Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (26 page)

Whilst on a
good day I could take him with relative ease, today was not in any
way good.

I had Michael
behind me, and a brain full of worry.

Plus, I did
not have the senses to scan out and assess my environment. I was
not ready to check for traps.

Butler was a
canny man, and he knew how to fight, not by simply landing a punch
where it mattered most, but by luring you into danger, by planning,
by tracking.

If you fought
the man, you had to have your wits about you, and right now,
unfortunately, I did not.

So I ran on
instinct. I ran to a place I always found safe. And no, it was not
home.

I had said
before that in this town the only comfort I could ever really find
was that which the rooftops provided me. When I could rise above
things, I could feel as if they were not dragging me down, ready to
smother and drown me.

So the rule
went, the higher I could get, the safer I could feel.

In this
circumstance, it had an added advantage. If I got somewhere very
high, I could always jump off, and while I would survive, Michael
Stanford could not. What was more, Butler had a limited range.
While I was certainly heavy for my size, Butler was extraordinarily
dense. Let's put it this way, if you threw him into the river, he
wouldn't just sink like a stone, he would sink like a ship full of
anchors. And if you pushed him off a building, he would fall, and
when he landed, he would break the cobbles to such an extent he
would probably punch through them to the sewers below.

The fall may
not kill him, but it would certainly damage him and slow him
down.

Up.

I had to go
up.

Fortunately, I
knew how to get there and where to go.

My clock
tower.

Though it was
currently undergoing renovations on certain floors, it would not
prevent me from finding my way up to the roof with the gargoyles. I
found comfort in those gargoyles. I often clambered up there to sit
alongside them, resting one arm over their backs as I stared down
at the very same city they did.

With a plan
finally formed in my mind, I followed it. And I ran and I ran.

And they
chased and they chased.

Michael
Stanford

I couldn't
believe it. Though I had been running a little late, I had forced
myself into a quick jog, and I had made good time. Yet then, quite
suddenly, I had realised my feet, of their own accord, had taken me
on a detour.

The restaurant
I was headed to was not that far away from a certain Jennifer
Fairmont's house, and all too soon I found myself turning down that
street.

Perhaps I just
wanted to check on her. Maybe I needed to walk past that house, see
the lights on, and realise that the kidnapping case was not going
to be impossible to solve. With the right clues, with enough
resources, and with just a bit of luck, I could do it, right?

And if I could
do that, I could find out who Twincy Quinn was. I could figure some
way to find her, to pin her down long enough to ascertain her
story.

As I had
turned the corner into that street, my eyes had naturally stared
out, assessing each pedestrian, as a good detective should.

As one large
man walked out of my view, I realised there was a tall man in a
bowler hat walking up to Jennifer Fairmont’s front door. I thought
nothing of it, until my eyes glanced directly across from him and
noted a woman.

On the other
side of the street, she was standing there, with one hand pressed
tightly into a lamppost. Though of course I could not see her
expression, as it was dark and I was still too far away, I had
enough awareness to note her body language.

The stiffness
of her shoulders, the exact angle of her grip, and how tight her
fingers appeared to be as they clutched around that lamp.

Her face was
angled towards the other side of the street, every movement of her
head following the movements of the man as he walked up the steps
of the Fairmont house.

Instinctively
my gut gave a twitch, my shoulders flicking in, a cold, possibly
warning sweat appearing over my brow.

Her.

It had to be
her.

I had no
reason to think it, yet I knew it in a flash. Instinct. The very
same instinct I had spent my short career developing.

I walked my
way up to her. The nearer I got the more I realised she was paying
no attention to the street around her. I saw a flash of the side of
her face.

Though her
long eyelashes were directed up as she stared over at that man, I
caught just a glimpse of her eyes.

She was
standing under the lamp, and it cast her into a soft glow.

The eyes were
blue, the jaw was round, the cheeks were full, and the expression
was a perfectly frightened one.

I needed no
more evidence.

It was
Twincy.

So I reached
out to her. Placing one hand on her shoulder, I whispered her name
and I watched in total fascination as she turned to me. Yet seconds
later she snapped her head back, and appeared more frightened than
before as she assessed the Fairmont house.

I tried to get
her attention, I tried to make her tell me what she was doing, but
the more I said, the more awash with fear her expression became
until finally she did it. She turned on her heel and she ran.

I had been
expecting it. It was only logical. She had run from me before, in
fact, three times now, yet this time was different.

As I chased, I
had no idea where she would lead me, whether I would be able to
keep up, and what I would do to myself if I failed to catch her yet
again.

Confused. That
was the only way to put it. I didn't know what to think. Yet I
could appreciate that as she had turned to me, and for several
seconds had stared right up into my eyes, I had been lacking in one
emotion. One important emotion. Anger. The kind of anger one would
get as they stared down into a criminal’s face, a criminal who was
responsible for a series of heinous crimes as was Twincy Quinn. Or
at least, so Lord Ridley would have us believe.

She was fast,
of course she was, yet somehow I managed to keep up. I wasn't
entirely sure why. Perhaps she was tired, no doubt it had been a
long day for her. Perchance she was frightened, and this time it
was not an act at all. Or maybe she was leading me somewhere. I
couldn't tell, and I did not have the time to assess the
possibilities. All I could do was follow, so I did.

She led me
through the streets, occasionally turning around, checking that I
was still following her, possibly swearing, then continuing on. It
took me a while, but I eventually realised where she was going.
Again, it was as if instinct directed me, bypassing the
meticulously logical side of my mind, and simply snapping at me
with the truth.

The clock
tower.

