bed. Inside the wallet, he found a stack of
bank notes as thick as his thumb. He glanced with grudging admiration at the
somewhat portly figure beneath the blankets.
What sort of games have we
been up to, then? A gambler, perhaps?
Whatever it was, it probably wasn’t something
a respectable businessman would confess to.
I’d
better take care of this lot before someone else does.
He grinned and took
all the bills, folding them over into a thick packet and slipping it his inner
jacket pocket. This would likely cover the ship’s damages, with a bit more as
well.
Next to the man’s wallet, he placed a tiny figure of a pigeon
crafted entirely from copper wire. Once the windup key was removed from its
back, it would peck for nearly a minute. He walked down the stairs and out the
front door, leaving it wide open behind him. He strode down Ferry Road toward
the air field with a smirk on his face, and a real feeling of satisfaction.
Like flying, the thrill never got old.
Constable Stackpoole was already up and gone when Roman awoke the
next morning. Rather nice to be woken by a dog again. The last time was by
Lizzy, the family’s old white Bull Terrier, gone for more than twenty years
now. Henry seemed to understand that a man didn’t want to be woken rudely with
a wet tongue on his face, but instead snuggled up into his neck, and breathed
gently against his cheek until he opened his eyes.
His first cavalry horse, Valiant used to do a similar thing
whenever he came to feed him. Heavens, he hadn’t thought of old Val in years. Val
had been a true black, with a muzzle like velvet, although his whiskers
tickled, just like Henry’s.
Roman rose and shaved, re-waxed his moustache, and combed pomade
through his hair. Housing at the station wasn’t much of a step above life in
the military barracks, other than the larger clothing cupboard. He selected a
clean white cotton shirt, the one with the higher collar, and a royal blue tie,
which went well with his charcoal suit and vest. For constables and sergeants,
only the first uniform and boots were covered by the station’s clothing
allowance; everything else had to be paid for by the officer, and most could
not afford both a second uniform and a suit of clothes. As an inspector, he was
able to purchase clothing of his own choosing. His one indulgence being
well-tailored suits; the charcoal and the brown, and four collared shirts above
middling quality.
Sleepy-eyed, Henry watched him dress, curled up in the warm spot
he’d left on the bed.
He patted the dog and rubbed his ears a bit. Sweet fellow.
Stackpoole was right, the dog had settled into life here at the
station like he’d been born to it. No matter what that scoundrel Atters had to
say about it. It was obvious to everyone in the pub that the dog didn’t belong
to him. “You know you belong here, don’t you?”
Henry rolled over for a belly rub.
Flying about in an airship was no life for a dog, and anyone who
thought different didn’t deserve to own one. That Captain Paretti fellow seemed
respectable enough, and the rest of the crew did defer to him as their captain.
But that Atters fellow—that kind of associate put the whole lot of them
in a dim light. Best to keep an eye out. Up to no good, there.
Downstairs in the dining room, Mrs. Loman greeted Henry with an
enthusiasm she didn’t even offer her husband, and had a plate of eggs and
sausage already made up for him. Roman took his usual seat at the table,
noticing that Stackpoole’s chair was empty. Must’ve gone out early.
He wondered if the lad was avoiding him, and felt guilty about the
dismissive way he’d spoken to the young constable in front of Figgsy. I
oughtn’t to have been so harsh. I see more than a little of myself in him. Clearly,
his sensitivity to the wraiths is greater than most—he’s just never
encountered them before. He doesn’t realize that to those who are sensitive to
it, like himself, magick leaves a stain. I should have a private word with the
lad; set his mind at ease.
“Anyone speak to Stackpoole this morning? I thought I’d put him
onto rounding up some of those stray dogs this morning, eh?”
“Haven’t seen ‘im, Inspector,” Wallace handed Roman the plate of
toast without being asked. “Maybe ‘e decided that life on the Island isn’t ‘is cuppa
tea. Ask me, I don’t think ‘e likes the ghosts. Wouldn’t be the first to up and
quit. Lad strikes me as quite the jumpy sort.”