Automatic Woman
Author: Nathan Yocum
Date: 2011-06-15 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Steampunk; Science Fiction; Mystery; Crime; Fiction; Historical Fiction
Description: There are no simple cases. Jacob “Jolly” Fellows knows this. The London of 1888, the London of steam engines, Victorian intrigue, and horseless carriages is not a safe place nor simple place…but it’s his place. Jolly is a thief catcher, a door-crashing thug for the prestigious Bow Street Firm, assigned to track down a life sized automatic ballerina. But when theft turns to murder and murder turns to conspiracy, can Jolly keep his head above water? Can a thief catcher catch a killer? Automatic Woman is the second novel from award winning screenwriter Nathan L. Yocum. A volatile mix of steampunk
Publisher: Curiosity Quills Press

Table of Contents

Appetizer:

- Book Cover

- Title Page

Main Course:

- Chapter One

- Chapter Two

- Chapter Three

- Chapter Four

- Chapter Five

- Chapter Six

- Chapter Seven

- Chapter Eight

- Chapter Nine

- Chapter Ten

- Chapter Eleven

- Chapter Twelve

- Chapter Thirteen

- Chapter Fourteen

Dessert:

- About the Author

- Copyright & Publisher

One

Statement of Jacob Fellows aka Jolly to Whitechapel Metropolitan Police. Transcribed from audio-cylinder, August 17, 1888.

I am a jolly fellow. My name is actually Jacob Fellows. The gentlemen in my office refer to me, literally, as Jolly Fellow, which is their euphemism for my rotund figure. There’s a long precedence of fat men also being funny men. I don’t regard myself as a man of mirth or good humor. In truth, I’m more apt to crack skulls than I am to make silly gestures, but the assumption stands and it’s easiest for my mates to pigeon-hole me in what they already hold true.

I’ve often looked for a solution to my roundness. I’m physically active at work and in leisure. I love football and am bloody hell on gears in the goalie box. Nevertheless, my cheeks are round and my jowls hang.

Whenever blokes find out that I’m a thief-catcher by trade, that I’m an operative for the Bow Street Firm, their eyes light up and I am forced to tolerate the inevitable comments.

“Oy, what kind of man are you going to run down?”

Or, “business must be good, my friend!”

Or my personal favorite, “your wife must be a jolly good cook, mate.” I’m not married, never had much luck with the female folk, and any reminder of this is liable to put me in an ugly disposition. An ugly mood means ugly deeds and I’ve hurt fellows over the odd comment. I’m not proud of that, just stating the truth.

My size does give some advantages. In the firm I’m generally referred to as a Front Doors Man. Sometimes we have to burst in on thieves or break into unsavory dens to retrieve that which belongs to our good paying clients. A man like me gets through the door first so I can throw in a little rough-and-tumble in case any bloke has a problem. I also do leg work and one-man investigations, but my services are best rendered in the grapple.

So they call me Jolly Fellow, or just Jolly. You can call me Jolly. I’ll call you officer, or guv’nor, or boss, or whatever you prefer. I know how authority likes titles; been round that bend myself. I know the value of a good dose of respect. It was working for authoritarian blokes like you that got me into this quandary. I’ll lay it out, and you can tell me what might or might not stick with the magistrate, savvy?

It all starts with the doctor. Dr. James Saxon, my client, a man of strange habits and stranger reputation. He telegraphed my office a report of theft, as all our clients are wont to do. One of our machine clerks filed the initial proceeding through Central Bureaucracy and I was in rotation for the assignment. The doctor’s credit punch card showed limited means, so it was me and only me who took the house call. Keep in mind, the good doctor wasn’t a bone saw or a physician; he was a doctor of science. I imagine him useless with a scalpel or any of the other trade tools of what I’d consider a legitimate doctor. Also, he was clearly beneath the financial and social standing of a regular doctor. Regardless of trade or social standing, his pound notes, though limited, were real and I took to the investigation with my usual enthusiasm.

I hired a hansom cab to his home address, a penny theater in one of the lesser neighborhoods of London. I imagined he kept house in an apartment in the upper floors, but made no confirmation of that assumption.

“Come into my home, lad,” the doctor said with an offered hand.

I don’t like being called “lad,” but he was really quite distressed and I gave him a pass. Besides, this sire was an old one, and by old I mean venerable. His pate was bald and pink and his eyebrows bushed out like hummingbird nests. I figured by that age, he’d earned the right to call anyone lad or lass. In respective age I can’t imagine many who’d be his equal.

I shook his hand and shuffled into his homestead. I waited for him to give me his story, but he was distraught and at an obvious loss for words.

“Please Mr. Fellows, you must find her!” he spat out, and gripped my wrist with more strength than I would have credited him for.“I’ve poured so many years of my life into her, I must have her back.”

“Look granddad, I’ll get the job done, don’t you worry, but you have to set me on the right path. Who are you talking about? Who got snatched?”

“Better I show you.”

The doctor beckoned me to sit in the front row of the playhouse. I claimed a squat and he left me by my lonesome. The gas lamps dimmed; curtains drew back and dancers leapt and pirouetted onto the stage. An orchestra started into the second act of Swan Lake and the dancers followed suit. I was shocked at first, having neither seen nor heard any musicians tuning in the pit. I’d been to Swan before and these blokes were giving a spot on performance. Normally I know better than to stand and meander during a performance, but given I was an audience of one, I figured convention did not apply. The pit was lifeless; not a single musician sat or played and yet still there emitted Pytor Tchaikovsky’s pounding notes in all their liquid fury. The crafty doctor had rigged a cylinder phonograph to a dozen brass amplifying tubes. The contraption boomed gloriously and it was no wonder the quality was so good. The old doctor had committed the original Bolshoy score to wax. His tubes arched and formed a line of mouths along the outer edge of the orchestral pit. The great contraption amplified sound in all directions at once. Every horn’s blow and timpani’s pound resounded off of the theater walls. I’d never seen nor heard anything quite like it and my high opinion of the doctor was solidified in that moment.

I looked up to the dancers. Their arms and legs moved fluidly, but their eyes remained cold and expressionless. They gazed forward into the empty audience seats without response or reaction. None of them noticed me and continued through their stances. Suddenly, a right handsome bloke, the prince as it were, spun onto the stage. He took to the center stage and lifted his arms, as though to catch the beautiful Swan Princess, only he held his arms to empty air. The prince swung about, without lady accompaniment, and performed what I credit as a perfect, though partner less, completion of the first dance. The house lights came back on and the music stopped suddenly, as did every dancer.They froze in place; arms in hold, legs extended, not a shiver or groan of discomfort.

“Do you know anything about gear ratios, Mr. Fellows?” The doctor called from backstage.

“I’ve heard the term,” I called out. The doctor gave no response.

I ascended the stage stairs and had my first close-up of the doctor’s dancers. Words fail me in describing them. They were man-sized statues with fully articulated arms, legs, fingers, necks, and probably toes, though I did not get the chance to inspect. Instead of skin, they were encased in stained white pine, which gave the hue of human dermis from a distance. Their eyes were custom glass orbs, of the type ordered for soldiers or sailors who’ve lost an eye and are too vain for the patch.

The doctor strode to center stage; he was now wearing the leather gloves, tool belt, and apron of a mechanic.

“Gear ratios, Mr. Fellows. Smaller gears link with larger gears, all connected with belts. A little power turns to a lot of movement and with enough gears, anything is possible.”

“What do you mean, then?” I was still taken aback by his dancers. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

The doctor lifted the tunic of the frozen prince. His torso was smooth and sculpted. The doctor had obviously studied anatomy. Muscle outlines formed in the wood to account for the mechanism’s chest and abdomen. It seemed the doctor had designed this thing with perfection in mind.

The doctor pulled a thin chisel from his belt and wedged it into the automaton’s skin. There was a distinct pop and then the creature’s left pectoral fell to the floor.

“Please, come closer, Mr. Fellows.”

The doctor beckoned me to his creation. Inside this fake man, this thing, lay an endless labyrinth of gears and belts and pendulums. Everything was still but the pendulums, which rocked in silence.

“I oil everything daily; otherwise you’d hear the ticking, like the beat of a thousand hearts.”

I reached out to touch the work. It seemed like a thing of madness, all those gears and belts. I couldn’t imagine such a work being constructed in a hundred years. Not by a single old man. Again I was speechless.

“They move according to my design. The vibrations of the music starts master gears, a set for each act.”

“But how…?”

“Gear ratios, Mr. Fellows. We are not so different creatures from these. We react to that which is before us based on what the mind has learned prior. If I were I to thrust a torch at you, you would jump back because you already have the knowledge of flame and the damage it may do. You have undoubtedly been burned, probably as a child. The recesses of your mind recall the threat and act accordingly. My dancers are no different. Every motion is pre-ordained by gears articulating in the interior frame. They are skeletal, but their skeleton is steel. They have skin, but it’s wood and lacquer. They are powered by a heart, but rather than one clumsy muscle I have granted them four-thousand two-hundred and eight micro pendulums and two full pendulums. The pendulums transfer motion to energy and wind four-thousand two-hundred and eight springs. The springs compress and grant power to three-hundred ninety-one thousand six-hundred and eleven gears. The gears are fitted with eighty-three thousand, four hundred thirty-one belts, ranging in size from one inch to one one-thousandth of an inch. The gears and belts give reactive motion to the limbs as I have preordained. Gear sets give way to specific, particular motions. I programmed them. They step because I programmed them to step. They dance because I programmed them to dance. I am the god of these creatures much like the being on high who wound the springs that run you and I and all of mankind.”

“I don’t know what to say, Doctor.”

“There’s nothing to say. I showed you this to make a point.”The doctor retrieved the prince’s breastplate and snapped it back into place.

“These dancers are my life’s creation, and one of them was taken from me!”

The doctor shoved the prince to ground. He struck the stage heavily. The noise was like a thousand tiny splinters of metal ringing out at once. The automaton jerked and twitched.

“Someone stole my Swan Princess!”

Now, I see the incredulous look on your faces and I respond to that with a guarantee. When you telegraph my office, you’ll find I’m a man of impeccable reputation. I stake my reputation on the assertion that everything I witnessed in the doctor’s theater is true. He’d made statues dance to Swan Lake and someone had run off with his prize ballerina, the Swan Princess.

I felt fortunate to have been assigned the case. The doctor’s work fascinated me.

The whole affair should have been an easy resolve. Some things are hard to track: pocket watches, silver spoons, China plates. Things get nicked and sold to fences and if they aren’t engraved or personalized I tell the owners to let them go.London has a robust black market, and the retrieval of certain valued works is nearly impossible. However, an unusual and rare item, a life-sized automatic ballerina for instance, is impossible to move. Whoever nicked it did it for profit or pleasure. If the theft was for profit, then the pawnbrokers union would find it soon enough. If for pleasure, Bow Street or the Metropolitan Police would probably have files on art house wank-enthusiasts. Either way I expected a short investigation and voiced as much to the good doctor.

I have many friends in the pawn business, as comes with the trade. Thief-catching is really about understanding the ebb and flow of money. Thieves steal to survive, not necessarily to better themselves. Some have habits to feed. Some have families to feed, which is as costly as any opium hook. The point of their trade is to move items for cash quickly. Neither pocket-slasher nor lock-smasher gets into the trade for investments. They need cash-in-hand. That’s where the brokers come in.

Goods change hands, money changes hands. There are some brokers who don’t even sell to the public, just to other men in the pawn trade. The more times a hot parcel changes hands, the quicker it changes hands, the less likely anyone will be popped for the larceny. Lucky me, some of these quick traders owe me favors for not getting you fine gentlemen involved in their dodgy transactions.

“I’ll find her, good sir. She can’t have gone off far. Do you know anyone who had an interest?”

“No,” the doctor said.“Aside from myself, you’re the only one who has ever seen my dancers. They were for my pleasure alone.”

I gave him a long stare on that admission. His face was sweaty and anxious. He nervously nibbled on the tip of his forefinger. It’s right to note the doctor was a boffin and a confirmed bachelor for reasons both complex and obvious.

I left the doctor in his theater with many assurances and took a stroll to Panzer’s warehouse. Panzer is one of the aforementioned quick brokers. I would use the cliché, “He had his ear to the ground,” if it weren’t for the fact that both his ears had been cut off during a spoiled transaction.

“Hello, Panzer,” I said and puffed up my chest, just so he knew I was present on business.

“Jolly,” he replied and raised his hand for a shake. I always love a good shake. My hand completely engulfs most men’s hands. I’ve got a good tough guy squeeze, too.

“Seen any fancy statues? One about this tall? Moves about on her own?” I looked him square in the eye and kept my grip on his mitten. He gave a revealing smile.

“Haven’t seen anything like that, Jolly. Hearing is a different matter, though.”

“Alright, mate. I’ll bite. What have you heard?”

“Hold on, sound is money and all that, what’s it worth?”

I tightened my grip on his hand.

“It’s worth me not giving you a smack and tipping the Metros to your moody gold sales.”

His face showed a bit of the pain I was inflicting on his hand.

“Hey now, Jolly, no need for ugliness. Just give me a taste of the bounty when you collect.”

I had to laugh. Here I am, crackling the man’s bones and he’s still negotiating for quid. Bloody pawn brokers. I let him go.

“You’re my kind of criminal, Panzer. A deal’s a deal, so what do you know?”

“Jacques Nouveau’s got some kind of moving statue. There’s a lot of talk of it in the union.”

“Nouveau?”

“He’s a gallery owner and art fence; he moves sculptures and the like. All the rotten heads are abuzz about it. I’d be careful about walking in if I were you. A man’s liable to make more enemies going where he isn’t wanted.”

I flipped Panzer a sovereign.

“Keep your worries, mate. Here’s your bounty. Cheers.”

I telegraphed the main office and left an address for where I was headed. That’s standard procedure. In case I go missing the firm’s retrievers have a starting location. I left the telegraph office and took the tube train to Whitechapel.

Nouveau’s gallery looked more like a butcher’s shed than an art shop. It was purposefully rustic and pretentious. The walls were made of more splinters then planks and no two pedestals were of the same height. Statues adorned the place, standing and staring from behind velvet rope lines. The ropes separated masterworks from gawkers, one group staring at the other. For all I know they were bloody genius works. The jade and porcelain statues looked marvelous in contrast to the dingy patrons. But I’m no art critic.

Nouveau immediately picked me out from the crowd of men and statues. I guess I don’t give the proper impression of wealth or interest on my fat face.

“Do I know you, sir?” he asked with open palm extended.

Bloody Frenchman! His accent rolled out of his mouth like a silk handkerchief.

“Are you looking for a piece in particular?”

I’ve thought long and hard about the whole French/English animosity. It’s not the Hundred Years War, nor Napoleon, nor any of that shite. It’s that their men always sound like they want to kiss us right on the lips with all those soft cake-eating words. I turned to the Frenchman.

“Yeah, friend, I am looking for a particular piece. A woman, about your size, white skin, automatic, dances the Swan Princess.”I flexed and puffed as I spoke. If you lean in close to a man, and he leans back, and you know he’s afraid. If he’s afraid, you own him. To his credit, Frenchy didn’t lean back.

“Perhaps we can talk. Please come with me.”

I followed his silky kimono arse to what I can only assume was a private dining room. Like the rest of the warehouse, the decor was rustic chic. The standing table was a converted barn door. Chairs were cut from apple barrels and lacquered into luminous hues. Servants lined the room, still as corpses.Frenchy took a seat at one end of the barn door and motioned me to sit master at the other. He rang a bell. The servant nearest me shook off her robe. Underneath stood a glistening naked body, shimmering in the gaslight. My mouth fell open. As I told you gents, I’m not a fellow well loved by the fairer sex. I can count naked bodies that have graced my presence on one hand with fingers left for snapping. This woman made me hate the ugliness, the imperfection of those I had beheld. She was slim with muscular lines set to milk skin. Her breasts were pert and lifted, nipples stood as hard rubies. I couldn’t fathom what the Frenchman was saying, but his words rattled somewhere behind me.

“Careful not to touch her detective, she’s quite fragile.”

The naked figure strode towards me, legs shuffling in tiny lock steps. I looked from her breasts to her face. It was heart shaped and the same milky complexion as the rest of her. Her hair was spun glass; it reflected the flames of every lamp.

Nouveau rang his bell again. The goddess lifted a pitcher from the table and poured me a cup of wine. In the close proximity I heard the tiny clicks on pendulums, the whir of gears.

“She’s an automaton!”

“Oh yes,” said Nouveau. “She’s my prize.”

He rang the bell and his naked statute brought the pitcher to his goblet. She poured him a drink.

“Is that the Swan Princess?”

Frenchy giggled as he sipped wine.

“No. This creature can serve wine, stand, sit, and look pretty. She’s a four-thousand quid serving wench with jeweled teats.”

I looked again and realized her nipples actually were rubies. So much for metaphor.

“So the good doctor lost his Swan Princess?”

“Yeah,” I said, “and smart fingers point to you.”

“You need to find smarter fingers, monsieur.”

“Cheaper ones too, I think,” I shot back.

“I didn’t take her…” Frenchy turned thoughtful; he downed his wine goblet.

“Can I make a proposition?” he asked.

I was interested. “Sure Jacques, discretion is my Christian name.”

“If you find her… if you find the Swan… bring her to me.”

“Why’s that?”

He wrung his little bell. Naked and beautiful filled his cup again. He didn’t give her a second glance.

“Saxon found something. I don’t know how he did it.”

“Be specific, and maybe this can help all parties,” I said.

“That man kept his lovelies under close watch. I know what he was doing, because men who make automatic women are a small community, and we buy our sprockets and ball bearings from the same marketers, yes?”

“Makes sense. Go on.”

“I heard he was in the business, but he never showed off his creations. He is a selfish old man, hoarding those pretty dancers. They dance for him alone and he lives to watch them. He did something, but I’m not sure what.”

“What do you mean?”

“Keep a secret, monsieur? Actually, I don’t care if you do.The whole world can know. I broke into his theater. Hirelings watched his door for me, and when he took his morning constitutional I went through an alley window. I saw his dancers up close.”

“I did too.”

Frenchy leaned back and rang for another refill.

“Then that makes three of us.”

His gorgeous automaton poured more wine.

“So I climbed through the doctor’s window. All his little creatures were placed on the stage just so. I inspected their bodies. His were no better than mine. Ivory on the women, pine on the men, glass and gems for all the parts that sparkle. I thought ‘this man is not superior to me…’ but then…”

Nouveau took another sip of wine. He set his goblet down and stared at me in silence. The bastard knew he was in charge of this conversation. I needed to know what came next, he was testing my patience.

“Alright, I’ll bite. What happened?”

“I was inspecting the prince when the princess turned her head. I wasn’t expecting any movement. These things run on auditory commands… bells, whistles, tunes and the like. I was standing in a thief’s silence and yet she moved. She turned her body toward me, hands raised in the air like one of Mary Shelley’s creatures. I stood, awestruck. She bounded across the floor in a series of pirouettes and leaps. Her feet wouldn’t let her walk, but she was mobile in dance and she came to me.She came to me, monsieur, and wrapped her arms around me.”

“And you?”

“I was stunned, and aroused. Never before have I been so aroused by man or woman or any other thing.”

Spoken like a true Frenchman.

“She looked at me with her crystal eyes and I swear to you right here, right now. She tried to speak!”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing, of course. Her mouth opened and I heard the whir and ticking of her parts. She shook her head, closed her mouth and opened it again, like a fish fighting for air. Her hand touched my cheek and her mouth opened wider. I noticed at this time that the doctor had lined her mouth with real human teeth.Some were damaged, cracked, like a person who grinds their teeth in their sleep.

“It was the cold brush of her hand on my face that brought me back to reality. This thing should not be capable of what it was doing. I hate to admit, I fled the girl. I ran like a coward.”

Nouveau swallowed the rest of his wine and rang the bell.Like clockwork, his serving woman refilled the glass, each movement identical to the last.

“My sweet wench employs over twenty thousand gears. She is the cutting edge in all circles that care about such things, but she does nothing but serve wine. She doesn’t move unless prompted, she doesn’t smile or bite or do anything but walk, and grip, and pour. Dr. Saxon has done something… unnatural. His automatic woman, the way she moved, the way she grabbed me. It was like she was curious. There is no way to make gears do that, Mr. Fellows.”

I looked to my goblet of wine. I was tempted to down it but resisted. Frenchy’s words had rubbed me wrong, unsettled me. I knew if I started to drink, I’d be tempted to leap down the rabbit hole.

“Look, Nouveau. You’re in the know, and I need to find this thing.”

“If I find her, monsieur thief catcher, I’ll let you know.But I will look at her first. I will look inside of her. I have to see her parts.”

The Frenchman downed another goblet of wine. I noticed for the first time that he was absolutely pissed. Shite-faced. Eye-watering, slurry-speeched, imbalanced, pissed.

“I will look at her. I will take off her skin and see what makes her curious. And if you find her, bring her to me.”

I stood up.

“You keep the line open, Jacques, or you’ll have trouble from me.”

I left Nouveau’s gallery. It was coming upon the dinner hour, and yet Nouveau’s words kept scrolling through my mind. I hadn’t realized I’d been returning to Saxon’s theater until the hansom dropped me off. I honestly don’t remember giving the driver Saxon’s address, but there I was.

The door was ajar, strange for a man of solitary and secretive practices. I pulled the bell cord regardless. No one responded so I let myself in.

The lobby was unchanged from my last visit. I stood there feeling like a fool; maybe Nouveau was having a laugh and I’d got caught up in a spook story. I was about to leave when I heard a groan. It was soft, but somehow amplified by the silence of the lobby. I unsheathed my weapon, a collapsible baton issued to all of us in the Bow Street Firm. A telescoping steel rod some of my mates call “The Cobra,” though I’ve never asked why.

I crept into the theater. All was dark except for a lone spotlight centered on the stage. Dr. Saxon’s dancers were gone and replaced by a scene that will forever haunt me.

They were together on center stage, bathed in the spotlight. The doctor was laid out, limbs splayed. The automatic woman, Dr. Saxon’s Swan Princess, held his body against hers, like a mother cradling a child. He issued another low groan.

I crept closer. No one else moved, not the princess, not the doctor. Regardless, I snapped my cobra to full length, if for nothing but my own confidence. I crept onto the stage; blood pooled under the doctor and seeped into the hardwood. Thick red stains ran up the Swan Princess’ arms.

“Doc?” I called out.

He let out another low groan. The princess squeezed him tighter in her arms. The doctor’s legs kicked in convulsion. It was then that I knew she was crushing him, that Dr. Saxon’s beautiful Swan Princess was squeezing the life and blood from his body.

This was my time to shine. I may not understand automatics or gear ratios or any of that rot, but I understand violence. Violence and I are old acquaintances.

I roared like a lion and struck the Swan Princess with my cobra. Her head rotated a one-eighty; her mouth opened, showing off teeth lacquered with the old man’s blood. He kicked and squirmed and I struck again. The tip of my rod whipped across her brow, shattering a crystal eye. I whipped the cobra again across her face, cracking the ivory of her forehead. A tuft of rendered silk hair flew to the back stage. I struck her arms and her shoulders. Bits of ivory littered the stage and yet she held. She held until the old man stopped convulsing, until he was still… and then she let him go.

I yelled again, a wordless animal yell of frustration. An ancestral call, if you will. I couldn’t stop her from finishing the doctor, but I was determined to finish her.

She rose to her feet through my barrage of strikes. Plates of her came loose, revealing gears and inner springs. She tottered for a moment like she was going to fall, like she’d had enough, like my strikes were not the impotent efforts of a man who knew no better than to lash out. A Front Doors Man they call me. Jolly they call me. Helpless is not a word I’m accustomed to.

The creature lolled back like she was going to pitch over and then sprang into a ballerina’s leap. In my mind she resembled a gazelle, all lines and form. She leapt to me with open arms, striking the center of me with all the weight of her artificial body. I imagine getting struck by a rail handcart is similar. My feet left mother Gaia and we flew together for a long moment, over the lip of the stage, into the darkness of the orchestral pit. We collapsed in the darkness, together. We rolled as one, but she separated from me, retreating to an unseen corner. Luckily, I still held the cobra and whipped it around in the empty darkness. I could not see her in the blackness, but my shifting feet caught debris. I knelt down and swept my hands over cogs and severed limbs of what I assume were her back-up dancers. The pit was a graveyard. I could not step nor shift without contacting the remains of some poor dismantled automaton. Something had happened here beyond my comprehension.

Growing up in Whitechapel, my father often told me that all men and women have a place on God’s green earth. He told me that it was the job and place of royalty to fuck up and look good, just as it was the job and place of Parliament to pretend not to fuck up and look regular enough to court votes. He told me his place was to make boots, to cut leather, to polish in browns and blacks and having realized this, he needed no church or greater philosophy. He had found his place on Earth as God had intended. He lived a bootmaker’s life, and died a bootmaker’s death. I took these teachings as truth and have always held that the only worthy men are those doing what they’re supposed to. Those outside the grain are ripe for correction and often times it’s my job to do the correcting.

To retrace my original point, I think the doctor made an automaton to love him, and she did. And I think it was her, or the doctor, who destroyed all those other dancers. Was it for jealousy? Was it for passion? Was it for some sense of purpose or some greater acknowledgment of purpose? I don’t know. I’m just a bloke who likes to put mashers in their place and swing a club at a crook now and again. I don’t reckon any greater meaning from this, but I’m sure there is one.

So there I was, in the darkness of the pit surrounded by parts of destroyed machines. I heard her shuffle and swung my cobra accordingly. I spun my club through empty air. It would have been embarrassing had any live creatures stood as witness. Suddenly, a great scratch rendered the heavens, and then all things were filled with Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. She must have hit the switch to start the orchestral score; it resounded in the pit as though all things were consumed by horns and strings and powerful drums.

I screamed in frustration. I was already blinded by the lack of light, and now I was deafened and muted by the music. I swung the cobra through empty air, determined to strike something, anything. I was overwhelmed in the darkness, in the crashing music, consumed and lost like an ape dropped in the ocean. The automatic woman bit my shoulder with her horrid teeth, but when I turned to confront, she was already gone. I backpedaled to the pit wall, desperately feeling for a ladder or door, anything to escape from this nightmare. The automaton bit me again, this time on the stomach. I swung and made contact, but again she vanished in the darkness. I was desperate, a creature far out of his element.

My father’s words came into my head again: all things in their place, all things conforming to their nature and doing what comes natural. For me, destruction is natural. My meaty paws gripping and tearing comes naturally. My weight and stature, these things are my nature.

I dropped the cobra and sat cross-legged. I closed my eyes, which weren’t doing me any good anyway. I cracked my knuckles and flexed my fingers. I imagine competitive fighters do this, the limbering of the hands. I stretched each finger and popped the knuckles of my thumbs and there I sat. She came upon me again as before, with a bite on my left shoulder, only this time I was prepared. I grabbed the automaton with my hands, my God given tools of destruction. I gripped under her elbows and rolled her to the floor; her teeth were lodged in my shoulder and stung fiercely. I spread my weight on top of her and prevented her from escaping. She would not strike me in another sortie; this fight would end in the grapple, under my terms.

The Swan Princess must have understood this because her arms and legs wrapped around my body, much as they’d wrapped around the poor dead Dr. Saxon. She squeezed my corpulence and I suddenly knew the strength of this beast, that it was enough to crack bones and snap a spine. I wrapped my arms and legs around her and squeezed with all my might, if for no greater purpose than to give the same treatment I was receiving.

And there we lay, locked like a serpent and mongoose; she tried to squeeze the life out of me, but found me no weak candidate. Not like the poor doctor. I squeezed with all the strength in my arms and legs, but heard no crack over the orchestral consonance, the beautiful and at this time dreadful conclusion of Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece. We must have spent a minute locked in embrace, though it stretched into an eternity. My thumb found a space on her back, a crack. I changed the strategy of our grapple, for if she’d found a crack in me, I’m sure she would have exploited it all the same. I wedged my hand into her innards and felt all those working parts, all those cogs and belts and pendulums, whirling about and giving life to this aberration. I made a fist, and let my meaty fingers pull apart what they contacted. Belts dislodged, gears flung themselves loose and fell into her inner sanctum. I gripped again and this time pulled from her back a fist full of vital shiny trinkets, all those solid pieces of brass that accounted for her life’s blood.

The creature’s teeth loosened from my shoulder. She slumped and shuddered, much like the poor dead Doctor had shuddered in his last moment. My eyes had grown accustomed to darkness, and in the haze of what I remember, I swear she gave me an accusatory glare with her one remaining eye. I dripped blood on her face from my wound, and yet, there it was…her eye shown angry and then the light faded, or rather, I passed out.

So you see officers, it was not I who took the life of poor Dr. Saxon, rather it was his creation. I cannot explain the why, but I have provided the how. Contact my office, the Bow Street Firm. There you’ll find I have an impeccable reputation. You must believe me. I have nothing to hide.

Two

Jolly Gets a Second Chance

Blood stains on brick tell a tale as good as any Arthurian jaunt. This stain in particular, vertical, shaped like an oriental fan; it’s no different. The first thing I know is that this splatter came out of some bloke’s mouth. The stain is two meters up the wall and slightly off center of the piss bucket. I imagine the dispute had something to do with waste disposal, a priority to drunk and sober men alike. This assumption may be false, but given the proximity of blood-to-pisser, I’d say it’s a fair starting point.

