Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (16 page)

"And what was Buckley's story?"

"That an angry spirit took his partner."

"No, what was it?"

"An obvious falsehood."

"An obvious falsehood that you would never in a million years believe."

"Right."

"And yet he asked for you. Petitioned the Guild specifically that you be assigned his advocate. Why?"

"Because he knew I'd reject his theory." It began to dawn on me. "And look for answers elsewhere. Because he couldn't admit to fraud while in police custody."

"Precisely. He only underestimated your scepticism."

"His plan was predicated on my scepticism."

"Not of his story, James. Of him. You were ready to write him off before you even heard his story. You've disregarded his words."

I felt faint. "Whatever kernel of truth was hidden in his story -- I was too sure of his guilt to listen."

"Don't worry, I paid enough attention for the two of us."

"So what's his true message?"

"I don't know yet. I'm cogitating."

"So what now?"

"Well, we've an appointment with Vicar Elmwood. That should at the very least present us with an alternate perspective on matters."

"More fuzzy thinking."

"Do keep an open mind, James. We don't want you missing any more clues."

I opened my mouth to retort, but Bartleby was absolutely right, the bastard. In my zeal to reject the spiritual I had let my blind scepticism keep from me data and insights that would have otherwise been useful. It's not only poor detective work, but poor science. While I cannot as a man of reason accept a spiritual component to reality, I should not let my contempt of those who believe such things blind me to what they have to offer.

***

"What the modern world has been trying to do," Vicar Elmwood spoke slowly and with great deliberateness, "is deny the existence of the supernatural."

He met us in his quarters adjacent to St Barnabas, the church he presided over. It had been made clear to us that the Vicar was a very busy man with little time for interviews, and Curate Lakewood was assisting him in getting ready for the upcoming evening mass as we spoke, dressing him in his robes of office.

"They look at the wonders of the age and thank not God for the marvels they see," the Vicar continued in a somewhat accusatory tone, "but rather glorify the ingenuity of man. Like all children Londoners think themselves beyond the need for the guidance of their Father. 'Look at me' they say, 'I have clockworks and aereoships and great works. What have I need for God?'"

I struggled to remain silent.

"And what does this gain us?" the Vicar asked before answering himself. "This business with the Resurrected, with Von Frankenstein, with airship pirates and lightning guns. Are these the Great Works that man exalts above God?"

I struggled harder, a thousand benefits of progress dancing on my tongue, aching to leap free and throttle this old man where he stood. I'm sure that Bartleby appreciated my discretion.

"Just so, Vicar," Bartleby was being diplomatic. "And the Spiritualists?"

"Yes, the matter you came to discuss. A pox. They meddle in business men are not meant to, and this Irish fellow Buckley is the worst I've seen of it. I'm sure of it -- what we witnessed was nothing more than technological necromancy. It does not matter if one uses ancient rituals or modern technology to raise the dead, it is anathema. That which should not be. In the old days he would have been drowned as a witch, but man has removed the right of law from the hands of the church. I fully believe that he loosed a spiritual pox into this world that claimed the life and soul of the poor Russian girl he used in his schemes, but I will not attest to this in court. Man's laws will not punish him for the crimes he is truly guilty of; I am content to see him punished under another guise. May God have mercy on his soul, for I certainly shall not."

"That isn't what we've come to ask, Vicar," Bartleby assured the man. "We just wanted your opinion on the ceremony and its spiritual portents."

"Oh?" He sounded surprised. "That's more sense than I would have credited you with. I've followed your careers, young men. You rely heavily on modern secular technology, and Mr. Wainwright in particular is a Guildsman -- an open mind is the last I'd have expected. Still, I am afraid that despite your good works with the Spider assassin and the Resurrected killer, the realm of spirit is beyond the grasp of your technologies, Mr. Buckley's successes to the contrary. I would suggest you not even try -- as he has discovered, necromancy can only end in tears and pain."

"Tears and pain?"

"Liviticus is quite clear on the matter. 'A man or a woman who is a medium or a necromancer shall surely be put to death. They shall be stoned with stones; their blood shall be upon them.' There really isn't any room for debate on the subject."

"Put to death?" I asked.

"It's a spiritual death," the Vicar allowed. "Metaphor. It elaborates on the fate of those who seek out such persons: 'If a person turns to mediums and necromancers, whoring after them, I will set my face against that person and will cut him off from among his people.' You can see why the rise of so-called Spiritualism has me concerned, can't you?"

"This has certainly been... enlightening. Thank you for your assistance, Vicar Elmwood," Bartleby said.

Curate Lakewood caught up with us as we were leaving. "Sirs, if you would wait one moment?"

We stopped, glancing at one another in uncertainty.

"I just wanted to say that, having just returned from Hokkaido, I was unaware of your reputations and careers. Though not in service of the Church the work you do in combating evil is a great one. I don't share Vicar Elmwood's reservations regarding technology and want to apologise to you for his attitudes -- he is very much the product of an earlier age."

"As we are of ours," I said, somewhat mollified.

"The world is changing at an ever faster rate," Bartleby agreed. "I can understand that it might be frightening with someone who didn't grow up with the spirit of this age."

"I would implore that you not discount his other words simply because of his anti-technological bent," the Curate continued. "There are dark spiritual presences on this earth. You've faced them yourself, and I encountered many strange and unusual things during my missionary work in the Orient."

"Everything we've faced can be explained through the application of science," I assured the Curate.

