As I left the academy, the same workers glared and spat as they had on my journey in. A few of the more unwise men started to heft tools and cluster in groups, sending threatening looks in my direction as I passed. Having already enjoyed more than enough excitement from them, I placed a hand inside the inner edge of my coat as if I were adjusting the holster of a pistol. The gesture was as obvious as it was easy to accomplish. Their murmurs cut off quickly, and the workmen apparently found something else to interest them. Of course, my pistol was in my boot rather than my coat, but they had no need to know that.
Fortunately I encountered no further problems on my way to Lady Dafferty. Although the visit to the academy had taken more time than I had allotted to it, I had the advantage of the nearby pneumatic rail to speed my journey. The system had been set up to provide transit to the populace and to facilitate travel for the workers in the factories, and it would allow me to arrive at my appointment with Lady Dafferty in a timely manner. All it would cost was a small amount of my rapidly dwindling supply of money, but it was a price I would gladly pay in order to accomplish the remainder of my tasks for the day.
The interview with Lady Dafferty was blissfully straightforward compared to the stop at the bank. Though obviously quite upset with her philandering husband, the dear noblewoman was more than happy to reimburse me with enough funds to cover the costs of my travel and expenses over the next week. She also readily agreed to hire Patricia to resolve the situation, which meant that I could return the favor for the jobs to which she had referred me. I decided to return to my home by pneumatic in order to start the difficult search for the bounty hunter. Finding Patricia would take some time; after all, a bounty hunter of her skill and notoriety had the skills to hide as well as hunt.
I had disembarked at the pneumatic station near my apartments when I heard a subtle click behind me. The sound of hissing air followed, revealing the presence of an airgun of some sort, and it occurred to me that my warning to the workmen near the academy might only have encouraged them to elevate their own armaments. I paused for a heartbeat, and then continued down into the station.
Unfortunately for me, the station was completely empty. Completely devoid of the architectural style common to stations in the richer parts of town, it was merely an underground vault with an open-sided tube for the transit car. Two pillars helped to support the roof, and on each of them was a large lever used to signal that there were people waiting for the next tube. Without such a signal, the transit car would simply continue on its way past unless one of the passengers had requested a stop.
The structure usually held a large crowd, but since a tube had just departed, there was no one waiting for the next one. Worse, it was already fairly late in the afternoon, and the tube which had dropped me off had not left any other passengers behind—other than my unexpected friend, of course. Without a crowd to hide in or witnesses to forestall an attack, I would have to rely on other methods to anticipate or prevent another incident like the event with Mr. Thorpe.
The one advantage I would have was that the enemy would not be able to surround me this time. No one waited for me on the stairs, which meant I could have an easy route of escape, and unlike the thug who was following me, I had the advantage of surprise. I walked partway down the length of the station, listening to the footfalls of my opponent to mark his approach, and then stopped beside a signal lever. Setting my cane to the side, I bent down as if to check my boot.
Then, with one decisive movement, I drew out my concealed pistol and turned. My pursuer reacted at the same time, and I found myself staring down the barrel of a heavily modified, but excruciatingly familiar, carbine. “Patricia?”
She smiled as she lowered her weapon. “So you finally learned my first name, Hector? I’m impressed!” She glanced casually down at the pistol in my hand. “Are you going to ask for my money next?”
I jerked the pistol back and shoved it down into the holster in my boot. Then I hastily stood and brushed off the knee of my trousers. “Thank you for coming to see me, Ms. Anderson. I was about to go looking for you.”
“I should hope you were. I wouldn’t want your clients going to someone else to finish off the messes you leave behind. Now what about that Dafferty lady?”
With a sigh, I shook my head and drew out a small piece of paper. “Here are the details of the assignment from Lady Dafferty. Once again, she wishes for the maximum amount of discretion to be used.” Patricia rolled her eyes and came forward to take the paper from me. She unfolded it and read over the words quickly. It did not take long before she turned and raised a speculative eyebrow in my direction.
“Hold up a moment. Alive? She does know what I do, right?” I sighed again, this time much more heavily. It was my dearest hope that someday the fool Yankees and their overblown sense of vengeance would find some way to join real civilization, but today was simply not that day for Patricia.
“You read correctly, Ms. Anderson. He is to be alive, and in a compromising situation with his mistress. Not every spurned wife wants a pint of blood before her divorce, as I’m sure you are aware.”
