Of course, the academy was not the only place I visited with Daniel’s clever little cameras. His device was simply too useful and too wonderful to utilize in so narrow a manner.
My next destination was the Pevensley estate. I reached it fairly late at night, when the stars had come out and twinkled in the heavens above and the surrounding manors and apartments were quiet in the late, final hours of the evening. Here and there murmured the sounds of a dinner party or some other social engagement of high society. Light thrown through the windows of several houses spilled like liquid gold into the street. These pools of light I steadfastly avoided; given the clandestine nature of my goals this evening, it would do me no good to have some diligent guard or overly observant maid take note of my passing.
As I reached the estate, I avoided the wide expanse of the front gate. I knew it to be too obvious an approach to the manor. By my reckoning, my prey would find their opportunities elsewhere.
I searched furtively along the outside wall, looking for the overgrown ivy or pockmarked stone that would afford the furtive visitor to Pevensley’s home a good purchase. While I still suspected that the identity of the attempted assassin could be found in the lists of Pevensley’s guests, there was now another party involved, that of Howard Pevensley’s hidden informant. After all, Howard Pevensley could not speak openly with his confidant in his brother’s home. Since Howard described himself as having retreated into hiding, I suspected he would not have confided his location in even so close a friend. Thus, there had to be a hidden way that the estranged man could use to find access to the house, if only to speak with his source of privileged information.
I stumbled across one such location as I made my way along the wall at the section closest the dormitories for the servant quarters. At first, it seemed to be merely yet another section of ivy-draped stone, but as I drew the plants aside, I found something rather interesting. A rougher section of the stone barrier invited the aspiring climber to make an effort, and the spikes along the top, while still lethal, seemed to be spaced a little oddly, as if they were leaning askew. Though my instinct told me I had found Howard’s method of entering the estate unseen, I bent to examine the section of the wall more thoroughly.
My inspection revealed that although the stones were marked with crevices and cracks, many of them were curiously clear of smaller rubble. It was easy to imagine a scrabbling foot or a reaching hand swiping the pebbles and rocks free as a climber made their way up the wall. The conspicuous lack of repair was another clue; given the diligent amount of work I had seen among the servants of the household, I held it unlikely that they could have overlooked such obvious wear for too long a time. More likely, Howard’s confederate was concealing the spot in order to preserve the passage for his employer’s use.
Still, all my reasoning was worse than useless if I carried my hypothesis no further than the ethereal realm of thought. Setting my cane to lean against the stone wall, I rubbed my hands together and started to climb. In keeping with my theory, I confined myself to the most likely path Howard Pevensley would take.
At first I found the going fairly easy. Handholds were ubiquitous and I never lacked a place to press my feet. As I continued upward, however, the difficulty increased. Effective crevices and outcroppings grew steadily less accessible and far less frequent, though all were clear of debris and showed the wear of frequent use. The effort soon had me sweating under the weight of my coat, along with my attendant array of equipment which I carried. Strained as I was, I was compelled to envision the brother of Lord Pevensley as a much more athletic person than the master of the house had proved to be, and the fact that the climb had obviously been undertaken rather frequently bespoke a certain measure of determination. By the time I reached the spikes which ornamented the very top of the wall, I had found a certain level of admiration for him, though I was no closer to discounting him as a possible culprit.
Upon reaching out for the nearest spike, I found it loose in its setting; a little work tugged the length of metal free. Similar small efforts led to the removal of two more spikes, and a quick exploration of the nearby surface located a lip of stone in the masonry which easily concealed the three lengths of metal until they could be replaced. Having achieved the climb, and confirmed yet again my suspicions, I paused to both celebrate my triumph and to catch my breath.
Now comfortable in the space provided by the missing spikes, I took stock of my location. The advantage of this particular route became immediately obvious; only a short distance separated me from a small balcony of the third-floor apartments in the servants’ quarters. It was not hard to imagine young Howard, after having made the climb up the wall, pausing for a moment before leaping across the gap and onto the balcony to meet with some suborned retainer. Having an informant among the servants would have been extraordinarily useful to a young man whose brother controlled his financial state, and it would have provided an even better opportunity for a man intending to do his brother harm.
