The Steampunk Detective (24 page)

“What do you make of all that, Jack?” Mr Doyle asked.

“I don’t think those fellows are involved,” Jack said. “They just seem to be workers in the factory.”

“Agreed. Possibly some pilfering is going on, but if we follow Ockham’s Razor –.”

“Who’s razor?”

“A Franciscan friar, Father William of Ockham, in the fourteenth century said that when selecting competing hypothesis, pick the one with the fewest new assumptions.”

“Uh, Mr Doyle, I think you’re speaking another language.”

The detective smiled. “Another way to think of it is that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

Okay
, Jack thought.

“That I understand,” he said. “I think.”

They made their way back to the Lion’s Mane. Toby had fallen asleep at the foot of the suspended airship. Mr Doyle smiled gently and roused the boy.

“Not asleep on the job, I hope?” Mr Doyle said.

“No, sir,” he jumped up.

Mr Doyle handed him a coin. “Thank you for your help, young Toby. If I’m this way again, I’ll use your services again.”

“Ta, sir,” Toby replied.

Jack and Mr Doyle climbed into the airship. A minute later it was airborne and young Toby receded into the distance as they drifted across fields away from Moll’s Pond. Jack gave him a final wave as they became one with the sky.

Mr Doyle spent a few minutes checking their direction. Finally he drew back from his instruments. “Should be there shortly. I intend to land slightly east of the town.”

“Is that so M doesn’t know we’re on our way?”

“More or less.” Mr Doyle sat back in his seat thinking before he crossed to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I’d like your thoughts on this, Jack.”

Jack Mason examined the piece of paper before him. It showed a copy of a bloody handprint. Jack asked Mr Doyle how he came across it.

“I found this at the crime scene where Jon Harker and the soldiers were killed.”

“So this is the killer’s handprint?”

“I believe so,” Mr Doyle said. “It’s a small hand, isn’t it?”

Jack nodded. “M looked like a small man.”

“What do you make of this?” Mr Doyle asked, pointing at a few compacted lines running across one of the fingers.

After puzzling over it for a moment, Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure. Is it a scar?”

“Possibly,” Mr Doyle said. “Possibly.”

At that moment he went over to the steering wheel. The ship coasted over a large field before the Lion’s Mane descended. Mr Doyle brought the airship in to land among a stand of trees. They made their way across the field. Climbing over a fence they joined a lane that followed the edge of the town around to the north.

Thick pine trees bordered a large property half a mile out of town. A rusted metal gate, set into sandstone posts, closed off the access road from the lane. The name Featherwick appeared faintly on brass plaques on both sides of the iron gates. Elm trees bordered the boulevard on both sides. Mr Doyle studied the terrain.

“We will climb over here,” he said.

“What if someone’s home?” Jack asked.

“I don’t believe anyone is,” Mr Doyle said. “Look here.”

He pointed at the earth road.

“What is it?” Jack asked. “I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly,” Mr Doyle said. “It last rained here in this part of the country two days ago and there are no tracks leading into the estate.”

“Of course,” Jack said.

I’m a dummy
, he thought. He felt like kicking himself. How did he fail to notice such things?

“Don’t feel badly my boy,” Mr Doyle said. “First we learn to see. Then we learn to observe.”

They climbed over the fence and walked down the narrow road. A bullfinch sang somewhere in the undergrowth. The sun lay quite low in the sky and the first chill of night seemed to grip the air. Jack listened for sounds of movement from around the estate, but heard nothing.

They reached the end of the boulevard. The road curved around to an old manor house, bordered on both sides by huge elm trees. A few of the windows looked broken.

“We’d best knock on the door,” Mr Doyle said.

He gripped the door handle and banged it three times. A minute passed where no sound emanated from the interior. He knocked again and the house still remained in silence.

“Let’s go around the back,” Mr Doyle suggested.

They rounded the house. Jack saw more of the windows were cracked. Air freely entered through a broken pane on the first floor. The building appeared deserted.

“Doesn’t look like Professor M’s a very good housekeeper,” Jack said.

“Too busy being a criminal, I imagine.”