The strikee was shoved flush against the wall. That perfect blood fan was not a spray of any distance. That bloke was pressed up, knob in hand, against the wall and given a crushing right haymaker. Blood goes to mouth, mouth goes to holler, blood paints the walls.

I don’t have to look in the pisser to know there’s probably a tooth bobbing in that filth, maybe more than one.

Bloody driblets on the floor showed the trajectory of the man. He crawled. A standing man would have left a wider trail. A fighting man would have speckled the floors and walls and chairs and Lord knows what else in a wet struggle. Not this one. First he spit the fan on the wall, then the he dribbled a tight trail to the cell door. He probably mewled for the jailor. He probably begged. By the looks of the congealing pool by the cell door, his wait was long and his release was in the not too distant past. Not a fighter this one. Weakness in men makes my skin crawl. A man who begs and cries is like a dog in coolot trousers. My dad used to say that. I get chicken skin up my arms thinking about this bloke begging through a busted gob, wailing away, waiting for an exodus to safer accommodations, which in this place meant another cell; same type of cell, same type of blokes, same type of pissers. That might be a metaphor for life. I don’t know. I’ve never been called a literate man.

I know about the blood and the man because it is my profession to know. Doctors stop seeing patients. They only see symptoms and remedies. Mashers stop seeing girls; they only see ankles and legs and tits and arses. Thief catchers don’t see rooms. They see clues, hints, causes to be linked like puzzle pieces into a great, rational, and hopefully honest story.

That’s the reality of my work. I’m paid to complete incomplete stories. Usually of the “where are my beautiful possessions” or the “who caved in my husband’s skull” variety.

I am a thief catcher. I was a thief catcher. I’m not sure the proper tense of verb given that I may or may not be sacked by the firm. The infamous Bow Street Firm in all its wisdom and prestige is going to have to decide if I’m one to keep.

I am a prisoner awaiting trial for the murder of Dr. James Saxon. Specifically, the grisly, crushing death of Dr. James Saxon.

As far as I can tell, the prosecutor, Mr. Thomas Agrian, Esq.’s theory of the case is that I had some work-related breakdown and crushed Dr. Saxon with my arms and legs like a human boa constrictor. To the prosecutor’s credit, Dr. Saxon was found with broken arms and organs ground to stew. The prosecutor also believes that after I dispatched the kind doctor, I redirected my madness to the doctor’s creations, his automatic dancers. I apparently ran amok and broke to bits every dancing automaton, saving the Swan Princess, Dr. Saxon’s crown jewel, for my finale. The broken remains of Dr. Saxon’s fine creations were recovered from the orchestral pit of his theater. That is also where they found me, arms and legs wrapped around the inert body of the Swan Princess. If it hadn’t been a murder scene, I’m sure the laughter would have been uproarious instead of just a single snigger from some cold-blooded Met.

I know this has come up before, but I am a fat man. This was not overlooked in Mr. Agrian, Esq.’s assessment nor the supervising inspector’s investigative report. The inspector considered this reasonable causation, but I consider it a shite presumption against the portly. Really, how many fat-man-crushing-deaths can there be in London for them to follow this logic honestly? My ear is pressed firmly to the underbelly of this city and I’ve never heard of a fat man crushing another man with arms and legs. Sure there’s the occasional beating fatality, but that is a thing common to all weights of men and even some women.

A laughable theory is not the worst part of their case. The worst part is this: I have no motive. Dr. Saxon was my client, my record with the Bow Street Firm holds no past suspicions of homicide or fratricide or regicide or any other ‘cide. The lack of motive makes considerable sense when you factor in that I had nothing, or at least very little to do with the death of Dr. Saxon.

Regardless, here I sit, in a bloodied up cell where the powers that be conspire to lead me to a hangman’s farewell. If I’ve had worse days than this, they exist in suppressed memories because I’d be buggered if I can find a lower point.

I dipped the toe of my boot into the congealing blood pool and traced crimson lines. I drew first a cross, then an “x” over the cross, then the red lines of Union Jack, very patriotic. A jailor interrupted my artistic endeavor.

“Jolly, you’ve got visitors.”

I looked up at the jangler of keys. Jailor Portsmith was a blunt and unimaginative man. I’d met him before as we traveled in similar professional circles. It was professional courtesy that put me alone in this cell as opposed to the general population of Whitechapel’s worst.

“Did you use the plural tense?”

Portsmith looked confused. I felt bad. The man had done me a solid and here I was proving him stupid.

“Do I have more than one visitor, Basil?”

“Yeah, you got two. You’re Mr. Congeniality, I guess.”

Portsmith popped the lock with a giant antiquated key. He held up a pair of manacles.

“Basil, come on?” I said.

“Policy, mate. While you’re here you’re one of the uglies. Now put on your clinkers.”

I put the manacles over my wrists and clicked them nice and loose. At least I had that comfort.

“Lead the way, then.”

Portsmith let me walk ahead with a hand on my shoulder for direction. We came to a room with a steel table and two stools, all bolted to the floor with steel rivets. Portsmith guided me to a stool and motioned me to sit. It was a singularly uncomfortable metal disk. Portsmith took up my hands and popped the lock of my left manacle.

“Thanks, mate.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

Portsmith fed the chain through the stool and recuffed my wrist. I gave him a hard look.

“You think that’s necessary?”

“Not paid to think, mate.” And with that little tidbit of wisdom, Portsmith left me to wait for me visitors.

The first was a dapper young dandy by the name of Abraham Silver. His true name had been Ibrahim Silverstein, but he’d filed for the change years ago so as to make himself a better social climber. Here was a man of no loyalties, not to name, not to God, not to family. Also, he was my co-worker at the Firm. I took his presence as a decidedly ominous sign.

“Silver, good to see you. I’d stand to shake your hand, but circumstances being…” I rattled my manacle against the stool to emphasize my bondage. Silver ignored the little show.

“Mr. Fellows, I regret to inform you that your position with the Bow Street Firm has been suspended pending further investigation.” Silver said this line of dialogue in a monotone that told me he had rehearsed it prior to coming.

“That’s nice. Will you be posting a bond?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Freeing you at this time would be bad for public relations.”

“It’d be worse for public relations if I were found guilty.”

Silver didn’t respond. I’m pretty sure the little wank was enjoying himself.

“Who’s investigating me?”

“Both coppers and firm reps are on the job. Who did you mean?”

“From the firm. Like I give a bloody shite what Bobby is turning over my laundry,” I snapped.

“Owens has your case,” he said.

I sucked air through my teeth. Who had I pissed off enough to get Owens as a safety net? The man couldn’t find his own arsehole with a map, a donkey, and two Sherpas. His odds of success landed squarely between not likely and no fucking way. Timothy Owens had joined the firm as some manager’s cousin or nephew. A family hire. A tag-a-long relegated to group raids and jobs where numbers accounted for more than brainpower. I gave Silver my menace smile and leaned close, as close as I could. I reached up until the chains were taught and strained.

“Come on then, shake my hand.”

Silver looked at my mitt. His face revealed thoughts like gypsy palms, first fear, then shame for being afraid, then a forward resolve to face his fear and grasp my extended hand, then the realization that fear or not I was going to hurt him and he’d be a fool to take my offered shake. I credited his complexity of mind and the fact that he didn’t fall for my childish, petty trap.

“We’ll be in contact, then,” he said.

“I’m sure we will,” I replied and lowered my hand. I wish I could say that was the last I saw of Mr. Silver aka Silverstein. Of course it’s not, but aren’t wishes such wonderful things?

I ran a list in my mind of who my second visitor could be. Work being accounted for, I couldn’t imagine who would take enough of an interest to appear. My football squad? Perhaps Morris Benny, the owner of the public house I lived above, wondering why his place was surplus eight pints above quota and no one had harassed his intolerable cook, who was also his intolerable wife.

I should not have been surprised when Jacques Nouveau glided into my embarrassing predicament. He’d played a small role in my debacle. Also, he was the only other man, excepting the poor dead doctor, who knew of the Swan Princess’capabilities.

Frenchy lit a cigarillo and sat on Silver’s stool.

“We meet again, Mr. Fellows.”

“Cut the niceties, Nouveau. What brings you to my happy domicile?”

Nouveau drew long on his cigarillo and let loose a bluish cloud. The guard outside the door suddenly realized that he had something better to do and left me and Nouveau by our lonesomes. Nouveau made no motion to the guard, no gesture to me. To him it was a non-event. To me, it was a reminder of who had the taffy and who had none.

“I saw that Mr. Abraham Silver just visited you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Fellows checking up on fellows.”

“I also know that Bow Street will not be posting your bond.”

I let silence be my voice. Nouveau was showing off, making a point that was unnecessary to make. Sure he had contacts, he could sway guards, he knew my private business. So what? All those things are acquisitions of money, and I knew he had that well before his glamorous entrance.

“Get to the point, Jacques.”

“Do you want me to post your bail?”

“Why?”

“It is impolite to answer a question with a question.”

He regarded my face as I regarded his. His eyebrows were plucked and shaped. His fingers were slender and delicate, nails perfectly trimmed and shaped. Two of those dainty little sticks held his cigarillo away from his face. The smoke reminded me of Benny’s public house, which reminded me that I was hungry and filthy and all around a pathetic creature of captivity. I let him win our little silent game.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes what?”

“Yes. I want you to post my bail.”

Nouveau smiled. His teeth were straight and large and just a little green.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Mr. Fellows, how can you put a price on liberty? For shame, John Locke would weep at your words.”

“So I can go for nothing?”

“Well, one cannot get something for nothing. How about we say your freedom is yours to claim and that in exchange you will grant me an unrelated nominal request, a favor to a friend who has done you a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

Nouveau looked to the door. The guard had not returned. Regardless, Nouveau lowered his voice.

“You must steal the Swan Princess for me.”

I looked at Nouveau for a moment, a pause. I let his words swim around in my mind. Maybe I had misunderstood, or maybe he didn’t realize the implication of what he’d said.

“You want to run that by me again?”

“Steal the Swan Princess.”

“You do realize that the Swan Princess, all of Saxon’s automatons in fact, are in evidence storage?”

“Yes.”

“That’s under lock and key?”

“Yes.”

“Those keys are held by guards?”

“Yes.”

“Those guards are big fuck-all Metro blokes who maybe just maybe won’t take a shine to me carting out their charges.”

“Yes.”

“There’s got to be someone better suited.”

Nouveau’s laugh was augmented by blue smoke.

“I disagree, Mr. Fellows. Anyway, I don’t want the other dancers, I just want the Swan. You know the Swan. You know what she is. You know how important it is that I receive all of her parts.”

“How do you suppose I get the Swan?”

Nouveau waved his fingers. “The trivialities I leave to you. Do whatever you like, as long as she is in my possession within fourteen days.”

“What happens in fourteen days?

“You go on trial for murder.”

The date hadn’t been announced to me. Again Nouveau was a step ahead of me and playing puppeteer to my marionette.

“You’re missing a piece, Frenchman. The Swan paid the Doctor’s butcher bill. She’s the only proof I didn’t kill Saxon. If I give her to you, no proof for me.”

Nouveau drew on his cigarillo and spit a flake of tobacco from his tongue.

“She is of no use to you, broken or otherwise.” Nouveau looked tired, exhausted in fact. “Your problem is not that she is your only proof; it is that you have no proof at all. To convince twelve of your peers that the Swan squeezed the blood and anima from Dr. Saxon is too great a task. You may as well blame the death on sprites or will-o-wisps. It’s no more far-fetched then an automaton going psychotic. Your defense is magic. Magic doesn’t win cases, even in London.”

He was right. It was an obvious fallacy that I hadn’t let my mind dwell on. I had a fools’ defense. My chest burned with a thousand pricks of anxiety.

“You look so piqued, Mr. Fellows. Do not fear, all is not lost. Bring me the Swan and all of her parts. Every last scrap you pulled from her in your barbaric little struggle. I’ll figure her out. I’ll find out what the doctor died with in his beautiful brain. If I have his secrets I can fix her. A fixed woman will move. A fixed Swan will show nicely to your jurors. Magic will turn to science and your life will be spared.”

“How will I explain the theft to the court?”

“You won’t hang for theft, Mr. Fellows. Explain it any way you like, just don’t mention my name.”

“Can you post my bond today?”

“I already have.”

My eyebrows lifted a bit at that. The magistrate had set my assurity at ten thousand pounds; an impossible fortune. Nouveau had money, but not in that bulk and availability. The scale of this matter increased. Nouveau was no longer the top of the ladder. The money had to come from another source. Who?

Nouveau stood and let his cigarillo fall to the floor. He didn’t bother crushing it. I imagine the ashes would have devalued his silk Japanese slippers. He extended those little fingers. I cataloged all the ways I could hurt what he offered, but resolved to meet his fish shake; soft, limp, without an ounce of man in it.

“Do we have an accord?”

“We’re in business.”

“Of course we are.”

Nouveau left. Portsmith returned and unchained me from the stool. Instead of my cell, Portsmith walked me to central booking, unlocked my manacles, and had me sign a standard bond contract and promissory note to appear in court fourteen days hence. After that, I was directed to the front door and set loose.

I sucked in two nostrils of free, London air. It smelled less of piss than the jail air. Also, I noted hints of sulphur and stale lager. God I love this town. I’d only been inside for two days, but the world outside had the rose-colored beauty of a home not seen in decades. I stopped at the first public I crossed and tucked into a pint of dark and a plate of bangers. I wasn’t hungry but I needed to wash the taste of jail out of my mouth. Also, a drink never hurt a bloke. Neither did two, or three. Four maybe, but I took my odds and returned to my flat a braver man if not a smarter one.

Of course my place had been turned over. Fortune smiles at a man on occasion, but misfortune rains down from on high with fury and volume. My dad used to say that.

Turned over was an understatement. I had served in Her Majesty’s Excursionary forces in my younger years. I’ve marched hard through Afghanistan, India, Persia. The imperialists out there, the foreign mining crews, wouldn’t just dig into a mountain. They would dynamite it, wipe it off the map, and pull goods from the rubble. Called it strip mining. It would appear that whoever went through my home was a strip mining enthusiast, or maybe just a shite investigator. I once had a respectable sitting room, three chairs, a cozy table. All of it was broken to sticks and piled high in the center of the room. On top of the stick pile lay my book shelf in two pieces, and the shredded remains of a Persian rug that I’d bought in Palestine. My books were also gone, though I can’t fathom why the burglar would want to take my pulp books.

I selected an intact chair leg and gripped it in two hands, hoping to God almighty that the culprit was still present and unawares. I searched my kitchen, found broken plates and a bloody huge crack in the porcelain sink. I searched my bedroom; I found the bed frame broken, mattress cut down the center with goose down layering everything like snow drifts, and my best hat gone. The job was such a haphazard mess I wasn’t sure if they were looking for something or just trying to make me mad.

Someone knocked on my door. I gripped my stick tighter and prayed to God it was someone worth braining, because violence felt like an inevitability at this juncture. The knock sounded again. Not the polite or inquisitive knock of a neighbor or land lord, this knock was loud and insistent. An official knock.

I opened the door to find Owens’ open-mouthed gob. His hand was raised for a third dash and did not lower at his discovery.

“Evening, Owens,” I said.

Owens closed his mouth but kept his fist hovering in the air.

“Evening, Jolly.”

“Something I can do for you?” I raised the chair leg to my shoulder real casual like. Owens furrowed his brows.

“I’m looking into your troubles for the firm. Thought I’d stop by and see what’s what. I didn’t know you got out.”

“You were going to break into my flat?”

Owens moved his already raised fist to his balding scalp and gave it a good scratch. He opened his mouth, almost let the lie escape but then closed his mouth in silence. He tried again.

“Yes?”

I’m sucker for blunt honesty. Maybe Owens wasn’t such a bad chap, if a bit dim.

“Come in, then.” I stepped aside and Owens joined me in the remains of my living room.

“Did you do this?” He pointed to pile of what was once furniture.

“Sure, mate. I loathe my chairs, figured now was as good a time as any for payback.”

Owens stood there. His mouth opened and closed again. Shite!

“Come on, mate! Close the circuit. You’re not the only one up my buggering line.”

“Who did this?” Now he was playing detective. Who the hell did I piss off in the firm to get this? Owens poked his hand into the rubbish pile and pushed over half of a book shelf.

“I don’t know. I seem to have made new friends in the not too distant past. How are you getting back to the firm?”

“I’ve a carriage waiting.”

“Give me a lift?”

I watched the cogs spin in his head. Obviously, I was not the first choice of people he wanted to be seen with at the home office, but he could find no diplomatic way to say so. I insisted, and off we went.

The Bow Street Firm occupied a three-story structure. A converted tenement chosen strictly for its menacing gargoyles, voluminous storage, and the fact that it was situated on Bow Street, home of the original English thief catchers from whom we took our name. Inside people get the impression that they’ve entered a textile mill or button factory. The click, click, clicking of typewriters and Bouchon punchers competes only with the whirring of the Jacquard loom and the occasional swishing of pneumatic tube deliveries. A legion of secretaries and clerks sit in cubicles clacking away at their trade machines. The whole first floor is theirs. They are the gate-keepers. Floor two belongs to the field operatives and information analysts. Floor three is management and duffers, assuming a bloke can tell one from the other. We have two rooms in the basement, one we can talk about, storage, and the other we can’t talk about, non-storage.

I waded into the cacophony of machinery rattle. The secretaries were producing a night’s shift of reports for Central Bureaucracy, our internal auditors, and our third floor taskmasters. Written reports were transcribed. Transcriptions were duplicated into punch cards through Bouchon processors. As the old saying goes, “Words for my boss, cards for the Queen.” A couple of porters gathered finished products, collated, signed, had the secretaries sign, separated, and sent via pneumatic tubes the reports and cards. Reports in one tube, cards in the other. Low was the fate of the porter who switched a cards tube and a reports tube.

The lead secretary, Miss Walker, rose upon my entry. She was a serious gray bird, old as time and twice as devastating.

“Mr. Fellows, you are not allowed here!”

Owens strolled past and gave me a two-fingered salute, leaving me as Billy No-mates. Miss Walker stepped to and gave me a firm jab in the chest.

“Turn around! Be on your way!”

I tried to soften my face, tried to get my gob to smile nicely. I’ve been told the result of this is hideous.

“Miss Walker, love. I just need my effects.”

By effects, I meant my files, a replacement cobra, and the service revolver I brought back from the trouble in Afghanistan. Her face turned sour, or rather, it became more sour.

“Mr. Fellows, Lord Barnes has specifically forbidden you from entering for any reason, up to and including retrieving your goods. Besides, they are no longer present in your office.”

“Come again?”

“The Metropolitans cleaned your office out yesterday. Even if you got to it, there’d be nothing for you but dust mites and what I assume are gin-addled memories.” She issued me another jab.

“Take it easy, grandmother. I’ll be on my way.”

I stepped lively out the door. Miss Walker is not one to be trifled with. I considered returning to my flat, but realized the futility of taking refuge in a place where all comforts had been smashed.

I wandered down to the St. George & Dragon Public House, a place whose proximity to my work made me a regular. I substituted my lack of home comfort with the comfort of lager pints punctuated with shots of Yank whiskey. I contemplated getting pissed, but a better plan formed itself. When the clock struck one in the a.m., the public house was graced by one Orel Hersh, porter extraordinaire, St. George & Dragon regular, and business acquaintance to yours truly. He recognized me right away and approached. We’d been social on occasion and I once cold-cocked a blighter on his behalf. Some drunk geezer thought Orel was talking up his sweet. Things between Orel and myself were peachy. Better yet, he owed me a favor.

“Oy, guv’nor. Give us some love!” I shook Orel’s wrist and gave him a weak slap on the face. He was a big man like me, only without the fat and hanging jowls.

“I insist on paying for no less than one of your drinks,” he said with fake posh. It sounded like he’d been nipping the flask at work. Good old predictable Orel.

“I’ll hear of no such thing, mate,” I replied. “You drink on my tab and my tab only. I’m a free man today; this is my freedom party.”

I pushed a shot of whiskey to him and motioned for the barkeep to set up fresh rounds.

Orel drank to my health. Then we drank to his health, then to freedom and liberty and Queen Victoria in all her homely glory.

Here’s a secret. One shared by all men of weight. It’s bloody near impossible for me to get drunk. The only rational explanation is that fat filters alcohol and holds it away from the blood. I, and every fat bastard I’ve ever run across, can drink, and drink, and drink. Now you know. You’re welcome.

We had ourselves a party. We drank after the pub regulars and codgers packed it in. We outlasted the young men and the very moon and stars themselves. We kept the libations flowing until the sky turned navy gray and the sun threatened to punch black both my eyeballs.

I paid the tab and walked my new best friend out the front door into God’s accusatory light. Orel hung on my arm like drapes as I escorted us back to the home offices.

“Whaaa?” he slurred. To say Orel was inebriated would be an understatement. I imagine Orel was in that place where he still had control of motor skills, but just barely. He was in a place where balance was tenuous and the memories of this moment may or may not have a future in his mind.

“Back to the office, mate. I forgot my effects.”

Orel stopped and thought for a minute.

“But…”

“Don’t be thick, Orel. I need your help. Take the fire ladder up to my room and bust out the window. Everything I need is in a lock box under the third floorboard.

“Jolly?”

I interrupted him with a good shake.

“This is important! Listen closely. Third board from the door. Big, fuck-all lock box.”

“But the guards?”

I set Orel onto the fire escape and gave him a good shove up the ladder.

“Don’t worry yourself with guards, mate. They know me. Lock box, third board. Repeat it back to me.”

Orel shook his head and started up the ladder, leaving my instructions unrepeated. I’m sure I’ve had worse plans, though none come to mind. I’d lifted Orel’s flask while shoving him up the escape. I uncapped it and poured a good three fingers of bad Scotch down the front of my shirt.

The firm was shut to the world in the early morning hours, but we employ a couple of inside guards to stop the very thing I was having poor Orel do on my behalf. I hefted a dustbin and threw it overhand against the barred entrance gate. The can rebounded with a terrific crash. Just to be sure, I threw the bin a second time with the same rattling, terrifying results. Neighborhood dogs barked, newly awakened blokes looked out windows. I was a regular spectacle.

“Oy, you fuckers!” I yelled at the gate. “Let me inside!”

Both guards came out. I knew them. Blaine, the taller, was a religious chap. Aaron, the shorter, was a dirty joke enthusiast. Both were decked in suits and holding extended cobras. Blaine looked relieved to see me.

“Jolly, what are you up to?”

“I’m up to punching your smug face if you don’t let me inside.” I put up my mitts and exaggerated a drunken sway. I should have been an actor.

“You know we can’t do that, Jolly. You’re not allowed here while your suspension stands.”

“If you Nancies want to keep me out, you’d better call some friends.”

I strode to the door in my best tough guy strut, all legs and arms. To his credit, Blaine stepped first and poked his cobra into my chest.

“That’s it, Jolly. Go home and sleep it off. No need to do something to apologize for later.”

In the far distance I heard the crash of glass and knew Orel had made it in. The bloke just needed more time. I grabbed Blaine’s baton.

“You’re not the boss of me, Jack. Step south or I’ll let you have my best.”

“Um, Jolly. Come on, let’s talk this out,” said Aaron. The shake in his voice told me he was all mouth and no trousers.

“I’ll talk your face in!”

Suddenly, there was a terrific crash in the alley. By the sound of it, Orel had just dropped my box into a dustbin from two stories up. Drunken bastard.

Blaine and Aaron turned their heads and I knew swift action was the only action that wouldn’t get me and poor Orel nicked. I wrapped my arms around the distracted Blaine and lifted him off the ground.

“I want my things!” I shouted and shook the besieged guard left to right.

“Put him down, Jolly or I’ll…” Aaron waved his club but took no step forward. I was roaring like a mammoth and Blaine was wiggling like a wee baby in my arms. A scared, pissed-off baby.

I dropped the man into a heap on the dirt road. Blaine found his legs, sprang up, and walloped me across the face with his cobra.

I blinked once or twice, not sure exactly what had happened. The skin on my face grew taught and uncomfortable and the world went topsy. I suddenly found myself on hands and knees staining the earth with blood and tears.

All the circuits connected in my head and registered pain, pain, good God almighty so much pain. I cried out and rolled to my back. Blood ran with gravity and streaked my face like war paint. My nose was definitely broken. My forehead was gashed and under the gash grew a sizable goose egg. My compliments to Blaine’s swinging arm.

To his good credit, Blaine put a hand on my shoulder.

“You alright, Jolly?”

I ran a hand down my face, taking assessment of the damages. I let the tears in my eyes get into my voice and continued the role of the drunken sod.

“I just want my things.”

Aaron turned away. I guess he had no stomach for fighting or watching a grown man cry.

“Just let me get my things.”

Blaine gave me a hand up. My legs wobbled like a baby horse. Blaine guided me to the gate and let me lean up to it.

“Listen, Jolly. You can’t come in. The big man says so. That’s the way it is. Listen to me, mate. Go home, get some sleep. Your job will be waiting after we clear up all this murder rubbish.”

He was using his dad tone. In the alley, Orel was stumbling and clobbering rubbish cans, so I cried even harder, making a regular spectacle of myself. If possible, the crying made my face hurt worse, which caused my eyes to tear up even more. I was caught in some weird drunken pain grief cycle and everyone involved was deeply discomforted by the event. I made like I was going to try for the gate and both Blaine and Aaron put hands on me.

“Go home, Jolly. Sleep it off.”

They walked me to the center of the street. Blaine pressed his handkerchief to my gushing nose.

“‘Kay, Blaine. I’m sorry,” I blubbered.

I held out my hand and he gave it a good shake. I didn’t bother with Aaron. The instinct to hurt him was too strong and my act was almost concluded. The guards returned to their gate, watched me stumble on my way, and then went back into the building, to their actual posts. I took a few more unsteady steps and looked back to the firm. When I was sure Blaine and Aaron were gone-gone, I strolled to the alley.

Orel ran up with a smug look on his visage, like a man who’s done well and deserves a biscuit. One look at my misshapen melon face and Orel vomited copiously down his front. He fell to his hands and knees, much like I had when Blaine laid into my face. Orel took three deep breaths and then let loose the Red Sea all down the alley cobbles. I continued to mop blood off of my face with Blaine’s now-saturated handkerchief. No point in returning it I guess.

Somewhere among the pukes and heaves, Orel had the good sense to pass out. Guess who caught the burden of taking him home?

Lucky for me, Orel’s flat was not too far. I fireman-carried him so as to have a free hand for my lock box. His wife, Emily, opened the door and I got to watch her face change from rage to shock to concern and then back to rage as she regarded my busted face and the comatose sack of her husband over my shoulder.

“Go easy, love. We’ve had a night.”

I dropped Orel arse-first into a rocking chair and straightened the crick he’d put in my back.

“And where were yoo?” She was mad enough for me to hear the brogue in her voice. You’d think an emerald lass like Emily wouldn’t have taken offense to a drunken husband. Part of the culture and all. I approached her with honesty.

“Your husband was helping me. I’ve been charged with murder and I needed him to get my investigative tools.”

I don’t know where her hand came from, but it moved with blinding speed as she slapped my miserable face. My eyes filled with little lights and everything went topsy again. My hands balled to fists and by some grace of God I didn’t lash and put both through her sodding gob. Maybe I’m a gentleman after all.

“How dare you come in here half-pissed with some story! The next time you and Orel stay out, you might as well take him home with ya!”

I rubbed a hand down my cheek. I could feel my pulse through my skin.

“Yes, mum,” I said. “Sorry about the story. I’ll be on my way then?”

“Aye.”

No use explaining the reality of things. A wiser man than I once said that men and women live in different worlds. The man’s world is one of harsh realities while a women’s world is one based on rosy dreams. That bloke, Conrad, was half right. Yes to different worlds. To be sure men and women exist in places wholly different, one from the other. But a woman’s world, as best as I can figure, is not necessarily one of rosy dreams. A woman’s life is filled with harsh realities all its own. A man’s harsh reality is crushing labor and living with the fact that he’ll never be as strong or as smart or as capable as he was in his twenties. This is true for all men, it’s our shite. A woman’s harsh reality is dealing with the fact that she will never be as clever or charming or beautiful as she was in her twenties. That’s their shite. Also, they have to put up with our shite.

By the time I reached my flat, the sun was showing mid-morning. I gave no thought to breakfast, just securing my box under a pile of shredded coats in my big closet and getting some sleep. The imprisonment of yesterday felt like a faraway dream, like it had happened to some other bloke in some foreign and distant story. At least I had my box. If this thing was to be done, if I was going to retrieve the remains of the Swan Princess for Jacques Nouveau, the contents of my box were the key.

I lay down in a pool of feathers, in the remains of my bed. The sleep that came was instant and blissfully deep.

Three

Thirteen Days Until Sunset

I woke the next day covered in feathers like snowfall. My body was holding a pain competition. The clear winner was my face with its broken potato nose and twin black eyes. Second prize went to my skull, which throbbed with equal parts hangover and concussion. Honorable mentions were taken by my sore back and dried out tongue.

I put a kettle on the fire. Whoever dismantled my flat at least had the decency to leave my kettle and hot plate alone. Man without tea is a beast. Someone said that once.