If such was truly the case, then Howard’s informant was likely to meet the young aristocrat here. A quick inspection of the window showed that the latches to open it were all on the inside, proving to me that the confederate needed to meet Howard here, or at least leave the window open for him to slip through. Peering through the panes of glass, I found a simple reading room that seemed rather barren compared to the more lavish rooms I had seen in much of the Pevensley estate. The floor was unadorned by rug or carpet, the walls were unfinished and rough, and though it was dark, I could see that the ceiling seemed to be made up of beams and rafters instead of solid plaster. Even the door was a simple, rough slab of oak, and the portal was closed rather firmly.
Every indication seemed to hint that the room was unused, or at least that the Pevensleys had either failed to take its existence into account or had not yet remembered it in their furnishing of the manor. Unoccupied and undecorated, it was something little more than a closet that had been forgotten against the backdrop of the larger estate. It was uninteresting in the extreme, aside from the bitter observation that it was still larger than my own bedroom on Hershing and Daversham, and would have been beneath my notice.
Except for the chairs.
They were manifestly out of place. Arranged so they faced one another, one chair held the bearing and firmness of a grand dining room, with a straight back and lack of armrests. The other held a more comfortable air, with cushions, armrests, and even a small footstool. It was obvious the two seats had been plucked from other parts of the house and secreted there, away from any prying eyes. Why Howard’s ally should have taken the risk of being seen to move a few items of furnitue, I could not imagine, but it confirmed to me that Howard and his informant had met here, and furthermore, that they had continued to meet for some time.
Thus secure in my search, I plucked out the final specimen of Daniel’s marvelous cameras. Fastening the device to the wall, I angled the lens to stare up with an unblinking eye through the lower panes of the window to the clandestine meeting room. As it was unlikely that any of the other house staff would clean or even walk through the supposedly empty room, I had asked Daniel to provide a different type of Lovelace punch card than I had used with the others, on the chance that I would find such an opportunity as this one. Rather than activating the device when a light was seen, the camera would wait with the patience of the gallows for the next time a figure would interrupt its view of the empty room.
Given that the next person to intrude upon that perspective was very likely to either be Howard or his compatriot, I was fairly confident that the picture would provide me with a possible advantage, and one that might very well resolve the matter entirely if the confederate provided a sufficient confession. Satisfied with my work, I inserted the card, waited until the camera acknowledged its instructions with an obliging chime, and then began my difficult retreat along the walltop. As I replaced the spikes in their holes, I could not help but smile at my turn of fortune. With any luck, both of my difficult, yet profitable, cases would be ending soon, and the burdens of my debt completely expunged.
When once again my feet touched ground, I collected my cane from the spot where it still leaned against the stone and started back toward the tube line that would deposit me nearest my lodgings. Though the hour was late, my smile endured, and my step was light as I crossed through the dark places left in the street on my way to my humble abode.
The following morning was a fairly uninteresting affair. Benjamin had provided me with more than enough evidence to resolve the Pastee affair to the satisfaction of all involved. The young banker was set free of any suspicion, and charges were drawn up against the fraudulent manager who had begun the whole catastrophe. The issue was soon to be resolved, and I could look forward to reading about the whole of the case, with my contributions likely sanitized, in The Times.
Unfortunately, the chairmen of the bank viewed the whole ordeal with a somewhat less charitable air. One of their most respected members had been accused, and worse, convicted with indisputable evidence of cheating their clients and later attempting to shift the blame elsewhere. That the man had been doing so to avoid or pay off enormous gambling debts did not speak well of the bank’s ability to hire trustworthy men to safeguard their money. The reputation of their bank was more than likely to receive a blow from that alone, even if the official investigation uncovered no more corruption among their ranks. So it was hardly a surprise to me that the bankers, still disgruntled with the consequences of the whole affair, decided to shortchange me in turn.
Of course, they dressed their bitter, vengeful little gesture in excuses and concealed it in beautiful, bureaucratic terms. I had, according to them, been late in providing the evidence they had required, and so the damage to their institution had been that much worse. Had I treated the matter with more urgency, they claimed, I would have been able to enjoy the full reward they had promised me. As matters stood, however, they could only offer me a small amount more than they had already provided, and I should be grateful to receive that at all under the circumstances.