Reaching the rear door, Mr Doyle gripped the handle. It did not budge. They looked through the window to the right of the door and saw a dusty kitchen.

“We really need to look inside,” Mr Doyle said. “Do you have your lock pick with you?” Jack produced it from his pocket. “I’ll teach you later how to operate this device. It’s really very clever.”

Mr Doyle inserted the tool into the lock and gently swivelled it around. After a moment, he withdrew the implement, frowning.

“Now that’s odd,” he said.

“You can’t open it?” Jack asked.

“I cannot. And this device will open most locks. I think there’s more to this building than meets the eye.”

He stepped back from the building, examining the windows. They walked the entire circumference of the building, tried to unlock the front door without success and arrived back where they started. All the downstairs windows were barred with a sliding lock.

“I’d prefer not to break one of the windows,” Mr Doyle said.

“We won’t need to,” Jack replied.

Without another word, he crossed to a vine trailing up the side of the building. He jammed a foot into the hardy growth and ascended the structure. When he reached the first floor, he reached through a broken pane and unlatched the window. He pushed it upwards.

“Be careful,” Mr Doyle called.

“I will,” he promised.

He placed his knee on the sill, gripped the window and pulled himself into the room. It took a moment for his eyes to acclimatise to the gloom of the interior. Gradually he became aware of walls covered with ivory coloured wallpaper, an ornately decorated ceiling and a disused fireplace. The room was large and dry with no furniture.

He left it and cautiously made his way down the stairs. No sound originated from any other rooms within the building. Arriving at the back door, he opened it to see the relieved face of Ignatius Doyle.

“This might be Mr Bezel’s home,” Jack said. “But one thing’s for sure.”

“What’s that?” Mr Doyle asked.

“No–one lives here.”

They examined the house from top to bottom. The interior was clean, but it was also completely empty. Not a single piece of furniture sat in any of the rooms. The kitchen cupboards were bare. A fine layer of dust covered the mantelpieces, but everything else in the structure was immaculately clean.

By the time Jack and Mr Doyle had searched the house from top to bottom, the sun sat low behind the trees and the air had turned cold. Evening birds started their song and Jack found himself shivering slightly.

“This is a mystery,” Mr Doyle said. “The owner of the paper mill supposedly lives here, but the building is completely empty.” He stroked his chin. “Too empty.”

“What do you mean by ‘too empty’?”

“The fellow at the paper mill spoke about the postman making visits here, but there’s no evidence of it.”

“Do you think he was lying?”

“No. I checked the letter box at the front gate. It appears to have been in use. No, I think this property is occasionally used, but not the house.”

Jack went to the window and peered out. “I don’t think there’s anything else here. Why would they –.”

“Wait!” Mr Doyle said. “Do you hear that?”

Jack listened. He heard the chuffing of a faraway steam vehicle. “I think it’s getting closer.”

They hurried through the house and left via the back door, pulling it shut behind them. Racing over to a clump of bushes, they hid themselves just as a steam car came bumping along the driveway towards the house.

Two men climbed from the car and spoke to each other for a moment. They were too far away to be heard. Finally one of them crossed to the side of the house and grabbed a piece of the stonework. A low rumble came from the ground.

A section of the land about thirty feet across began to slowly rise up from the earth. Jack stared in amazement as he realised the lawn on the top was only the roof of a much larger structure – an enclosed metal building, the rear walls of which faced Jack and Mr Doyle.

The men spoke again for another moment before one of them entered the enclosure. They heard the banging of a car door and a moment later a steam truck with a canvas covered back eased its way out of the amazing garage.

“We need to follow that truck,” Mr Doyle said. “We should return to the Lion’s Mane.”

Jack nodded, but it looked like events were moving rather more quickly than they would have liked. The other man drove the car into the garage and a moment later activated the control to sink the building back into the ground.

“They’re going to leave,” Mr Doyle said. “We have to hurry.”

He led them around the side of the building and a moment later they broke into a run as they hurried down the avenue of elm trees. Climbing over the front gate, they heard the changing of the truck’s gears and the vehicle barrelling down the driveway behind them.

“Quickly,” Mr Doyle said.