While my tea steeped I retrieved the lockbox. It was my bug-out kit, a worst-case-scenario box I put together for an early retirement or ugly circumstances. In it lay a shoe box half full of Boschon punch cards, an envelope with two hundred quid, a loaded Engholm four-barreled revolver, and a bottle of Creger’s Reserve Scotch Whiskey. The cards represented a salt-the-earth defense. Over the decades of its existence, the Bow Street Firm had acquired a copious amount of personal files on every man, woman, and child involved in our investigations, our thousands of investigations. The reports were thorough, objective, and filled to the brim with dark little bits of information on a whole gamut of London society. Bow Street had taps on the filthiest of filthy beggars all the way on up to the highest and freshest smelling circles of nobility. I had taps on the taps.

I shuffled through the cards. Cobblers, priests, politicians, merchants, traders, pimps, and prostitutes. Each bit of information tagged and filed for some unsavory implication, some juicy rumor to be used or sold by the managers, specifically Lord Barnes. The very existence of these files was what made Bow Street so feared and untouchable; it was a profitable combination.

My cards are not originals. Years ago, I discovered the source of Lord Barnes’ power. Nothing to it, it was a poorly kept secret that the agents often whispered about over pints and evenings. Not content with whispering, I took matters a step further. I turned over a good deal of my salary to a young Miss Christine Wallace, secretary, widower, profiteer, transcriber and copier of Boschon cards. Anything she found interesting she’d run a second time. I paid a pound a duplicate. The cost was tremendous but I always considered it an investment for retirement.

I was biding my time for the perfect card. One day I would find someone crooked enough, dark enough, and rich enough to lean on. Blackmail is not the right word. Blackmail is for black guards. To squeeze a villain is more like a tax on amorality.

Unfortunately, the perfect card never came. They were either too poor, or regular folk caught in circumstances. Nothing matched the image in my mind of the modern pirate hoarding treasures. Miss Wallace was eventually released from her employment for suspicion of lewd acts. And here I sit with my persuasion box, just a little sample of Lord Barnes’ collection. I shouldn’t use it. To use it is to alert the underworld that such a thing exists, and I have it, and Lord Barnes has it. To use a thing like this is to paint yourself a bull’s eye. I shouldn’t use it, but I will. A bull’s eye is preferable to the hangman’s knot. At least I hope it is.

Every card is labeled with a name, an occupation, and a short summary of the subject’s wrong doing. My cards were in no particular order. I flipped through them, absorbing random details.

Ernst Q. Baker: Textile Merchant: Sexual Pervert

Emily Schneider: Domestic: Morphine Addict

Paul E. Gettlow: Pawn Broker: Murder Suspect

Byrce H. Carry: Unemployed: Opium Addict

Mary Shena O’Reilly: Prostitute: Prostitution

Matthew Forest McGraw: Police Officer: Conspiracy Theft

Matthew’s card caught my eye. I remembered the case. I was on the investigative team. A shipment of uncut diamonds had lost their way somewhere between Antioch and London. The wronged merchants paid a premium to the firm and we shook the London underworld. I personally beat two blokes senseless over the affair. We turned over all rocks and tips and hints and suddenly “poof.” Like magic a patrolling Metro uncovered the box in the back of an abandoned horse wagon. That patrolling Metro was Officer Matthew Forest McGraw.

Officer McGraw got himself a promotion and a modest cash reward for the recovery. The merchants made good on their fee to the firm, but there was much grumbling as to the necessity of thief catchers when London employed such bright and shiny coppers. Our team leader, an analyst by the name of George Craig, put together the wrap-up report. By some astronomical coincidence, one of the diamond shipping guards, a man found with a dagger in his neck at the start of the case, just so happened to be the second maternal cousin of… Officer McGraw. Now Sergeant McGraw. Not the kind of evidence you take to a magistrate to steamroll a hero Met in a resolved case. Hero coppers are protected like vicars in this town. Not a report for the magistrate, but still something to shake a man’s confidence, get him to question his safety, to make free and loose with favors.

I picked out the card and turned it in my fingers. All those little holes, each a mouth ready to tell its story to an awaiting Difference Engine; to those brilliant government computation/information devices. The new gods of our new world.

McGraw was my key, the third thing on my growing to-do list, after a fresh shirt and brunch.

My musings were interrupted by a knock on the door, another solid official knock.

“Who’s there?” I called out. I was answered first with silence, then a heavy thump as the door buckled and shuddered. Someone was trying to kick his way into my flat!

“Shite,” I whispered. The assailant kicked my door again. I swept all my loose effects back into the lockbox and latched it shut. A third kick. A fourth.

I threw my lockbox out the window onto the street below. Angry day walkers scattered at the impact. I reached out and caught a firm grip against the building’s drain pipe. The door imploded. A man with an elephant mask charged in with pistol raised. I flung myself out the window. Gun fire popped. The top end of my window exploded and rained glass. I half-slid, half-fell down the pipe to the street below. A loose holding plate sliced my right hand but good. I hit the ground hard. Cobble stones exploded around me. I got to my knees, my feet, my bloody hand found my box and I took off.

Imagine a fat man charging through and finding cover among the day time denizens of Whitechapel.

The man in the elephant mask exited my building unmolested and gave chase. I ducked and weaved past buggies and carts and horses and all the regular eternal toiling of peasants.

I had a block of a head start on Mr. Safari and was zagging against a clear line of fire. My back and legs burned. I peeked behind myself and watched Safari making gains.

I forced an extra burst of speed into my legs, my football sprint if you will. I then spun myself into an alley, dropped to my knees, and pulled the Engholm pistol from my lockbox. I took the low ground and planned to ambush Mr. Safari with a gut shot. Maybe two, maybe four.

Blood roared in my ears. I tried to take control of my breathing, but it poured out in hot gasps. At the last second, I remembered to draw back the hammer of my gun. Wagons passed. Men passed. Beasts of burden passed. All at a leisurely stroll, like the day was fine and no villainy was afoot.

Mr. Safari must be a keen one. He opted not to show for my ambush. I got up and peeked around the corner. He was nowhere, vanished. Maybe he took an alley all his own. Maybe he took off his mask and blended with the regulars. Now that I think about it, I was so distracted by his mask, I didn’t catch what the man had been wearing. I stuffed the Engholm into my jacket pocket and proceeded with my morning business.

I reentered the street and let the smells and noises of London wash over me. I tried to see everything at once, hear everything at once, smell everything at once, the clomping of hooves against the barks and cries of wagoners against the scent of manure and roasting nuts and my own stale whiskey shirt. No man gets the drop on me in my home territory.

I entered my tailor’s shop and was met with wide-eyed stares from friendly Elester and his two assistants.

“You look the dog’s body,” Elester said.

“I’ve been busy,” I replied. “Got a shirt in my size?”

“Off the rack?”

“I’ve not time for better. Trousers too.”

Elester vanished behind a curtain. One of his assistants leaned in close.

“You’ve got feathers in your hair,” he whispered.

I ran a hand through my mop and knocked loose a few white feathers.

“I pow wow on my off days,” I told him.

The assistant cocked his head to one side. I’d once seen a cocker spaniel do the same thing. Elester returned with a giant blue and red striped button-up.

“Christ, Elester! Motley?”

“Sorry, Jolly. I can have a better shirt for you by tomorrow.”

“Trousers?”

“Tomorrow. You’re dripping blood on my floor.”

I closed my eyes. I’m not religious by nature but I do believe the Lord tests men on some days more than others. I pulled off my jacket and threw it to the ground. My pistol fell out, of course. I took off my whiskey shirt and exposed my teats and belly in all their glory. I pulled the clown shirt on and tucked it smartly. Then I ripped a great big strip of cloth from my dirty shirt and wrapped my bloody hand in it. I donned my jacket and returned the pistol to its pocket. Elester and his assistants watched in silence. I projected an air of “don’t fuck with me or I’ll start cracking skulls.” Successfully, I might add.

“What do I owe?”

Elester waved his hand. “Nothing today, Jolly. Just promise you’ll come back tomorrow. I’ll have such lovely things for you to buy.”

I thanked the tailor for his intention if not his execution.

The day was growing late. I skipped brunch and decided to meet McGraw hungry and mean. Officer McGraw, now Sergeant McGraw, the man with something to lose.

I strolled into his precinct twenty minutes later. The dispatch officer recorded my name and went to retrieve McGraw at my request. The precinct buzzed like the Bow Street Firm buzzed, all clacks and clinks and the frequent whoosh of pneumatic tubes.

Sergeant McGraw approached me with a pissed-off look on his face. At first I thought he recognized me from his investigation, then I remembered my shirt and face and the fact that I now resembled a crazy duffer.

“You’ve got a feather in your hair, Mr…?” He let the question hang.

“Fellows.” I presented a hand. “Jacob Fellows, of Bow Street.”

McGraw slowly nodded his head. He ignored my hand.

“Formerly of Bow Street, if I’ve heard right,” he said. “Unless there is another Jacob Fellows, maybe one not thrown out of Bow Street.”

So began our game. No different from all the games of men. Words for advantage. Words for power.

“You’re right. I’m being punished for misbehaving. You can say I’m a specialist at misbehaving.” I smiled. McGraw didn’t.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Misbehaving,” I replied.

“Get out!” McGraw motioned to his dispatch officer. The young man put hard hands on my shoulders and tried to leverage a push to get me through the doors. I ignored the little fella.

“I heard you could get me a deal on gemstones. Fine diamonds and such,” I said.

McGraw shoved the dispatch officer aside and put his own forceful hands on me. I let him duck walk me to the front door.

“Six o’clock. Meet me at Weeks Café,” McGraw whispered and shoved me out into the street.

“And lose that bloody shirt!”

So I found myself with time to kill. I took in a meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. I wandered to the tube station and hired a locker for my lockbox, putting all those cards and scotch and most of my savings under lock and key. I strung the key to the trigger guard of my pistol for safe keeping and walked out onto the station platform.

People come and go and come and go. To and fro. The tube station is new. All the brass is shiny and reflective despite the hands and bodies that press and lean and shift. The steam engines of the tram belch a sulphurous miasma upon every arrival and departure. City managers spent a sultan’s fortunes on low-light flowers, and perfumes, and agents and myriad counter scents. Anything to beat the foul sulphur rot. In practice, the new scents just add a layer on top of the sulphuric belches. All smells present and accounted for. Some days smell like sulphur and sage. Some like sulphur and roses. Today was sulphur and ambergris. It bled into my new shirt, my old jacket, into the cuffs and frills of all the dapper commuters returning to the beautiful country from their posh jobs. I took the measure of them, and went on my way.

Weeks Café specialized in pretentious coffees and teas. I ordered a Snap Dragon Delight, whatever the hell that was. A young barista, dressed precariously in a blacksmith’s apron and chemist goggles, squeezed a ball of leaves into a mesh pouch. He then gently placed the pouch in my cup and blasted it with a copper steam pipe connected to a bustling apparatus that occupied the entire north wall of the establishment. Pipes shook and rattled and soon the young man was consumed by a cloud of steam. He eventually emerged with my cup. During the assault, the pouch had burst and everything, barista, cup, saucer, was covered in beaded moisture.

“Make sure you let that cool, sir,” the barista said.

Heat radiated from the cup. I could no longer see the young man’s eyes through the precipitation of his goggles. At some point in the process, my sinuses cleared for the first time since winter. I took a table and blew on my cup.

Officer McGraw entered the establishment. He’d changed to plain clothes for our chat. Being inconspicuous I guess. A man trying to hide is unbalanced by spectacle, which meant it was time for me to be difficult.

McGraw spotted me and walked to my table with long straight strides. His was the walk of a man with purpose. No tea, no coffee, no looking about, straight to the confrontation. I shoved a stool out with my foot and beckoned McGraw to sit. He disregarded the seat and loomed large and imposing over my little tea table.

“What do you think you have?” He asked.

I casually took a sip of my tea and was instantly overtaken with burns on my lips and tongue. Hot as bloody hell! I wiped my chin and was happy not to see dead skin and blood.

“You know what I have. Take a seat, mate. Order a cuppa. You’re making a spectacle.”

McGraw took a seat.

“Your shirt is a spectacle,” he replied. No point in a retort, the shirt was indefensible. I reached into my pocket and pulled his Boschon card.

“Bow Street knows about your cousin. We also know about the diamonds. No need to explain, mate. Innocent or not this card paints you like Dorian Grey.”

“Is that the only copy?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

“What makes you think I won’t just reach over and take it from you?” He said and puffed up his chest.

“Look into my eyes.”

He looked.

“Now down my chest.”

Oddly enough, he complied.

“Now down my arm, my hand, the one in my jacket pocket. What do you think that bulge is?”

“Give me two guesses?” He asked.

“Sure.”

“Your lumpy biscuit.”

“Give it a second guess?” I cocked the hammer of my Engholm. The click was distinct and audible even in the café bustle. The waiter who’d come to take McGraw’s order turned and suddenly found someplace better to be, somewhere far away from the big ugly men. McGraw gave me his best tough guy grin. Bloody filth.

“So what’s the offer? What does that card cost?”

“Costs nothing, mate. I need friends, not currency.”

McGraw’s face turned red with frustration. Some men have no stomach for clever words and riddles.

“You want me to be your friend? That’s it?”

“Sure. Of course, all my friends owe me favors.”

“Listen, fats. I’ll have it in plain English. What do you want?”

“If I had a friend, a good friend, he’d come to my home with gifts. I love Swan Lake, particularly scenes with the lovely Swan Princess. Call me a fan.”

McGraw caught on. He looked around real careful to make sure we had no listeners. He leaned in and gave me his library voice.

“You’re mad, fats,” he said. “I read your file before coming here. You murdered an old man. Claimed his clockworks came to life and did the deed. Wonkers.”

“Not all his clockworks. Just one,” I whispered back.

“And you want me to lift this clockwork from a secure location? Past Metro guards?”

“Yes.”

McGraw tilted back in his stool. I attempted another sip of my fine Indian magma.

“I don’t get the benefit,” he said. “You’re a dead man, a hangman’s place holder. I don’t know what favor got you bailed out, but making the Swan disappear won’t save your case. She’s not anywhere near the best evidence against you. You’ve got Metro witnesses placing you smack in the middle of mayhem. You’re the only living man near a dead man and a room of absolute nutter carnage. Have no delusions friend, you will swing for this.”

“Maybe I’ve unfinished business with the Swan. Something I want to wrap up before my big day.”

McGraw stopped smiling and gave me a long regarding look, like he was trying to spot the crazy on me.

“Alright, if you’re playing the fool, then I’ll give you a fool’s bargain. The Swan for my card.”

“And all the pieces found near her.”

McGraw nodded. I took my gun hand out of my jacket pocket and we shook on the deal.

“Come find me at the Piece Work Inn when you’re done. When will you have her?”

“Soon, fats. Real soon.”

McGraw got up and left in the same deliberate point A to B line he’d entered with.

I abandoned my molten cup. Our waiter was talking to a manager and from the way he glanced over at me, I’m sure the conversation was not complimentary. I’m not an expert in the finer points of law, but I imagine armed conflict in a tea shop violates the terms of my bail. So I left.

The Piece Work Inn was really more a brothel than an inn. It was an inn in the barest sense. There were furnished rooms that a gentleman could hire for long or short terms. The building itself stood three stories, making it the largest structure in its neck of the city. It even contained a lift, a modern marvel strangely placed among the whores and desperate men. Prostitutes dominated the first floor. Women of all ages and not a few races, made common to each other in their dress. They wore bright silks and fur like plumage on tropical birds. Also like birds, they cooed and squawked and loosed words without meaning. Faces painted like Zulu warriors. The dominant smell of the lobby was talcum layered onto the musk of sex. I’d like to say that my past dealings with the Piece Work were purely professional. I guess they were if you take into account the oldest profession.

What the Piece Work lacked in respectability, it made up for in discretion. I’d met the doorman and clerk on half a dozen occasions, but never exchanged names. The sign-in ledger read like a Smith-Jones family reunion. Ever the contrarian, I signed myself in as “Hugh Jarse” and proceeded to my room.

The room itself was clean. The walls were cleaned and scrubbed; a faux-Persian rug centered the room. Regardless, I stripped the quilt and sheets off the bed. Gross is gross and I’ll not risk sleeping in the residue of strangers. I took stock of my surroundings. The Piece Work had natural security in the form of a pimp conglomerate, who technically stood as the owners of the establishment. On the down side, my window was nailed shut, a preemptive measure against customers skipping out on their tabs. There was a knock on my door. Not authoritarian this time, but soft, polite, almost apologetic. Far too early for McGraw, I hoped for one person to be on the other side of that door. I opened it, and there she was.

Mary Kelly, often called Dark Mary, but never by me. She claimed to be Black Irish and possessed the dark curls to prove it. I knew better. Her eyes were cornflower and her voice turned to Welsh inflections when she got excited, meaning she was about as Irish as a Scotch terrier. Mary smiled at me.

“Jolly, I saw you in the lobby. Here for fun?”

She invited herself in and put a hand on my swollen face. Her fingers were weightless, like chicken bones ready to break at a rough grasp. The skin of her face was covered thick in beige makeup, then blush. Her eyes were painted gold to compliment the cornflowers. Some of the shadow seeped into crow’s feet. She had once been beautiful, but her face was losing shape from too much drink and long nights of being a whore.

“My poor big baby,” she cooed. I never liked that pet name.

“Listen, Mary.” I reached up for her hand with my own. She grasped my bandaged paw with both of hers.

“Jolly, this is serious.”

The wound was turning red and tender. I figured a doctor’s visit would be in order when all this business wrapped up.

“Nothing is serious, love, nothing but death and debt. I’d love to talk, but I’m on the job.”

Mary looked into my eyes and smiled. We had a past, one I don’t want to talk about. Though given her profession I guess the math is simple. We knew each other.

“You need someone to take care of you, Jolly. You look like you fought a bear.”

“You should see the bear.”

She giggled and put her hand over her mouth. “You want me to come back? When your business is over?”

“Yes.” I didn’t have to think hard about that one.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” She turned but I grabbed her hand and searched for more to say. It’d been a long time since I’d heard a friendly voice, and Mary, well, ladies of ill-repute often have specialties, things they are known for. I never asked, but I can guess Mary’s specialty is making blokes think she cares, like a wife or a sweetheart. Whenever we talked she looked into my eyes. When I joked she smiled and laughed. The times we’d been together. Well, there I go again.

“Thanks, love. Don’t mention to anyone I’m here.”

She gave me a look that said the request was unnecessary. Discretion was law in this house.

“Let me know if any strange blokes stop by. Any non-regulars.”

“Of course.” She kissed my cheek. Paused for a moment, then kissed my mouth. It was just a peck, but… Lord. Why did God make creatures as complex as women for creatures as simple as men? Before I could say anything smart or funny, she left and closed the door behind her. I sat on my mattress and started the waiting game, the long wait. The unpredictable length of time from the now to the moment McGraw returned with what’s mine.

Antiphon the Philosopher said that time is an illusion. Buddha agreed with this sentiment. Fucking bollocks! Time is the reality of each and every moment and sometimes it’s long and sometimes it’s short but regardless it is the sling throwing us toward our inevitable demise. It catches us out of our mother’s womb and hurtles us towards whatever our last day is and we have no choice but to live within it. I lived within time, waiting for McGraw, minutes as hours, hours as days, and on, and on, and on.

Four

Jolly has three reunions, some more pleasant than others

At some point I’d fallen asleep with my gun clutched to my chest. I’m not an easy sleeper, so sleeping with my gun was a bit of poor judgment. One bad dream, one twitchy finger, and I could have woken in the fluffy hereafter. Given the circumstances, sleeping altogether was poor judgment, but the body wants what it wants.

My wounded hand throbbed and pulsed. I unwrapped the shirt bandage and found the laceration framed with red lines. Pus rimmed the edges of my skin. Not good. I took a towel from a stack in the closet. It smelled like bleach and glowed white despite the lack of sun or room light.

I shook my disoriented head and wondered why I’d woken at all. I suddenly remembered. A knock on the door. Now came another. Not Mary, but a man’s knock. I wondered where Mary was for a moment, then diverted my thoughts. Best not to dwell on the evening goings-on of sex workers. I ran my fingers through my hair. It felt like a bird’s nest of mats and tangles. All things considered, my hair ranked low on my worries.

I opened the door to a clearly irritated Metro.

“Are you Jacob Fellows?” The Met asked.

“Yeah.” I had nothing clever for the man. No one is clever in the minutes after they wake.

The Met pushed my door all the way open. He got a good look at me.

“Is that for me?” He motioned to the gun I was still holding. I’d forgotten it.

“No. Sorry about that.” I threw it on the bed. The Met went back into the hall and pushed a wheelbarrow into my room. The contents were covered by a king-sized blanket. The Met pushed the barrow to the rug and tilted it. Everything dumped onto the ground in a cacophonous crash. I winced at all that precision machinery, dumped like garbage. There she was, the Swan Princess, laid in a pool of screws and cogs, looking exactly as I’d left her. The cracks and scars I’d inflicted on her skin seemed like sacrilege. Like I’d gone and ripped into the Mona Lisa.

“McGraw mentioned you’d have something for me,” the Met said in absolute disinterest. I pulled the Boschon card from my jacket pocket and handed it to him.

“Give McGraw my compliments,” I said.

The Met smiled. “Won’t have to. He gave me a message, real clear. He said that if he spots your ugly face any time between now and when you’re executed by the state, he’ll put a fucking bullet through it, savvy?”

“Crystal.”

“Good then.” And the Met left.

I looked the Swan over, timid at first, like she was going to pop up and bite me. The bruises left by her teeth lined my stomach and shoulder, a sickly yellow but no worse than the damage I’d incurred since our fateful dance.

I lit the gas lamps of my room. I’d want to say for a better look, but the truth was she spooked me. I needed the light for comfort, like ancient men gathered around the campfire.

Her eyelids were open; one socket black and empty where I’d destroyed the orb, the other lifeless glass, like a neglected doll blown up to man size. I rang the bell for the night porter. By the look of the stars fading against the sky, I’d guess it was four or five in the a.m.

Around the Swan lay screws and cogs and all the little bits and pieces I’d ripped from her god-forsaken body. The night porter let himself in. A little rat man, suited for his place and purpose.

“Get Jacques Nouveau; bring him here as fast as you can. Tell him Jacob Fellows did his job. You’ll find him here.” I pressed a scrap of paper with Nouveau’s address into his little rat hands.

The porter looked like he was going to mount a protest, probably something about leaving his post or blah blah blah. I silenced dissent with hard currency.

“Get on your wagon, then.”

The porter went on his merry way and I went back to my study of the Swan. I was baffled as to her nature. What causes ivory and brass and glass and steel to up and kill a man? To try for two? I didn’t want to delve into the spirituality of it all. If God could induce life into clay and mud, had Saxon found the equivalent for clockwork? If he’d found the secret to life, why had she turned? Is it in the nature of all living things to destroy, to turn on their makers? I let my mind fall into these questions, these terrible, unanswerable questions. In the midst of my ponderings, something caught my eye. Specifically, one of the Swan’s master cogs, an item I’d torn out form her back, an item which had traveled from crime scene, to evidence storage, to my lovely and seedy room at the Piece Work. It looked like polished brass, but when I lifted it, the weight told me it was a gold-based alloy. The disk was slightly bent, rimmed with half-inch teeth, and covered in etched symbols. I ran a finger down the etchings. They were crosses and triangles and X’s neatly placed in straight lines, maybe some foreign script, maybe a code. The flip side of the disc revealed a different set of symbols, though similar in their placement of triangles and crosses. I checked another loose cog. Same material, different symbols, and it was the same with another cog, and another. What the hell? The symbols were yet another unknown factor, like the Swan’s life, like Mr. Safari, like Nouveau’s boss.

I stood up but the room spun out. I realized for the first time since waking that my body was covered in sweat and my hand throbbed worse than ever. I left my room and stumbled down a dimly lit hall. My own shadow played the wandering scarecrow; bed springs and passionate callings accompanied the early hours and covered the sounds of my steps from closed doors of nearby rooms. I shut my eyes and clutched the wall.

Things turned surreal, like my body was melting into the ethereal. I remember clutching a door knob. I remember collapsing in front of the fireplace in the opulent lobby, retrieving bits of charcoal. At some point Mary was at my side, guiding me back to my room, and then I fell far, far away. I was in my father’s shop. He was sharpening a leather knife on a whetstone. The sounds of that knife against the rock, long and shrill. Over and over he pressed the blade and let it slide. Shirk. Shirk. Shirk.

“Father,” I said. I suddenly realized that I was a child. That father’s shop was too large and my place in it was the corner. Always the corner where I watched him trim leather and nail soles and stitch the finer points of boots. Father stopped his sweeps, his shirk, shirk, shirking.

“Boy,” he said. “What did you do to your hand?”

I looked at my hand; it was black and inflated like an American football.

“I cut it climbing,” I said.

Father nodded at this, like it was something he already knew.

“Of course you did, boy. Did you clean it?”

“No.”

“What did I tell you about being smart?”

“You said I need to be a smart boy.”

“What would a smart boy have done with that laceration?”

“Cleaned it in soap and water.”

“And what happens to dumb boys?”

“Dumb boys get the strap.”

Father stood and retrieved his razor strap from the wall.

“You know what comes next.”

I woke to a needle stabbing my hand. Mary was standing over me. A man in his late twenties, smart looking with a handle bar mustache, jabbed my hand again with a large medical syringe.

“Sorry, friend,” the young man said. “Stay calm, I’ll be but a minute.”

He jabbed my hand again. Then he put a needle into my wrist and filled it with some cold solution, or at least I imagined it cold. I passed out again and came too with the morning sun and Mary and her friend looking down at me.

“That’s quite an infection you got there, Mr. Fellows. You’re lucky your friend came to me when she did.”

I pulled myself up to a sitting position. The Swan Princess was gone. Nouveau must have come during my convalescence. Shite.

“Thanks for your help, Mister…?”

“Doctor. Doctor Conan Doyle.”

The young man extended his hand and I shook it with my uninjured one.

“I’ve put a lot of penicillin in your system, and a little morphine, too. You’re not going to feel right for quite a while. At least few days, I recommend you stay put until that hand heals.”

I put my feet on the floor.

“I appreciate your assessment, Doc. Now help me find my shoes.”

Dr. Doyle got a sour look on his face but had the good sense not to say anything about it. Mary found my shoes and helped me up and out of bed.

“Look friend, my advice stands. If you need to work something out, this will give you a short boost.” The doctor handed me a capped syringe. “Extract of the coca leaf. Seven percent solution. That syringe has two doses. Only use half at a go. And remember what I said about taking it easy. I’ll show myself out,” the young doctor said.

“What do I owe you, guv?”

“The lady paid your bill.” The doctor gave a curt nod to Mary and left us to ourselves. I put a hand on her shoulder, more out of support than affection.

“I owe you one, Mary.”

“I know, you’ll pay in good time.” She kissed me on the corner of my mouth again. Christ.

“I need to see a Frenchman. Was he here last night?”

“Yes, he came while you were out. He took the broken lady statute.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Yes, but it was in French. I don’t speak French.”

“Fair enough. Did he leave anything?”

“No, he took his statute, said those slick weird words, and was on his way. Not soon enough. That man is a creep.”

“Says the prostitute.”

She took offense.

“I still have standards. And I still don’t like creeps. I’m not numb to the world around me and all the people of the world.”

She looped her arm around mine and walked me to the door of my room.

“He took her and left. I kept your rubbings for myself, though.”

“Rubbings?”

“Last night, in your delirium you demanded I make charcoal rubbings of two of the cogs.”

She reached into her bodice and withdrew a thick folded paper. One side was covered in black reproductions of the cog symbols, the strange foreign letters.

“I love you,” I said.

Mary smiled at that. “Don’t be a fool, Jolly. For at least once in your life, don’t be a fool.”

I took hold of both her shoulders, hollow bird-boned shoulders. I could have lifted her off the ground and cradled her in my arms.

“What’s your day rate, love?”

“You know what I charge, Jolly. Hasn’t changed.”

“No. For the whole day I mean. What does your day cost?”

“Five pound gets you to the morning after.”

I pulled a five pound note from my pocket.

“Wait for me in my room. Please.”

“Hurry back.” She gave me another peck on the cheek, then went tip-toe and kissed my closed eyelid. Mercy.

I left the Piece Work on wobbly feet. Whatever the doc had loaded into my system was drawing every bit of moisture from my mouth and eyes and throwing it forth in layer after layer of cold sweat. I soaked my clown shirt on the walk from the Piece Work to the tube station. By the time I got off near Nouveau’s gallery, my jacket collar was soaked and my sleeves were heavy.

Nouveau’s place stood as rustic and pretentious as ever, a country barn standing in a poshy high-rise neighborhood. Why not?

The barn door swung open at my knock. The main gallery was empty. The paintings were gone. Sculptures, pedestals, the fancy green velvet ropes separating men from art, gone. I walked to Nouveau’s banquet room, the place we’d had our first chat. Empty, of course. The barn door table, the automatic servers, even the chandelier and light fixtures. Gone.

My stomach rumbled and twisted. No notes, no words, no signs of who was here or what had transpired. I tried to calculate the manpower of an exodus of this magnitude. Had they left last night? Had he been moving since my bail three days ago? I made a mental note to talk to the porter I’d sent here the night before.

Outside Nouveau’s barn, street merchants and wagoners occupied the dirt roads with their comings and goings. A horseless carriage puttered by. I tried to swallow but my mouth was free of spit and coated in sticky goo. I sat on the curb and let my mind reach out.

I could lean on a pawn broker or two, see if news of Nouveau’s departure had crossed their network. This seemed a bum lead. Anyone who’s thorough enough to pull the fixtures off the wall would do well enough to cover news of the departure, or set some false story for the looky-loos.