I could now
see it pulling up as a dark shadow before us on the opposite side
of the street.

It made sense,
didn't it? She liked to be up high. On the rooftops, away from
London. Away from prying eyes.

Sure enough, I
watched as she streamed across the street, her skirts buffeting and
blowing and flaring around her with every step. It was a testament
to how agile and fast she was that she could manage to run so quick
in them at all. I will admit very freely that I had never been in a
dress, and that I never would be, yet I can imagine how encumbering
to movement they are. Especially quick movement. However, Twincy
appeared unaffected.

So unaffected,
in fact, that when she reached the clock tower, she did something
rather alarming and something that most certainly took my breath
away. She ran up the steps, leaned back into her hip, brought her
leg up, and kicked at the locked door.

Though the
move did not look powerful, looks were very deceiving. Because she
kicked the door down in a single move.

The wood burst
forward, scraps of it flying out as splinters.

I was still
about 10 feet behind her, and in that moment, unashamedly, I
paused.

Running and
jumping and escaping were one thing, but that had been a strong
move. Impossibly strong. Not just for a woman, but for most
men.

Realising I
didn't have time to think it through, I followed, throwing myself
up the steps. As I did, I vaguely fancied that I heard something.
Possibly from afar, yet not that far.

A hissing,
clicking sound, reminiscent of those new machines. Yet as soon as I
became aware of it, it stopped, for it became inaudible as I
plunged through the freshly broken door.

There was a
set of long stairs leading up, and as I looked around, I realised
the clock tower had to be under refurbishment. There were piles of
wood, other than the broken door, that was. There were sheets of
metal, there were tools, and there were upturned crates that
workmen used as seats.

The fact this
building was under maintenance apparently did not bother Twincy,
and she kept on running up the stairs as fast as she could.

So I followed.
I didn't have another option, did I? I had hardly chased her this
far, only to give up because the building she had entered was
relatively unsafe.

‘
I just need to talk to you,’ I tried, wasting my breath on
another useless plea. No matter how often I begged with her to turn
around and face me, of course she didn't. The woman was running
from something, and I wasn’t a fool; I knew she was running from
me. Yet it was clear she was running from something else too. Lord
Ridley, Doctor Elliot Esquire? Or perhaps she had more enemies than
I could possibly comprehend. One point, however, was particularly
salient. She was afraid. And fear pushed her forward. A palpable
sense of it washed off her, and I would be a dullard not to
recognise it. Simple pleas from me would not get this woman to stop
and turn around.

It was quite a
sight to see her running up the stairs in the semi dark.

There were
windows interspersed around that long circular staircase, and, far
more worryingly, there were holes in the wall. Though covered up
here and there by planks of wood, it was clear this building wasn't
just being refurbished; bits of it appeared to be falling down.

Hoping the
stairs were at least solid, I ran and I observed.

That dress of
hers flew out in every direction, the layers of silk and lace
bouncing up and down with her every step. In a flash I saw that the
underside of it was white and trimmed with baby blue.

It reminded me
exactly of the dress she had worn this morning.

Could it be
the same, reversed? It was a strange thought, but frankly, I was
dealing with an exquisitely strange situation, so it was not that
out of place.

She did not
say anything to me as she desperately ascended the stairs, she
merely concentrated on her task, always maintaining a healthy pace,
and always managing to keep just ahead of me. Which was a problem,
because I was running at almost full capacity. And soon, all too
soon, I would tire. Yet I had the feeling Twincy would not; she
would merely take it as an opportunity to finally put some adequate
distance between us.

I did not know
how many flights of stairs we ascended, and perhaps it didn't
matter. I merely focused on the vision of her running up the steps,
encased in shadow, but occasionally enshrouded by light as she
passed a window or a hole in the wall.

There was
something about this woman and the vision of her that managed to
etch itself onto my mind’s eye. All the details, from the way the
fabric of her skirt moved, to the perfect press of concern on her
lips, to that unending glare she gave the stairs as she ascended
them. I felt like I noticed more than I would with an ordinary
criminal, and perhaps, an ordinary woman also.

This could not
go on forever though, because the clock tower stairs could not go
on forever. Possibly she wanted me to tire quickly, so she could
get away, yet that did not make any sense, for where would she
escape to? I knew she was capable of running off over roofs with
great confidence, but this clock tower was so tall that there were
no roofs around it. Under it, yes, but at a considerable
distance.

She was
incredible, I would grant anyone that, yet even she would not be
able to survive a leap from this height.

So had she
trapped herself? Inadvertently, or perhaps deliberately? Was she
leading me somewhere so that she could talk to me, so that she
could finally open up and tell me exactly who she was, what she was
doing, and do so in the relative privacy of this clock tower?

That was
probably not going to happen, yet it was nice to wish.

I would soon
find out what she was really planning, though, as I eventually
ascended the last stair.

She did so
too.

We were
standing on the floor of a room which occupied the full width of
the tower. It held the clock, it also, however, held the wind. For
there were enormous holes in the walls all around. Though some had
planks of wood nailed over them, for the stability of the building
and the general welfare of those inside, it was enormously loud and
cold in the room.

For the wind
blew. This far up, it raced in, finding any crack it could, and
whistling and whipping its way around the open room.

The majority
of the clock had been removed, as it also appeared to be under
repair, for as I faced the bulk of it, I noted that many of the
cogs had been pulled from the wall, and rested on the floor around
us.

While the
building was narrow, and the staircase had been a tight one as it
had ascended to this room, at least this floor was large enough
that you could walk around it with ease and relatively
unencumbered.