They took refuge in a thick shrub as the vehicle approached. The truck’s passenger closed the gate and climbed back into the vehicle. The truck started slowly down the road.

“We must get back to the Lion’s Mane,” Mr Doyle said.

“There’s no time for that. The vehicle will be out of sight in a minute.”

“We’ll spot it from the air.”

“In the dark?” Jack asked. “I think we need to jump onto the back.”

Mr Doyle started to say something, but Jack had already broken from cover and started down the road. Mr Doyle caught up with him after a few seconds. The truck changed gears and Jack put on more speed. He reached the rear of the vehicle, grabbed a hand hold and threw himself onto the back. The truck increased its speed.

Jack looked behind him just in time to see Mr Doyle fall. He had forgotten about the detective’s bad leg. The older man had almost caught up with the vehicle when his leg gave way and he went sprawling onto the road. Mr Doyle rolled twice and urgently signalled with his hand.

Stop. Get off the truck.

Jack considered following his advice, but already the vehicle was moving too fast. In the few seconds it had taken Mr Doyle to fall over and clamber to his feet, the steam truck had picked up so much speed it now raced down the darkened country road.

The last thing Jack saw was Mr Doyle’s despairing face. A moment later the steam truck rounded the bend and the detective disappeared from sight.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

At first Jack clung to the upright handle on the back of the truck for dear life. After a few minutes he realised this was a dangerous thing to do; he could be seen by anyone on the road or he might simply lose his grip and fall off. So after a while he squeezed himself through a gap in the tarpaulin and took refuge in the rear of the vehicle.

He felt bad about leaving Mr Doyle behind. The great detective had fallen over heavily. Now Jack felt guilty about leaving him behind on the road. He cursed himself. He should not have taken off at such a pace. He should have remembered Mr Doyle’s bad leg. But there was no way they would have ever found the steamtruck in the dark. It would have headed off on its way never to be seen again.

I had to do it, he told himself. This truck might lead to M and the bomb.

But he still felt bad about leaving Mr Doyle behind.

The truck bumped and chuffed down the darkened country road. Jack peered through the gap in the tarp and saw them racing through the little town of Mossley – he only knew because he saw the name emblazoned over the door of the pub. The town was so tiny that they passed through it in a minute and open countryside again closed in around them.

A full moon hung low over the trees. It had grown increasingly full over the last few days and now it hung like an incandescent globe in the dark. Jack felt a pang of sadness when he looked at its sepia face. In the back of the truck, hurling along this unfamiliar landscape, the moon seemed as alone as he felt.

Suddenly Jack felt a tear trickle down over his cheek. He felt stupid feeling so emotional. And over what? The moon? Was he losing his mind? He leaned back into the truck and braced himself against the wall.

I know what it is
, he thought.

The truth was that Mr Doyle had fast become his best friend and he had just left his best friend standing alone in the middle of a darkened country lane. If the truck were to suddenly come to a halt, Jack felt he would leap out and start hiking back to where he had left Mr Doyle. But that would be stupid.

Right now Mr Doyle and everyone else needed his help to track down M. And that was exactly what he was going to do. With this thought in mind he rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes.

And promptly fell asleep.

When he awoke he realised two things at once. He could smell the sea and the truck had ground to a halt.

“Blimey,” he muttered under his breath.

Scampering over to the edge of the tarp, he cautiously pulled it aside and saw a rocky platform and darkened shrubbery. He listened for human sounds and after a moment heard the distant sound of voices. Climbing from the rear of the vehicle, he landed on soft sand and peered under the truck. He saw two pairs of legs.

Running quickly across the sand, he carefully mounted the darkened rocks and wedged himself between them for cover. From here he could see the two men standing on the beach at the foreshore. One of them had something in his hand. A lantern. He slowly waved it backwards and forwards.

He was signalling to someone at sea!

Jack looked out over the moonlit water and expected to see a ship carving through the waves. Instead he saw nothing. A cool breeze drifted onto the shore. He wrapped his arms around himself. Finally he saw something break the surface. A long pole rose out of the sea, casting a shadow across the waves. A periscope. Seconds passed as the men continued to signal with the lantern. Then the periscope disappeared and a moment later a submarine broke the surface.