If Nouveau had wanted the Swan so bad, if his connections were this good, why involve me at all? The unknown loomed over me. I could glean the existence of a bigger picture; I just couldn’t see the details.

Lord Barnes, my former boss and trainer, suddenly came to mind.

“Always start at the beginning,” he’d say. “If you lose your way, just go back to the beginning.” Lord Barnes, master thief catcher, master blackmailer, pain in the arse boss.

I hired a hansom cab and went back to Saxon’s penny theater, back to the beginning of my story, back to the scene of the crime.

The door to Saxon’s theater was busted off the hinges. No surprise. I drew my Engholm and entered the theater on full alert. Saxon’s place had been worked over like my apartment. Glasses cases were smashed and emptied. Posters were ripped from the walls and left in shredded pieces. In the theater, all the chairs had been broken to sticks and piled into the orchestral pit, like an unlit bonfire. The key on my trigger guard jingled and jangled in the otherwise dead silence. I went backstage. Torn curtains and cut ropes marked the continued mayhem. A little staircase ran to the second story. I followed it, gun low and ready. The stairs lead into Dr. Saxon’s office and living quarters. It was a cramped studio with a smashed bed, gas hotplate, and an oversized workbench bolted to the north wall. I barely had room to turn around. Dr. Saxon’s life was his work in the most literal sense. Here were the living quarters of a man who cared nothing for luxury. His bed had been converted into a pool of feathers like mine. The shelves of his work bench stood open with smashed locks. They probably had held files, though everything had been salvaged from them. Axe scars marred the surface of the table. I ran my hands over the marks, the wounds. I imagined Saxon looming over this table, pressing cogs and gears, tweaking small parts into larger machines, everything for the dancers below, the Doctor’s beautiful dancers.

I opened my eyes. Between the table and wall a tiny corner of paper peeked out. I tried to pinch it, but my fingers were too thick to get a hold. Whatever the paper was, it was firmly wedged between the bolted table and the wall. I gave the table a good shake. Nothing. I grabbed a corner of the table and gave it a good tug. The bolts held and I accomplished nothing but making my infected hand even more tender. I looked around the room for some sort of tool, something to assist. I lifted a plank from the busted bed, cracked it over my knee, and pulled a splinter the size of pencil loose.

I was jabbing at the envelope when I heard shuffling down below. I gave the splinter one last shove and the paper slid under the desk. It was an open envelope, empty, addressed to C. Darwin, 12 Upper Gower Street, London.

There was another noise down below, this time a crash. I pocketed the envelope and crept to the door, gun back in my fist. The doorway to Saxon’s living quarters came out onto a bird’s eye view of his theater. With the curtains gone, that view included the orchestral pit and seating. My new friend, Mr. Safari, stood center in audience rows, black suit, elephant mask, pistol clutched in hands crossed low over his hips, still as a corpse. Left to right Safari had friends. Mr. Lion, Mr. Ape, Mr. Goat, Mr. Tiger, all masked and suited and hefting nickel-plated long pistols.

“Come down, Mr. Fellows. We have a proposition for you,” Safari called up to me. He punctuated his sentence by cocking the hammer of his pistol. I backed into the workshop and shut the door. For a second I thought I’d imagined the whole thing. That somewhere in my sick, drug addled mind I’d hallucinated the maskers. Then a bullet punched through the door and ripped the skin off the edge of my ear. That brought me back real quick. Boots stomped, men ran. My time slowed. I tried to swallow again, was met with sticky filth again. I was dizzy, sweating. I reached into my pocket for the Engholm, but instead found Dr. Doyle’s syringe. Why not? I popped the cap with my teeth and jabbed the needle in my leg. I pressed the plunger to the end before remembering the doctor’s warning about double dosing. Too late. Bollocks.

Another bullet tore through the door. There was no lock, but the door was a single, small entrance. One man at a time was coming through and I liked the odds of myself against any one man.

Blood rushed into my face, my sweat turned from cold to hot. I was hyperventilating, like my body couldn’t get enough air. I gritted my teeth and ground them in a low crackling sound, masked wholly by the blood pounding in my ears. Cheers to Dr. Doyle.

The door opened. I roared and charged. Goat mask leveled his gun. I like to think he looked surprised under the mask. That maybe he was expecting a cowering man, or a rational man. What he got was the holy living shite kicked out of him. Literally, one kick square in the chest with every bit of weight I could shift into it. Goat mask fell back, hit the guardrail, flipped over it and went crashing to the stage below.

I don’t remember ripping Saxon’s hotplate off its gas pipe, but zoom, there it was. The blood pounding in my ears turned into a pulsing hum. Tiger mask took Goat’s place in the doorway and I flung the hotplate at him like a discus. The bulky appliance bounced off the beast man’s shoulder and I swear I heard a crunch. Tiger shot once into the ground, then shifted his gun to the arm that wasn’t broken and shot wild into the room. His bullet struck metal and fanned sparks that ignited the natural gas filling the room from the open appliance line. I got my hands on him, wrapped my arms around his body and dragged him into the burning room, into the mouth of hell. I might have been screaming at this point. I know he was.

I lifted the Tiger mask over my head and drove him into the ground. Shots were firing from somewhere, to somewhere. My vision doubled, but this was a moot point in that all I could see was walls and walls of flames. Flame, coating the world. I crossed my arms over my face; the sleeves of my jacket were set ablaze. I turned to what might have been the window side of the room and leapt.

By God or Fortuna, I was right. My fat body burst through the office window and I dropped like a flaming comet in the early evening sky. I remember hitting a slanted roof, sliding, falling, landing on my feet in the street, jacket still ablaze. Some thick bodied masker, Mr. Gazelle, Safari and company’s outside lookout, stared at me with mouth agape. Too late he reached for his holstered fire arm and I was on him. I grabbed his gun wrist and put two Engholm rounds in his chest with my free hand. The Gazelle slumped onto the pavement. I’d never killed a man before this. Sure I’ve seen war, maybe I’d shot a man, but the skirmishes I encountered were distant things, rifle rounds across fields to faraway strangers. This was different. My hand was on this man when I laid him low. This occupies my thoughts now, though it didn’t then. Not with Dr. Doyle’s magic solution coursing in my veins.

I stripped off my flaming coat and took the masker’s firearm, a nickeled Colt Action Army. His fall had knocked the gazelle mask eschew. It was Owens. My Bow Street comrade. My safety net.

I ran down the streets of London, a nutter of the first rate with a pistol in each hand and burn holes throughout my shirt and trousers. I ran the streets. If the maskers pursued, I knew not. I ran straight and true, pumping arms and legs and guns. A line of spittle ran from my mouth, down my chin and speckled my sooty shirt. I imagine I looked much like Mary Shelley’s monster. Evening strollers and late business folk jumped to avoid me, crossed busy roadways to avoid me, entered buildings to avoid me. Somewhere on Three Lanes a Metro called out to me. I paused and turned to him. I was breathing fire at this point and grinding my teeth so hard that one literally cracked and fell out of my mouth. The copper looked at me, looked at my pistol hands and what must have been the maddest eyes he’d ever beheld and made a decision not to interfere.

“Get home safe, mate,” he called out. I’d taken to my running again. I ran back to Whitechapel, back to the Piece Work. The pimps and whores and clients gasped and stared at my entrance. Keeping my stay here secret might be harder than I imagined.

I made it to my room and blacked out. I awoke naked on the mattress. Mary was holding me and whispering. The cold air was painful on my skin. My arms and legs were covered in bubbled skin and peeling blisters. Much of my hair was singed away.

At some point, Dr. Doyle returned. At first he was speechless. There wasn’t much on me that wasn’t burnt and blistered.

“Oh, what the shite!?” The good doctor said.

Five

Jolly finds himself in an unfamiliar setting

I woke in a strange bed and strange surroundings. The plush faux elegance of the Piece Work was replaced by a room with spare and Spartan decor. I remember images like photographs, dirty plaster walls, bed sheets hung as curtains, a bed that squeaked and squealed with each of my turns and rolls. The smells were different here. The talcum and sex scent of the Piece Work was replaced by the scent of cabbage, stronger when the breeze pushed in a sheet curtain.

I sat up. I was still naked. My skin was covered in some kind of thick salve, maybe petroleum jelly. All my skin was raw. What hadn’t peeled the first night of my convalescence had turned a shiny pink. What had peeled had turned into quite the scab collection. If I’d been a handsome man, this would have posed as a serious loss. Given my natural looks, I can’t say I was inconvenienced outside of tremendous pain and the loss of Lord knows how many days.

How many days? I remembered still periods in the night, in the early morning, in the day. The flapping of that sheet and the ever-present smell of cabbage. My whole world was cabbage.

My stomach rumbled. I wondered how long it had been since my last proper meal. Also, where were my clothes?

I wrapped the bed’s quilt around myself and walked to the window. The touch of the quilt hurt the skin on my shoulders and arms. I walked to the window. Outside a big woman was singing and pegging laundry. Shirts and trousers and diapers. She sang in Gaelic:

Luchd nan seòl àrd, hù il oro

‘S nan long luatha, o hi ibh o

‘S nam brataichean, hù il oro

Gorm is uaine, boch orainn o

Those beautiful and alien words. I don’t speak it, but all Gaelic sounds like the purr of love and the question of existence to me. Which got me thinking, was I still in London?

My mind went back to Owens. I shot Owens in the chest, a man I knew. The animal maskers were in some way connected to Bow Street, which meant they were connected to Lord Barnes, which meant I was right fucked.

The Gaelic singing was interrupted by shouts outside the front door. First female, then male, all muffled into tones and unknowns. I left the bedroom and walked through an equally Spartan living room adorned with a kitchenette, two ladder-backed chairs and a blank painter’s easel. The voices grew louder. Whoever was in the ruckus was outside the front door. The female voice grew louder, more shrill. Something thumped against the wall. A fist, a person, who knows? My investigative nature got the better of me. I opened the door and peeked out.

Mary Kelly was there, as was a man I had yet to meet. He was dressed like a dandy: three piece suit, vest, all argyle. A gold watch fob linked a vest button to his jacket pocket. All very natty. His hands were on her shoulders, holding her up against the wall. Her face had the look of fear a person gets when they are trying not to cry, that moment when we have no words and our throats close and we wish we were anyone else, or anywhere else.

“Excuse me, mate,” I interjected.

The dandy turned to me. Surprise didn’t quite cover his expression.

“Are you armed?” I enquired.

“What?” he asked in genuine confusion.

“Are you armed? Do you have a knife or a gun?”

“No.”

I let the quilt drop to the ground. All my greasy nakedness was displayed to the world. The dandy took his hands off of Mary.

“That’s a shame, mate. Because if you were, I’d feel like this was a fair fight. As is, I’m going to have to tear your fancy fucking arms off and I can’t imagine you’ve got the means to stop me.”

I held my fists out and clenched my hands until the knuckles popped. In my head I was praying that he stepped down. I didn’t have much more than the show of fight in me. In my experience guys who press girls to walls are cowards one hundred percent of the time. This dandy didn’t disappoint. He got the message and left in shameful haste and bluster. Mary knelt down and gripped her knees. She was hyperventilating a little. I presented my hand.

“This is your place?”

She took my hand and nodded.

“That was your pimp?”

She nodded again.

“Sorry to intrude.”

I walked her back inside. The living room kitchenette contained a hotplate, pantry, and sink. I proceeded to make a kettle of Earl Grey. I presented my tea selection to Mary, and she nodded in consent, still frazzled by the encounter.

“Look, dear. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, but if that man comes back I’d very much like to hit him.”

Mary giggled and nodded her head. I’ve never felt the better man in my life than in that moment.

I made her a cup of tea, and one for myself. We sat and drank and listened to the Gaelic songs of old from her melodious neighbor. I reached out and grasped her hand. Words were lost to the occasion. We just sat and sipped and let the world around us do whatever it is it does. She eventually broke the silence.

“I got your things.”

“Did you?”

“Your clothes. Your lockbox. Some toiletries, they’re all in the room.” She reached her hand behind her ear. A move of idle, embarrassed hands. I was at a loss.

“Thanks, love.”

I returned to the room. In the closet were two new shirts, a pair of trousers, undergarments and wool socks. Everything in my size.

“Couldn’t salvage my clown shirt?” I asked.

She smiled at that. I dressed in solid respectable colors. Cream silk for the shirt, gray for the trousers, and a brown belt. A man’s outfit. She’d even found a replacement for my long coat. I went through my lockbox. Scotch, Boschon cards; my savings were down to about eighty pounds. I gave Mary a scrutinizing look.

“I had debts to pay. I earned that,” she said.

I couldn’t argue with her, but still, funds were running short, as were my days.

“How long have I been here?”

“Four days. The porter you sent out never came back. People at the Piece started getting nervous and I figured you were better somewhere else. Dr. Doyle helped me get you here.”

She sipped her tea. I watched her little fingers encircle that blue porcelain China and bring the cup to her red painted lips. Her lip coloring did not match her skin tone well. The morning sun showed her age, but I didn’t care. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever beheld, this tiny protective creature. Forget everything I ever said about the beauty of the Swan Princess or Nouveau’s machine, the real thing will always claim superiority.

“Thanks. I owe you and the doctor a debt.”

She smiled her little smile and I felt that everything was fine. That the world was not pressing me. That I wasn’t an animal, cornered and desperate.

“I bought you a present,” she said and got up. She went to what I assume was her room, the room in which I’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for the last four days. She returned with two enormous leather belts, really more a harness. On closer inspection, I found that the harness was two linked holster belts, the shoulder strap set for the Engholm and the waist strap set for the Colt Army. It was some mad contraption meant for heroes in American dime novels. It looked bloody mean.

“I know a leather specialist,” she smiled and blushed. “Try it on.”

Mary helped me into the contraption. I must admit, with guns bristling from chest and hip I felt like Michael the Archangel. I felt like a warrior, a tough as nails enforcer, a man with three cocks and no curfew.

“Thanks, love.” I took hold of her neck and kissed it twice. My face was hurting a lot less than in days past.

I pocketed the rest of my currency and threw the new long coat over my gun gear. It covered the pistols just enough.

“What’s your pimp’s name?”

“Saucy Jack.”

“Is he the type to come back?”

“Yes.”

I gave her a five pound note.

“Go find yourself a day worth having. Lunch, clothes, whatever. I’ll be back here before evening, best you’re gone while I’m gone.”

Mary nodded. I kissed her again for good measure, just to be sure that the things I felt were the things she felt. I kissed her and walked out the front door. Things needed to get done and time was a pressing issue.

My thoughts turned again to Owens. Dumb luck Owens. The duffer with two bullets in his chest. I imagined there was a wake at the Bow Street Firm. All fallen comrades were given the respect of a good drunken wake. A celebration of life. I wondered what the excuse was for his death. Surely Lord Barnes didn’t list his demise as shot down due to a bloody stupid animal mask.

Old newspapers in Mary’s apartment mentioned the fire at Saxon’s but neither Owens nor myself were mentioned. No stranger than usual, I guess.

I waved a hansom down and gave the driver the address of Mr. C. Darwin, 12 Upper Gower Street. Saxon’s envelope had burned with my old jacket. By good fortune, Mary’s rubbings of the cogs had been in my trouser pockets, and she’d had the good sense to bring them with me to her little sanctuary.

Quickly enough the hansom took me to a nondescript cottage in a middle-class neighborhood. I knocked on the door and puffed out my chest, just in case. The door was answered by a small man with a large mustache. To say the mustache was large actually does it no justice. The hair on his lip dominated his mouth. I literally couldn’t tell you if his lips were red or pink or blue. He must have been Italian, though Hungarian would be a good second guess.

“Mr. Darwin?” I asked.

The man might have smirked. He had a smirk in his eyes, but I couldn’t tell if it reached his mouth beneath that godforsaken mustache.

“No,” he said.

“Is Mr. Darwin here?”

“You want to know if Charles Darwin is here?”

Shite! Charles Darwin! How many blokes named C. Darwin could there be in London? I cursed myself for not seeing the obvious. Charles Darwin was the most well-known, if not the most controversial scientist in all of England. Maybe the world. Of course some fringe genius like Saxon would have correspondence with the great naturalist, the destroyer of small minds and large institutions.

“Sorry, mate. I had it that he lived here.”

“Thirty years ago,” Mustache told me.

“Fair enough.” I gave mustache a nod and stepped lively back to the road. I didn’t need to ask where Charles Darwin currently resided, I already knew. Everyone who read the society papers knew. Charles Darwin was currently at the University of Oxford where he was in his fifth year of a permanent fellowship. He’d reached a level of academic notoriety in which no one expected him to produce anything, his presence simply added to reputations. Time for me to catch a train to Oxford.

Six

Jolly confides in the great Naturalist Charles Darwin

The train ride was lovely except for the gawks and stares I received from regular folk. Not just children mind you, grown men and women looked at me seated and whispered to each other. It reminded me of my public school days before I’d hit my growth spurt. The stares bothered me, the normality of the ladies and gents bothered me. All flush and fancy. Do regular people know what they look like? Do they know how they look when they gawk, when their dumb mouths hang open and their small minds work toward some bland conclusion? I finally turned to the couple sitting across from me.

“What, never seen a leper before?” I asked.

That shut them up but good. The man seated next to me rose and exited the car. Everyone seated within ten feet of me followed. Privacy works for me. I stretched my arms and legs and looked out the window at the scenery. Black Park, Stoke Poges, the Church Wood. Rolling hills and greenery pocked by country villages. It never failed to take my breath.

I’m a product of the city, of London, mainly Whitechapel. I’d never even been to the countryside until I was thirteen. Dad took me to scatter Mom’s ashes at Longwick, where she’d been born. He borrowed a horse and cart from a draftsman who he’d done free work for. We walked that horse from early morning to late afternoon. Father was silent in a way I was not used to. The verbose man, the cobbler philosopher. I had nothing to say either. Mother had been sick a long time. She’d been coughing blood for years, confined to her bed for months. Her death was an inevitability and we had adapted to the “when” rather than the “if” of our circumstances.

I can’t remember her face except to see a red speckled handkerchief in front of it. Blond hair, pale skin, blood on white cloth. That is my image of Mother.

Father and I left London in silence. Buildings gave way to grasslands and trees and I sat in stunned silence. I’d always seen trees as creatures of as much gray as green, as receptacles of soot that hung constant in our brave industrial society. To see trees unadorned by ash, to see them clean and swaying in a gentle breeze… Words escape me.

The trip lasted hours but to me it seemed much longer. We met Mother’s family in Longwick, but I wasn’t there. My mind took on the pictures of rolling grass and trees and I was running through them. I was drenched in sunlight and the grass came to my waist and rolled like crashing ocean waves.

The scattering, Mother’s wake - I was present for each event in body only. We left early the next morning and I swore to myself that when I grew to be a man, I would live my life in these forests. That I would become like the mythical elf, a creature who lives in the woods and for the woods and has nothing to do with the smoke and retch of our city home.

Like all dreams of youth, this was quashed quickly in the practical. I returned to school. I assisted Father. I grew to be a man of the city. A man who forgets his dreams only to remember them as the biography of a person wholly different and strange. Wood elf. Bollocks.

I must have dozed off. I woke at the stop before Oxford Station. The other passengers still kept their distance. I exited at Oxford and walked to the splendid university grounds.

Oxford is like the prototype of all universities. Old brick structures, open parks, hordes of brilliant youth in natty clothes. Every campus I’ve seen or heard of is some version of this. Which makes sense, Oxford being the first and oldest university of the Western world. The Italians claim the University of Bologna came first but I’ve been to Italy, I’ve spent holidays there and communed with the people. It’s just not possible that they came up with higher learning before we did.

I found the campus central library, another gray brick structure; it was three stories with windows cut through all floors. A kindly librarian gave me the whereabouts of Mr. Charles Darwin’s office but warned me not to bother checking there for two reasons. First, Mr. Darwin was constantly inundated with visitors, many unfriendly. His secretary had grown adept at removing them, bodily if necessary. The second and more relevant reason was that today was Thursday, thus Mr. Darwin would be giving his weekly lecture at the College of Science. She gave me directions to the college and I was on my way.

The primary lecture hall looked like a painting I’d once seen of a surgery theater. The room was circular and dropped into a deep pit. Rows upon rows of chairs lined the descending floor plan, stopping abruptly at a gated wall three meters from the bottom. Below the gates, the lecture hall stood as a flat and plain circle. The set up of the room gave me the impression of the Roman Colosseum in miniature. All the seats were full as were the stairs and any space that could be counted as standing room. I pressed in next to a group of young academics near the entrance. The hall was poorly ventilated and filled with the smoke of pipes and cigars and cigarettes. Every bloke in the hall was puffing something. The overall effect was like standing in thick, unbearable fog. I never understood the connection between academia and tobacco. Would it surprise you to know I’d never attended university?

Two men paced the lecture floor like swimmers in a sea of smoke. One of the men I recognized as Darwin. Bald head, pink peeling scalp, long white beard, bushy white eyebrows, ash cane. I’d seen Darwin before, but never in person. The papers showed his picture often enough, sitting at a charity ball, or speaking at some regal event, once with his head superimposed onto the body of an ape by some angry caricaturist.

Old Darwin shared the floor with a much younger man. The stranger was bedecked in a black suit and black wide-brimmed hat. His accent wasn’t just American, it was Southern American. The laziest of American accents. The Yank spoke first.

“My esteemed colleague would have you believe that transformation of species is inevitable. That creatures change based on fitness and adaptability rather than the will of God. Well, sir, if this is true, then why has humanity remained the same for the extent of our history? Why haven’t we evolved into something greater? Where is the super-human, Mr. Darwin?”

Darwin let his hand caress the full length of his beard. He looked every day of his seventy-nine years. The crowed silently exhaled smoke and tension. I tried to ask the bloke next to me who the Yank was and got a shushing for my troubles. Darwin gave a response.

“Who’s to say we haven’t evolved? The African Negro is better acclimated to sunlight, the Moor to the desert. Caucasians hail from places cold and wet, and we’ve acclimated to the seafaring. The Polynesians are beautiful swimmers and climbers. The Chinese are suited for the hardships of their regions. All stand as proof of fitness.”

The American dramatically raised his hands to the audience.

“You have failed to answer my question, sir. I ask for super-humans and you give me Africans and Chinese. Unextraordinary groups who have always existed. Probably inferior genetic stock. The very opposite of what I asked for.”

Darwin raised an eyebrow.

“Always you say?”

The American did not answer.

“Who were the first people to populate the Earth?”

The American was quick to answer this one.

“Adam and Eve.”

“And of what race were they?”

“They were of the white race,” the American said without hesitation.

“So where did the Negros come from? The Arabs? The Chinese? Based on the logic of your beliefs they must have come from the progeny of Adam and Eve.”

The American responded again without hesitation. “They are. The darker races are descended from Ham, the son of Noah who was cursed for looking upon his father’s shame. The Sumerians, Egyptians, Orientals, Africans, all are descended from Ham.”

“So the Africans and Chinese are the same?” Darwin retorted.

“Well, one is darker than the other.” This caught a few laughs in the crowd. “But they come from the same familial stock.”

“So again I ask, is the African Negro the same as the Chinaman?”

“They came from the same place.”

“But are they the same?”

The American rubbed a hand over his chin.

“Dr. Warfald, are they the same?”

“No.”

“And how do you account for the differences between Chinese and Africans if they share the same ancestor? Their color is not the same, nor their size, nor their eyes. What accounts for these differences?”

“Well,” the American’s body language showed nerves, apprehension. “Over time, their breeding grew specialized to region. The sons and daughters of Ham in Africa preferred different things than the sons and daughters and Ham in China.”

“And why?” Darwin interjected. “Why would the children of Ham in Africa prefer different breeding partners than the children of Ham in China? Why do similar creatures from identical backgrounds prefer different things?”

The American was silent again. He looked to the crowd of smoking academics. His arrogant demeanor softened on these strange rhetorical grounds. Darwin continued.

“Maybe the children of Ham found difficulties when they came to Africa. Maybe some of them died of the mosquitoes’ malaria. Maybe some of them blistered in the sun and were rendered hideous and unbreedable. Maybe the Hammites who came to China found that they were too big to ride the horses that roamed free. Maybe the smaller men found the advantage in mounting horses and riding to war. Maybe the larger African Hammites found advantage in killing lions and cougars, in running with long legs over deadly savannahs. Dr. Warfald, if what you say is true, children of the same man found themselves in different places, under different circumstances and only the right man for the region bred and passed on his genes. The Africans don’t look like the Chinese because they are perfected for their part of the world. They are fit. The same goes for the Chinese. Ham’s children evolved to their regions, thus evolution is reality.”

“Sir,” the American retorted. “You are not talking about evolution but de-evolution. I asked for examples of humanity advancing and you give me anecdotes about lesser races who are clearly accounted for in the bible.”

“The bible mentions the Chinese at no point. This is a moot argument; there is no distinction between evolution and de-evolution, as you put it. Both account for change, change based on adaptability. I’ve posited nothing less. If you believe that the Africans and Chinese have stepped backwards from their origins, then you must admit that they changed and their change was based on the environment they found themselves in.”

“I accept no such thing!”

“Then tell me sir, why are the children of Ham so different? Why are the all the colored men and women of the world built so differently one from the other? Why can’t I rely on my knowledge of the people of India to assist me in dealing with your own red Indian countrymen?”

“They are not my countrymen.” The American was letting anger seep into his voice.

“Why are the Indians of America so different and strange from the Indians of India? They share a name and yet they are each and every one adaptable to their region. I assume you regard them both as children of Ham. The best survived and lived on and passed his genes to the next children based on the requirements of the land. I don’t believe that Ham was the first man of color, but even if I did that would not change my theory of evolution and fitness.”

“Then perhaps God allowed for the survivors to adapt? Perhaps it was God who chose the fittest?”

“I never said he had no place in this, only that I don’t know what his place is. Don’t you see? If God accounts for adaptability then he is the catalyst for evolution, and evolution exists. By God or by chance the creatures of the world, of which man is one, change to conform to the world’s environment. By this very observation all of evolution is proven.”

“Not all evolution. Maybe men lived and changed in the short term, but this does not account for your shameful proposition that man descended from the monkeys.”

“Shameful?”

“Yes, shameful! By biblical calculations the world is no more than six thousand years old and yet you propose that men came from monkeys over the course of millions of years. You claim not to know God’s place but don’t deny his existence. If you don’t deny his existence, how can you deny his history of the world?”

“What’s shameful, sir, is your lack of imagination. Our bible, assuming we’re going by the King James version, says that God made the earth in six days, that Noah lived for over nine hundred years and yet how time is measured has changed and changed and changed. Who’s to say six thousand years to one species can’t be a million years to another. Who says that time cannot be relative?”

“That’s a fools’ argument and I won’t debate with a fool.”

Darwin smiled. He looked so old, like father time himself.

“That’s fine, sir. I hold my belief, you hold yours and we shall live on until the end of our days. If either is wrong, let our father judge.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“Sir?”

“We cannot agree to disagree. There are no more realities than the one. To think a man can hold an opinion that is wrong is blasphemy. Our world is objective and no two men can hold opposing opinions and both be right.”

“Alright, then I’ll claim the right. You are wrong. Logic and evidence support me.” Darwin said.

“Faith and popular sentiment back me,” the American said.

“Then we find ourselves at an impasse, without the means to win except to defame our opponent or stave off and return to our honest fulfilling lives. Good luck, sir.” Darwin held his hand out. The American ignored it. He addressed the audience.

“Can we declare me the winner, then?” He asked the silent and smoky crowd. “Is this my victory to claim?”

No one said anything. Even Darwin was silent. The American shook his head in disgust.

“You will pay for your lack of faith in time. Ours is not a forgiving God, and hell is not a place for splicing words and opinions.” The American turned away from Darwin and ascended the arena stairs.

“Just so we’re clear,” Darwin called to the escaping man’s back. “I think you’re wrong about the Hammites as well. I don’t think God started the colored races with just one man. I think we all started colored and adjusted our colors based on location and time. The only difference between us and them is how we’ve adapted to these surroundings.”

The American stopped, turned, spat on the floor, and proceeded with his exit. All very dramatic. The audience gave a polite applause, and shuffled off to whatever else their days held. Other lectures, other debates, others places to puff the day away in cloudy contemplation. A small group stayed to shake hands and offer platitudes to the venerable academic. I joined this crowd and approached the esteemed naturalist upon his ascent. He dismissed his well-wishers with patted handshakes. His eyes found me in the group and he presented a hand.

“Good sir, pardon me for saying but you look as though you should be under a physician’s care.”

“What, this? Just a scratch.”

I shook his hand.

“I need to talk to you about Dr. James Saxon.”

Darwin showed no surprise. He took my arm for support and waved away the rest of his followers.

“What you should have said is, ‘I’ve got something to gain from you.’ In an honest society that would be the only honest greeting.”

I nodded at this. Darwin’s words had the sound of observations often repeated.

“We say ‘hi’ to gain recognition, or as pretense to gain knowledge or ask a favor.”

The old man guided me to an ornate double door. It looked more like the entrance of a church than the entrance to an academic’s office.

“Mr. Fellows, I have something to gain from you.”

My eyes went wide at that one.

“You know my name?”