Never mind that those same circumstances could easily have led to my death by werewolf, or that they had not demanded such evidence until after I had provided them with the full details of the lying rat in their midst. Still, rather than cause an undignified scene and prolong the odious relationship with them, I decided to take the high road and accept their paltry reward, sustain my habitat and mode of life for some days longer, and sneer in triumph while their bank fell to pieces around them. If it was not the most genteel of reactions, I still found it difficult to regret. After all, even the most refined of gentlemen has a limit to his magnanimity when it came to his business and source of sustenance, and the duplicity of the bankers in this case would have sorely tried even St. Peter’s temperament.
Regardless of my unhappily diminished resources, I remained in good humor as I strode away from the bank. My chances of solving the other two cases were warming my heart, and the funds that the both of them would provide meant I would not likely go hungry. My idle boast to Patricia seemed certain to come true, and I was more than confident that with Daniel’s marvelous cameras in place, my investigations would bear fruit shortly.
I was not so confident, however, that I would set aside the need for continued effort. My thoughts quickly turned to the only available evidence I had at hand. The sample I had collected at the academy was laid out upon a table in my drawing room. The most obvious source for the soot would be some form of accelerant; I suspected that machine oil or another fuel would be the culprit. Given the hostility of the surrounding workmen, it seemed logical that they would use the materials at hand if they were involved in the crimes.
To prove my conjecture, I stopped briefly at a nearby general mechanics store to collect several samples of machine oil. The proprietor of the establishment viewed me with a somewhat curious eye as I looked over the various jars of mineral, vegetable, and chemical lubricants. As I hesitated between two superficially similar jars, he finally overcame his professional detachment and spoke. “May I help you, sir?”
I straightened from my examination of his product. “Yes, you may definitely assist me. I am establishing my own artificer’s station with the help of some skilled engineers, and they have asked me to obtain sufficient lubricant for their machinery. Might you be able to direct me to a likely brand?”
The shopkeeper frowned. Leaving his place behind the counter, he approached the rack of jars which I had examined. With a weary, guileless eye, he ran his gaze across them. “What type of artificers will you be financin’, if you don’t mind my question?”
“Manufacturing mostly. Just some general industrial work.”
He nodded. “Then you’ve come to the right place, sir. We carry all kinds of industrial-grade oil, the same brands the bigger factories use.” Placing a hand to one side of his mouth, he leaned in conspiratorially. “I know suppliers down at the docks who allow me to buy it at a low price. You won’t find a better arrangement in town for a small workshop like yours, I guarantee it!”
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I nodded enthusiastically. “Excellent, truly excellent! Fortune has certainly smiled on both of us this day.” I placed an arm around his shoulder and drew him away, as if into my confidence. “All I need are a few samples, enough to present to my artificers and workmen. From there they should be able to select which oil serves our needs the best.”
The shopkeeper nodded with such eagerness that it smote my heart with momentary regret. “Perfectly understood, sir, you need say no more. You may take a pinch from any vial or jar you see here—only let me know so I can refill the stock.”
“You can count on me, my friend.” I waited until the shopkeeper had retreated to his place at the counter before I drew the glass vials from within my coat and set to work. I tipped a small sample from each jar into a container before capping the vial and moving on to the next one. Before long, I had a fair beginning to my own chemical laboratory concealed within my pockets, while the shopkeeper hummed and whistled to himself. I gave the man a friendly wave as I left his establishment, which he returned with a gleam of future profit in his eye. No doubt he would later curse my ill intentions, but I would do him the favor of recommending his business to Daniel, had I the chance later on.
Upon my arrival at my apartment, I quickly laid out the menagerie of vials on my table. There were several different varieties and types, though all bore names unfamiliar to me. Everything from Ahab Incorporated Whale Grease to Zirini’s Grade Five Gear Enhancer had been present, and anyone outside the industry would likely remain ignorant of any differences between them.
I, untutored though I was, had only one difference in mind to make my choice. If the workmen involved in the crime had used machinery oil, then it was fairly likely that one of the vials before me would leave behind a sooty residue when burned which I could then match to the sample taken at the academy. From there, it would be an investigation of who had access to the oil and when they would have been able to use it. Though the pictures from Daniel’s camera would likely render the evidence unnecessary, my experience at the bank had cured me of any desire to leave an avenue of investigation unexplored. With those thoughts in mind, I took up a small electrical spark generator and set to work.
One after another, I burned the oils and examined the ash and soot left behind. Some oils flared into incandescent brilliance for a moment before their flame disappeared; others created candles that danced and thrived long. Still others I had incredible difficulty igniting. A sample from Heathrow’s Industrial Fluid resisted my efforts so stubbornly that I nearly ground my teeth in frustration. I had almost given up the fight when I heard a knock at the door.