Patricia snorted. “So you say. I think it’s just all that weak tea you folks drink this side of the Atlantic.” She crumpled the piece of paper and placed it a pocket within her overcoat. “Maybe I should just talk to the girl myself and see what we can work out.”
I tried to picture Patricia in the same room as the refined Lady Dafferty plotting revenge against her cheating spouse. It was, truth be told, a horrible image, and one I would need to prevent for the sake of all mankind. “Are you saying the task at hand is too difficult for you, Ms. Anderson? I would be glad to arrange for the contract to go to someone else, if that is the case.”
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment I wondered if the carbine was going to be directed my way once more. “I’ll do it. Don’t you worry about that, Hector Kingsley.”
I winced as she used my full name; not once had she done so unless she was contemplating some means of getting even for some petty slight. I decided to ignore the threatening tone, however, in favor of moving the conversation along.
“I’m glad to hear we can agree on that, Ms. Anderson.” Her eyes narrowed, and I raised my chin slightly. “So is there any other way I can offer my services to aid you?”
Patricia tossed her head slightly, a gesture I knew she used when she was frustrated or annoyed with something—or, of course, someone. “Not particularly. I was just wondering how things were going with those jobs I gave you. Are things turning out well?”
“Indeed they are. It has worked out admirably well so far. I thank you again for your help.” She nodded in apparent satisfaction, and a hint of a smile teased the corner of her mouth.
“A pair of open-and-shut cases, then? I didn’t think they would be too hard for a detective like you.”
I grunted in reply. “Not particularly. They aren’t exactly large cases, but at times, the smaller crimes have the more complex difficulties with investigating them. I should think these cases will occupy my time for at least the rest of the week.”
Patricia rolled her eyes at my bravado. “So where will you go next, then? Back home to ponder over the clues like the investigator extraordinaire you are?” I did not care much for her mocking tone, and the light blow to the shoulder she once again dealt me was not appreciated either. I sighed for a third and final time before I answered her.
“Not yet. I will need to see an old friend first.” At that, a chime sounded in the station to announce the approach of a transit tube. I stepped forward and pulled the lever, signaling for it to stop. “A very old friend.”
It was already evening by the time I left the tube station near Whitechapel. The transit had taken the better part of a half hour, but the sun seemed to have descended far quicker. I spent a moment watching the crimson clouds pass through the sky before I walked forward into the gathering gloom.
Whitechapel had not fared well during the introduction of the Distillation, and the streets showed the desperate conditions into which the inhabitants had fallen. The streets were filled with rough cobblestones, which were broken or entirely missing in places. Buildings seemed not simply aged, but also ill-maintained and poorly cleaned. Bomb scars still showed from airship attacks in the New War some years ago. Other, more decrepit walls still bore faded notices declaring the area one of the many “Changling quarantine zones” that a frantic government had created when the effects of the Distillation on humans were still seen as some new disease.
The effects on the people of Whitechapel had not been any kinder. Poverty and prejudice had robbed many of the Changlings of a chance to leave the borough, and as a result, many turned to a life of crime once the quarantine was lifted. Smugglers, fences, and thieves made their dens here, and ladies of questionable repute—and sadly, unquestionable intent—walked the alley mouths. Bars and brothels were visible on all sides, and the typical method of travel varied between a furtive, half-shamed slouch and a bold, lecherous stride. I could only imagine the kind of criminal activity which took place in Whitechapel’s daily routine, and for some reason I was happier to leave those things unknown.
The person I was about to meet had no such luxuries, however. I stood a bit straighter, not out of consideration for the few toughs who occasionally leered at me from storefronts or alleyways, but in preparation for the meeting to come. Then I walked forward, my feet tracing a path through the unkempt streets almost unconsciously. It did not take long for me to arrive at the place I sought, but even so, the sun had set far enough to cast the entire street in an odd kind of half-light.
When I arrived, the shadows had already stretched fully across the alley I sought. I hesitated there at the opening, like some ancient knight about to face some gold-crazed lizard. Then I shook my head at the cowardly pause and continued forward into the shaded alleyway, hoping to find my friend and not some overeager pack of muggers in wait. To my disappointment, he was not there.
