The Steampunk Detective (23 page)

As Jack hit the ground, and before he lost consciousness, he saw M standing over him.

“Tell your masters they have signed Lucy Harker’s death warrant,” he rasped. “Today she will die and at midnight tomorrow so will London.”

Jack’s world turned to darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

An hour later the quiet bridge across the river had become the heart of a massive man hunt. Hundreds of police, MI5 agents and men with tracker dogs were spreading out in all directions to track down M.

“They won’t find him,” Mr Doyle said.

Jack looked up at the great detective. His jaw still hurt from where the professor had struck him. The criminal’s airship had been examined for clues without success. The police had quickly located an old sewerage tunnel that led away from the river to a nearby town. It seemed likely the criminal had used the tunnel as an escape route in case things went badly.

And things had gone very badly indeed.

“Are you sure?” Jack asked.

“I am fairly sure,” Mr Doyle replied. “Professor M has planned this operation to the letter. The only factor in our favour is that he does not already have the bomb.”

“He doesn’t have the bomb?” Jack tried to make sense of the detective’s words.

“No. If the bomb were already in England he would have already detonated it, but he’s given himself time for it to arrive.”

“Maybe he’ll try to get the diamonds again.”

A group of MI5 agents had taken custody of the diamonds from Jack as soon as he had regained consciousness. Jack was glad M had not discovered the gems. Now the stones were back in the hands of the government.

“Unlikely. That plan has failed. Now we must track him down instead.”

“How will we do that?”

“You remember we still have the clue of the paper – the page we found on Jon Harker’s body.”

Jack nodded. He had forgotten about the paper.

Mr Griffin and General Churchill appeared.

“We haven’t found M,” Mr Griffin said. “It looks like he’s given us the slip.”

“The Prime Minister will be making an announcement this evening,” General Churchill said soberly. “He will be ordering a general evacuation of London.”

“And what will you gentlemen do?” Mr Doyle asked.

“We will do our best to find M,” General Churchill said. “We will continue to track him until we find him, or until…”

“Until we no longer can,” Mr Griffin finished.

“Jack and I have a lead to follow,” Mr Doyle said. “We will be in contact with you as soon as we know something.”

The detective turned. The Lion’s Mane was parked on the riverbank about fifty feet away. As Jack followed him, General Churchill cleared his throat.

“Ignatius,” he said. “How do you rate our chances?”

“I believe in human intellect and our capacity for good,” the great detective replied. “Don’t give up hope.”

He turned and they continued towards the airship.

A few minutes later the Lion’s Mane had ascended and was heading towards the East End. The sky ahead was bright and clear. A clot of clouds crested the far horizon. The city of London lay beneath them, the sprawling metropolis covering the landscape like an enormous quilt.

It seemed as quickly as they had risen into the sky, the time arrived to descend. Mr Doyle navigated the ship into a back alley leading off Columbia Road. Disembarking, they steered their way through the crowded East End until they arrived outside a small shop sandwiched between a bakery and bookshop.

The sign above the door said:

DeGroot and Sons Paper Suppliers

A bell above the door jangled as Mr Doyle led them into the shop. The great detective wasted no time as he marched up to the counter. The man staffing the shop looked to be about seventy years of age and about five feet in height. He had thinning grey hair and an angular face that ended in a weak, receding chin.

He peered at them. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

“You are Mr Degroot, I assume,” Mr Doyle said.

“I am.”

“I am Ignatius Doyle. This is my assistant, Jack. We are looking for a customer who purchases paper from your shop.”

“And who might that be?”

“We don’t know their name.” Mr Doyle cast his eye over the shelves and grabbed a piece of paper from one of the shelves. “They would buy this type of paper from you, but in the larger size.”

“Ah, the Cambershire Royal,” Mr Degroot said. “Very good quality. Very good.”

He stood, smiling and nodding. He seemed to have forgotten that Jack and Mr Doyle were in the shop.

“So we would like to know who buys this paper,” Jack intervened. “But in the larger size.”

“We have a number of people who purchase the Cambershire Royal,” the man said. “But not in a larger size, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?” Mr Doyle asked.

“It is only delivered in this size. Never larger.”