The codger smiled and ushered me through the massive doors. Darwin’s office was circular and vaulted like the lecture hall we’d just left. Instead of rows of seats, the upper rings were lined with bookshelves. The stage floor held two oak desks, one empty, the other occupied by a giant bloke who rose at the sight of me. He was dressed the part of an academic secretary; spectacles, gray suit, stripped vest. Aside from his suit, Darwin’s secretary gave me the impression of a circus strong man or bare knuckle boxer. The only hair on his thick-necked cranium was relegated to a fantastic handlebar mustache.

“Mr. Stevens, please see that we are not disturbed,” Darwin said. Stevens looked like he was going to say something, then changed his mind and sat back down.

Darwin guided me to a bookshelf that swung open at the click of a hidden lever. A trap door behind the shelf led into a smaller office. Darwin’s personal sanctuary, I assumed.

The cramped space was made more cramped by stacks of books, mounted insect collections, boxes of unlabeled fossils and bones: the tools of this old man’s livelihood. Darwin removed a stack of books from a King Louis chair and beckoned me to sit.

“Impressive debate, Mr. Darwin,” I said.

Darwin gave me an irritated look. The frail grandfather of science outside had become a wholly different creature in this office.

“No it wasn’t,” he snapped. “Everyday my ideas and observations are questioned and ridiculed and every day I find myself defending what should be obvious to the masses. I didn’t invent evolution or fitness of species, I was simply the first to put it to popular record. Kant, Malthus, Lamark, Wallace, all men who observed the trends of species and applied it to man. But I take the label of father and now have to answer to every fool who comes calling. That man you saw me debate, that’s Dr. Thaddeus Warfeld, a respected theologian from the Harvard School of Divinity. And yet to me, he’s just another fool in a long string of fools, in a lifetime of fools. I could have defeated him with three simple words. ‘Are you sure?’ The burden of genius is not the labor of our endeavors but in sharing the world with fools who don’t know they are fools. Mark my words, the pseudo-intellectual will be the death of us all.”

Darwin slumped down onto an overstuffed leather couch. It bore the cracks and scuffs of an item well-used and well-loved.

“Are you armed, Mr. Fellows?”

How vast the coincidences of this world that Charles Darwin was now asking me the same question I’d asked a pimp this morning.

“Is it obvious?” I replied.

“Mr. Fellows, I’ve sailed in three oceans and seven seas. I’ve spent innumerous hours in the company of sailors and I’ve spent time in America. I know when a man has pistols under his coat.”

“Nothing personal, sir. If you’d had the week I’d had you’d be armed too.”

Darwin smiled an old man’s smile of brownish teeth.

“That I believe, Mr. Fellows. You look as though someone threw you from a flaming dirigible.”

“Close enough to the truth, that. Are we safe to talk here?”

“I’m safe, Mr. Fellows. You, on the other hand, are not safe anywhere.” Darwin leaned over and struck the trap door with his ash cane.

“What was that for?”

“Tea. Care for some?”

I let out a long breath. Darwin was right. I was a man without a country, a ship without safe harbor.

“You said something about gain?” I asked.

“Knowledge, good sir. You have an inside perspective to a matter which has aroused my curiosity. You must know from your work in the thief-catching trade that there is no currency more valuable than new knowledge. I hope to gain new knowledge from you. How did know to find me?”

“I found an old envelope in Saxon’s flat. Figured you might have insight regarding his creation.”

“I’m no engineer. I couldn’t build you a clock let alone a humanoid automaton.”

“But you knew about them?”

“I did.”

The office door opened. Mr. Stevens crouched in, holding a silver tea service. For the first time I noticed the bulge of a pistol beneath his suit jacket. He poured a cup for Darwin, then myself. Stevens smelled like the circus. There was a tinge of animal musk I noticed when he neared. He left the office the way he’d come in.

“You have a trial coming up, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you claim as your defense that the automaton slew Dr. Saxon?”

“Yes.” I didn’t like how Darwin was smiling through this line of questions.

“Tell me what happened to James, every detail. Leave nothing out.”

I gave Darwin the full version of events, just like I’d given the Metros after my initial apprehension. The old man’s smile broadened in the telling.

“That old scallywag! He did it!”

“Did what?”

“Years back we had a debate. The subject was whether the functions of the organic mind could be replicated through inorganic means. The invention of the difference engine sparked our debate and Saxon was convinced that he could create a self-reliant, independently powered brain. I was fascinated, but countered that true self-reliance was no different from perpetual motion, and thus unlikely due to the second law of thermodynamics, or natural entropy. Really we were interested in immortality. How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“If you survive to your twilight years you will find that mortality dominates your thoughts. It is why middle-aged men pursue young girls, or grand adventure, and why the elderly seek the bosom of the church. We need an avenue to avoid the inevitable conclusion of our lives.”

“So Dr. Saxon built his brain?”

“If what you say is true, yes. The next piece of the puzzle is to determine how smart she is.”

“No,” I countered. “The next piece of the puzzle is finding her.”

“I already have her.”

I had no response to this. Darwin continued.

“You were right to confide in Nouveau. As far as engineers are concerned, no living man is his equal. His talents are wasted in the art community.”

I took my hands off my tea cup and let them rest in my lap, closer to my guns. What next? Ambush? Darwin observed my gesture and shook his head.

“There is no cause for fear, I am not your enemy. I have Nouveau cloistered in a safe location. Also, I’ve moved his closest associates and a poor unfortunate slut-house porter who inadvertently stumbled upon Nouveau’s exit.”

“So you paid my bail? You put down ten thousand pounds?”

“I have more money than time to spend it. Anyway, what I require transcends money. Dr. Saxon’s secret could be the answer to immortal life. To creating the animate from the inanimate. Dr. Saxon’s secret is God’s secret and right or wrong, finding it is more important than the petty money concerns of mankind.”

“Why did you release me?”

Darwin smiled again. Lord God how I hated that smug grin.

“Call it a joke. A spirited ruse. I’m not the only one after Saxon’s secret. My, let’s say ‘competition,’ plays a fierce game and I needed him distracted from my moves.”

“So I’m your pawn?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Mr. Fellows. You’re not a pawn. Pawns move forward in predictable steps. They are sacrificial, defensive, of little value except in numbers. No, you are a bishop. Firing off at strange angles, appearing behind the enemy formation, charging, retreating, charging again. You’re definitely my bishop.”

Rage filled me. I’m no man’s toy and no man’s patsy. “This is my life, Darwin!”

The door behind me clicked open. I did not have to turn to know Stevens was looming behind me.

“Yes, it is your life, and if I win this game, your life will be your reward. If I lose your life will be forfeited by an assassin’s bullet or a hangman’s noose, though you seem much harder to kill then anyone assumed. Do you understand your part in this?”

“No.”

“You are here to make my competitor fail, nothing more. Turn away from Saxon’s machine, and focus on undermining my opponent.”

“And who is your opponent? Who am I up against?”

Darwin laughed and slapped his knee.

“You should know, Mr. Fellows. You shot his nephew.”

Oh shite! Pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Everyone knew Owens was connected, a family hire though no one knew whose family. If Darwin’s opponent was matched in resources, was bright enough to cross wits with the genius naturalist that could only mean…

“My opponent, your opponent, is Lord Barnes, Mr. Fellows. Happy hunting!”

Seven

Jolly Fellows is declared Persona Non Grata

I sat in the evening train willing it to go faster. Go, go, go, get me to Mary’s place. The walls of my little world were closing in and the more I saw, the more I knew about the danger posed to myself and anyone in my proximity.

Lord Barnes was, is, the greatest thief catcher to ever live. London bears no secrets to this man. His tracking me was more a question of when than if.

The train arrived and I sprinted past ushers and porters and commuters. I sprinted past the regular folk on their way to regular spouses and children and sit-down dinners.

Mary’s flat was cleaned out and turned over, just like my flat, just like Saxon’s. China cups were smashed, the easel and chairs were rendered into sticks and stacked in the room’s center. All like before. I went to the bedroom and found another torn mattress, shredded clothing and a note pinned to the wall by a gold pen knife.

The cards don’t belong to you.

Neither does the girl. Stop by
the office tonight. -B

The front door creaked in the next room. I unholstered my Colt, thought better of it, and unholstered the Engholm too.

Saucy Jack was creeping into the living room with a giant butcher’s knife clenched in his fist. I nudged the bedroom door open to greet him.

“Oy!” I yelled.

Jack took a step towards me with blade raised and murder in his eyes. That’s when he noticed the guns I had pointed at his face and Tom Johnson.

“You see any of this take place?” I motioned my head to the destroyed furniture.

“I didn’t do that,” he said.

“Not my question, mate. Did you see who did this?”

He shook his head. The room suddenly stunk of piss and not my own I assure you. I motioned to the knife.

“That for me?”

Saucy Jack shook his head again.

“Are you sure?” I drew back the hammers of both my guns. “I specifically remember asking you to bring a gun or a knife. That looks like a knife so I’ll ask again, is that for me?”

“Sure, m-m-mate.” His voice took on a cowards’ stammer. This whole situation was giving me an ill feeling. I wanted to hurt this man, but really I wanted to hurt Lord Barnes and this man was standing between me and him.

“Here’s the story, Jack. You leave that cutter on the floor. You brought it for me, so it’s mine now. Turn around, exit this room, go to the nearest restaurant and order a big supper. Know that the only reason you’re enjoying a meal or a pint or the sweet air around you is because I let you enjoy these things. And like God almighty I can take these things from you at my own displeasure. Mary is my girl now. If your air mingles with hers, I’ll stomp it from your lungs. If your eyes behold her, I’ll be there to pluck them out. If you hear her voice, just know that I’ll be standing behind you with that very knife, and I will make a necklace out of the ears I peel off your skull. Savvy?”

Jack dropped his blade and nodded his head.

“Good, now get the fuck out of my sight!”

Jack slowly backed out of the living room, still unsure of whether I would shoot him. In all fairness, I should have shot him. I should have laid him out on Mary’s living room floor, but that’s a story for another time and my mind was too occupied with Lord Barnes. So I let Jack walk away, somewhat intact.

There was no question about going back to Bow Street. If Barnes wanted me dead, why would he take Mary and leave a note? Why not just send back Safari and his ilk?

The firm looked exactly as I’d left it seven days ago, a lifetime ago. The machines still clicked and clattered. The tubes still whooshed their all-important documents and cards. Miss Penny Walker still ran the first division with her wrinkled iron fist. Upon my entry, she seized a porter and had him stand next to me, as though I were there to burn the place down. He was an older bloke, one of Orel’s contemporaries. Name of Standish.

“Evening, Standish. Bit of weather we’re having.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” said Standish.

The primary lift opened and three thief catchers walked out. Myron Bells, Edgar Smithly, and Abraham Silver. One of Abraham’s arms was in a sling, the other held up a nickel-plated Colt Army, the brother of the pistol in my hip holster. Silver had burns down his arms as well.

“You ought to be more careful,” I told Silver and gave him a firm pat on the sling. Silver grunted in pain. Smithly locked my elbows behind me while Bells seized my firearms. Silver pocketed his Colt and gave me a stiff jab in the gut. Not bad for a little a guy. The three catchers duck walked me into the elevator and set the lever to floor three.

I can count the number of times I’ve been to the third floor on one hand. It was posh, that’s for certain. The building was originally four stories, but they demolished the fourth to give a vaulted ceiling to floor three. Everything was wrapped and framed in polished red wood. The lobby was centered with a stone fountain depicting Perseus on Pegasus. Water bubbled from Pegasus’ feet and coated a slick hill into a pool lined with mica-infused marble. Just over Perseus’ raised spear, a crystal chandelier cast dim electric light throughout the room. The floor plan was a perfect circle. Every three meters a door broke the circle’s continuity, marking the office of one of our seven managers. Lord Barnes’ office stood opposite of the lift door.My entourage led me around the fountain.

“Anyone throw coins in that?” I asked. No one answered.

The thief catchers put me through the door and into my destination. If a man’s surroundings speak of a man, then Lord Barnes was the very antithesis of Charles Darwin. Whereas Darwin’s sanctuary was cramped and filled with books and academic kits, Lord Barnes’ was a study of open spaces and gold gilding. The red wood of his walls were carved to look like men and women intertwined. Not sexually mind you, but rather like they were spirits drifting off to heaven or hell. Persian rugs alternated red and gold threads. His family coat of arms, a helm and leopard, dominated the wall behind a lavish glass and crystal desk. Not for the first time, I noted Lord Barnes had an office without windows. Security-minded, that.

“Jolly, how long has it been?” The gregarious man stood and grasped my hand like nothing in the world was wrong. Like I hadn’t been escorted in by damaged goons under orders from a note regarding a kidnapped prostitute.

“Too long, your Lordship. Business been alright?” I gave him that horrible smile of mine.

The Right Honorable Lord Barnes was a beast of a man. He had a good seven centimeters on me in addition to five kilos. He was a big man, but his fat and muscle were in equal balance. His hair and beard had gone shock white, but he still had enough vitality to beat a man senseless, or so I had heard. He looked every bit as aristocratic as his lineage would dictate.

“Hit and miss. Please, have a seat.”

He directed me to a King Louis chair, cleaner and prettier than Darwin’s. His goons kept their position at the back of the room. Silver held a hand over his shooter. I gave him a smile too.

“So,” his Lordship said, “we can beat around the bush and fence words, but I think we’re past that point, don’t you?”

He sat behind that unbelievable desk. The crystal had been cut to look like a product of nature. Crystalline formations sprung from the top and were carved into liquor decanters. Two were whiskey brown, one vodka clear, and one purple. Couldn’ttell you what was in the purple one.

“We’ve passed a few points.”

“Where would you like to begin?”

I ran through the rhetorical methods in my head and decided on diplomacy.

“I’m sorry about Owens.”

A gun cocked behind me. Lord Barnes raised his hand to the would be shooter.

“Don’t be. He was my wife’s sister’s son and a pain in the arse. Never really cut out for the work, that one. We’ve moved beyond that being an issue, at least for now. I’m more mad about you copying my cards than shooting poor slow Owens.”

“Do I need to apologize for the cards?”

“Don’t bother. Seems as though I’ve greatly underestimated your abilities. I hired you for this outfit to act as a ruffian. A fist swinger, if you will. You’ve turned out a bit more than that. I’ve tried to kill you twice, and no living man can boast that.”

“Maybe you should have used better assassins.”

Lord Barnes laughed at this. His laughed matched his size for throaty robustness.

“You are a pisser! Sure, I can find better men to lay you dead. In all fairness, I should shoot you right now so that my record stays clean. But given the circumstances, I can find a better use for you.”

“What makes you think I’m keen for using?”

“Your lack of options. As it stands, you’ve got me, Darwin, or the grave. Assuming you’re not keen for the grave I’m sure I can field a better offer than Darwin.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll give you your life, your freedom, your job, the whore you’ve shacked up with. I’ll even throw in Orel and his wife.”

“Orel?”

“I had him kidnapped days ago, when I figured out the bit about you breaking into the building. Not that you’ve checked in on them or anything. They’re sitting in non-storage right now, blindfolded and stewing in their own piss. Miserable bit, that.”

“That’s not right.”

“Cost of doing business. Anyway, you were supposed take refuge with them after I destroyed your place, that way you’d find them gone and understand the futility of your situation. But rather than going to your friend and compatriot’s house, you took up with whores.”

“Happens.”

“Indeed, I had to track down the whorehouse, then the whore’s actual house, then get someone to nick her. That’s three kidnaps on your behalf. The expense has been entirely unreasonable.”

“You were saying something about a deal?”

“I’ll release all of my hostages, including your lady friend. That’s step one. Step two, I’ll twist over whoever the judge of your murder trial is. Let’s face facts Jolly, even if you survive my wrath, no magistrate in England will let you live for the murder of Dr. Saxon. You’re persona non grata. What was your solution, flee England?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“Uncross it. We have extradition treaties with all civil nations and you are not the blending type. The only option for freedom is a bent trial and I can provide that.”

“Go on.”

“Step three, you can come back to work for me. Like I mentioned earlier, I’ve clearly underestimated your skills as an investigator and enforcer. There are members of this firm who are entrusted with certain, let’s call them tasks.”

“Like wearing silly masks and shooting at blokes in a penny theater.”

“Sure.”

“Can we substitute that provision for cash. I’d prefer not to come back to work here.”

“No deal. You know things about this operation that can’t be talked about. You’re either with us or you’re dead.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“You have my terms.”

“And for this I have to kill Charles Darwin?”

Lord Barnes’ face took on a look of genuine irritation.

“Are you mad? Kill Charles Darwin? The man is a national treasure! While I live, nothing is to happen to the Great Naturalist!”

“But he’s…”

“I’m honored to have a combatant on the level of Darwin. Once he’s gone I may as well off myself from boredom.”

“If I’m not set against Darwin, then what do you want with me?”

“Your quarry is Jacques Nouveau. Locate him, observe him; if he figures out Saxon’s secret and records it, shoot him and bring me the records. If he doesn’t, subdue and bring him to me anyway. Nouveau is the price of your freedom.”

“And Mary?”

“Mary, Orel, Emily. Nouveau brings this whole thing to an end for you and yours.”

I pressed my luck.

“What about expenses? Cash on hand. I could use the help.”

Lord Barnes stood up and poured himself a drink, half vodka, half purple stuff. He did not offer any to me.

“You have between sixty and eighty pounds in your pocket as we speak. You’ll manage.”

It did not surprise me that he knew this. Lord Barnes, the master of information.

“Do I get my guns back?”

“Sure.”

“Any leads?”

“I would say Darwin knows where he is, but you already know that. Be on your way, don’t disappoint me. I get emotional far too easily.”

Lord Barnes finished his drink and poured another. Still no offer to me.

“Another thing,” he said. “I have other searchers out there. Some you know, some you don’t. If anyone brings me Nouveau before you, our deal is forfeit.”

“And my friends.”

“They’ll be forfeit too.” He held up his glass. “Cheers.”

Eight

Jolly receives a lesson on the spiritual nature of man

My former colleagues escorted me to the front entrance. Silver put his good hand on my shoulder.

“Know this, Jolly. No matter what Barnes says, I will be the end of you. Your death will come by hand, tomorrow, the day after, a week from now. I will take you unawares, from behind.”

“If you come at my behind, at least have the decency to buy me a proper meal.”

I retrieved my guns from Bells. He handed me the rounds separately. Silver stared daggers at me. I continued my little speech.

“Front, back, side, whatever. The next time you come for me bring more of your friends. I’ll be sure to find something larger than a hotplate to bring down on your thick skull. Off you go then.”

I waved them off. Silver looked like he had more to say but his friends pulled him back. The thief catchers returned to their beautiful building. I took a leisurely walk, formed my thoughts, had a brisket plate and a pint of dark ale at the St. George and Dragon.

Mary was safe, or at least relatively safe. Lord Barnes was a monster, but he’d at least abide by the rules of civilized warfare regarding prisoners. She’d be fed and unharmed. Same with Orel and Emily. I found myself back at my apartment. If Barnes was off my back, if I was back to playing his lackey, I supposed my flat would be safe. Relatively safe as there was always the Silver issue, but hey, life’s a gamble. My place was still a broken mess. I made a cup of tea and watched the gaslights of late evening London. Had myself a quiet moment. Went back to sleep on my terrible pile of feathers.

I woke up late the next morning. Feathers stuck to my hair and burn wounds. I carefully removed each one so as to not cause the embarrassment I endured the last time I’d slept in feathers.

Outside, the day seemed quiet, still. It took a moment for me to realize that today was Sunday, the Sabbath. No good Anglicans working on this day. This was a day for baths and nice clothing and seeing how comforting the Lord can be on a sunny morning. My skin was tight and irritable. My new advice to friends, if I had friends, would be to avoid immolating yourself. It’s a right pain in the arse.

I looked up Dr. Doyle in a Central Bureau Directory and hired a hansom to his office. Thankfully, he was not a Sabbath observer.

“Good morning, Doctor.”

“Mr. Fellows, good to see you walking about.” His face told me this was a lie. In fact, he looked quite put off by my presence.

“How’s Mary?” he asked.

“She’s fine.”

“Is she?” The anger crept into his voice. His right hand was in his doctor’s bag clutching God knows what. “I stopped by her place this morning. Didn’t look all right,” he said.

Of course. “Look, Doctor. She’s in light danger. No more than I can handle. In fact, my capacity to handle matters is the reason for my visit. Got any of that salve for my skin?” Doyle took his hand out of his goody bag and opened a wall-sized blackwood medicine cabinet. He produced three jars and stacked them on a table.

“Any more of that seven percent solution, Doc?”

“You took both doses at once, didn’t you?”

“Guilty.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t die of a heart attack.”

“I’m lucky I didn’t die of a lot of things. What does ten quid get me?”

“That salve and five shots.”

“That’s not a bargain.”

“Find another physician, then.”

I paid the man. As I was leafing through my diminishing bank roll, I noticed the cog etchings folded into the bills. I held one of the etchings up.

“This look like anything to you, Doc?”

“Looks like foreign script. What is it?”

“I don’t know. You know anyone who can read it?”

“Nope, try Oxford, there’s bound to be someone.”

“I might not be welcome at Oxford.”

“That’s not surprising.”

Dr. Doyle pocketed my money and put my items in a paper bag.

“You take care to find Mary. She’s… special to me.”

“I get that, Doc. Don’t you worry.”

I left Doyle’s office and went back into the quiet sunny Sunday. The question of what to do and where to go overwhelmed me. I reflected back on another of my father’s sayings.

“When the big picture gets too big, boy, when you feel like you have too many tasks at hand, focus on the minutiae of the moment. The one little task that needs to get done right now. Finish, go to the next, then the next, then the next. The big picture is an illusion, like the ocean. You don’t ever have to consider the ocean, just the shite you’re swimming in right now.”

My whole ocean was Darwin and Barnes and their quest for Saxon’s truth. Living in that ocean were the seas of Mary, Nouveau, the Swan Princess, Orel, Emily, Silver, Oxford, Bow Street, on and on. The minutiae was in my pocket. Etchings of cogs, an unknown factor, but one made by Saxon’s own hand. The variable of the moment was the shite I was swimming in.

Oxford was out. If Darwin pulled the kind of influence to contend with Barnes, then he would have agents on the grounds, maybe even in Whitechapel. Without the aid of Oxford intellectuals, I would need to turn to local resources, specialists in the strange and macabre. The Hellfax Club came to mind.

The Hellfax was a secret organization that was really not a secret to anyone. They were self-proclaimed mystic researchers and practitioners financed by bored and naive society women. There is some unwritten code or law that all women of means must be into Hinduism or Mysticism or psychics by the time they reach fifty years of age. The male equivalent to this is ornate guns. All aging women find psychics, all aging men find gun cabinets and expensive brandy. There’s your truth.

So back to the Hellfax, social club of the strange, safe haven of tea readers and phrenologists, and astrologers and all the pursuers of said arts who didn’t care to subject themselves to the slick and nimble hands of gypsies. Respectable mumbo-jumbo. Also, the Hellfax was open on Sundays, of course.

I walked to the club. The London air was a little less pissy, a little less sulphuric, on this fine Sunday. Yesterday’s train ride to Oxford had stoked my whimsy for country strolls and fresh air. If I survived this, I promised myself, a holiday would definitely be in order.

The Hellfax Club occupied a two-story Tudor townhouse. The front double doors were affixed chaotically with stars, moons, and pyramids. The moons were crescent, the stars were five -pointed, and each pyramid was centered with a single eye. Very controversial.

The interior was purposefully gloomy. Velvet drapes hung in every archway, over every window, over every raw brick wall; the interior of the house was reminiscent of a soft furry cave. Two sorts of people wandered the Hellfax. Middle-aged women in bright coats and feathered hats, marred by the plumage of society, enjoyed tea and gossip and the prospect of communing with the dead. The other sort were actual members. In contrast to the guests, they wore black silk to match the walls and drapes. What jewelry they wore was predominately silver or ruby. A butler approached me.

“Can I be of service?” His words were drawn-in like all high society help. His tuxedo matched the decor.

“Got anyone versed in runes or script?”

“Why yes, sir. Please, come with me.”

I followed Jeeves down one of the halls, past the scornful look of society ladies and their ridiculous feathered hats. Past the curtains and veils and kilometers of velvet, Jeeves and I entered a stately room, something a bit more normal to social clubs. Men sat in circles around wood tables with cards laid out. Some drank brandy, some smoked cigars, some did both. Jeeves directed me to a massive greasy foreigner. He was a younger man whose face was absolutely dominated by a black beard, the kind that could house birds, ferrets, maybe a revolver. The foreigner did not get up.

“Mr. Grigori Rasputin of the Russian Empire. Visiting scholar of Cyrillic mysticism,” Jeeves announced. I presented my hand; the Russian looked at it like spoiled pork. He said something to a nearby associate in his bastard dog language.

“Mr. Rasputin would like to know what you want,” The man said in a thick Russian accent.

I unfurled the cog papers. “I need to know what these mean. Can he translate?”

The man spoke to Rasputin in their mother tongue. Rasputin answered again through his translator.

“He says he can tell you the meaning of these symbols if you have enough money for a fresh bottle of Hine Cognac.”

The men at Rasputin’s table all got a chuckle out of this. I slapped down five pounds of hard currency, the kind that shuts mouths and ends questions.

“Alright, Mr. British. Have a seat.” The translator said something and one of the seated men rose and left the circle. I took his place. Rasputin slurred something which got his compatriots laughing again.

“Before he begins he wants to know how it is you are so fat. He says men in his home country are not as fat as any of the English he’s encountered. Why is that?”

“Regular meals. Also, we don’t shag our sisters, so our breeding stock is better.”

The translator put this in their language and the table roared with laughter, including his beardship. He barked more words.

“Well, you don’t know what you’re missing,” the translator said with tears running down his eyes. I smiled at the Russian; at least he was clever.

“Time is money, Ivan. What do I have?”

Rasputin took a hold of my etchings and gave them a good stare. He yipped an order and one of his contemporaries produced a monocle. Rasputin fixed the lens to his eye and gave the papers another look. He laid into a monologue that sounded like a bulldog’s love song. I waited for the translation.

“He says that these symbols are Mongol. That they tell the story of a horseman who loved a girl. The girl was high born and the horseman was a bandit. He asked her father for her hand, but he, a wealthy merchant, refused unless the horseman could double the merchant’s wealth.”

Rasputin went on. So did his translator.

“The merchant’s offer stood as a challenge. The horseman accepted. He went into the desert and prayed to the gods for an answer. In response, the gods caused a massive tree to sprout from the desert, a lone tree in a place of sand and snakes. The horseman dug the tree out of the sand with his hands and carved from its trunk a bow and a club. He used the blessed weapons to rob the first merchant caravan to cross his path.

The lead guard attacked the horseman, but was felled by his mighty club. The second guard approached. Then the third. All were defeated by the horseman’s magic wood. Finally, the owner of the caravan exited his coach to beg the horseman for his life. By the gods, by the stars, by coincidence, the merchant of the caravan was the same man who had refused the horseman his daughter.

The merchant was amazed, relieved even. ‘Take my daughter.’ the merchant said. ‘A man with your fighting prowess is welcome in my family.’ The horseman laughed at this. ‘I don’t need your daughter, I have your money and your caravan and all your horses!’”

The Russians roared in laughter. I expected more to the story, but Rasputin kept laughing, his entourage kept laughing, everyone was laughing but me. I turned to the translator.

“What’s so funny?”

The translator was wiping tears from his eyes. It took him a moment to gain enough composure to speak.

“It’s funny, because Mongols fuck their horses!”

My face went red.

“Oy, are you taking a piss!?”

The translator said something and the table’s laughter renewed. I was not amused. Not in the slightest. I was reaching for one of the ashtrays, heavy fuck-all bludgeoning types, when a man tapped my shoulder.

“Don’t listen to these frauds. That’s the third time I’ve heard that Mongol story today.”

I turned to find a bearded and disheveled Irishman.

“You mind if I have a look?”

“Go to it, man.”

The Irishman snatched the rubbings out of Rasputin’s grasp and gave them a good look. The Russian rumbled but made no move to retrieve the documents.

“Come on with me, mate. Leave these buffoons to their carousing.” I got up and left the Russian drinking party. The Irishman wasn’t done with them.

“Mark my words, Grigori. You keep on with your stories you’re going to come to a horrible, bloody end!”

The Russian answered with a finger gesture. I’m not sure what it meant, but I could guess.

“Where did you get these?” The Irishman asked.

“Long story. The short version is… cogs.”

“Someone wrote these on machine cogs?”

“Yeah.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Tell me what you know, mate. Maybe I can make sense of it.”

The Irishman shook his head.

“I don’t think you can. This is Sumerian cuneiform.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m a writer. I research this sort of thing.” He presented a hand. “Abraham Stoker. My friends call me Bram.” I shook his hand.

“Jacob Fellows.”

“Good to know. This isn’t just regular cuneiform, mate. This is some pretty common stuff.”

“Common Sumerian?”

“Sure, pal. Look, this one says, ‘If a man put out the eye of another man, his eye shall be put out.’”

“Eye for an eye?”

“Right. And this one says, ‘If a slave denies ownership of his master, the master shall gain the right to cut off the slave’s ear.’ These are laws. Specifically, these are the laws of King Hammurabi of Babylonia.”

“I’m not familiar.”

“You should be. King Hammurabi was the sixth king of Babylon and one of the first true rulers of man. He presented the first written laws of man, two-hundred and eighty two statutes covering crime, marriage, contracts, ownership. You could say he was the father of civilization. You mind stepping out with me?”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t like the prospect of curious ears.”

I followed Stoker out of the Hellfax, and thankfully so. The stench of dishonest Russian was too much to bear and I was tempted to get my five pounds back by force.