It was obvious Benjamin had been there recently. The alleyway had once been the site of a beleaguered little pub that had closed its doors long before my friend had arrived. There was a small hole in the wall just above the signpost for the vacant pub, and Benjamin had wasted no time in creating a small hollow there for his bed. Below that comfortable nook were scattered the various accoutrements of his life to create a kind of office or parlor. There was a makeshift roof, slanted to allow the rain and snow to fall away from his living place. Below it was a pair of padded chairs, with only the bare minimum of stains, and tears sewn shut. A dresser with a series of locked drawers safely held most of Benjamin’s possessions, though most of Benjamin’s security came from what was locked in his cavernous mind. A small end table sat beside one chair, a handful of portraits and photographs adorning its plain surface. Under the space of its legs was a small, mistreated little lockbox which hid from the world whatever baubles of value Benjamin had collected during his journeys.
As they always did, the photographs on the end table called my attention more strongly than anything else. I approached them carefully, as any man stalking the painful, wonderful memories of the past is wise to do. One in particular, that of a dark-haired pair of young boys on a farm fence, was altogether too compelling. I had picked it up to study it more closely before I realized it. For a time I was lost in memory, and it was only a sly cough from behind me that drew me back to the present. When I turned, I found Benjamin waiting for me.
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He was not quite the adult version of the dark-haired boy in the picture; events had made sure that fate was not possible. His ears were enlarged to the point that they resembled a cat’s or even a bat’s in size, shape, and mobility. Benjamin’s skin was grey, and he wore a sleeveless vest rather than a shirt or coat since the thin, fragile webbing of the wings under his arms would have made such clothing uncomfortable. I smiled and fell back on the only greeting I could give him. “Hello, Benjamin.” I paused, and then spoke again. “Hello, Hector.”
Benjamin nodded and smiled. When he answered, the words came in my own voice and, I was grateful to hear, the same warm tone. After all, Benjamin Smithridge and I were truly old friends. We had once made a dare of sorts together, and in the nature of all old friends, each of us resented the other for winning the wager. “Hello, Hector.” He approached and reached out a hand. We shook briefly and clapped each other on the shoulder before he drew away and walked past me to one of the chairs. With a casual gesture he motioned to the other, and I took a seat as he fell into his comfortable throne. As I settled in, he unlocked his safe with a practiced hand and drew out a dictionary and a notebook.
“I need your help, Benjamin. There are a few cases I need to solve that I can’t without you.” Benjamin snorted, and even in the gloom I could see his grin. He opened his mouth, and once again my own words came back at me.
“You need me to solve more than a few cases.” I looked askance at my friend; mimic he might be, but being teased by one’s own voice was more than little disconcerting, not to mention frustrating. I did not fail to note that he hadn’t used all of my words, either. He was likely going to save them, as a miser would guard his coins, until he could find an opportune time to throw them back at me. I continued, determined not to let him bait me so easily.
“I would appreciate any information you have on Lady Pevensley or anyone associated with her household. There was a bombing there a short time ago using lamp oil, Distillation, and alcohol as the accelerants.” Benjamin nodded. He began to mark something down on the notepad, though it was not likely related to the case. Given his ability to repeat anyone’s words exactly as they had been said, he had no need of notes for memory. More likely it was the cost for his services, which usually involved a long reading from the dictionary at his side. I still owed the man another hour’s worth of words, and from the favors I would ask for these cases, I did not doubt that he would be speaking in my voice for a long time yet.
“My second favor would be to look into the interests surrounding the Everston Academy. Find out who are opposed to Lord Devonshire, their sponsor, or the people who would benefit if the land went up for sale or the school failed. That sort of thing would be immensely helpful.” Benjamin nodded again, and he made another mark upon his page. I sighed.
“Lastly, if you could find out what financial investments Mr. Pastee has made, especially with fences or other underworld contacts, I would be much obliged.” Benjamin placed a hand upon his chest and adopted an expression of such exaggerated indignation that I had to smile. I held up a hand and shook my head. “I would not, of course, imply you had such contacts, only that you would know where such no-accounts could be found. A wise man knows which places to avoid in order to retain good standing, after all.” Benjamin grinned back and made a final series of marks. He spent another handful of moments involved in some calculation before he turned the page over to me to examine. One glance revealed the total debt, and I nearly jumped from my chair in shock.
“Ten hours? What kind of green detective do you think I am? It is not as if I’ve asked you to infiltrate French soil here. Make it three and you’d be closer to fair.” Benjamin lazily shook one finger at me, and his words came in a thin, reedy voice I did not recognize.
“What you pay is what you get.” He held up seven fingers. “A deal for a friend.”
“Come now, my friend. Be reasonable. Four hours—that is all I can give you for now.” He grimaced and folded his arms. He repeated some of my words in a sarcastic tone.