Mr Doyle frowned. “Are you sure? I’m sure my friend who comes here has it in a larger size. Possibly double this size.”

“They would not purchase it from us.”

“Aren’t you the only supplier who carries this brand?”

“We are. It is made by a small company in Somerset and we are their sole supplier.”

“Then how would someone acquire a piece larger than this?”

“They could only get it from the manufacturer,” Mr Degroot said genially.

“Are you sure?” Mr Doyle asked.

Mr Degroot frowned. “I have been in this business for fifty–three years. I may be old, but I know paper. If your friend has pages of Cambershire Royal larger than this, then they purchased it directly from the maker.”

“Would you be able to tell me who they are?” Mr Doyle asked.

The old man smiled. “I’m afraid that would not be good for my business, would it? You might just purchase it from them.”

Mr Doyle slid a ten pound note onto the counter. “Would this improve your business?”

The old man shrugged. “It’s been a slow day.” He wrote an address onto a slip of paper. “They’re located in a town called Moll’s Pond. They’re not hard to find.”

“Thank you,” Jack said.

“A pleasure doing business with you, good sirs.”

Mr Doyle nodded and led Jack back through the door. “This is a stroke of luck.”

“So we’ll go directly to the manufacturer,” Jack said.

“Absolutely.”

They quickly made their way back to the Lion’s Mane and had the airship sailing over the city in a matter of minutes. Jack looked down below at London as the houses became fewer and the fields more numerous. The London metrotower dominated the landscape to the north. At a distance, the world looked very peaceful. He looked down below them. There seemed to be a lot of people on the roads.

“It looks busy down there,” Jack said.

Mr Doyle looked down. “It looks like most people are heading in the same direction.”

“Out of the city?”

“Yes, I believe the Prime Minister has announced the evacuation of London.”

“Shouldn’t everyone be leaving?” Jack looked down at the roads. They were populated, but not congested to the point where traffic jammed every street.

“It will take some time for the news to get around that the city is in danger.”

“And then everyone will evacuate?”

“I believe most people will leave,” Mr Doyle said. “But not everyone will believe such a threat exists.”

“Even if the warning comes from the Prime Minister?”

“Not everyone would believe that such a super weapon could exist.” Mr Doyle looked back at the city grazing the landscape behind them. “Would you believe a single bomb could destroy a city that took thousands of years to build?”

Looking back at the city, Jack slowly shook his head. “I’m sure Mr da Vinci did not intend this to happen.”

“It is a shame the Phoenix Society decided to develop their inventions in secret,” Mr Doyle said. “Knowledge should be shared. Their efforts have truly perverted the natural course of human history.”

Jack looked back at the mighty steam powered city. “I wonder where we would be if the Phoenix Society had never existed.”

Ignatius Doyle nodded. “I wonder.”

I hope we don’t lose London, Jack thought. It’s a beautiful city.

The landscape passed beneath them as Mr Doyle consulted charts. He made a few calculations using a compass and sextant. Finally he aimed the airship towards a small town to the south–east of them. It lay like a scattered bundle of jewellery on the landscape.

Mr Doyle brought the vessel into land outside the town. He tied the ropes of the airship to a fence enclosing a field filled with cows. A passing boy stopped to look in amazement at the vessel.

“What’s your name?” Mr Doyle asked him.

The boy looked no older than eight or nine.

“Toby.”

“Have you ever seen an airship close up before?”

“No.” He stared up in wonder at the balloon. “It’s big!”

“Would you care to make some money, young man?” Mr Doyle asked.

Toby nodded shyly.

“Could you keep an eye on our flying machine?”

Toby nodded vigorously. “Yes, please.”

“A farthing now,” Mr Doyle said. “And a farthing when we return.”

Mr Doyle handed Toby the coin and he and Jack walked the short distance into town. The village of Moll’s Pond was a tiny affair; Jack found it difficult to believe it even rated a mention on the map. Three or four streets cut across the main road. There seemed to be a few small shops – a general store, a baker, a butcher and a pub on the corner. Terrace houses squeezed together in the side streets till they came to an abrupt halt where the roads met farms bordering the town.

