Authors: Sharon Joss
In the holding cell at the Cubitt Town stationhouse, Roman kept a
tight grip on the boy’s filthy ear and instructed him to turn out his pockets. He’d
nabbed the boy less than a block away, and from the boy’s guilty expression, he
was certain he’d just nabbed a snatcher.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Tom Cook.”
Why do they always lie?
Roman studied the lad’s
gaunt face. This was not their first encounter. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He
shook the boy by his shoulder. “Let’s try again, then. It’s Twitch isn’t it?”
The boy refused to meet his gaze. “No, at’s me brotha.”
Roman gave a shout to Sergeant Loman. “Get me the file on
Twitchell Crisp, would you, Sergeant?” He let go of the boy. “Stop stalling. Let’s
see what you’ve got in those pockets.”
With infinite slowness, Twitch emptied his pockets onto the rough
wooden table. Every item was caked with the dried black mud of the Thames. Not
much to look at—a few metal slugs, a chipped marble, a snarl of twine.
Several brass screws.
Loman handed him the folder, and left without a word, while Twitch
continued to extract filthy bits from the depths of his seemingly bottomless pockets.
Roman shook his head.
Mudlarks
.
“Eleven reports of snatchings in the past year.”
“It wasn’t me.” The boy glared at him with a sullen expression. “Not
a one a them got me sent over. Never got nuthin’ of’n me. Not then, an’ not now.”
He took a step back from the table. “There. That’s the lot of it. You got no reason
to keep me here this time, neither.”
“Hold your arms out,” Roman ordered. Twitch pressed his lips
together, and Roman knew there was more the boy didn’t want to be found. He was
reluctant to pat down a mudlark; often as not they held back shards of glass or
rusty hooks against just this purpose, but the boy had been running from
something.
The knife was hidden under his sleeve, tied beneath the boy’s
upper arm with a strip of rag. A flick blade with a five-inch edge.
“Well, well. That’s a wicked bit of nasty, isn’t it?” The blade
appeared to be covered with dried blood.
The boy’s eyes grew wide. “I didn’t steal it!” He seemed to
shrivel into himself. “Found it.”
Roman examined the weapon. On the carved bone handle, a hunting
scene; a pack of hounds chasing a doe. German made, with a good steel blade. “Where
did you find it?”
“South Dock.”
The pool of blood.
He gave the boy a good
shake. “Where? What time?”
“Maybe an hour ago.” Twitch squirmed out of his grasp. “Near the
Millwall gate. I swear, I found it lyin’ in the dirt by the taxi stand.”
He sniffed the blade. The blood was fresh enough that a coppery
scent still lingered. “I’ll bet.” He took a closer look at the malnourished
boy. If he remembered right, the lad’s mother had died of consumption months
ago, leaving the boy on his own. Twitch was so thin now, his skin had taken on
that translucent pallor of starvation—so common on the street these days.
Probably hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. He wouldn’t last much longer.
Roman shouted out to the reception area. “Sergeant Loman! I’ll be putting
young Mr. Crisp here in cell number two. What time is supper?” They couldn’t
hold him for more than a day, but the least he could do was to get a meal or
two into him. That and warm bed might loosen his tongue.
The sergeant stepped into the doorway and gave him a knowing look.
“Five-thirty. The missus has a lamb stew on. With carrots and barley bread.”
The boy’s jaw dropped.
“Come on then, Twitch. Let’s get your paperwork finished up. Seems
like you’ve caught a bit of luck today. If nothing comes up, we’ll turn you
loose in the morning.”
“Can I ‘ave me knife back?”
“I think not. You’ve had enough luck for the day.”
Simon kept a firm grip on the heavy tow line as he followed Figgsy,
the hangar master, with Bruno and the others trailing behind. From the outside,
the two airship hangars had the general appearance of an elongated bee skep, or
perhaps a rugby football laid on its side. They trudged past the first hangar,
and Simon caught a glimpse of the less-than-impressive Belgian and Swiss airships
tethered just inside.
