The Steampunk Detective (8 page)

“I fear I only have men’s night apparel,” Mr Doyle said, looking slightly embarrassed as he handed the clothing to Scarlet.

“I should be most concerned if you kept women’s apparel in your drawers,” Scarlet raised an eyebrow.

“Quite,” Mr Doyle said. “Quite.”

The detective turned the lamp down low as Jack climbed into his bunk bed. Sleeping in such a confined space reminded him of the orphanage. Sometimes when the lights went out Charley Spratt and his cronies would roam the dorm rooms, randomly searching for one of the smaller boys to bash.

Jack shivered. He had been at the receiving end of Charley’s bashings on more than one occasion. At least he had always tried to fight back – the worst error was to curl up on the bed and do nothing.

Sometimes waiting for the attack was almost worse than the actual attack. He would hear footsteps and whispering in the hallway. Sometimes they talked for so long he was almost asleep by the time they attacked.

Jack lay in his bed and looked through the window up at the sky. Circling the globe at this very moment were space steamers, travelling between metrotowers. It was hard to visualise. Jack had heard about the wonders of space flight and even seen the occasional sketch in a newspaper, but imagining it was an entirely different thing. Entire fleets of trading vessels moved supplies from one tower to another – and that did not include the military ships patrolling the borders between the nations.

“You’ve done very well, Jack” Mr Doyle’s voice suddenly broke his reverie.

“Thanks, Mr Doyle,” Jack said. “I like it here.”

Mr Doyle laughed. “Being shot at is fun, is it?”

“Sure beats the orphanage.” A sudden thought occurred to Jack. “Do you have any children, Mr Doyle?”

In the darkness now there was only the light of the moon whispering through the curtains and the dim glow from the fore and aft lamps. At first Jack thought Mr Doyle must have slipped off to sleep, but after a time he cleared his throat.

“I had a son,” he said. “His name was Phillip. He was killed in the war.”

Jack remembered the uncomfortable silence from the detective when the war was mentioned. He cursed himself. He was an absolute idiot sometimes. Scarlet was two years older than him, yet she was so much wiser. She knew when to speak and when to remain silent. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t –.”

“That’s alright, Jack,” Mr Doyle said. “I also have a grandson, although I have not seen him for some time.”

“Why is that? Does he live a great distance away?”

“No. Just on the other side of London.” Mr Doyle paused. “His name is James. His mother’s name is Amelia. When the war began, my son, Phillip signed up. So did I.”

For a moment the only sound was the drone of the steam engines.

“Phillip believed what they told him about king and country, but I had no such illusions. I knew there would be bloodshed. I had fought in the Boer conflict, and had heard the lies that politicians tell and I already knew the tragedy that war brings.

“The pacts drawn up prior to the Great War were built on a house of cards. Great Britain was allied with France and Germany with Austria and every country held similar alliances with other nations. Many naively believed there would be a clearing of the deck.

“Not I. My only interest was in protecting my son and with my previous military service I was able to enrol as an officer. Phillip was in my regiment. We were sent over to France to fight.”

Mr Doyle’s voice had become so ghostly in the darkness that Jack could not resist the urge to break his dialogue. “What was it like?”

His mentor gave a bitter laugh. “A bloodbath. Pure and simple. Phillip and I were stationed in the Somme, buried in mud and filth and blood. It was an impossible situation. Men were dying all around us, but we both knew we were expected to do our duty.

“One morning we were ordered to charge a German emplacement. I led the regiment across the muddy field. I thought we would both die. That would have been a tragedy, but at least we would be together. Mortar fire started all around us as we charged across that terrible field.

“I suddenly tripped. I tried to stand, but I found myself caught in barbed wire. It was all over the place. Impossible to avoid. The more I struggled to free myself from it, the more I became entrapped. I could see Phillip running ahead with the other men in the early morning gloom.

“In desperation, I screamed for him to slow down. I continued to struggle with the barbed wire until I finally tore free. Racing after him, I was only about twenty feet behind when the mortar attack hit him and his companions.

