Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (12 page)

Twincy
Quinn.

I had no idea
if she existed or not, yet I could appreciate how bizarre this
story had become.

What on earth
was Lord Ridley doing getting involved? Granted, he knew Mr.
Fairmont, but as far as I was aware, Mr. Fairmont hadn't believed a
word of his daughter's tale. Now Lord Ridley was spreading it
around town, with added, impossibly accurate details.

Not for the
first time, I found myself walking too close to the edge of my
recliner, and kicked the leg of it, sending it scooting back a few
inches. Grumbling loudly, latching a hand onto it, and manhandling
it back into place, I found myself narrowing my eyes as I looked up
through the small window of my room.

My eyes were
drawn out across the rooftops of London. Though my apartment was
small, it was on top of a tall building, and I could see several
rooftops before me.

Taken by the
moment, I took several sharp steps over to the window, stuck my
hand hard into the sill, my fingers pushing into the wood, and I
leaned forward. My short, well-kept moustache, bristled against the
glass as I tried to get a clear vantage.

Though much of
this tale seemed impossible, parts of it didn't. A woman running
across the rooftops? Well, quite possibly I had seen that last
night and early this morning. Yet could she be responsible for the
kidnappings?

Jennifer
seemed to be of the opinion this Twincy Quinn woman had saved
her.

Muttering to
myself again, I realised I could get nothing productive done simply
pacing and pressing my face into the window.

Striding
quickly across the room, I clutched at my overcoat, threw it across
my shoulders, and headed for the door.

I did not
really know where I was going. Neither did it matter in that
moment. I just wanted to feel the cobble of London's streets under
my shoes. I wanted to smell the air, however brisk, and I wanted my
cheeks to cool in the rapidly descending night.

Before I left
I grabbed a small pad of paper and a drawing pencil from my desk
that faced the window, and shrugging into my coat, fixing it neatly
over my shoulders, I finally left the apartment. As I walked my way
down the stairs, and out of the base of the building, I caught a
strange feeling. Expectation. Buckets of it. It was snapping at my
heels, climbing my legs and back, and whispering sweet warnings
into my ears.

Narrowing my
eyes at the strangeness of my precognition, I quickly shook my
head, fought off my nerves, and left the building. Pressing the
door quietly closed behind me, I found myself narrowing my eyes at
the darkened streets of London before me.

A carriage
passing here and there, the sound of its wheels and the clatter of
the horse’s shoes echoing out. People walking across the streets,
their heads angled down, soft conversation echoing between them.
And amongst it all the smell of wood fires, dirt, and the scent of
food intermingled in there too. Despite the fact the smell was
hardly pleasant, I still took a deep breath, gladly letting it fill
my lungs.

Right.

Time to get
some distance from myself, if that were at all possible. I needed
to clear my mind.

Taking a sharp
turn to my left, I huddled my shoulders forward and clamped my
hands tightly into my pockets. My fingers clutched snug around my
drawing pencil and my pocket notebook. I did not know why I had
brought them along, but I was hardly going to turn around, head
back to my apartment, and throw them down on the desk.

Because I
wanted answers. And I knew that if I were going to get answers, I
had to be prepared to look for them. I needed to go over every
single clue I could find, and draw together this complex
picture.

Trundling for
quite some distance, it took me a while before I realised where I
was headed.

Back to
Elizabeth Fairmont's house. It was as if my feet had a mind of
their own, and were magnetically attracted to that place by
invisible tethers.

Succumbing to
my unconscious desire, I didn't stop until I was standing across
the street from the place. Then I promptly turned on my heel, no
longer facing it, and turned my head up to the building behind me
instead. The very same building I had seen someone moving atop that
morning. I had seen a flash of grey. A flash of grey that,
according to the inspector and Lord Ridley, belonged to the
infamous Twincy Quinn.

Taking a hand
out of my pocket, I scratched distractedly at my moustache, then
let my fingers press deep into my jaw until I ran them down my chin
and neck.

The building
was high and it was dangerous; I had proved that this morning. Yet
was it impossible? I had climbed it, and surely a woman who was
relatively surefooted could have done the same. Yet could a woman,
or a man for that matter, no matter how surefooted, run across
rooftops? For that was what Lord Ridley was suggesting. This Twincy
Quinn character, according to him, ran amok up on London's roofs
every single night.

Without
realising what I was doing, I soon found myself knocking on the
same building I had found my way up that morning.

I wanted to go
up there again, didn't I? Despite the fact it was well after dusk,
and the only light filtering around the streets was that which came
from the lamps dotted here and there, I still wanted to go up
there. It was a self-imposed death sentence, yet I didn't care.

Though I
knocked several times, of course nobody answered. I had already
ascertained that morning that the building held offices, and it was
clear that their occupants had all gone home for the night.

Frowning to
myself, taking several steps back as I still stared at that bright
red door, I turned on my heel and made my way around the building.
It took some time, but as I came at it from the other angle, I soon
found a narrow alleyway. Searching carefully, I realised as I
strained my neck upwards that the building I wanted to get to was
almost connected to the three or four buildings behind it and to
its side.

Circling
around the block, still determined to break my neck apparently, I
soon found what I was after. An establishment that was open. A
place of fine dining, I made my way in, and unashamedly used my
credentials as a detective of Scotland Yard to be allowed up onto
the top floor. From there, excusing myself from the owner, I
managed to get onto the roof. Again it took some doing, but at
least it was easier from this building. Also, thankfully, the roof
was flatter. So I made my way up. Balancing as best as I could,
keeping my arms wide as my knees locked in position, I walked
across it.

This was
madness, I was fully aware of that. It was dark, and there was
simply no point to this.

Though reason
would not prevail in that moment, and I continued forward.