“You’re the last of ‘em, I expect.” Figgsy eyed the damaged
gondola, but wisely said nothing. “Crews here from all over the continent, all
lookin’ to persuade ‘Er Majesty of the necessity of an air navy. Excoitin’
times, to be sure, eh? Spectin’ a big turnout crowd as well. Biggest thing
since the last public hanging, in ’68.”
The doors of the second hangar had been pulled wide to receive
them. Once out of the wind, the
Il
Colibri
offered no more resistance than the tug of a tethered hot air
balloon. Inside, rigid steel girders soared some thirty meters above them and
provided a birdcage-like structure, sheathed on the outside with strips of
metal siding. Near the ceiling, a line of clerestory windows encircled the
structure, allowing plenty of light inside.
“Last bay on the left,” Figgsy, instructed. “Dock fee is two shillings
per night. Extra two-pence for use of the waiting-room. Pay as you go. Plenty
of room for you and your crew, and you’ll be safe as my own mother here.”
“I presume there’s a decent hotel nearby?” Although Simon adored
flying and every moment they spent aloft on the
Il Colibri
, he did not enjoy cramped quarters aboard, and usually
he and Arvel took rooms when they travelled.
“Ah, we’ve no hotels,
lads. Only two rooming houses, and they’re both vermin infested. Best to stay
with yer ship, eh?” He went on to explain that while most of the workers lived
in corporate housing in Cubitt Town, most of the homes and businesses along the
riverfront were empty. Only a few leaseholders and pensioners still lived on
the island.
Simon gazed unhappily around the hangar at the other ships. He
hated enclosed spaces like this. They were squeezed in behind the two French
ships.
Le Baleine,
a pearly
pillow-shaped balloon class surveillance vehicle with a large gondola
surrounded by glass, and the
Faucon de Ciel
, a charcoal-grey armored
corvette with several large scrapes along the hull.
Docked opposite, the German ship took up one entire side of the
garage. A hard-sided model, the twenty-meter-long black ship had four
sinister-looking gun ports, two each mounted forward and aft the cabin, and a
pair of bay doors mounted below, which Simon thought could be used to drop
bombs.
At least they didn’t put us in
with the Swiss; better to be considered the same class as the Germans.
Weighted and tethered on all sides, the
Il Colibri's
natural buoyancy held it about two meters above the
floor. Simon watched Arvel as he walked around his ship to inspect the damage. Although
the captain’s expression remained impassive, Simon could see the pain in his
friend’s face. The
Il Colibri
represented
every ounce of effort Arvel had invested in its design and build, and every
penny Simon had been able to steal. They’d paid dearly to get it finished in
time. To suffer such damage before they’d even had a chance to demonstrate
their unique capabilities was heartbreaking.
The gondola, the precious golden egg the
Il Colibri
clutched to her undercarriage looked as if it might have
been attacked by a team of kicking mules. One side of the ovoid metal structure
had collapsed toward the center. Every one of the custom-made aventurine glass
windows, shot through with threads of gold, were either broken or missing. The
filigreed bronze door from Venice was nearly folded in half, and hanging from a
single hinge by means of a bent screw. Inside the structure, the magnificent
chamois-suede upholstered banquette had been torn and would have to be
completely replaced. Worst of all, the gondola had been knocked out of true,
and the central retracting shaft would never work again.
Simon gripped his friend’s shoulder. “The hangar master, Mr.
Figgs, says there’s an excellent ironworks just down the way.”
Rudy, the mechanic, squatted beside the crushed gondola and rocked
the carriage. Over the last four years they’d spent building the prototypes, Rudy
had proved himself to be a absolute genius in implementing Arvel’s innovative
designs. He’d not only helped Arvel design the retractable gondola, he’d
hand-tool many of the parts as well.
“The frame is bent.
The tolerance between the telescopic sections is as precise as that of a fine
timepiece. We’ll need more than a smithy to repair something like this. I’m
going to have to scrap all this and build a new retraction shaft.” Rudy nodded
to the crumpled housing. “I don’t have my workshop with me. I don’t know if I
can make it as it was.”