“The explosion threw me backwards. I lay there unconscious for God knows how long. It could have been minutes. Or hours. Finally I woke up and crawled over to where Phillip had been.”

The airship carved a path across the sky. Jack felt tears on his face as he watched the stars rotate out of view.

I should not have intruded on Mr Doyle’s privacy, Jack thought, his stomach turning over. He has already suffered enough without me making things worse.

“There was nothing left of him,” Mr Doyle said. “I found pieces of clothing. His dog tags. Nothing else. His friends had also been killed. Sometimes people have asked me what it was like, the war, I mean and I simply tell them it reduced men to nothing. That’s what the war did for Phillip. It reduced a brave, strong young man to nothing.

“One minute he existed. The next, he ceased to exist.

“His mother was already dead, thank God. But when I returned to England Phillip’s wife, Amelia, was embittered towards me because of his death.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jack said.

“I know,” Mr Doyle said. “It was the war. I still carry Phillip’s dog tags around my neck. They remind me of that barbed wire. If only I had not been caught on that wire…”

“You would have probably been killed too, sir.”

“Probably.” The silence ticked on. “War is a great injustice, my boy.”

“I know, Mr Doyle.”

“Injustice must be fought.”

“Yes, sir.”

The night moved across them and before sleep claimed them, Jack looked up into the sky and watched the stars. Sometimes he saw them linked by barbed wire and before he slept he imagined himself caught on them, legs caught on blazing embers, stuck fast in the night.

Chapter Ten

Jack awoke to the sound of frying bacon.

He opened bleary eyes to see Mr Doyle moving bacon around in a pan and cracking eggs.

“Wake up, my boy.” He said, smiling. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

Jack threw clothes on. A moment later he heard Scarlet call from beyond the curtain.

“Is everyone decent out there?”

“We are, Miss Scarlet,” Mr Doyle said. “Please enter.”

Scarlet Bell removed the screen and appeared looking remarkably refreshed.

“I’m afraid I am wearing the same attire,” she said.

“As are we,” Mr Doyle said. “But at least none of us carry malodorous odours.” He placed bacon and eggs onto a plate. “With the exception of Jack.”

“Mr Doyle!” Jack cried, but Scarlet laughed.

They ate breakfast around a small fold out table, chatting about the events of the previous day. Jack was reminded of his own family and how many times they had eaten together. Their time at the circus had been hard – circus life always was – but breakfast was usually the one time of the day when they could relax together and talk. After breakfast they would normally help the other men prepare the tents for the day or practice their routines.

Mr Doyle made no comment about their conversation of the previous evening and Jack wisely did not raise the subject.

“Mr Doyle,” Scarlet said. “What do you think Jon Harker’s involvement is in this matter?”

“It is impossible at this point to say,” Mr Doyle replied. “Although if we extrapolate the course of events from yesterday, it is fair to say his life may be in danger.”

“When will we arrive at the metrotower?” Jack asked.

“Within the hour,” Mr Doyle replied. “As a matter of fact, we are now drawing quite close.”

They finished their meal and grouped around the viewing window. The metrotower already filled most of the screen. Airships of all shapes and sizes were arriving and departing from decks all up and down the structure. Jack had read everything he could about the metrotower. A book at the orphanage had been filled with pictures taken from the first ground breaking ceremony to its completion. Measuring some twenty miles across at the base, the structure narrowed as it rose all the way into space, eventually measuring only a mile across at the top.

“I’ve heard it said the London metrotower still remains the largest of all,” Scarlet said.

“I wish that were true,” Mr Doyle said. “As a matter of fact, ours has slipped quite some way down the list.”

Scarlet looked shocked. “Really?”

“Yes, unfortunately. The American tower is larger, and the Chinese and even the German tower is larger now that the war is over and their renovations complete.”

“General Churchill says that the next war will be fought in space,” Scarlet said, frowning. “Does that mean we are already on the back foot?”

A shadow crossed Mr Doyle’s face. “General Churchill is too zealous for battle. I would have thought he and others would have learnt since the Great War.”

Jack decided to remain silent. He looked straight from the window without letting his gaze stray to Mr Doyle’s face.