When I had
been a teenager, which perhaps was not as long ago as I would have
liked, I had been brash. Climbing buildings wouldn't have bothered
me; the thought of breaking my neck would have been nothing but a
point for humour. Now I couldn't help but notice the cold shiver
that ran up my spine every time I took a step on that perilously
slippery slate.

Yet
determination pushed me on, and I finally reached where I needed to
be.

The building I
was on was relatively close to the building next to it. And in a
moment of pure stupidity, I jumped the gap.

I honestly
did.

Eyes wide with
terror, lips pressed open as I breathed heavily through my mouth, I
took several steps backwards, then plunged into a short run, and
jumped over the gap. I hit the slate, slid down, but managed to
fall onto my knees, locking my hands in place, and stopping myself
from tumbling straight off the gutter. Clawing my way up to my
feet, my chest punching back and forth in deep gasps, I let out
another loud cuss, then finally clambered up.

Peering over
the darkened roofs with their deep shadows, I realised that just up
from this roof was a lower, straighter, flatter section. I angled
my way over, still holding my arms out wide for balance.

When I reached
it, I allowed myself to close my eyes in thanks.

When I opened
them, I straightened my jacket, turned a full 360°, and stared at
the view this vantage afforded me.

I could see
it. The roof I had been on only that morning.

It was one
roof over from me. Though I did not have a direct line of sight, I
could see it if I walked my way to the left, and peered around the
side of a taller building.

I do not know
why, but I waited.

I waited a
full hour.

Perhaps my
brain had been damaged by stupidity, but I hunkered down, sat on
that flat section of roof, and I stared across at the darkness.

I tried not to
make a sound.

Though
occasionally I brought out my notepad and scribbled as thoughts
came to mind, mostly I was still as still could be.

It took some
time. In fact, just as I was getting ready to leave, I saw
something.

A flash of
fabric, moving quick, flaring out in a great arc. The sight of it
sent a powerful shiver rushing down my body.

Pressing a
hand lightly into the roof, I got ready to push to my knees.

I was renowned
for my good eyesight. I certainly did not require reading
spectacles, and in the army, my skills had been deployed in sharp
shooting. Well right now I used what I could, peering through the
thankfully not-so dark night to see what was before me.

And what was
before me made my heart race.

A woman.

I could see
the outline of the dress. I could see she had a shawl tightly
covering her head and hair, and I could see, fantastically, as she
carefully but quite confidently walked her way forward across the
slope of the roof.

She did not
slip, she did not waver, and neither did she pause.

She was also,
obviously, not aware of me.

Though my
heart was wild and raging in my chest, I was still careful not to
move a muscle and not to make a sound. I controlled my breathing as
best as I could, forcing my attention into my stomach as I shifted
it forward, preventing my inhalations from becoming shallow and
loud.

I doubt I had
ever been as poised as I was in that moment. Even in the army, I
had not felt such a rush of adrenaline, such tight and pressured
attention.

Perhaps it was
because I was watching her without her realising it, or perhaps,
and more likely, it was because of what I was witnessing.

Could this be
Twincy Quinn?

I was about to
find out.

Twincy
Quinn

I was
distracted. I would freely admit that. Vanessa's warning about Lord
Ridley and his story had affected me. Though Vanessa had told me to
stay in and rest, as soon as she had turned her back, I had found
myself clambering back onto the roof. And all too soon, I had
clambered off it and down to the street below.

Without
thinking of it, I had begun to walk, my feet pounding the
street.

It took me too
long to realise where my feet were taking me.

Back to the
child's house. Back to the scene of the crime, as it were, and the
scene of my crime, if Lord Ridley was to be believed.

I did not stay on the streets for long, though I was going
against Vanessa's suggestion, I had heeded her warning. I clambered
up to the rooftops as soon as I could. I had also been careful
enough to secure a long shawl before I had left my home. I had it
tightly wound around my shoulders and head, and my hair was neatly
and securely tucked underneath. I had also been sure to change
clothes. I was no longer wearing the same grey dress I had used to
fight the
suitables
last night. Instead I was in perhaps one of my most expensive
garments. Not that I had bought it. Because the garment could not
technically be classed as clothing. It was half fabric, and half
technology. A creation of John’s, accordingly, it was rather
extravagant.

On the top it
was white lace, layers and layers of it, and to his credit, the cut
was highly fashionable. Also, to his credit, no matter how much I
ran around London, no matter how often I rolled over its dirty
roofs and landed in its far dirtier alleyways, the dress did not
stain. I did not ask how, but between Carolyn and John, they had
managed to craft the fabric in such a way that it could not pick up
mud or dust or dirt or marks of any kind. Yet that was not the end
of its fineries. The dress was light. Though it appeared heavy, and
sat around me in as many layers as most modern dresses did, it felt
as if I were wearing nothing but air. And it enabled me to move
virtually unencumbered. Again, I couldn't possibly begin to
question how it worked, all I knew was that I loved it dearly.

I loved it for
two reasons. Not only did it enable me to go about my work with
ease, but it also allowed me to fit in. A strange concept, and one
I spent most of my life railing against, yet one I could not
ignore.

When I walked
around in this dress, I did not get any growls or grumbles or
insults. If I were careful to ensure my skin was clean, and my hair
brushed and set at a neat and pretty angle, nobody commented as I
walked down the street. In fact, I received more than a few
appreciative glances.

The dress
looked expensive, and when I wore it, I looked expensive too. I
went from being a ragamuffin to being obviously a woman of suitable
means.

Well right now
I needed that allure. Lord Ridley had told London to expect Twincy
Quinn in her grey dress and all her shabby attire. Well right now
they were going to get a respectable woman, dressed in a
respectable, quite fashionable and beautiful dress, and matching
appearance.