Arvel looked more discouraged than Simon had ever seen him. Of the
two of them, Arvel had always been the ebullient one. The optimist. Seeing him
like this was almost as unnerving as the seeing the damage to the ship. For
Arvel, the
Il Colibri
was his baby.
To lose his chance to show off what his airship could do before they even had a
chance to compete wasn’t right. And no amount of money or jewels stolen from
the Queen’s royal yacht would make it right.
“Figgsy says the local shipyard can handle any job,” Simon
offered. “Maybe they’ll let you use their forge and equipment.”
Arvel raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Perhaps,” Rudy said,
but from the set of his jaw, he looked doubtful.
“Come on, Arvel. We can do this. We have the best ship.”
Arvel gave an exasperated snort. “Yes, but the gondola is
everything. The Germans have the edge when it comes to warfare, but our maneuverability
and the retractable gondola offers the best design. Neither the French nor the
Belgians, nor anyone else can touch us. Without the gondola, that German
monstrosity will be all the more impressive.”
They’d planned for every contingency except this one. Even if Rudy
could straighten out the crumpled metal, Simon wasn’t certain that they had
time to get it working before the weather cleared.
“It will be expensive,” Rudy said.
Simon grinned. “Don’t worry about the money.”
Arvel gave him a knowing look. From the very beginning, their
friendship had always been based on absolute trust. Arvel always made sure of
their safety in the air, and Simon always made sure they had the money they
needed to keep them flying. His apprenticeship under Master Benoit had seen to
that.
“We’ll need it up front,” Arvel said. “That may affect your other
plans.” He had lost his defeated look and his color had returned.
Relief flooded through Simon. “Not at all. Besides, even if the
gondola isn’t perfect, we’ve still got the act and Louie’s fireworks. We’ll
dazzle them with our showmanship.”
Arvel pointed to the trio of acrobats stretching out beneath one
of the French ships. “They’ve got an act, too. No doubt every one of these
Captains has the same idea. We've got to have the gondola, or we’re done before
we start.”
Simon nodded.
It’s never
been just about the money for him. He wants to prove himself and his designs in
front of the Queen and the other captains, too.
“All right. Let’s go see about
finding a forge.” He glanced around for the dog. “Where’s Vectis?” He whistled,
but the dog did not come. He called up into the cabin of the ship. “Come on, Vectis,
where are you?”
“Give it up,” said Arvel. “We’ve got a lot to do. The dog will
show up. He can’t have gone far.”
Roman listened impassively as the Honorable Cecil Gibbs of Bristol
lectured him on the historic importance of the airshow. Gibbs gestured broadly,
as if he were speaking to a crowd, and his proprietary manner seemed to declare
his dominion over the upcoming event, although Gibb’s poetic waxing about the
‘glorious airfield’ was a bit overstated. To anyone who’d grown up on the
island, the area had always been known as the brickyard and mudchute; where the
muck from the bottom of the locks was dredged up, spewed out, and slopped into
forms for bricks.
“I say, have you ever been to an airshow, Inspector?”
Roman gave him a polite smile. “I’m afraid not, sir. Although we
did use hot air balloons as observation lookouts during the war.”
“It’s quite exciting, I assure you. Those of us in the know,”
Gibbs tapped his forefinger to his receding hairline, “Believe the Queen
herself plans to make an appearance.” He clasped his hands atop his rather
impressive belly.
“Yes indeed. She’s
finally come to her senses about the need for a Royal Air Squadron. Just think
of it! We have ships arriving from all over Europe—even a battleship cruiser
from Germany! I can’t imagine she would pass up a chance to see
that
beauty. We know how partial she is
to those Germans, eh? I hear rumor of a royal purse will be awarded to the ship
that wins the day. If there’s a prize to be won, no doubt those German chaps will
have it sewn up handily.”
Roman felt the color rise in his cheeks at the rudeness of the
remark. With Albert’s untimely passing, the Queen’s public appearances had
become as rare as hen’s teeth. “There’s no call to insult his heritage, sir.”