We absconded to a café across the street and sat for a kettle of Royal Blend.

“You mind handing those back.”

I slid Stoker the etchings. He gave them a bit more scrutiny.

“You’ve got two laws of two-hundred eighty two. At least, two-eighty-two are assumed. The original carvings are numbered, but sixty-six through ninety-nine are missing.”

“What does it mean? Why etch it into metal work?”

“Why not? Cuneiform was an etched writing used primarily in stone, clay, and wood. If the Babylonians had a better mastery of metalwork, I’m sure they would have etched their words on disks.”

I sipped my tea. Stoker sipped his. Something wasn’t right about the situation, about my chance meeting with an informative stranger.

“Why would a modern engineer take the time to etch these in his cogs?” I asked.

“I can think of two reasons. One, he was a mad man and the etchings bore some irrational meaning, personal to him but unfathomable to the sane world. Such is the nature of insanity in that it is deeply personal, and intensely lonesome.”

“You sound like a man who speaks from experience.”

“I’ve made a study of the insane for one of my books. I once met a man who eats spiders. He would bait them by catching flies and leaving them on thewindow sill. When I asked him why he ate spiders, he told me that he had yet to figure out how to catch rats, but when he did, he would drink their blood. There was a logic that made sense to him: flies, spiders, rats. But it was a personal, subjective logic, not meant for the world outside his mind.”

Stoker took another sip of his tea.

“But I’m moving away from the topic at hand. The second explanation is that the maker of these cogs attached some kind of greater meaning to his machinery and was leaving a note to the world. Do you believe in God, Mr. Fellows?”

I leaned forward in my chair. The Irishman regarded me with intense unblinking eyes.

“Yes,” I said.

“And you know the relationship between the Christian God and the Babylonians? You know about the Tower of Babel?”

“Just Sunday school stuff. Big tower, big crash, something of that sort.”

“The ancient precursors to the Babylonians, the Shinar, spoke a language understood by all mankind. Their words were the language of the universe. They were not burdened with mis-communications and the chaos of misunderstanding. It was impossible for them to misunderstand, such was the clarity of their words. The Shinar were ordered, industrious, mechanical. They learned fast, built fast, and they gathered the secrets of the earth and disseminated the knowledge among their people like bees in a hive. It was the Shinar who decided to build a tower. A tower to speak with God, with their creator.”

“How’d a people so knowledgeable get it in their heads that God lived in the clouds?” I asked.

“That very question baffled biblical scholars for centuries. Of course, we live in an advanced society. A society of Boschon cards and difference computation machines. We’re devising a new universal language based in numbers. But I digress. Not all towers are meant to reach God by proximity. Have you ever heard of radio waves?”

“No.”

“A Serbian in America, Nicola Tesla, has built a tower of metal in the hills of Colorado. His tower fires invisible energy that can transmit words to other towers of similar make, like a telegraph with no wires. Words can cover kilometers in fractions of a second. Tesla claims that with enough power he can talk to men on the other side of the Earth. For hundreds of years, we thought of towers as just objects of physical stature, but now we know better. Maybe it is Tesla who is shortsighted. Maybe with enough energy he can speak to other worlds, other universes, to God himself. Maybe this was the nature of the Shinar’s tower.”

I sipped my tea. “So you suppose the Shinar figured out these radios waves?”

“I don’t know. We’ll never know. God smote them. He deemed them too advanced, to arrogant in their attempt to connect with him. He took away their words, their language, the very strength of their society. They became the Babblers, the men who could not talk.

“Unable to understand each other, their fine-tuned order turned to chaos, to fighting, to destruction and violence. They destroyed their beautiful tower, their cosmopolitan city, all their riches and advances and wondrous things. They became again like the animals that hoot and point and scream and gnash their teeth. Every man was foreign to every man. And following the tradition of foreign nations they fought and fought and fought. For years the Shinar waged war upon themselves. The survivors eventually left and became wanderers of the earth. Tribes of families. The Babbling tribes of man. Humanity entered their third Dark Age.

“The Babblers wondered for untold hundreds of years, living no better than the apes and jackals of the world. Some of the Babblers came west and embraced the trees and became my Gaelicforefathers. Some traveled north and became the fierce animal Norse, never truly tamed. Others traveled south and embraced the rich Nile flood lands, where they prayed to new gods. One group, the focus of my story, wandered in circles around the ashes of Shinar, never venturing far from the land of their fathers, though the earth consumed all traces of what had once been. The leader of one of these circling tribes, a man named Ka-Igi, found himself separated from his tribesmen in the confusion of a sandstorm, a storm that lasted forty days and forty nights. Ka-Igi, lost and alone, took shelter in a mountain cave. The walls of this cave were smooth and carved and not like the caves of animals. In his shelter Ka-Igi found thin sheets of material not rock nor metal nor wood. The sheets held symbols and even though Ka-Igi and his people had no written words, had no knowledge of reading, even though he was a Babbler, Ka-Igi could read the sheets. They were written in the universal language of the Shinar. The tablets had survived the great destruction and the ages of darkness. When the storm cleared, Ka-Igi found his people. He collected them up and showed them his tablets and they were amazed, for they could read them as well as he.

“Ka-Igi now knew the history of his people, for it was revealed in the tablets. He knew that their society had once been wondrous and powerful. The tablets revealed to him many secrets.

“Ka-Igi gathered his sons, strong robust Babblers. He gave them each a sheet, each a treasure of knowledge, and set them to gather again the men and women of the world, to share their knowledge and convince all of mankind to return their home country.

“And so his sons went off.

“To the west, Ka-Igi’s first son, Ka-Gal, met with the Gaelics and gave them the names of all the stars and the means to build astrological calendars of stone, so they might know their place in the universe.

“To the north, Ka-Igi’s second eldest son, Ka-Orun, traveled and met with the Norse. He taught them the tides and the use of iron and the construction of mighty ships so they might become masters of the sea.

“To the south, Ka-Igi’s third eldest son, Ka-Ra, traveled and met with the men of the Nile. He taught them the mysteries of the triangle and masonry so they could erect the Pyramids, shadow images of the great and mighty buildings of Shinar.

“To the far East, Ka-Igi sent his youngest son, Ka-Wu. Though the smallest and weakest, Ka-Wu traveled the farthest. He walked through what we now know of as Arabia and India and China. He met with many wandering Babblers and taught them the value of chemistry, so that they could glean spices from the plants and salts from the Earth.

“For himself, Ka-Igi kept the most important tablets. On them were written the laws of man, the rules that separate humankind from animal kind. With these laws he brought order to his people, and to the Babbling tribes nearby. With rules and order he built the great city-state Larsa, which later became Babylon, the Babbler’s kingdom. Ka-Igi thrived and prospered, but his sons never returned to him, and the kingdom of the world was never reunited. Each of his sons became a king in his own right, and once in power man never bows to a greater authority. Ka-Igi’s tablets were passed on to his daughters, who married and prospered and aided in the rule of their land.

“It was the sixth grandson of Ka-Igi’s sixth granddaughter, a young king named Hammurabi, who gave the laws to his people, and had them copied and recorded, so that all may know and all may prosper. It’s these rules that make man great, that allowed man to master the earth and the animals and hold themselves strongest of the world.

“Maybe your engineer was telling us he’d found a wonder, something to match the Shinar’s. Something to draw the attention of God himself.”

“That’s some story, Irishman.”

“I know. I’m a story teller by trade, though I can’t take credit for the details. All I’ve told you I was told by friends at Oxford.”

Oxford. Of course. Stoker winked at me and took a long drink of his cooling tea. I played along.

“Good friends?”

“Good enough. They want to know if you’re still a bishop?”

“I’m not sure. The game has changed. Tell Darwin that Barnes has hostages.”

Stoker set his cup down and jutted a finger at me.

“First, you’ll do well not to mention either of those names in public! Second, the game hasn’t changed, you’re just not used to playing it. My benefactor and yours, our friend in Oxford, has an incredibly high regard for life. As we speak he is concocting a plan to save your prostitute and friends. You’re not part of that plan.”

“Then what’s my part?”

“You have two goals, call them a loyalty test, though it goes further than that. Goal number one, you are to return to your former employer tomorrow night at seven o’clock. You are to inform him that Mr. Nouveau is being held at this location.”

Stoker produced a folded piece of paper and laid it on the table.

“You are to give him no information other than what is on that paper. If you do, we will find out and your deal with us is no longer valid.”

“Where is Nouveau?”

“You don’t need to know that. Assume what the paper says is true.”

“The second condition?”

“As we speak two men are delivering a new bed to your flat. When you arrive you will find a pair of boots under the bed that are identical to ones you are wearing right now. The right heel of your new boots has a false bottom. Inside the false bottom, you’ll find a coin. Retrieve it and drop it into the third floor fountain on your way out of the Bow Street Firm. Do not touch or handle the coin prior to dropping it in the fountain. Are we clear?”

“You guarantee the safety of my friends?”

Stoker stood up and straightened his suit.

“Ours is a world without certainty, a world victimized by chaos. Believe me when I say my benefactor is working to right that chaos and usher us into a new age of enlightenment. The tasks he accomplishes today will be talked about, even worshipped, a thousand years from now. Try to see the bigger picture, mate?”

This was not the last time I’d meet with Abraham Stoker, though I wish it had been.

Nine

Jolly Fellows and the Case of the Missing Porter

I’ll admit a bit of confusion at this point. I’d sworn loyalty and service to both warring armies, to Darwin and Barnes, though my loyalty for each was conscripted. I was under orders from both and sincerely wanted neither to succeed in his endeavor. Jacob Fellows is no man’s stringed puppet. But time was ticking clear and ready. As much faith as Darwin had in me completing his task, I was just as certain that Lord Barnes would catch me in the ruse, either giving false information or spiking his fountain with Lord knows what. We’re talking about a bloke who told me how much cash I had to my name within ten pound. But if I didn’t finish Darwin’s task, I risked stoking the ire of a man who either knew me well enough to predict I would show up at the Hellfax or send someone deft enough to follow me and blend without my trained eye picking him up. It was bollocks either way. I remember dad, the minutiae, the small details.

If Darwin hadn’t rattled me with the strange Irishman, if the Hellfax had turned a dud, the next logical step in the investigation would be to move toward Nouveau. Darwin had claimed the man was in hiding, as was his family and close contacts. Smart move that; people are terrible at hiding and always reach out to family, even weird silky Frenchmen. The odd detail was the porter. A last minute kidnap for the poor brothel servant I’d sent at all those days prior. The minutiae, the detail, the porter.

I returned to the Piece Work, back to the fancy rental women with their dyed hair and dyed feathers and lipstick colored and smeared like old blood.

The desk clerk recognized me immediately. I must have made an impression on my last visit. His hands vanished under the counter and tripped what I assume was a hidden buzzer because the lobby was suddenly occupied by two thuggish gentlemen. They were decked out in matching black trousers and white collared shirts. The collars were purely decorative seeing that neither man had a neck.

“You’re not welcome here, Mr. Jarse,” the clerk said.

Ha ha. Hugh Jarse.

The thugs stepped closer. I cleared my Colt Army from its holster. I didn’t wave it or point it or make a scene, I let the pistol rest against my leg real casual like. The shiny nickel plating spoke more words than I had. It was a real show stopper. The thugs stopped walking, the whores stopped talking. The lobby became frozen in time, still, a room without air. I broke the silence.

“Everyone keep your feet glued to their respective location, and I’ll make this brief. I’ve been tasked with finding your missing porter. I need to speak with his family and friends.”

The clerk’s hands were still invisible under the counter, but his arms moved slightly and the end of my little speech was punctuated with a click. I’m no expert, but I imagined that sound was the closing of a scattergun breach, maybe a Stevens Tip-Up, maybe a D & J Fraser. Like I said, I’m no expert, and I couldn’t be sure. I levered the Colt and gave the busy clerk my toothiest smile.

“Your Cherokee name must be Fool Busy-Hands. I’m sympathetic to your plight, Fool, but if you draw on me there’ll be three dead bodies to contend with.”

“Three?”

“You, me, and the unfortunate soul you catch with the second barrel of that shotgun while you convulse and choke on your own blood.”

Busy-Hands turned white. Up went one hand, then a thump of dropped weight, then the other hand.

“There, now you’re smart and handsome. What’s your missing porter’s name?”

“Willie.”

I rolled the tip of my gun in the universal sign of “give me more, jackass.”

“Willie Forsmit. He’s my cousin,” one of the thugs offered in a thick gutter accent.

“Would you be so kind as to escort me to Mr. Forsmit’s residence?”

“He lives with his mum.”

“Step lively, big man. You’re my escort.”

No-neck number one and I left the Piece Work. I imagine I’m permanently banned from that establishment, though I’ve yet to test this hypothesis.

“Willie is not missing,” No-neck said.

I holstered my gun for our street walk. No need for nastiness.

“What do you mean? Is he home?”

“His mum got a letter yesterday. Says he’s been drafted for special government work.”

No-neck said this in an honest and straightforward manner. Like it was no big deal that the government was conscripting midnight whorehouse porters.

“Right, let me confirm the letter and I’ll be on my way.”

“Okay. Real quick, you wave that shooter at Willie’s mum and I’ll break your neck.”

“Fair enough.”

We walked from the Piece Work into a neighborhood of filthy tenement buildings, starving animals and urchin beggars. Then we turned a corner into a neighborhood that was like the first neighborhood’s poorer desperate brother. Everything was covered in soot and ash: walls, windows, the faces of children. A group of men huddled around a fire. All hands reached for ember warmth. Hovering above the fire was the thin and spitted carcass of a dog.

“This way.” No-neck grinned. He was missing a good eight or nine teeth, which I imagine still put him ahead of the norm for this neighborhood. The building we stopped at was slanted at a sixty degree angle.

“Remember what I said about your shooter.”

“I’m not looking for trouble, mate. I just need to verify the letter for my employers.”

No-neck knocked on a door. It was promptly answered by what appeared to be a large bundle of rags.

“Woo, Jeffery!” The rags cooed. I could see no part of the woman, just brown bits of cloth puffed out like a dirty cloud.

“This man needs to see Willie’s letter.”

The rag pile turned to me. Near the top center of the pile a face revealed itself. The woman was a hundred if a day. Dust darkened the lines of her eyes, her mouth, her forehead. Her toothless smile was radiant, free of all malice and cynicism. It was like looking into the face of an angel. A muddy, filthy angel.

“Are you from the government?” Willie’s mum asked.

“Yes, ma’am. I just need to verify his communications.”

“He’s not in trouble is he?” Her smile told me that this was not a possibility, that all was right in the world. She made my heart ache for my own mother.

“No, ma’am. Quite the contrary. Your Willie is doing special work for us and receiving top accommodations for it. In fact, I’ve been authorized by the Queen herself to give you a portion of his bonus.”

I pulled a ten pound note from my pocket and handed it to the old mum. She gave a little animal hoot and the currency vanished into some part of her rag outfit.

“The letter please.” I smiled and held out my hand.

Mum ran back into her room and shuffled through bits of garbage and debris. She returned with a poshy cream-colored envelope.

“May I keep this, mum?”

“Sure, mister. Can I invite you in for tea?”

I looked inside her single room home. It didn’t look like there would be enough room for me to sit, stand, or turn around. I politely declined and was on my way.

I couldn’t get out of the neighborhood fast enough. Even armed as I was, this felt like a place where I’d likely get a knife in the back as I would a “good day.” No-neck followed.

“That was a good bit,” No neck said.

“What was?”

“Giving my aunty that money.”

We turned one corner, then another. The surroundings started to freshen a bit, and desperation lifted from the air.

“Got any more?” he asked.

Fucking hell! I reached into my dwindling supply and produced a pound note for No-neck. More than he deserved but I had no smaller currency to give.

No-neck pocketed his tip and was on his way. The sun had gone past the horizon and I found myself in yet another public house for yet another meal and pint. One of these days, you mark my words, I will settle down and find the family life promised to me by my father and school and all the authorities who explain life to children. I’ll find the regular existence that has eluded me these past thirty years.

After a meal of spiced potatoes and roast beef, I laid out my paper work before me. The first item was the note Stoker gave me. It was a map of a circus camp outside of Stoke Poges. The notations were in what appeared to be my handwriting. How the bloody hell did Darwin copy my script?

I unfolded Willie the Porter’s letter. His hand was blocky and childish. Given his home, I’m lucky the man knew any script at all. It read as follows:

Dear Mom,

I will not be home for several days.

Men from the government have asked me
to help them with a special job. I am an acting
messenger for a science research camp. Do not
worry.

They say I will be home in a week or two.

Your boy,

Willie

Not much in the script. The use of the word camp hinted that the whole event was a tent and out-doors affair. If anything, this helped the theory from the first note that Nouveau and company were cloistered in the woods somewhere, working from tents and enjoying the rustic life. This made sense, or at least it would to a lesser man, a man not used to the intricacies of investigative work.

I emptied my pint glass and wiped away the froth with my dinner napkin. The thick bottom was my magnifying glass and with it I gave the porter’s letter a good once over. The paper itself was rich with clues. First, there were no misspellings, which told me that Willie wrote under the guidance of someone. Second, the paper was a thick high quality stock, not the type to be found in country stores. Also, the paper was beige instead of white which was more expensive. Impressive card stock, the kind used by people and institutions who were well funded, who could push the extravagance of expensive paper, even for the trivial letters of hangers-on. And finally, in the reflected view of my pint glass, there was a thin watermark down the center. The water mark was more revealing than anything else. It was a mark given to paper to prove authenticity, to show that this paper had come from a single, specific location. Without any other clue I could tell you that this piece of paper came from the inner catacombs of Central Bureaucracy. Central B did not sell its paper stock, nor give it away. It was a trade mark, a thing exclusive to the organization. Willie the porter could not purchase nor receive it except by someone connected with the organization.

Was this another false lead? It seemed like a misstep on Darwin’s part. Would he allow something like this to escape his far reaching clutches, and for what reason? If he was selling the idea of a research camp, why use this nonconforming paper stock?

A new idea formed in my mind. This was a mistake. Darwin’s people delegated the task of sending a letter to the family of the poor missing porter, so as to not rouse authorities and investigating Metros; a necessary job, but not important enough to assign to someone of strong abilities. The figuring out of universal secrets, the dissecting and recreating of living automatons had to be a big job with all the smartest and quickest of men snapping to. What if minding the porter was given to a fool, a lesser? What if this lesser screwed up? Mistakes are built for exploitation and in my mind, this was it. This was a piece of the puzzle given to my hands though not by anyone’s intent.

The porter was housed in Central Bureaucracy, which meant Nouveau’s family was housed in Central Bureaucracy, which meant Nouveau and the Swan Princess were housed in Central Bureaucracy.

Darwin could not have picked a better location. London Central Bureaucracy was a monstrous building, a concrete pyramid erected to house the information agents and filings of the entire British Empire. Corporate contracts, trade agreements, personnel files on government employees, foreign intelligence reports, and the largest, greatest, most powerful Difference Engine known to man. The building occupied two city blocks and was twelve stories high with a rumored twelve stories below. In short, it was an impenetrable fortress set to repel foreign invasion, let alone simple burglary.

I folded the porter’s letter. Once, twice, three times, four. I made it into a little square and shoved it into my boot, next to Saucy Jack’s knife.

The edges of a plan took hold in my mind. I finished supper and returned to my busted flat.

Ten

Jolly executes a plan all his own

The door to my flat stood open. I would have been alarmed had I not remembered that Mr. Safari had kicked the latch off. Everything was still a mess, still a pile of sticks. In my bedroom, some nice gentlemen had carted off my destroyed bed and replaced it with a nicely adorned four-post sleeper. In the frame they’d laid a goose feathered mattress and covered it with silk sheets. It was ill-suited for myself and my flat, with its carved oaken posts and streamers of red velvet. It looked more like a honey trap than a bed, but free is free and who would I complain to anyway?

I sat and removed my boots. Next to the bed, as promised, lay a pair identical to my own. Not just identical in size and make, Darwin had matched the wear and scuffs as well. I took up the right boot and ran my thumb along the sole. Under foot was a small latch. I undid the latch and swung open the heel. Inside a secret compartment lay a dull metal circle. He’d mentioned a coin, but this looked more like a metal slug. There was no print or face or symbol on it, just a disk.

I remembered Stoker’s warning about touching the coin. That seemed strange, but why give the warning if it did not pose some unforeseeable danger, unless there was something about the coin they did not want me to know? I took one of Doyle’s syringes and gave the disc a gentle poke. The surface dimpled under pressure. I prodded the coin again. It seemed insubstantial, near liquid in form. The metal itself was as malleable as mercury, and a layer of gelatin gave it its shape and kept the metal from spilling out.

This went beyond Stoker’s assertion of a loyalty test. There was a specific reason for this coin to be in the third floor fountain of the Bow Street Firm. If I was going to throw a fist full of mercury at Perseus’s feet I needed to know why. Not now, but soon.

I slept better that night than I’d slept in memories past. The silk sheets were soothing on my raw, burnt skin. I woke up without confusion or feathers coating my hair and body.

I ordered a light meal in the pub downstairs. Eggs and toast and black coffee was a working man’s breakfast. The clock struck eight. In eleven hours, rain or shine, I would be in front of Lord Barnes to give one story or another. Time was short and the story had yet to be written. One thing was for certain; playing from Darwin’s script was out of the question. He offered few guarantees for myself.

I left the pub, opted for a cigar from a smoke shop, and leisurely puffed it on my way to the library. I never much gave the impression of a man of books. In fact, I’ve admitted to not being a literate man on several occasions. All pretense drops at this point. I once heard a bloke say the reader is more fortunate then the non-reader, because the non-reader lives but one life while the reader lives the life of every story. I think of that as a half-truth. To me, the reader is blessed because he can peer into the lives of others to see where they went, right or wrong. The reader lives one life, like the non-reader, but a life of better informed decisions.

I needed information and the library was the best source, specifically on chemistry and the purpose of liquid metals encased in gelatin.

I spent the afternoon among the leathery smell of books, getting the sidelong looks from learned spinsters who hadn’t seen a man of my type before, a man of sizable scar tissue. I felt fortunate because the salve Doyle had given me was assisting the healing process nicely, though it did stain my shirt something terrible. The infection in my hand had reduced to a minor inconvenience, a dull throb, easy to ignore. If I ever become a man of wealth, Dr. Doyle will receive the gratitude of my coin for certain.

I borrowed the ink pencil of a library clerk and made adjustments to the porter’s letter. An idea kept running through my mind. Something Stoker had said: “You are to give him no other information other than what is on that paper. If you do, we will find out and your deal with us is no longer valid.” Over and over in my head. “We will find out… we will find out… we will find out.” I started thinking about how they would find out, with a man as secret as Lord Barnes. How could they possibly find out?

I read a treatise on the properties of malleable metals, mercury, lithium, potassium, sodium, rubidium, caesium. Learned books on all the metals that are liquid at room temperature, their properties, their appropriate containment, their dangerous propensities. Fascinating stuff.

I hired a tube locker, this time to store my guns and their beautiful holster belts.

I taped Saucy Jack’s knife behind my right calf, above the boot line. Just in case.

I tore into the lining of my new coat and placed Dr. Doyle’s syringes on the bottom edge. Also, just in case.

In short, I spent the day putting together the pieces of my plan. Right or wrong, I was going to show Barnes and Darwin what I had to offer to their little game.

My preparations ended at five o’clock, leaving me ample time for a plate of lamb chops, mashed peas, and two pints of Irish lager. The nervous energy of the unknown and unknowable coursed through my veins. My skin was electric. I could not wait for the time to pass, for the show to begin. The beers took no edge out of me; rather they made me angrier, more aggressive. I ordered another, and another.

Seven o’clock found me at the Bow Street Firm facing a similar routine with Miss Penny Walker. I strolled in with a cock in my step, like I was the mayor of Bollocksville. My Cherokee name was Four-Pints Brave. Miss Walker got all flustered and called for security escorts in all appropriate haste.

Bell and Silver were giving me the friendly frisk within a minute.

“Where’d you leave your guns, Jolly?” Bell asked.

“Don’t play coy, Bell. You know they’re in Mrs. Silver’s knickers drawer.” I gave Silver a lecherous wink and kissed the air by his cheek. Silver centered himself to me and puffed his bird chest and shoulders. Despite being eight centimeters my junior he made quite a show of it.

“Come now, love,” I told him. “I’ve got a date with the big man. We’ll have our day.”

“That we will,” Silver replied. He gave my cheek a little slap. “That we will, Jolly.”

I don’t think the bugger knew how close we were to our moment of reckoning. But that little slap was just enough to get my blood boiling. If it weren’t for the necessity of carefully laid plans, I may have lost my fragile and tipsy temper.

We followed our path, same as before. Lift, third floor, the beauty and splendor of the manager’s lobby. I broke from routine.

“Cheers, boys. To our long life and working relationship.” I reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out a fist full of pound coins. I gave a good toss, spinning a cloud of currency into the depths of the fountain, right at the feet of bucking Pegasus himself. I laughed uproariously and fell against Bell. He grabbed the shoulders of my coat and I let him catch a whiff of my beery breath.

“That was a bit dramatic,” Bell said.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” I replied and smiled my best, not-completely-sober smile. Silver made a move to fish the coins out, adjusted priorities in his mind, and realized I was the bigger fish of this equation. The coins could wait; we had a meeting with the big man. I watched four silver quid and a gel-encased ten gram plug of liquid metal sink to the bottom of the fountain. We walked past the defiled sculpture pond. Cold sweat beaded my brow. In my mind I felt the water dissolving the gel, ticking seconds on a clock of inevitable violent chemical reaction. I was sure the liquid metal was caesium. Caesium explodes in water.

Stoker had ordered me to spike the fountain on my way out, I guess as an insurance of clearance. I liked my way much better.

Lord Barnes rose upon my entry, not to shake hands but to mix himself a fresh drink. Vodka, purple stuff, ice. He was dressed like Prince Charming for the ball in a lavender tuxedo, tails and ruffles, all very fair.

Bell pushed me down into the same King Louis chair.

“Well then?” Barnes said in between sips of his drink.

I produced a folded collection of papers from my jacket pocket and flung them onto Barnes’ crystalline desk.

“Careful, your Lordship. You might not enjoy what I’ve put in my report.” I said this to ensure his full attention.

Lord Barnes grabbed up my papers. He unfolded Darwin’s decoy map, the one pointing out Nouveau’s location in Stokes Poges, then he unfolded the porter’s letter, complete with a little addition all my own.

To His Right Honorable Barnes,

I have been instructed to inform you that Jacques Nouveau is at the Franklin Brothers Circus in Stoke Poges. False map included. Mr. Nouveau is actually located somewhere in the confines of Central Bureaucracy. I have evidence of this, as does one or both of the gentlemen behind me. You have a rat in your house, get to cleaning.

Sincerely,

Jacob Fellows

Lord Barnes sat behind his desk and set both the letter and his cocktail down. He reached under his seat and produced the single largest six-shot pistol I’ve ever seen. It was more a cannon than a shooter. The barrel was etched with gold leaf Celtic labyrinths. Barnes thumbed the hammer.

“Mr. Fellows, every man is in the search for greatness. There are four factors to greatness: Breeding, schooling, luck, and specialty.” Lord Barnes pointed his massive gun at my chest.

“You are not great. As far as I can tell you are a specialist in the art of making trouble and you possess a bit of luck. But these two items alone do not make a great man.” He waved his pistol at Silver and Bell. “These men aren’t great either. But they don’t have to be. They are under my care and I am a great man.”

Lord Barnes stood up. Sweat dripped from my wrists to my hands. I envisioned reaching for the pig sticker taped to my leg. What would it take to rip it free and plunge it in that man’s neck before he blasted a hole through my chest?

“I have breeding, schooling, luck. But do you know my specialty?”

I shook my head. The coin! Come on, ignite you Christ -forsaken coin! Reap chaos, sound the alarm, destroy! Do whatever it is Darwin planned for you to do!

“Don’t play dim, Jolly. What is my specialty?”

“You have information to blackmail every other important person in London?”

“That’s true, but that’s a side effect of my specialty. You see, Mr. Fellows, I find the truth about people, their secrets, because I know the difference between the truth and a lie.”

Lord Barnes pressed the barrel of his giant shooter against my chest. The coin! The coin!

“Lies live in men’s eyes and I can see them, every one, every time.” Barnes looked up to Bell and Silver. “No man can hide a lie completely, the eyes, the actions of the hands, changes in speech. These betray all and I can see each and every one. No man keeps his secrets from me, and for this reason I am a great man. Allow me to demonstrate.” Lord Barnes turned his head to Bell and Silver. “Jacques Nouveau is at Central Bureaucracy. Gather the maskers.”

Bell turned to leave the office. Silver paused, just for a moment, like he had to process Barnes’ order a second time. Like he’d expected Barnes to say something different. I saw it, Barnes saw it. Barnes swung the barrel of his cannon at Silver’s chest and pulled the trigger. The explosion from the barrel sent me reeling out of the chair with hands over my ears. Both of my ears rang and buzzed and hummed. I turned my head in time to see Silver slump against my chair. Light showed through the hole in chest. Crimson syrup poured out of him onto the chair, onto the rug. Silver got his day of reckoning, not a moment too soon.

Bell stood awestruck, mouth open, flabbergasted by the events that had transpired. Barnes gave him a hard slap with his free hand.

“Gather the boys! We’re on the job.”