“Be reasonable. Come now. Four hours is all you can give a friend?” The plaintive twist at the end of his words brought a sigh from me. I slumped back in my chair. He grinned again and held up six fingers.
“Fine, fine, you old thief. Six hours it is. May I at least delay the payment until the end of the last case?” Benjamin gave a regal nod and handed over the pen he had been using. I sighed, altered the number to six hours, and signed. He did likewise before sealing the papers and pen away again in his safe. I checked the time on my pocket watch while he was thus occupied and found that I had a little time before I needed to return to the tube station. When I looked up again, I found Benjamin watching me closely. “Is something wrong, my friend?”
The mimic smiled. “Is something wrong?” He leaned forward, and his voice grew high and reedy again. “You seem bothered.”
I gave him a disgruntled look. “If something was wrong, why would I tell you? Even when we were children, you were always a tattletale.”
Benjamin laughed, one of the few sounds that remained his own. It was a harsh, braying sound, but it was familiar and welcome all the same. “Tattletale?” He gestured to his makeshift home, and his voice changed to a deep, resounding bass. “A greater tale than this has never been told.”
I smirked. “Have we been attending the theatre, Benjamin?” He picked at a bit of grime and flicked it toward me in mock vengeance, and I couldn’t help but chuckle in response.
He turned to the reedy voice. “And how is Patricia?” Once again his voice became the booming bass. “Fares she well?”
I grunted, unaccountably resentful of the question, or perhaps of the leering way it was asked. “Ms. Anderson is fine, Benjamin. She has experience looking after herself.” He grinned in that irrepressible, annoying way which had always been his habit.
“Ms. Anderson is fine-looking.” I growled at the lecherous tone he inserted into my words, and he laughed again. I fixed an indignant glare on him.
“I hope you do not imply something regarding my relationship with her. Ms. Anderson and I are only friends!”
His grin did not lessen at all. Again my voice and my words were thrown at me. “Ms. Anderson and I are friends. Only…” He completed the mockery of my words with a wistful sigh, and I found my normally quiet temper disturbed.
“Is there some point to this playacting, Benjamin? Or have we added matchmaking to your list of petty vices?” He rolled his eyes and I could see a response forming on his lips when he stopped. His eyes had found something beyond me and he gave one of my own sighs, in a far more melodramatic fashion than I had ever done. I turned my head and found a group of rough-looking men at the entrance to the alley, and gave a much more reasonable sigh as I recognized the problem.
“Hector Kingsley, you tosher! Get you and your bloody echo out here!” The leader of the group stepped forward as he bellowed, and I found in his frame the familiar, regrettable marks of an ogre. Yellow teeth and horns along with an incredibly oversized frame were clear indicators, but his temperament and lack of tact quickly proved to be just as revealing as he continued to shout. “We’ve come ta settle a few accounts with the lousy rat catcher and his friend. Just come out and take what’s comin’ to ya and I’ll make it quick.” A chuckle from the men behind him gave the lie to his promise, not that either Benjamin or myself would have trusted our safety to it anyway. I glanced quickly at my friend.
“Is there a back way to the alley?” He shook his head and gestured at the small clutter of his possessions. Benjamin needed to say no more. I turned to face the mob of enemies and braced myself for the coming struggle.
As I did so, I noted a few more things about my future adversaries. Each wore a red band around their upper right arm, and a closer look revealed a small symbol with a series of harsh lines drawn through a circle. The symbol and armband were both familiar enough that I nearly groaned in frustration when I realized what they represented. They corresponded nicely to the markings of a particular group of thieves, muggers, and cutthroats who haunted half the East End. While Benjamin and I were not nearly the level of annoyance that would seriously inconvenience the Red Band, the thugs never needed much excuse to start leaving bodies in the streets. Unfortunately for me, several of my past cases had involved the Red Band’s former leaders, who now unwillingly resided in a series of jail cells. Apparently some of their vengeful lackeys had decided to make an example of us as a result.
They did not know it yet, but they had chosen very unwisely. I readied my cane and bent to draw my pistol out. I only had a handful of shots, but with an ogre as an opponent, any weapon available was better than nothing at all. Benjamin drew out a short, knobby club hidden behind his chair and gestured to my ears. Familiar with his method of battle, I quickly drew out a pair of plugs that I reserved for just such an occasion and placed them in my ears. Then we turned and waited for the enemy to come.