Gibbs pushed his eyeglasses back up to the bridge of his nose and
gave him a closer inspection. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Were you over there with
our chaps? General Brudenell and I are well-acquainted. Yes, quite. Brilliant
fellow; and thanks to him you lived to tell the tale, eh?”
A headache pounded at the back of Roman’s skull as he bit back his
response. This thick-headed mainlander was dense as porridge. Gibbs had whined
at and pestered every member of the council about the air show preparations until
Superintendent Wickes had asked him to intervene and forestall further actions
by Gibbs and deflate the fellow with firm courtesy.
“The Superintendent tells me you have a concern about the
arrangements?”
“Ah. Yes, well, see here. The logistics for the British aerialists
is completely unacceptable. Bad enough that you’ve segregated us from the other
aerialists--backed us up against the docks until we’re all crowded together
like a carnival. And am I now to understand we will not even be allowed to
bring our aerocraft onto the field? Are the British aerialist to be banned from
our own air show?”
The council had ruled that the only ships allowed in the festival
had to be controlled by mechanical means and carry a crew of at least six. In a
sense, Gibbs was right. This effectively kept the local balloonists off the
field. If England had any
real
airships,
of course they would have been given place of honor in the festival. And while
several balloon enthusiasts resided in Britain, none of them were particularly
skilled, and no one wanted to see a Brit make a fool of himself in such an
international setting.
“Mr. Gibbs, the decision to provide an area for to offer tethered
observation balloon flights was only recently made. In order to avoid conflicts
in air space, the balloonists must be confined to that cordoned-off space
beside the Millwall Dock.”
“But you’re restricting us to tethered flights—as if we were
dogs! We’ve no room to maneuver in, and the security situation is absolutely
impossible!”
“The unpredictable winds which blow across the island make balloon
flight difficult for even the best pilots to control. In the interest of
safety, all balloons have been ordered tethered. The district superintendent wanted
me to assure you that additional officers will be on patrol during the show. The
grandstands are being set up along East Ferry Road, with barricades to keep the
public away from the hangars and the airships. Most of the crowds will be
diverted before they ever get to you.”
“My dear Inspector, no amount of rope will keep those street
urchins and mudlarks from snatching anything they can get their hands on. I
have valuable equipment that will no doubt be stolen as soon as my back is
turned.”
“I’m afraid that is a problem everywhere you go these days. We do
the best we can to prevent that sort of crime. I have been assured that the
additional officers we have been allotted for patrol and crowd control are
among the most experienced in District K. Short of building a fence, I don’t
see what else I can do.”
“Why can’t we be stationed behind the walls of the docks--?”
Roman cut him off. “The docks are private property, sir. And the
owners have made it clear that they would not be opening their gates to the
public for any reason.”
“But there is so much more space behind the walls. We balloonists
are so crowded together we will have to take turns going aloft.”
Ah. That was it then. Gibbs and his fellow pilots must be worried
they would not be able to take up as many parties in the tethered flights as
they’d like. They wanted exclusivity; to keep the local riff-raff away from the
paying customers. The island’s residents didn’t have two pennies to rub
together, but they’d be every bit as excited by the fete and would no doubt add
to the crowds.
But the Superintendent had been adamant. No more than the already
planned allotment of additional officers. The air show was to be an
international demonstration of manned air craft maneuvers; not a local carnival.
The island had little enough respect from mainlanders like Gibbs. “I’m afraid
you’ll just have to make the best of it.”
Roman gave Gibbs a curt nod and excused himself from the man’s tiresome
presence. He was glad he’d decided to wear his uniform today. As an inspector,
he was not required to wear one, and usually he did not. But there were times
when the formality of the uniform often got him better results than when he
wore plain clothes.
He wandered over to the aerosheds to speak to Figgsy. Something
Gibbs had said raised a flag. The bloody knife he’d taken from Twitchell Crisp appeared
to be of German make. Might be wise to follow up with the Germans.