Altogether, Jack thought, a quiet little village.

“Do you think M is here?” he asked suddenly. “It seems too quiet for someone like him.”

“You don’t think master criminals live in small towns?” Mr Doyle smiled. “I imagine Moll’s Pond represents only one strand of his empire.”

They walked down a small street towards a house at the far end. A barn and a water mill lay beyond it. As they drew close they could hear the sound of the water and a clanking sound from within the building. Mr Doyle checked his weapon, but left it in his pocket.

“Do you think we’re going to meet up with M?” Jack asked.

“Possibly. Stay behind me for the time being.”

The door to the mill lay open. As they drew closer, Jack realised the racket emanating from the interior was considerable. Three men laboured in different sections of the building. One of them packed paper into boxes. Another cut paper with a huge guillotine. The third, a tall man with fair hair adjusted a small control on the side of the machine in the middle.

The machine was a marvel of complexity. A tub of liquid contained a slurry mixture fed in at one end. Within the machine, the wood pulp was pressed and dried with steamers and smoothed out into sheets that were excreted at the far end.

“It’s a type of Fourdrinier machine,” Mr Doyle explained. “It has a wet end where the pulp enters, the section in the middle where it is pressed, a drier section and a calendar section that completes the process.”

Jack was not so interested in the workings of the device. “Are those M’s men?”

“I’m not sure,” Mr Doyle said. “Let’s find out.”

Mr Doyle waved his hand and the fair headed man lifted his head. He finished what he was doing and crossed to them.

“How can I help you?” the man asked.

“I’m looking for Professor M,” Mr Doyle said. “Is he here?”

Jack almost fell over with shock at the brazen question, but to his relief the man looked at them blankly.

“Never heard of him,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. Don’t know the man.”

“Are you the owner?”

“No, I’m Tom Wilson,” the man said. “I manage the factory.”

“Who is the owner? I was told it was M.”

“This place is owned by Mr Bezel.”

“Can you describe him?”

Wilson shrugged. “An elderly chap. Keeps to himself. Friendly enough. Lives up at the Manor house in Mossley. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve come from London,” Mr Doyle explained. “I run a publishing house. We love your paper.”

“Which one?”

“Which publishing house?”

“No. Which paper?”

“Do you have more than one?”

“We’ve a few types. Depends who we’re supplying.”

“It’s the Cambershire Royal,” Mr Doyle continued.

The man nodded. “Aye, that’s a good paper. Our best. Might be a bit expensive for publishing, though.”

“Could I see a sheet?”

Tom Wilson led them to a nearby bench where large piles of paper were neatly stacked. He pulled a piece off the top of one pile and handed it to Mr Doyle. The detective shot Jack a look. The piece was exactly the same size as the notes from M.

“This is larger than what I’ve normally seen,” Mr Doyle said.

“We cut it before we ship it out,” the man explained.

“Strange, though,” Mr Doyle said, frowning as if puzzled. “We’ve been to DeGroot’s in London, but I’m sure I’ve seen this size of sheet somewhere else.”

“Wouldn’t be ours,” Wilson said. “We only supply to DeGroots.”

“Are you sure? Surely you fellows could take some home if you wanted. I don’t see a lot of security here.”

Tom Wilson’s face turned a brighter shade of red. “What are you accusing me of? Are you saying I’m stealing?”

“Not at all.” Mr Doyle’s eyes examined the other men in the factory. “Now that I think of it, the paper I saw was a little darker. My apologies for the misunderstanding.”

Tom Wilson gave a curt nod. “That’s fine, sir.”

“How do I find the Bezel estate? It’s in Mossley, I believe you said.”

“It is,” Tom Wilson said. “I believe the name on the gate is Featherwick. It’s at the far end of the town. A large house on a big estate surrounded by pine trees. A bit rundown.”

“You’ve never been there?”

“No, the local postman told me about it.”

“Wonderful,” Mr Doyle said. “Thank you for your assistance. I don’t think I can spare the time to see Mr Bezel at the moment. We were just passing through.”

Mr Doyle bade him farewell and they departed. Jack shot a look back towards the building as they made their way down the street. No–one was following them.