Finally deciding that waiting for us to leave the shadows was no longer reasonable, the thugs waded forward. They came carefully, which spoke more to a lack of courage than of a healthy respect for their opponents. Even as they made their hollow threats and gave each other encouragement, I could see the hesitation in their steps. Yet even the most craven cur may find strength in numbers, and at the end what convinced them to charge was the fact that it was seven to two, and one of theirs happened to be an ogre. The odds, they must have supposed, were thoroughly in their favor.
Thus, my first task of the struggle was to force them to recalculate their chances. Wrestling with an ogre was unlikely to accomplish that task, and so I sidestepped his belligerent charge and confronted one of the more mundane thugs. He wielded a knife and a club of his own, but before he could put them to good use, I struck him a blow across the face. The thug screamed in an odd, warbling cry as he clutched at his ruined nose. I silenced him with a stroke from the butt of my pistol and turned to face my next opponent.
The thugs, to my dismay, were waiting for me. As their ogre companion occupied the attentions of Benjamin, three of them advanced quickly on me while the remaining two circled to cut off any chance of escape down the alleyway. Knives flashed in their hands, and I decided to employ the pistol regardless of the complications it would involve legally. I brought the pistol in line with the first of the thugs only to have him duck beneath my arm and nearly stab me in the stomach. A quick retreat allowed me to avoid disembowelment, and my desperate shot somehow managed to miss all my targets and bury itself in the wall of the long-abandoned tavern. There was a splintering crash, audible even through my ear plugs, followed by a frustrated roar from the ogre which told me that Benjamin survived, though his furniture was likely worse for wear. Needless to say, the outcome was quickly looking bleak.
Then, just as the three thugs came at me together, an ear-splitting shriek filled the air. It was something more machine than man, something vaguely reminiscent of a steam engine letting off pressure or an air siren alerting the city to the presence of an enemy. The wail caused me to nearly fall to my knees and clutch at my head even with my ear plugs. Fortunately neither the thugs nor their ogre fared any better. They made halfhearted attempts to cover their ears as the scream went on and on, with the ogre in a staggering retreat.
Benjamin, of course, was completely unaffected. He simply advanced with his mouth wide open, still emitting that horrible sound as he drove the ogre backwards. As the ogre took another stumbling step back, my friend brought his club around in a blow that connected hard with the ogre's left knee. The joint bent at a sickening angle, and the ogre yowled loud enough that I could just barely hear him over Benjamin's wail.
As if he were a tree falling before a woodsman's axe, the ogre toppled. Unfortunately for his fellows, they had remained directly behind him. His mountainous bulk crashed down on two of my erstwhile nemeses, and the third was brought to his knees by his brawny, out-flung arm. I quickly stepped forward and laid him low with an overhand strike from my cane. The last of Benjamin's terrible cry trailed off, and I turned to face the last of the mob.
I found them running as if for their very lives, struggling to gain the mouth of the alley even as they staggered and stumbled. The sight brought an irrepressible smile to my lips, for I knew that the tales they would tell would keep Benjamin safe for quite some time. When I looked for Benjamin, my mouth open to make some small remark on our great victory, I found him crouched over the shattered remains of one of his two chairs. The utter loss apparent in his posture sapped all the joy from my petty triumph, and I took an almost involuntary step toward him. "Benjamin, I—"
Before I could reach him, Benjamin recoiled. His mouth moved, and I realized with horror that his words were wasted on my muffled ears. I hurriedly removed the plugs, but I only managed to catch the fragile ending to his statement. "...done enough today, Hector. Go home."
I stiffened at his harsh words. The tone was so ugly that I had trouble recognizing the voice as my own. Benjamin gave me little chance to respond, for before I found my own voice once more, he had clambered up to his vaunted perch on the old tavern signpost and was halfway into his small nook before I finally, faintly, called out to him.
"I'm sorry, old friend. I'm sorry." He paused, and for a small moment he simply looked back at me over his shoulder. His gray face was unreadable in the fading light, but I dared not turn away. Finally he nodded.
"Farewell, Hector Kingsley." With those final words, he disappeared within. I spoke all the same, for I knew he would not let my words remain unheard or unused, even now.
"Farewell, Benjamin Smithridge." I turned and walked past the tangle of defeated thugs, some of whom were groaning and twitching as they struggled to recover their senses. Before long, I had left the alley to walk in the gathering dark of Whitechapel and made my way to the transit station. I was quiet, for I had a lot to consider before the next day dawned.