Barnes pulled me up by my jacket and pushed me ahead of him. My ears still rang. I know his Lordship was barking orders at me, but they were lost in the hums and buzzes. Bell, Barnes and I entered the plush lobby. I imagined we were on our way to the elevators. Maybe I would survive; maybe Barnes was convinced of my loyalty. These questions were rendered moot when the fountain exploded.

A shock wave rippled through the room, pushing all men off their feet. Perseus and Pegasus popped up, took flight, turned and came crashing into their former home. The caesium had blown a hole through the bottom of the fountain and floor beneath, raining the second floor offices with water and mythological statues. The stone edges of the fountain fell into the hole, completing the implosion and leaving a jagged wound in the center of the floor.

I tore free my knife, but Barnes was already on me. Blood ran out of both his ears and I must have been in the same shape because I heard none of the blood-spittle expletives that came out of his mouth. His free hand vice-gripped the wrist of my knife hand. My free hand vice-gripped the wrist of his gun hand. We grunted and rolled like yin trying to kill yang. In my peripheral vision I saw Bell gain his feet, sway, and take two steps toward us. I must have yelled and screamed. Barnes fired a shot over my head, flecks of powder burning my forehead and filling the air with the scent of singed hair. I rolled with Barnes, once, twice, the third time away from the approaching Bell, down the hole that had once been home to Bow Street’s chic fountain.

We fell as a meteor of fat men to the rubble and bedlam of the second floor. The impact separated us and knocked the wind from my chest. I struggled to gain air, balance, sound, anything that could get me back into the fight.

All around me men were brawling. Some were Bow Street regulars I knew; some were wearing sack cloth masks and making a go at the regulars with truncheons, probably Darwin’s people or mercenaries. Who knows, the world is full of enemies and angry men.

I caught sight of Barnes raising his gun to me. I lunged and screamed and arced my pimp knife into his gun wrist, pinning arm, hand, and Barnes to a cheap plywood partition. The old bastard clocked my cheek with a left haymaker, giving me stars to count. All fight, that one. I kicked him in the bollocks and answered his left with two rights. I’m no gentleman. That’s my specialty.

Lord Barnes drooped and hung unconscious by his impaled wrist. I lifted his key ring and ran for the exit stairs, flinging Runners and Darwinians out of my way with equal abandon. I made my descent through fighting men and grunts and shouts and wild fists. I saw it all, but heard none of it. Down I went, first floor, basement storage, sub-basement non-storage. The third key I attempted put me into the room. The attending guard rose at my entrance. Non-storage was soundproofed for good reason. Prisoners, captives, and hostages tend to bellow in interrogation.

The guard rose, saw the fight in my eyes and the blood running from my ears and reached quickly for his cobra baton. I smiled and charged. He swung his club as I swung my fist full into his chest.

I know how to punch, how to step into it, to turn my body, to aim for whatever is behind the man. The guard’s feet lifted from bedrock and he landed as a mess of no air and broken ribs. I’m not sure if his club made contact. If so I never felt it. I retrieved the cobra from the floor for my own sake. You never know.

The four cells of non-storage were occupied. Orel. Emily. Mary. Some old codger I’d never met.

Call me Moses.

I freed the prisoners, even the old stranger. Orel gave me a hard look. Emily went to take a swing but her husband got a hold of her arms in the nick of time. She had to content herself with spitting on my foot before she and Orel left. The old codger followed with an approving nod in my direction. Mary gave me a much better reception. She caressed my cheek. I read her lips. They asked if I was okay, they asked where I had been, and then they were on my own. I closed my eyes for a moment, forgetting the danger we were in, forgetting the fight outside, the struggle of men, the fact that my hearing might never come back. I opened my eyes and pulled Mary out of the kiss.

“Get behind me,” I said. I popped one of Dr. Doyle’s syringes in my leg, opting for the recommended dose this time. I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths. My heart pumped solid in my chest, strong and brave. Blood flowed in my ears, my arms, and I felt like God’s last warrior, an invincible man.

The sub-basement stairwell had grown dangerously hot, oppressively hot. It was the kind of heat that sets off all the animal panic buttons in the back of my skull. During my brief interim in the sub-basement, the Bow Street Firm had turned into a flaming hellscape. The air was condensed and rippled like caramelized syrup. As we ascended breathing became unbearable. I threw my coat over Mary’s head and guided her into the first floor lobby.

The well-tuned machine of Bow Street was no more. Tables and desks were overturned. Boschon copiers, information looms, and pneumatic tubes were destroyed. The innards of the information beast were smashed and scattered. Flames licked the walls and coated all those beautiful panels of wood. The ceiling was invisible behind a cloud of black smoke that rolled and flowed like an upside-down ocean. Bodies of men were strewn about. Some I knew, some I didn’t. I stepped over Blaine, brave guard, wielder of the cobra. I stepped over a man in a burlap mask, another in a cheetah mask. My eyes watered tears for smoke and loss. All these men felled at the ego of two geniuses who were too posh to just have at each other.

I lifted Mary into my arms, cradling her to avoid the corpses and flaming bits of furniture. Near the front door I caught sight of something that chilled my spine. One of the burlap maskers was laid out, not moving. His arm had been hacked off at the elbow, but rather than blood and bone and ligaments, the dead masker poured oil. Tiny gears spread out from his wound, reflecting gold in the fire light. No doubt Darwin had been busy.

Outside the front entrance, the fray had taken to the streets. Dozens of men fought and scrambled over the cobbles. By now the Metros had weighed in and were swinging their batons at all men not uniformed. I imagine there was screaming, battle cries of the bloodied, and despairing cries of the dying. All the spinning hurling cacophony of war was thankfully muffled to my damaged ears. Lord Barnes was nowhere. It was possible that he was in the burning structure, a captain going down with his ship, but I didn’t think that was the case. A burlap masker ran towards me with knife raised. I planted my boot firmly under his chin and sent him hurtling. I couldn’t tell if he was man or machine, so keen was Nouveau’s creation, or should I say Saxon’s. I shifted Mary over my left shoulder and sprang the cobra with my free hand. The street was slippery with bloody mud. I swung at all comers, burlap, animal, Metro; no man or machine stood as my friend and I cracked all skulls brave enough or unfortunate enough to get between myself and the line of exit. The combat ebbed and flowed and I eventually found myself on the far side of it, away from the bloodlust grinder. I took off down an alley, Mary still over my shoulder.

A horseless carriage screeched to halt at the opposite end. Two Metros jumped out. They raised their hands and shouted words that wouldn’t have mattered had I understood. I set Mary onto her feet and charged the Mets. Blood was pounding in my face, in my hands, into the tips of my fingers. The first Met raised his baton. I faked a high attack and then dropped to my knees, shattering his ankle with a tremendous swing of the cobra. The Met howled in agony. This I actually heard through the muffled thumping of my destroyed hearing. I popped up to meet his partner, only to find him loading a scattergun from the other side of the car. My heart stopped. The Met raised his gun to his shoulder, leaned forward and was suddenly enveloped by my jacket. I swung left. The Met shot out the passenger window of his horseless carriage.

The Met swept the jacket off of himself but Mary was now on his back, punching and wailing like a banshee. I ran around the car and tackled both Mary and the Met into a pile of alley trash. His scattergun dropped somewhere in the refuse. The three of us rolled like cats, Mary biting and scratching, my hands on the wrists of the Met. He’d loosed a knife from his belt and was trying to press the tip into my chest. The Met and I rolled. Mary fell clear of the fray. My palms were too sweaty. The Met loosed his knife hand and gave me a shallow poke in the stomach, just enough to keep me awake and active and stain the front of my shirt like a real horror show. I raised my fists into a boxer’s stance and the Met took another slash, this one cutting a straight line down my forearm. This bloke was fast to be sure. I cocked my head right and stepped left, giving no indication of my next move. Really I was waiting for him to get close, close enough for me to grab hold of him, put my hands on him, tear him asunder like I had that automatic woman oh so long ago. Behind his shoulder I spotted Mary, standing and holding the copper’s scattergun from her hip. She said something and the copper turned white, then dropped his knife and turned slowly. I took advantage of the moment, stepped forward, and punched the Met’s face with every ounce of twist and weight I could muster. My knuckle split on the man’s temple and gave us a little of the old red paint. He bowed down, lifted his head, took a step back and lost his legs completely, collapsing back into the rubbish heap. I looked up at Mary and gave her a wink. She smiled back at me, and waved the scattergun, which was almost as big as her. I reclaimed my jacket and my cobra and my girl. We ran off into the night.

For half an hour we ducked in and out of dark alleys, dodging all hints of authority, humanity, shadows and rats. We lurked across side roads and in virtually uninhabited neighborhoods. She tossed the shooter into some bushes. There was no way to hide a giant fuck-all scattergun and we needed more stealth than fight. She turned to me with a look on her face that I’d never seen, not through the days of caresses or fleeting paid-for moments of ecstasy. Her grin was wolfish and lopsided. It made her eyes sparkle and even though her make-up had long ago worn away in the Bow Street non-storage, I’d never seen her more beautiful. My hearing was returning, but there would always be a ring, on quiet nights and quiet places the high pitch ring would be my companion from now into the hereafter.

“That was fucking brilliant!” she said and grabbed my right hand in both of hers.

She kissed the knife wound on my forearm, and my busted knuckles. She licked a spot of blood off her lips. Honestly, that was going a bit too far, but I didn’t say anything for fear of ruining the mood.

I looked around. We were near the desolate neighborhood of the Piece Work, near the home of the porter’s mum. I led Mary down the darker paths of the declining neighborhoods. I knocked on Mum’s door and buttoned my jacket so as to look less like a bloody hooligan. The old woman answered despite the hour and location. A trusting soul, or an insane one.

“Hello, Mum,” I said. She was wearing a colorful new coat over her layers of rags. Purple crushed velvet. Good call, Mum. She smiled her angelic smile.

“Mr. Government Agent! What brings you back?”

“Good news, Mum. I always come bearing joyous tidings.”

Mum ushered us into her home. As I mentioned, her living quarters consisted of a single room. The interior was lit by an oil lamp on a raw wood table. The light glowed soft and gold and did nothing to illuminate the dark corners of Mum’s hovel. The walls were adorned with separate layers of peeling contact paper. The top layer was white followed by gray, then yellow, then patches of brick where the paper had completely come away.

A couch sat behind the raw wood table. A vertical gas pipe and radiator dominated the wall opposite the couch. A gas ring extended from the pipe. A battered kettle perched itself precariously on the ring. Mum’s home was the very definition of shabby.

Mum stroked Mary’s arm with old, thin fingers. She looked into Mary’s eyes and took a sudden deep breath.

“You are so lovely, deary!” Mum squeaked. She let her twig fingers brush Mary’s face, her hair, her dress.

Mary gave Mum a shy smile. Her bare feet were black with mud and street grime. Her hair was a tangled nest; her hair dye had grown a half inch over the roots, now showing bits blonde and gray under auburn. Her dress was torn and filthy from days of confinement.

Mum was a saint.

“Can I get you a cup of tea, deary?” Mum asked

“Tea would be fine,” Mary replied.

I grabbed Mary’s hand. Mine was still shaking from the last dregs of Dr. Doyle’s seven percent solution. Mum lit her gas ring with a match the length of her forearm.

“Mum, I’ve been talking with important men, officials. You and your son should have a better place to live. We have acquired a place for you on B Street.”

I took my apartment key out of my pocket and pressed it into her hand. It wasn’t like I was ever going back. As far I as I was concerned, London and I were finished.

“It’s paid up to the end of next month. There’s no furniture except for a bed, which you can keep. Anyway, it’s a flat bigger than this place. Are you interested?”

Mum laughed and hooted and grasped me in a hug stronger than I would have given her credit for.

“Gather your things, then,” I said.

Mum bobbed around her room putting odds and ends into a canvas shopping sack. Picture frames, a broken statuette, a half-full ash tray, tins of potted meat. She filled her bag with a nonsensical collection dictated by whatever cracked portion of her mind judged important from unimportant. Her little feet swished and swept the rubbish on her floor; leaves, and bits of wrapping, and cigar ends.

I took her bag and her arm and walked her out of her shite apartment and shite neighborhood. It took four blocks of wandering to find a hansom cab that would stop to my raised hand.

I paid the driver a hefty tip, gave him directions, and instructed him to walk Mum to my front door. And off they went.

Over the buildings and homes, miles from where I stood, the London skyline burned fierce. The Bow Street Firm, its neighbor buildings, and probably the entire city block were consumed in a hungry conflagration. My history, my work, and the last seven years of my life in the belly of that beast were all gone to wind, to ashes, and to memories.

I returned to Mum’s flat. Mary stood among the rubbish sipping a cup of Earl Grey.

“Was that cup clean?” I asked.

“Probably not.” She regarded the cup for a moment, then dropped it to the floor and was on me like a jungle cat. She stripped off my coat and threw it against the wall. Then she ripped my shirt down the center, sending popped buttons to join the decaying garbage of Mum’s floor. I leaned in to kiss her but she slapped me hard across the face and pushed me onto the couch. I pulled her onto my lap; she straddled my body and locked her legs behind my back, like the Swan Princess of my nightmares.

I lifted her and myself from the couch, fighting as much as loving. Our lips finally locked and our tongues took on the fight our hands were too busy to engage in. My hands found their way under her dress, caressing her small breasts, her tiny arse, every bit of her legs and back, all taut muscles like bow strings. Her hands tangled into my hair which she twisted like a bronco rider. We collapsed to the floor as hot blooded beasts, rutting and cursing well into the morning hours.

Eleven

Jolly and Mary’s Escape from London

I woke in the late morning with Mary still in my arms. We roused ourselves and gathered discarded bits of clothing. She brushed the rubbish from Mum’s floor off my back; I did the same for her. We were like grooming chimpanzees picking away bits of paper and tea leaves and cigar butts. The morning sun seemed a strange beast. I was positively hung-over from the violence of the night before.

We gathered our meager effects. Mary nicked a pair of sandals from under Mum’s couch, and we were on our way. The evening’s careful planning had given way to improvising. I knew that leaving London was the first priority. Things had gotten too hot, as the saying goes. I stopped in a general store for biscuits, a paper, and a coat for Mary to throw over her torn dress. We looked and smelled like gutter snipes. I retrieved my firearms from the tube station. We booked passage on an eleven o’clock southbound train to Portsmouth with all stops in-between.

We took advantage of a layover in Basingstoke. I rented us two copper tubs at a tavern under the pretense of being a married couple on holiday. We took short but heavenly baths. The hot water peeled away days of grime and dead skin and dried blood. I could have spent a lifetime basking in that water, getting clean, getting renewed. I rose from that copper tub reborn. The water I left behind was thick and black and stank despite the soaps and perfumes mixed in. Mary’s tub was not so dramatic, but she looked like a different person as well. We appeared less like street urchins and more like the newlywed widower and late marriage maid that I’d composed as our cover story.

We returned to the train and shared a quiet lunch of cold meats in the dining car. Afterward we found our seats and she rested her head against my arm. Mary slept while I watched the green earth roll past. Clouds blotted the sun and made everything gray and cool. The train stopped again in Winchester, but I made no movement for fear of waking Mary. She rubbed her face and grumbled and continued dreaming Lord knows what.

We detrained at Portsmouth. I booked passage for us on an eight p.m. ferry to Le Havre. We rented another room, this time for the purpose of changing appearances. Mary shaved off all of my hair and mutton chops, or at least those hairs that hadn’t been burned off in Bow Street. I matched my new hairstyle with a cheap shirt, wool trousers, suspenders, and cap. All in all I looked like a dock worker lost from port. Mary dyed her hair henna red and gave it a short bob, as was trendy among working class wives.

We shared another quiet meal, this one of Shepherd’s Pie and whiskey waters. I purchased three evening editions and scanned for my name or anything that could relate me to last evening’s activities.

Riot in Whitechapel

Fire Sweeps Central London

Anarchists Bloody Revolt

On and on went tales of lurid violence and the heroic efforts of police officers and firefighters. Eleven dead, dozens injured. No mention of the Bow Street Firm or Lord Barnes or Charles Darwin or automatic statues that fight like men. Someone had whitewashed these stories and taken out the mystery, the true meaning. Two of the papers cited the cause as a drunken brawl that got out of hand, something started over choleric words at the St. George & Dragon. The Pall Mall Gazette, yellowest of the three papers, blamed the riot on an anarchist conspiracy to undermine our sovereign unity. They want to destroy our way of life because they hated freedom and happiness and blah, blah, blah. Someone had spent good currency or brandished incredible favors to alter the news. The effect was disorienting. Had I made up the conspiracies in my mind? Were the papers right? Was I mad?

I looked at Mary, dipping her fork into mash and sweeping it around. The things that happened last night, last week, the war of the geniuses, the statues that came to life, if all of that wasn’t real, then what was she doing with me?

“Mary?”

“Hmm.”

“Am I mad?”

“Hmm?”

“Am I crazy?”

Her brown eyes looked up as she solemnly chewed her food. She gave the impression of deep contemplation. She swallowed and gave me that lopsided grin.

“Maybe.”

“Why are you with me?”

“You scared off my pimp.”

“No, really. I’m in serious trouble. You can jump clear of this if you leave me. Why are you staying?”

She stroked the back of my hand with her finger.

“Jolly, I literally have nowhere else to go. Jack paid my rent. I’m not a woman of means; I’m an army widow. Less than that, actually. My husband, God rest his soul, was shot and killed in Egypt during Orabi’s Uprising. I was sad, I was hurt, but deep inside I was relieved. I married when I was young and pretty and stupid and didn’t know the ways of worldly men. My husband was older and dashing and strong and quick with his temper and fists. He also loved drink and cards. I imagine he loved drink and cards more than me given that he always had money for one and not the other. ‘Fine,’ I thought, ‘he’s dead and I’ll get my pension and the live the quiet widow’s life. Or perhaps I’ll go to a vocational school, take up the caring of children or typesetting.’ The government letter came and took what hope I had and burned it to ash. ‘Your husband was discharged from service prior to his death,’ they say. ‘Conduct not befitting a soldier in the Queen’s Army,’ they say. ‘Murdered in a common tavern brawl,’ they say. No heroics, no honor, no pension. That’s when Saucy Jack started coming around. Devon, my husband, owed money to several disreputable lenders. All gambling debts. Jack purchased the debts and presented me with two options: pay my husband’s outstanding balance or receive my husband’s punishment. No one sets out to be a whore, Jolly. But after five years, I know that’s all I’ll ever be. A whore.”

“I like you,” I said. I wanted to say something more substantial but found myself at a loss. I make no claim to being suave around the fairer sex, even one that I’ve already had the carnal knowledge of. To be sure, Mary gave me an inscrutable look.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Even if I’m a whore.”

“You’re not a whore today. You won’t be a whore tomorrow. You’re not a whore to me.”

“I’ve been a whore to you.”

“Those days are over.”

“All right, then. I like you, too. But I know that good days are to be lived in the moment and bad days are always on their way. I’m having fun now. I’m enjoying your company now. Where do you have us going from here?”

“We’ll land in Le Havre and take a train East. As far East as we can manage on our resources.”

She gave my hand another squeeze.

“The men chasing you, are they going to find us?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty lucky.”

“You’re lucky my former husband cured me of handsome and charming men.”

I laughed at that.

“Lucky me,” I said.

The last of my money got us one way tickets to Budapest, with stops and changeovers in Cambrai, Brussels, Stuttgart, Munich and Graz. I’d come this way as a young man sent to war. I’d taken the opposite path home as an older, more cynical man. When I’d first ventured south, I’d been fleeing the life of a cobbler, fleeing the life of a man who never left the grit and horseshit of the city streets. I was fleeing my father and his life. When we’re young, often we don’t know the value of what we have. I loved my father despite hating his life. I joined the service to see the greater empire and claim adventure. My father died in the five years I spent adrift. He died and no one in my family knew how to reach me. I came back to a city lessened by his absence and stayed because my military service taught me that there is no such thing as the better place. All the places we live in our lives are tainted by the pettiness of human interest and the only happiness is that which we make for ourselves, independent of location.

Mary and I boarded our train in France. We played the role of the married couple poorly. Our relationship was too fresh. We held hands, we kissed openly, and we did not exhibit the tired silence of a couple long wed.

I let my mind wander to that time of old marriage, if we reached it. I saw us getting to Budapest. An acquaintance of mine from the army ran an inn in the English expatriate section of town. I’d find work with him, guarding the door, breaking fights, making sure the employees were not dipping into the till; basic strongman work. I’d play the role of the thug and Mary and I would find a little home for ourselves, an inexpensive flat. She would take to nesting, hanging cheap marketplace rugs on the walls. She would master Hungarian delicacies. Each morning I’d come home from work to the smells of cinnamon and cumin and buttered flaky pastry. She would grow fat and heavy with child. Not on purpose, but not by surprise either. We would have a little girl, who I’d name Irene after my mother.

I’d start acquiring the tools of a boot maker. Start moving away from strongman work, because violent hands are not meant for the fathers of children. I have an intimate knowledge of cobblers’ tools; welting stands and lasting stands, puller bars, cutters, snips, and stamps. I’d use our flat as a shop, creating decorative boots for market retailers. Eventually I’d open a shop of my own and Mary would have another child, a son to go with our daughter. I would teach him how to make boots and how to be a man. My daughter I would love unconditionally, though I can’t imagine what I’d have to teach her. Our passion for each other would recede, but we’d build a friendship through the raising of our children. We’d grow old, our children would grow old, and all things would be well in our beautiful simple lives.

I saw this dream in my mind like a kinescope collage of moving images. Everything was real, everything came true and happened and our lives were no longer burdened with fear and desperation. I was convinced that I’d been granted a premonition, that Mary and I would get away, would gain our lives and our freedom.

We were captured two days into our travels.

Twelve

Charles Darwin Discusses the Difficulties of Life and Travel

Mary and I switched trains at the Munich Central Station. We were seated in third class amongst the common folk. Like travelers on our way to country families or transplanting to separate jobs or doing whatever it is regular people do when they are not fugitives.

I should have known; perhaps in the back of my mind I did know. It was a foregone conclusion that we would be found.

I left Mary to use the car lavatory. It was short, cramped, and set up like a hall closet with a toilet installation. The lav smelled wrong, but this was not unusual. Lavs tend to not be homes of pleasant scents. What was unusual was the type of smell, a faint whiff of circus animals, manure of horses and elephants and other strange beasts. I hadn’t smelled anything like it since Darwin’s office.

Walking back to our seats, I caught Mary’s eye. She was pale and panicked; she shook her head as if to tell me to run away, to flee. Mr. Stevens, Darwin’s personal secretary, sat next to Mary, blocking her into the window seat. A gazette lay open across his lap and hands. I tucked my hand into my jacket and clutched the handle of my Colt Army.

“Excuse me, mate.” I drew back the hammer of my pistol. Stevens looked up from his paper.

“You’re in my seat,” I said.

“Am I?” Stevens cocked whatever pistol lay under his gazette. “No need to get upset,” he said. “There’s a much better seat waiting for you in the luxury caboose. Our employer would like to speak with you.”

“If you…” I started. Stevens interrupted me.

“If you don’t get moving things are going to turn bloody chaotic here. If our employer meant you harm you would not have the benefit of seeing my face. Now be a good fellow, and I’ll keep an eye on your missus.” Stevens winked at Mary.

I tightened my grip on the pistol and looked at her. She saw my eyes, my hand, my face, and knew more about my intentions than any mind reader could have gleaned. It was at that moment that I truly fell in love with her.

Mary shook her head. I released my gun and withdrew my hand from my jacket.

“Good decision, mate. See you soon.” Stevens returned to reading his paper. I went about-face and made the long walk to the back of the train. We were six cars from the rear. Dining, baggage, passengers, a group of soldiers; everything in the world stood between me and the slow walk to my destination.

A lean Arabic guard lounged outside the luxury cabin. He opened my jacket, regarded my firearms and beckoned me through the door. It was strange to me that I wasn’t disarmed. What game was Darwin playing?

The caboose was adorned with lavender papered walls, thick carpet, overstuffed couches and a crystal chandelier that jostled with the train’s bumps and shakes. Bram Stoker sat on one of the couches, Charles Darwin on another. A second Arabic guard stood behind Darwin, motionless, expressionless. Stoker and Darwin were drinking giant snifters of brandy.

“Mr. Fellows!” Stoker rose and offered me his hand. I didn’t take it.

“How did you find me, Darwin?”

Darwin looked into his amber glass. He examined the brandy like a gypsy regarding a crystal ball, like a mystic source of knowledge and answers.

“Mr. Fellows, do you know how much of an imposition it is for a man of my age to travel? And the expense of traveling with suitable accommodations is… substantial. If it weren’t for the fact that my good friend Bram has an investigative assignment in Transylvania…” Darwin nodded at Stoker. “Well, I would be much more upset than I am.”

“How did you find me?”

Darwin waved his stick fingers to dismiss my question as though it was beneath him.

“At some point in time, I assume Lord Barnes told you his all-encompassing hypothesis of humanity. How greatness is dictated by breeding, schooling, luck, and specialty?”

“I heard him say something to that effect.”

“His absurd little bit of science is really the genesis of our rivalry. I’ve long said that man’s greatness is nothing more than his survivability. A young man can attend the best schools and die of tuberculosis before reaching adulthood. Well-bred parents can produce monsters. We see this in the royal families of Spain. Luck is a fool’s notion; it does not exist. All the world runs on cause and effect. If you are run over by a horse, it is because you stepped in its path, not because the forces of fortune are conspiring against you. And specialty, while useful, does not make up the entire equation. Specialty is food without water, bread without yeast, rain without cover. Survivability takes in all factors and focuses on results. The better man is the man who can survive the longest. Take yourself and Abraham Silver for example. He was an employee of mine, set against Barnes. You were two men of similar skills given similar tasks. In all things he seemed your superior. He was elegant, well-spoken, better educated, and less restricted to moral attachments. And yet here you stand before me while he rots in a pine wood box. You are the survivor, thus you are the greater man.”

“Get to the point, Darwin. I’m not here for your lectures.”

“You asked a question, Mr. Fellows. You cannot ask a question without receiving a thorough answer. Here is mine. I know how to find you because I see everything.”

“Pardon?”

“I see everything. I told you a moment ago that there is no such thing as luck. It would be more accurate to say there is no such thing as chaos. Ours is an orderly universe. Every event, every action and reaction is predictable. If you strike a ball with your hand the exact same way with the exact same strength over and over again it will always fly in the same direction. If this train strikes another train, the damage will be based solely on the speed of both vehicles and the point of impact. We accurately predict the days and seasons based on movement of our planet around the sun. We predict rain based on cloud formations and the better our view the more accurate our prediction. There is no such thing as chaos, Mr. Fellows. There is simply what we can observe and what we cannot observe.”

“That’s not true. I’ve been to war. Some men were lucky and survived. Some men had no luck. They were consumed by illness or torn by blades or bullets. We all went the same way but some of us came home and some of us didn’t.”

“Mr. Fellows, it is predictable that men will die in war. They always have. It is predictable that there will be survivors. There always have been. And if you were to put in front of me a regiment of men, I could unfailingly tell you which ones would come home and which ones wouldn’t. I could see which ones were faster, which ones were smarter, which ones were too brave or of weak constitution- all elements for accurate prediction. This is my gift. This is why I can look at trees and animals and tell you their accurate ancestry; this is why I knew that you would flee London and seek Mr. Alder Clemens of Budapest. I have access to your Central Bureaucracy file, I know your service record, and I’ve observed you personally. You cannot take an action that I cannot accurately predict.”

I pulled my pistol from my holster and pointed it Darwin. Bollocks to order over chaos! Darwin did not look alarmed.

“You won’t shoot me because you care about Mary. This is not a difficult thing to predict either. You have taken risks for her before, held her own safety above your own. That includes coming to this very cart instead of fleeing the train or attacking my secretary.”

I put my gun away. Darwin was right. Any action I did now was tempered by my desire to keep Mary safe. That was my main priority.

“I had a good idea where you were going. The rest was just confirming your location through contacts and setting up this meeting.”

“What do you want with me?”

“Our little game is not done. You are not done. We have much to do. Lord Barnes has been hurt. Taking the Bow Street Firm from him is the most damage I’ve ever done. He is on the ropes, but he is not finished. Lord Barnes is a worthy opponent. He has gone to ground. He has found a hiding place that I have yet to uncover, so I must draw him out. Or rather, you must draw him out.”

“I thought you could see everything. Why can’t you see him?”

“Lord Barnes has similar skills as myself, though not as well practiced. He has hidden himself in a place I cannot reach, and yet I know he will surface to come for you.”

“Why me?”

“Jacques Nouveau is dead. He was slain by an assassin’s bullet in his workshop the morning after Bow Street burned. With Nouveau gone, you are his next target, then Bram, then Stevens. These are the players of this game and when he has finished with them, when he has eliminated everyone who has any knowledge of Saxon’s automatons, he will have held me to a tie. He will hunt for you. He will find you. He will send men against you.”

“I’m your bait?”

“Yes.”

“And what if I don’t want to be your bait?”

The Arab guard made a subtle movement, a shifting in the way he stood, in where his hands were positioned.