He shook his head. "Morality cannot be explained, Mr. Wainwright. The galvanic creations of men like Doctor Frankenstein and the creator of that clockwork assassin you defeated aren't just flawed and immoral. They come back from death changed. Evil. I would hazard that the animating life force Ressurectionists infuse their creations with is supplied by none other than the Adversary himself."

"Thank you for your insight," Bartleby said politely.

"It's a warning," the Curate continued. "The infernal forces you've faced thus-far were encased in mortal flesh, and mortal flesh is weak. But the Russian mystic is gone from this earth. Spirited away. It would take a great act of technological necromancy to follow her, and I beseech you -- do not make this matter worse. Let the criminal Buckley pay for his crimes even if the State is mistaken as to their nature. Take the Vicar's advice and walk away."

"We can't do that," I responded quickly. I may not have thought Buckley particularly innocent, but it wasn't in my nature to let the unexplained lie. Somehow Miss Fedorovna had vanished from a locked room, and it wasn't spirits that did it. And I resented the Church representatives using fear of damnation to dissuade me.

"Then I pray you don't find what you're looking for," the Curate sounded sad. "I always pined myself for a personal experience with the mysteries of the divine. In the Orient my wishes were granted. I would give anything to have that wisdom taken from me."

He turned and slowly returned to the rectory. Bartleby and I stared at each other for a long moment before heading on our way. Only once we were off of the Church's sacred grounds and back at the street did my partner turn to me. "Well. Now that you're committed, what next?"

"Back to Buckley. We question him again."

"We'll still have the prison guards nearby."

"We give him a second chance to give us the hint he's trying to pass on."

"And how do we let him know we're looking for it, without the guards overhearing?"

***

"Through the course of my investigations, Buckley, I have come to the conclusion that you are undoubtedly telling the absolute truth."

"What, really?" he asked, surprise bringing his accent out in full.

"Quite. Having thoroughly investigated your device I have not the slightest doubt in my mind that it works exactly as advertised, weakening the thin barrier between this world and the next."

"Have you now?"

"Yes. It's as we used to say in Mr. Potter's workshop: Sometimes you just have to put all your cards out on the table."

Buckley's confused expression was gradually replaced by one of canny understanding. "Well, then you no doubt remember the motto of our old Alma Mater. With books, wisdom."

"Yes," I responded. "With books, wisdom. I always needed a little help with that."

"The world has been my education. You'd never guess at the knowledge gleaned just from my poor missing partner."

"I'm sure the lessons of Rasputin came in handy, though with her missing I can't see how they'd be at hand to benefit from."

Bartleby's eyes kept moving back and forth between the pair of us, quiet, observing.

"Pulled into hell by an angry spirit," Buckley shook his head. "All her secrets in the grave, I'm afraid."

I sat back, considering my next words carefully. "As your advocate I'm not sure exactly of how to convince the Crown of your innocence. Perhaps you could help me with the options available?"

"You're the Guild appointed advocate," Buckley retorted. "Fully operating in her name."

"I'm looking for the right legal approach here, though if you could offer me anything new to help me search--"

"I'm afraid you're on your own here. But I wish you luck, or it's the gallows for me."

I nodded, rising. "We're done here. Come along, Bartleby."

Bartleby rose, and the police guard escorted Buckley back to his cell. Once we were alone, Bartleby spoke. "I'm not quite sure I caught the significance of that. Some sort of double-speak?"

"Mr. Potter taught one of our classes together at the Guild Academy. Old man was senile. Afflicted with a word salad that jumbled half his speech, always the front half, so we had to learn to just parse the second half of everything he said, so we developed a method to communicate in the midst of our well-heeled peers without them understanding whatever we were talking about."

"It just sounded like you were jumping from topic to topic."

"Yes, only the second clause or sentence in each exchange was important."

Bartleby closed his eyes, rerunning the dialogue in his head. He's a good memory, but not eidetic. "Something about a grave?"

"Yes. Something that'll help us help Buckley at a grave relating to his missing partner in a yard where they bury the condemned."

"Brookwood Cemetery?"

"It's likely. We find a grave tied to Duscha Fedorovna and we find some answers."

***

The next day found us at Brookwood, searching for the grave of Duscha Fedorovna with the assistance of Father Rybin, from the local Orthodox parish.

"Not find Duscha Fedorovna," he warned us as we began looking. "Russian names given in speech like, 'First Name, Father Name.' On graves as, 'First Name, Last Name.' Duscha's father's name Fedor, but that not on her grave, yes?"

"So we're looking for... any Duscha?" Bartleby asked, looking over the spread of graves.

"Da. Maybe we lucky, maybe Duscha have father name on grave too."

We weren't lucky. An afternoon's search of the graveyard revealed sixteen Duschas, none of which held Fedorovna-related patronymics. There was little recourse but to search the grounds around each for clues. After a few wasted efforts we found a leather-bound personal journal hidden in a small metal tin among the foliage of one of the older and overgrown grave markers.

"Duscha Fedorovna Gargarina," I read from the tombstone. "1777 to 1807. A great-grandmother she was named after?"

"Unlikely. They'd need the same fathers' names."

"Not unusual in Russia," Father Rybin added.

"Not impossible, but con artists frequently go through Church records looking for names to adopt," Bartleby explained. He'd been looking through the notebook. "This is full of details on many local families, focused on those that have passed on in the last few decades. The Lakewoods are in here. So are the Maples."

"Explains where they got the information for their séances," I said.

"Don't be smug." Bartleby continued flipping through the book.