“Our Prime Minister, Mr Kitchener, is rather more even minded,” Mr Doyle admitted. “However, I must agree that airships made all the difference in the Great War. I imagine dominance over space will decide the next.” He turned away from the window. “Jack, would you be so kind as to wash the dishes? I will prepare our docking procedure.”

Jack quickly cleaned the kitchen utensils as Mr Doyle focused on bringing the Lion’s Mane in to land. It seemed for some time they would never arrive. The side of the metrotower appeared as chequerboard from a distance, almost like looking at hundreds of fields laid upright. As they drew closer they realised each level was determined by alternating levels of brown and white brickwork. Along each level hundreds of windows looked outwards at the view beyond.

Above them they saw clouds enclosing the upper levels. Through gaps in the haze the metrotower continued upwards and out of sight.

“The figures are staggering,” Mr Doyle recounted. “Tens of millions of individual bricks used in its construction. Millions of panes of glass. Over a million people live in the structure. Thousands of offices. Hundreds of new towns occupy levels at various intervals.”

“How are we going to find Mr Harker?” Jack asked. It all sounded so enormous he wondered how anyone found anyone else.

“Thankfully we know his address,” Mr Doyle said, smiling. “Otherwise we would never find him. It has been said a person could start at the ground floor and search every room and die of old age before they reached the top.” He adjusted the helm. “At the centre of the structure are over a hundred lifts. They operate at all times of the day and night.”

“Where does the power come from?” Scarlet asked.

“The metrotower’s steam mills are located a mile away from the base. They provide the power for the building. Airships deliver food and water, although much of it is provided by the tower itself.”

“In what way?” Scarlet asked.

“Water is collected from the storms and showers that regularly drench the exterior of the structure. Food is grown on several levels, making full use of the light entering the windows.”

“It makes one wonder why anyone would ever leave,” Scarlet said.

“Some people don’t,” Mr Doyle said. “There are a number of people who have been born on the tower and have never departed.”

Jack tried to imagine what it would be like if he had to live inside a building for his entire life. It sounded like jail. “That sounds terrible.”

Mr Doyle shot a smile at him. “Not everyone shares your love of adventure, Jack.” He looked back out the window. “Here we are, almost ready to land.”

The Lion’s Mane edged closer to the structure. A number of larger vessels were before them, but as it turned out they were being directed to other moorings. Mr Doyle directed them towards a line of smaller airships. Each vessel came into land at a dock that jutted out from the side like a huge tongue. As they pulled in to land, a door slid across, keeping out the cold. After they dropped off their passengers, they departed almost immediately.

“Some are returning to their place of origin,” Mr Doyle said. “Others, especially those owned by aristocrats, have their own docking bays further down the building.”

“I do not believe in class structure,” Scarlet said, tightening her fist. “One day I hope there will be no such distinction.”

Mr Doyle gave her a look of mock astonishment. “Ah, a suffragette and a follower of Mr Marx.”

“I do not follow the teachings of Mr Marx,” Scarlet said. “I merely believe as the Americans do, that all are created equal.”

“I agree,” Mr Doyle said. “We are created equal. A shame we do not live as such. Ah, here we are. Time to dock.”

The previous vessel had just docked and flown away. Mr Doyle brought them into land. A man in what appeared to be a lightweight diving outfit stood outside, signalling them to remain stationary until the outer doors had closed.

As the doors slid shut, he held up a sign. It read:

One minute till interior heating completed

They waited. Finally he gave them a thumbs–up symbol and they slowly climbed out. The interior of the docking bay was freezing, despite the warm air being pumped in. Jack found his legs felt like jelly. Scarlet stumbled against him and his heart rose up into his throat as she clasped his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Scarlet said, looking embarrassed. “I have jelly legs.”

“Me too.”

He felt rather sorry when she released him.

“It’s like being on a ship for long periods,” Mr Doyle explained, handling the solid ground rather better. “We’re already used to the sway of the Lion’s Mane.”

The dockman put up the visor on his round helmet. “Do you have a private mooring here, sir?”