“I’m going to present three scenarios, Jolly. Three possibilities that are within your capacities. Scenario one:; you come with me. We leave Mr. Stoker in the capable hands of Mr. Samir,” Darwin nodded at the Arab, “and return to Oxford. I put you and your mistress in a well-provisioned cabin. Lord Barnes sends men against you, and we capture them using my immaculate planning. The soldiers lead to Barnes, and this ends. Scenario two: you refuse me and make a last stand in this car. You and Samir will fight to the death. You will eventually overwhelm him with your strength, but his brother outside will stab you in the back. A fatal wound I’m afraid. Also, Mr. Stevens will strangle Mary and throw her from the train. Scenario three: you agree with me in the car but decide to turn rogue outside. You shoot Mr. Stevens, claim your lady friend and leap from train into Lake Balaton, which we’ll be running parallel to in five minutes. You meet your friend in Budapest, gain employment, but are picked up by Budapest authorities within two weeks. There’ll be an international bounty on you for the murder of Dr. Saxon and you’ll have additional charges brought by your flight from justice. You will be extradited to London, convicted by a judge who sits firmly in the pocket of Lord Barnes, and hung from the neck. Your mistress will either be executed for aiding in your escape, or will be ignored by Lord Barnes and undoubtedly return to a life of prostitution. To say her pimp is upset is an understatement. Murderous would be more accurate.”

Darwin took another sip of brandy and rolled it around in his mouth before swallowing.

“So you see, Mr. Fellows, if you review the most likely scenarios, you will find that only one works in your favor.”

“What if Barnes kills me?”

“I trust in your survivability more than his. It’s a gamble I’m willing to make.”

“What happened between you two? Why all of this? I get the feeling that this really isn’t about automatic women.”

“You don’t need to know.”

“If I’m going to dangle from your fishhook, I have a right to know why.”

“Fine, it is about Saxon’s experiment, in part. His technology is new and vital and whoever claims it can absorb our former colleague’s greatness. Though to be honest I have no idea how Saxon got his Swan Princess to act on her own. She’s reassembled, you know. We have her in a cage, pacing and snapping her teeth at any who approach. With Saxon and Nouveau dead, I can’t imagine we’ll ever truly know unless I find an engineer equal to their abilities. We’ve made replicas, but none bear her life, her aggression. They are machines of war but no more useful than a sword or a gun. They only operate under specific instructions and the break-down rate is phenomenal. Not to mention the expense. Without knowing Saxon’s secret, the automaton experiment will come to an end.”

Stoker cleared his throat.

“Don’t you step in with your tale of magic Shiran runes, Bram. I’m not going imprint Babylonian mumbo-jumbo on precision machinery. If that is the secret then I refuse to accept it. Our world is a world without magic and unexplainable rubbish.”

“What about God?” asked Bram.

“God is the proxy in between science and the unknown. All things we do not know about we can attribute to God. The things we do find out about we can attribute to him also, but he is more useful as a catch-all for the unknown. How were the planets and stars formed? God did it. What energy powers the sun? God’s energy. The list goes on and on.”

Darwin turned back to me.

“Barnes and I both wanted what Saxon had. Now neither of us have it. Years ago Lord Barnes had my theories declared religious heresy. I was excommunicated from the Anglican Church. Even worse I’ve had to answer to every fool theologian since. I responded to Barnes’ attacks with petty revenges, discrediting, media attacks, anonymous accusations of sexual perversion, of mysticism. Lord Barnes defeated me over and over again. Not because he was the better man, but because I refused to go hard enough against him. He provoked my ire, and the destruction of his agency was the natural conclusion of my wrath. As I was saying, cause and effect. He will now react. He will react against you. I think we are engaged in the last act of a play that started with Lord Barnes’ words and will end with destruction of everything he holds dear, including his own petty, overestimated life.”

The cabin door swung open. Stevens and Mary entered.

“Oh good,” Darwin said. “Have a brandy, get comfortable. At the next stop we will leave Mr. Stoker and begin our journey home.”

Thirteen

Jolly and Mary Enter Forced Seclusion

Our return trip to London was significantly shorter than our voyage out. We arrived in Budapest, and parted ways with Stoker and Samir. Darwin booked us first class passage on the A.S. Sir Francis Drake, an English dirigible set for a return flight to London. The twelve hour flight to London consisted largely of Darwin getting drunk while Stevens and Samir’s brother kept a watchful eye on Mary and me. The deeper the drunk, the darker Darwin’s mood became. He got mouthy in his cups, pontificating on the functions of the living world, the causality of human interaction, and, of course, the right bastard actions of theHonorable Lord Barnes.

Lord Barnes was the founder of the evolution countermovement. He was the original naysayer of fitness and the origin of species. During our long flight I began to understand the depth and nature of Darwin’s obsession. To be called wrong when you knew you were right, to be held as a fool, to be scorned and ridiculed, was too much for a man of his abilities and disposition to bear. It was during this time that I also realized that Darwin was insane. From age or drink or rage or some combination of those, he’d gone past the edge of rationality. He’d gone to a place where war and murder could be justified, and like all old men who have a taste for war, he’d enlisted younger, impressionable men to do his fighting.

Stevens and Samir’s brother stood in silence. Stoic guards. I imagine they’d heard these rants before, but had become numb to the old naturalist’s raw anger.

Darwin felt that the true sin of Barnes’ attack on his theories, the truly infuriating thing, was that Barnes’ movement was based on faith and thus impossible to counter. A faith-based argument need not follow the chains of logic and can thus never be overturned in fair debate. Darwin would spend the rest of his living days defending what he saw as truth, as scientific law. And when he passed, for surely the day would soon come that old Darwin would shuffle off our mortal coil, his theories would continue to be disregarded. They would be held in scorn by people who did not follow logic, who would not read his books or follow his train of thought. People would dismiss him out of hand. His theories would never be counted as scientific laws because Barnes had fanned the fire of detractors. The old man broke into tears.

“Do you know what it means to hate, Mr. Fellows?”

I shook my head. I don’t imagine I’d felt a hate like he did.

“Hate is so much more intimate than love. When you truly hate someone, you take a piece of their soul. They become part of you, they occupy your thoughts, your attention, like a wound that itches and stings but you cannot reach it. The one you hate is in your thoughts when you wake. They are with you in the quiet moments when you are alone, and they are with you in the dark of night. They enter your dreams. The one you hate lives inside you, Mr. Fellows. A man can always turn his back on love. There are so many songs and poems stocked full of such tripe. But there’s no escape from hate, no turning away, no victory. I cannot expel Lord Barnes from my system, but I will hurt him. It gives me joy to hurt him. It’s the last joy granted to this withering body of mine.”

Darwin hiccupped and slumped into his couch. He returned to his place of dreams, the place of his thoughts. I assume Lord Barnes was waiting for him.

Time stretched as it does when you’re bored or frightened. At some point Mary found my hand and squeezed it. I looked at her delicate fingers, up to her eyes, and suddenly we were on a separate island. We were our own entity existing outside of danger and despair and Darwin with his violent goons. The lifts and whirls of the dirigible twisted my stomach and competed with the twists of Mary’s smile. Darwin could keep his hate, keep his rants, his grudge. Nothing was more important than that which was in front of me. Darwin said I could turn away from love, and that was his weakness. I disagree. When you’re in the thick of it, there is no turning away.

The A.S. Sir Francis Drake began its descent. Darwin snored loudly in his chair. Stevens broke from his stoicism and took the seat across from Mary and me.

“It goes without saying that you’ll miss your trial tomorrow,” Stevens said. “Rumors will blossom in the underworld that you’re in hiding and under the protection of Arabic smugglers. Those who have a deeper understanding will see Mr. Darwin’s hand in this. They will assume that Mr. Darwin is repaying you for your part in the destruction of the Bow Street Firm. We have a nice little place for you outside of Oxford, in Marley Wood, ideal for honeymooners such as yourselves. Mr. Hannosh and myself will be attending to you and will be apprehending any assassins who attempt to snuff out your life.”

“What if they succeed?”

Mr. Stevens cheeks dimpled as he frowned, giving him the air and look of petulant, mustached child.

“Were I a betting man, I’d say the precautions placed by Mr. Darwin give you a better than average chance. He’ll never admit it, but he was greatly distressed by Nouveau’s demise. He never makes the same mistake twice.”

“What exactly happened to Nouveau?”

“It just so happens I was there. We were in his workshop in the Bureaucracy. He was pacing the room, muttering in French about gear ratios, about sentient life, about finding himself a new line of work. I don’t think he knew I spoke his native tongue so his monologue was tragically unfiltered. All of a sudden, he turned, raised a finger in the air, shouted ‘sacre bleu’ and his head exploded. Top to bottom the whole back of his head was shorn off, like a Viking axeman sundered it. The walls, the Swan, myself, everything got a little piece of the great mind of Jacques Nouveau, the genius engineer, artist, Frenchman. At first I was speechless. The room was secure, our guards were out the front door, I was inside, and there were government agents crawling all about the place. Then I looked up. The ceiling had a near opaque skylight, maybe a meter diameter with a steeple slant. Across the street from Central Bureaucracy sits St. Clemens Dane. Whoever Barnes’ hitter was must have scaled the bell tower and waited, rifle trained on about twelve centimeters of visible space, through that God forsaken skylight. Lord knows how long he waited for Nouveau to walk his skull into the line of fire. An amazing shot, really. I can’t wait to get my hands on the shooter.”

I figured then was a good time to stop talking to Stevens. He was doing little to boost my confidence.

We landed on London Airstrip One, the first airport of the United Kingdom and a crowning achievement in our current rebuild. We disembarked before the other passengers and were met on the airfield by two horseless carriages. I’d never actually ridden in one of these marvels; neither had Mary. We were escorted into the rear seating area where we were joined by Stevens. Mr. Hannosh placed himself in the driver’s seat. Darwin took a separate car, I imagine to distance himself from this part of the adventure, to return to his pretend life as a benign scholar.

Mary kept silent, but the grip she kept on my hand spoke more than words. I envied her philosophy, accepting one day at a time, finding joy in the joyless. Her time as a prostitute certainly prepared her for partnership with me. I’m the polar magnet of bad times and surviving days by the sweat of my brow or skin of my teeth.

The horseless carriage did nothing to calm my nerves. It rattled and hummed unnaturally. At one point Hannosh accelerated to pass a horse buggy and I swore by the whine of the engine that the entire machine would explode, would consume us in a ball of fire and steam. I observed Hannosh manipulate the lever. There were two for left and right movement and a third for drive levels. There were what he called gears, and foot pedals for acceleration and breaking.

We reached Oxford as fast as any train. We passed the university and turned off the primary road onto a dirt path that bounced the horseless carriage unmercifully. We ventured deep into the woods, where elms and crack willows swayed and held a court all their own. The sun itself was held at bay in these thick woods, allowing only the shifting speckles and rays admitted through leafy branches and a never-ending breeze. The cabin was a rustic rectangle of stacked oak and mud mortar. It looked like a landscape painter’s idea of country seclusion. Mary put her hand to her breast.

“Isn’t it brilliant!” she said.

“I could die here,” I said in grim seriousness.

She took my hand and held it to her breast and the smile on her face told me that my worries had not registered, that she had retreated to this moment and this moment was beautiful. I loved her for that.

Stevens lifted a canvas sack out of the carriage boot.

“Here are the rules,” he said. “You stay in the cabin. You do not leave the cabin. No one goes into or out of the cabin. You are not to use the doors or the windows. Your use of the windows are a moot point seeing as they are sealed shut. Everything you need is in the cabin. Food, supplies, lav, water, books… we’ve even been gracious enough to stock you with liquor and beer. We stay here and wait for your assassin.”

“What if he’s successful? What if I get taken like Nouveau?”

Stevens gripped my shoulder.

“Never fear, mate. Barnes does not have enough men left to come at you with numbers. He has to use the same plan as us; low numbers, precision shooting. But precision shooting takes time, placement, and patience. Any man who comes for you is going to be on the bastard end of time. He’s going to have to find you, spot your routine, set up a good shot, and execute it. Time is our ally. Hannosh is a tracker, I’m a tracker. We will disappear into these woods and come upon any would be assassins.”

“I would feel better with my guns back.”

Stevens shook his head.

“Your feelings aren’t part of this plan. Now be a good boy, and attend to your location. I’ll check on you at intervals.”

Stevens let go of my shoulder. I escorted Mary into our cabin, our honeymoon prison. Stevens was correct. The cabin was well stocked with fresh loaves of white bread, strawberry preserves, tins of fish, tea, a wood burning stove, water, and a dozen bottles of hard liquor. They were quality brands of whiskey, gin, vodka. There was even a cylinder phonograph, though the only music stocked was the Bolshoy rendition of Swan Lake. Darwin has a vicious sense of humor. The supplies occupied what I came to think of as the living room.

The cabin had one other room, adorned with a double bed and a clothes rack with apparel for Mary and myself. Mary hooted and spun and rifled through the provisions, treating each find, each discovery, as a gift, a celebration. The first day we spent in Darwin’s cabin was very much what I imagined a honeymoon to be. Hannosh and Stevens vanished into the elm groves. Mary fashioned a lunch of pan-fried sardines on slices of oiled bread. We drank whiskey with our lunch, after our lunch, and throughout the afternoon. We listened to the cylinder phonograph. We shared stories of the not-too-recent-past. When the sun dipped and the forest darkened, I opted not to light the stove or any of the lanterns. No need to make an assassin’s job easier. Mary found me in the dark and we kissed and fondled and made exhaustive drunken love. Willow branches brushed our windows and Mary fell asleep, but I couldn’t; not with a killer in the woods. Nor could I sleep with the knowledge that no matter who was searching for me, Darwin was setting the stage for him to find me.

The next day found me in a dark and sullen mood. Mary took her time choosing a new outfit. I changed my shirt, but kept the same trousers and jacket. My old jacket had served me well. In fact, it even had my syringes in the lining. There were three tubes of seven percent solution and one of a special little surprise no one had found or thought to look for.

In the early evening, Stevens entered the cabin with a stack of newspapers.

“Thought you might get a kick out this,” he said.

I had made the headlines of all of them.

Murderer, Anarchist at Large

Jolly Anarchist Cause for Whitechapel Riot

Thief Catcher Turned Murderer, Fugitive

Apparently all three papers had turned to the Metro sketch artist for my picture, because each edition used an identical portrait. I looked into my eyes, positively radiant with murderous rampage, my jowls, my thick nose and forehead. The artists had even included the mutton chops I had shaved three days prior. Bloody hell! I liked the chops, but now that look was dead to me.

“A regular celebrity you are,” Stevens said.

“Barnes?”

“Of course. He’s reaching out for you.”

“This article says I’ve been convicted of murder in absentia. I can’t ever go back to London, can I?”

“Buck up, Jolly. It’s not all so grim. Let us resolve this and Mr. Darwin will find you an amicable solution.”

Stevens’ words did not help or soothe. I returned to my cabin and drank whiskey. I tried to ignore Mary, possibly to punish her, but more likely to punish myself, like I was unworthy of her attention in my funk. She defeated my sullenness with warm bread pudding. It’s true what they say about the nature of a man’s heart. After my meal I let myself be lead to the bedroom and hunkered down for a long rest. Through the night I went black and dreamless. I succumbed to the catacomb of ultimate sleep and awoke refreshed, a man strange to the world.

Mary was in the living room, frying a combination of beets, capers, and fish. She took to domesticity with a desperate zeal, like if she just kept cooking and care-taking then she would never have to return to her old life. I saw this and it made me first happy, then deeply glum.

“Mary,” I said.

She smiled at me and went on with her cooking. I stopped her, took her hands in my own.

“No matter what happens, while I live I will make sure that you are safe. You will never go back to your old life. Ever.”

You can never take for granted what words must be said. I’d thought that my declaration was a given, something understood based on what we’d been through, but apparently I was wrong. The words broke her down. She collapsed onto her knees and cried. I sat to her level and held her. She wept for what must have been a solid half an hour. We didn’t speak, I just held her. The food on the stove burned to a char, but we let it blacken, let it fill the room with smoke while she cried and cried. I think she was purging a lot of bad thoughts, a lot of fears, or if not purging, coming to terms with fears she had ignored, repressed as a necessity. I don’t know. I’m no good with women.

Mary threw away the burnt scraps of lunch and started fresh. After her long cry it was like nothing had happened. If it weren’t for her puffed red eyes you’d think nothing had transpired between us.

“Lunch will be ready in a moment. Would you like a cup of Earl Grey?”

“That would be lovely,” I said.

I looked out the window. The elms and crack willows danced their eternal dance in the wind. First swaying one way, then the next, refracting the light of the sun and throwing a mixture of live patterns onto the muddied earth. I watched the sway, the dips, and I heard the leaves rustle and flutter across the ground.

“Have you noticed?” Mary asked.

“Noticed what?”

“The light in the windows. It’s funny.”

She was right. A sun beam shone through and revealed that the base of the frame was of an unusual size. It was thick, like a block of ice instead of a window. The glass itself must have been twelve centimeters thick set in a custom frame of similar proportions. I touched the glass. It was warm and little rainbows set in the refracted light between the outside and inside. Something struck the glass, hard and sudden like the sting of a hornet. I fell back in surprise. A bullet had lodged itself in the thick glass, head-level to where I’d been standing. Two more rounds struck the glass; thwack thwack, and then the entire block imploded and covered the living room with thick shards of glass.

“Get down!” I yelled. It was unnecessary. Mary’s survival instincts were formidable and she’d taken up behind the iron stove at the first bullet’s impact. I rolled away from the window, cutting my right hand on a shard on the process. A couch cushion exploded, then a bottle of whiskey. Every exploding object was followed by the popping rifle report, somewhere off in the wilderness. I slid up against the cabin wall, the living room table splintered and ruptured into two pieces. The frying pan jumped off the stove and twisted in the air. Someone was screaming, though I couldn’t tell if it was Mary or me. I looked around the room for a weapon, an item I could clutch and wield and feel just a little less vulnerable and endangered.

I tore my shirt and wrapped a strip of cloth over my wounded hand. It was the same hand I had cut on the drain pipe two weeks prior. The fresh wound criss-crossed my mostly healed scar, leaving a deep “x” across my palm, something for the gypsy readers to ponder later.

It took a moment for me to realize that whoever was shooting had stopped firing into the living room. The forest was still alive with the pops of gunfire, but now it came from everywhere. In front of the cabin, behind it, echoing through the trees and hills and giving confusion to all the small creatures who were yet to grow accustomed to mechanized murder.

I grabbed a dagger-sized bit of glass in my wrapped hand. I dared not look out the window, but the front door was less than a meter from my hiding spot. The shattered window was a meter in the other direction. Anyone coming in was coming in right on top of me, and I fully intended to get on top of them.

A familiar voice cried out in pain in front of the door. Stevens. I felt no alliance with the bastard but his cries were shrill and animalistic and the compassionate side of me took over. I opened the door a sliver. Stevens was laid out on the ground. The shooter had done for him but good. Stevens’ left leg ended in a bloody stump trailing squid tentacles of flesh and tendons. His foot was two meters up the path, upright and standing still, as though waiting for its owner to reclaim it and walk away. Stevens was crawling to my door all hands and elbows. He gripped a fistful of sod, pulled himself a few centimeters, dug the butt of his rifle into the dirt, pulled himself a few more centimeters and so on. The dirt exploded near his head. Stevens rolled onto his back and fired a blind shot into the wilderness. Another round lodged into a nearby tree, raining bark and splinters over the downed man.

I threw the door open and ran to Stevens, not giving thought to myself being the popular target. The forest came alive with gunfire. I seized the back of Stevens’ jacket collar and dragged him the remaining distance to the cabin, all the while him firing covering shots into the forest.

Mary was already at the door when we reentered. She removed her belt and applied it as a tourniquet to Stevens’ leg. He jerked and screamed and blood pooled up under him pretty fast. I was amazed at Mary’s pragmatism. No squeamishness in that one.

The living room once again was assaulted with rifle shots. I shouldered Stevens’ firearm, pulled back the bolt, and moved to the very edge of the window. A quick peek showed two targets running for the cabin from flanking positions. One wore an ape mask, the other an elephant. Of course.

“Stevens, how many rounds are in your rifle?” I called out. His first response was a scream. Mary put her foot on his leg and pulled her belt tourniquet with all her strength but his leg still bled freely.

“Bullets, goddamn it! How many?!”

“I don’t know!”

Shite!

“Do you have any on you?”

“No, ah!” Mary gave his tourniquet another good yank.

I peeked again. The maskers were closing the distance in long quick strides. Each had a mean-looking long rifle, something meant for range and punch if Stevens’ missing foot was any indicator. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to three. I thought about my dad, about Mary, about Barnes, and Darwin, and even the Swan. One minute your life is hell, the next it’s heaven, then back to hell again with no breathing room in between. I opened my eyes, gave a bellowing war cry, and stepped into the line of fire.

Things slowed down as they often do in moments of extremity. I saw the maskers at fifteen meters, equidistant from each other and myself, like some mystic triangle. I fired a round at ape mask, missed, drew back the bolt, locked it, and fired again.

The second shot missed. The rifle’s magazine strip popped, and I knew I was out of the shooting business. Ape and Elephant opened up. A round tugged my jacket. I fell to my knees, tasting blood and knowing that my moment had come. I would die a man of action, and even if it were on my knees, I would have firearm in hand, boots on my feet and a curse on my lips.

“Come take your licks you right bastards!” I screamed at the approaching maskers. They’d seen my magazine pop, my rifle become a relic, a thing more of weight than value. Elephant lifted his mask. It was Myron Bell, of course.

“I’m sorry, Jolly. It’s just business.”

He raised his rifle up and suddenly Hannosh was behind him, cloaked in leaves and armed with nothing but a curved knife. Hannosh ran his blade over Bell’s neck. The curved blade didn’t just cut Bell’s throat, it ruptured his neck like a sack of blood.

Ape swung his rifle to the new target, but was stopped when Hannosh flicked his wrist. The curved blade embedded itself in far off tree. Ape’s rifle dropped to the earth. His right hand still clutched the trigger guard, though Ape was no longer in possession of rifle or hand.

Ape wailed and waved his stump, a man consumed by panic. Hannosh punched Ape hard enough to break his mask and knock the poor sod out. It was Edgar Smithly, formerly of Bow Street, formerly an esteemed colleague. Hannosh put a hand on my chest.“Help me get them to the carriage,” he said. His accent was thick, but he spoke slowly and clearly. We lifted Edgar and loaded him into the boot of the carriage. Afterward, we carried Stevens to the passenger compartment. He had wrapped the end of Mary’s belt around his right hand.

Mary and I made to climb in with Stevens but Hannosh stepped in front of the door.

“Stay here. Stay inside.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him that his man might bleed to death without an attendant, but after seeing him dispatch the maskers the way he did, the man struck fear in me. There was no shame in admitting he was a genuine killer. I held Mary back and Hannosh took off in the carriage.

Mary and I returned to the cabin. A quiet breeze entered through the hole in the window. The trees swayed and the wisping of their leaves became the dominant sound. Mary picked through the shattered tins and crates. She came across an intact bottle of American Bourbon. Her hands shook as she poured a glass, drank it down, then another, and another. When half the bottle was gone she looked up to me.

“Can I pour you a drink, love?”

“Please.”

She didn’t bother finding another glass, just filled up the one she was using. She stepped gingerly through shards of glass and splinters of wood. I took the glass and saw that she was crying again. I put the glass down, gently took her wrist and pulled her into my arms. There was nothing to say, so I held her while she cried.

Fourteen

Jolly is Debriefed by Mr. Charles Darwin and Company

No one came for us that night, or the night after. We got fiercely drunk after the shootout, unreasonably drunk. The second day was spent cleaning the cabin, taking inventory of our supplies. We discussed how long we’d wait before venturing into town on our own. I proposed that we wait until all supplies were depleted, given my fugitive status in the region. Why survive an assassination attempt only to get hanged by the government?

Mary cleaned and stitched my hand. In a fool bit of timing, I recommended we get married. She started crying again. In retrospect I realized that marriage proposals are better stated in moments of flowery romance and not when they just pop into your mind. My clumsiness with the fairer sex was getting the better of me.

Maybe it was a blessing that Hannosh arrived when he did.

“Mr. Fellows, I’m to take you to Mr. Darwin.”

“What about Mary?”

“She can stay. You will be back.”

I gave Mary a smile and a nod and was on my way.

Hannosh was silent on the ride into Oxford. I was filled with questions, but figured Darwin was the man for them. We parked outside of the College of Science. Hannosh walked me to Darwin’s office. I was again taken aback by the endless bookshelves, the vaulted ceiling. Darwin sat at the table I’d first seen Stevens occupy. That reminded me of something.

“How is Stevens?”

“He’ll live,” Darwin replied. “But they had to remove the remainder of his leg under his knee. He’ll be out of service for quite some time. Mr. Hannosh will have to act as my secretary in his absence.”

“So what now, Darwin?”

“Nothing, Mr. Fellows. We’ve won.”

“What have we won?”

Darwin laughed at this.

“The contest, Mr. Fellows. I have defeated Lord Barnes.”

Darwin handed me the latest edition of the Pall Mall Gazette. The headline was a doozy.

Jolly Anarchist Slain in Street Brawl

The caption photo showed none other than Myron Bell, laid out in some filthy alley, inner workings cut open for the world to gaze and wonder at. His face was mangled a bit, but it was certainly him. The neck wound was unmistakable.

“He doesn’t look like me.”

“Doesn’t have to. You’ve been declared dead. Your court case is closed. Your file at Central Bureaucracy has been sent to the inactive warehouse. You have nothing more to worry about.”

“People know me in London.”

“Don’t go to London. The world is vast and there are many places for an industrious man such as yourself. Of course, I can always set you up with employment.”

“That won’t be necessary. I think our business is done.”

Darwin was all grins. His office stank of brandy. The man had been holding a party for one.

“If you want it to be. Can I get you a brandy?”

“No.”

“Fine, but before you leave, you must see the additions to my collection.”

Darwin flicked two switches on his secretary’s table. Two secret doors clicked open from behind bookcases. Darwin motioned for me to have a look. I pushed back the nearest bookcase; inside was a room housing a three-meter by three-meter cage. Inside the cage stood Lord Barnes, tall, imposing, giving off his aura of danger even with his mouth gagged and hands chained in manacles.

“Tomorrow’s paper will feature an article on the disappearance of Lord Barnes. People will speculate and gossip. I’m sure many will be relieved, particularly his blackmail victims. After a time he will be assumed dead, much like you. But he will not be dead. He will be here, in my wall. You see him, he sees you, and yet neither of you is a living member of our civil society.”

Darwin kicked Barnes’ cage.

“Who’s the better man now, Your Lordship?”

Barnes did not move or respond. He just looked at us with that icy glare of his, a glare that was all promise.

Darwin led me out of the room and clicked the bookcase shut.

“I think you’ll be even more interested in what’s in my other room.”

Darwin opened the second bookshelf. Inside was a room identical to the last, only instead of Lord Barnes, this cage was occupied by the Swan Princess, the Automatic Woman. She paced in tight circles, whipping her hair and gnashing her teeth. Panic filled me at the sight of her.

“I think I will have that brandy, Mr. Darwin.”

Darwin patted my shoulder and left to pour my drink. I didn’t think about what I did. If I’d given it a thought, I wouldn’t have done it.

Once upon a time, there was a man who was given a plug of caesium to use as a bomb. The caesium was coated in gel and rendered safe until the gel was dissolved in water. No one bothered to tell the man about the explosive nature of the caesium, seeing as he was just a plaything. This man being the type to look into his own well-being, went to a library and reviewed books on chemistry and learned the nature of the caesium and the gel it was encased in. This man also learned that caesium was safe as long as it made no contact with water. This man harvested some of the caesium, using a syringe he’d procured from a doctor and kitchen matches to reseal the gel capsule the main plug was housed in. The initial purpose of the caesium syringe was simple. The man was worried about his sweetheart and two acquaintances, and thought a little explosive power might be good to knock out a lock. A little alkali, a little spit and boom.

When the time came, the man found himself with keys to the door. The lock bursting syringe was not necessary. In fact, he forgot about it all together. And it sat, hidden in the lining of his jacket until… well… until today.

I withdrew the caesium syringe, uncapped it, and pumped the entire contents into the Swan’s lock. She stopped and watched me. At some point they had replaced the eye I had shattered. The Swan watched me in silence, her jaw moving up and down. Maybe she was trying to speak, or breathe, or maybe that’s just what the animatronic animal did. I coated the inside of the lock and replaced the empty syringe into the lining of my jacket. Darwin entered with my brandy.

“On second thought, Charles, I really best be on my way.”

For a second Darwin looked crestfallen, but then he remembered his dignity.

“Right, do come back if you’re in need of work.”

I gave him a wink.

“Will do.”

I left his office, his building, his campus. Maybe Mary and I can make it to Budapest, or maybe Paris, or America. Anywhere but here. Because the air in Oxford is far too moist, and one day that caesium will reach its limit, and maybe then Mr. Darwin will learn the true nature of chaos.

About the Author

Nathan L. Yocum is an author, teacher, and entrepreneur living in the jungles of Hawai’i.

As a writer Nathan’s inspirations include Kurt Vonnegut, Cormac McCarthy, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley, Charles Bukowski, but admits that the list goes on and on.

Nathan is also the editor-in-chief of SpecLit Masters Magazine, an eZine featuring the best in new speculative short fiction, as well as an award winning screenwriter for Catbrain Film Factory.

His first novel, The Zona, was published via Curiosity Quills Press in February, 2012.

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© 2012 Nathan L. Yocum
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ISBN: 978-1-62007-076-5 (ebook)
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ISBN: 978-1-62007-078-9 (hardcover)