He found the airfield manager inside the ‘B’ hangar, apparently
negotiating an international truce between the French and the Italians. Roman
knew little French and no Italian, but managed to gather from the gist of
things that one of the French ships had collided with the Italian ship prior to
arrival. The Italian Captain, a narrow-faced fellow with red hair and an
impressive ginger-colored moustache seemed to be demanding payment for damages
to his ship.
Roman considered intervening, but Figgsy seemed unconcerned and
Roman decided that any altercation which might have taken place prior to
landing was well outside his jurisdiction. Instead, he turned his attention to the
German warship. It was an impressive sight. The long, cigar-shaped, hard-sided
structure was the first ship of its kind he’d seen close up.
A uniformed officer approached, dressed in a soft grey jacket with
a yellow braid at the collar and cuffs. He gave a small bow.
“Aleksander von Unger of Württemberg at your service, Inspector.”
The fellow’s English, although heavily accented, was easily
understood. Unlike the French and Italian gentlemen arguing with Figgsy, this
fellow seemed rather better acquainted with military discipline and common
courtesy.
“I was admiring your ship, sir. Quite impressive.” Standing
beneath the silver-grey dirigible, he could see the marksmen’s cockpits behind
the gun ports. In the cavalry, a soldier met his attacker face-to-face. Win,
lose, or draw, there was an honor of sorts exchanged between them. The thought
of firing on an enemy from such a distance made him uneasy.
“The
Jarvis
is one of
our smaller prototypes. It was manufactured in my home town of Stuttgart.” The
fellow led him toward the front of the ship. “Twenty-seven meters long and six
meters wide, with a lift capacity of ten thousand kilograms. It accommodates a
flight crew of eight, plus four marksmen, and up to twelve passengers. With a
top speed of 36 knots, no other ship in the world can match her.”
“Most impressive. And how long was your flight to England?”
“We left Germany
yesterday evening, and made the trip in less than twelve hours,” von Unger
offered proudly.
Roman nodded. No chance the knife belonged to the Germans, then. He
thanked von Unger for his time and excused himself, as Figgsy seemed to have
diffused the issue between the Italian Captain and his French counterpart.
“What brings you out
here today, Inspector?” Figgsy asked, as he waddled across the hangar toward
him. He eyed Roman’s blue tunic. “I hope this isn’t a formal inquiry.”
“Ah, no Figgsy. Just having a word with Mr. Gibbs.” He nodded
toward where the French airships were docked.
“What was the dust up about?”
The hangar master made a face and waved a pudgy hand. “A mid-air
collision over the Channel. No one hurt, but the Italian ship is badly damaged
and Captain Paretti is not happy. The French Captain, Couvier, refuses to pay
for the damage and insists he had the right of way. Paretti accused Couvier of
being inebriated and a coward.” He shrugged. “And so it begins.”
Roman frowned. A collision over the Channel was clearly outside
his jurisdiction, but if there was going to be trouble, he would do whatever it
took to prevent it. “Perhaps I should have a word with the Captains?”
“No need, Inspector,” Figgsy assured him. “I’ve already told them
there will be no further arguments, and no retaliation else they’ll won’t be
allowed to compete. I know airmen, and neither of these Captains want to
jeopardize their stay here. I promise you there will be no further trouble. The
hangars are as safe as me own mothers bedroom.”
Figgsy runs a tight
ship, Roman mused, with approval. “You seem to have everything well in hand,
then.” There would be no funny stuff on his watch.
“I have to. The palace people have been over this place with a
fine-toothed comb, making sure all is in order, in case the Queen decides to make
an appearance.”
“You think she will?” She so rarely made public appearances these
days. And everyone knew she was not at all fond of the island’s pungent aroma,
as the press had pointed out seven years earlier, when she came for the launch
of the
Great Eastern
in Millwall.
The little man rubbed his hands together. “Aye, I do. It’s about
time she started listening to her Admirals. The world is changing. Without an
air navy, Britain is vulnerable. I think she’ll pop in for a look-see. And if
the weather clears, I think half of London may show up as well. This is going
to be the biggest event we’ve had on the island in years.”