It was not just any knock, however. The pattern, three quick raps followed by the distinctive thump of a kick, had been agreed on between three young friends in a farming town far from the crowded opportunities and dangers of London, though that city’s dreams would reach out and ensnare each of them in time. I had never forgotten the signal, and though I doubted Benjamin had forgotten it either, it was not his visit that I now anticipated on this fine afternoon.
I strode to the door and braced myself. When I reached out and drew it open, I found a well-dressed man slightly younger than my own age, of freckled skin and dark hair. His coat and shirt had high collars that framed his face, and a fine, delicate cane dangled from the crook of one arm. His other hand had risen to the brim of his hat, and in one grand gesture he drew the top hat from his head and swept into a single dramatic bow. “Hector Kingsley, Investigator! It has been some time old friend.”
Forming a stern line with my lips, I stepped back and gestured for him to enter. “Please come in Francis. I am glad my invitation reached you.”
Francis straightened up and his eyes met mine. Once those pupils had been a simple, warm brown, but now they were a crimson that nearly glowed. An acrid smell filled my nostrils and I saw flames and lights, only half-imagined, dance deep in the heart of those red eyes. “Not truly your invitation, though, was it, Kingsley? But I accept your offer all the same.” With a brisk step, he crossed the threshold and looked about him. “Why, what an enchanting scent you have about the place!”
Clearing my nose of his smell, I shut the door behind him. “I cannot imagine what you must mean, Francis. I am afraid I have little to spend on such things.”
My old friend laughed. “Now, now, Kingsley, you know what I mean. There’s only one kind of incense that I admire.” His fiery eyes swept back to mine. A playful inferno danced in their depths. “Burnt.”
A kind of icy chill wormed its way through me, but Francis had already broken the brief contact between our eyes. He turned away to amble toward the kitchen. His steps took on a mischievous manner, as if he stalked some elusive prey through the brush. “But what kind of flavor could it be, Kingsley? A pile of matches? No, not so simple. An old fireplace, freshly stirred? No, the taste is too recent, too varied. What could it possibly be?”
“Francis.” I fought to keep my voice level. A hint of warning warmed my tone in spite of all effort. “I brought you here for a reason.”
“I’m sure you did, Kingsley. You wouldn’t want to see me without some pressing matter. You would not, especially, have had some school governor call me here without some truly agonizing case I might help solve.” Francis glanced back at me again and I felt a dull edge of accusation in his momentary stare, but he lightened it with a distracted smile. “Now if only I could guess more correctly the style. Burnt cooking? No, far too little flesh. A, a grease fire of some kind…”
“Francis.” The man continued to mutter to himself as he wandered closer to the place where I had been burning the oils. I noted that the acrid stench which followed him had started to sharpen, and urgency lent strength to my already hardened voice. “Francis, pay attention!”
My words brought the man’s head around, and I saw his eyebrows drawn together in anger. “I am not some halfwit servant you can order as you please, Kingsley! Ben might be able to take this kind of attitude from you, but I will not.”
“Benjamin isn’t likely to burn down my apartment by accident, Francis.” I watched as my friend blinked at the wry tone of my words, and he glanced down at his unoccupied hand. I followed his gaze, and found, as I expected, his fingers wreathed in sparks. They danced and spun about, as if they were tiny, sparkling planets in orbit about some erratic sun.
Francis clenched his hand tight, and the sparks snapped inward and vanished as if they had never been. For a moment, all was silent, and then Francis spoke in a much more amiable tone once again. “Your point is rather well made, old chum. What might I do for you then?”
Relieved at his renewed control, I approached him and held out a hand to take his hat and cane. “My need is rather urgent as you already supposed. There have been a series of attacks on a school, and I have been contacted in regards to stopping the vandals involved.” Here I paused, for his eyes had grown distracted again. “I hoped you could aid me in discovering them.”
He blinked again. Once again his fiery eyes met mine. “A strange thing indeed. You’ve never asked my help in a fight before.” Francis paused. Rather than answer immediately, I leaned his cane against the table near the door and set his hat on its flat surface. When he spoke again, suspicion and hurt had entered his words. “Or perhaps it is not so strange after all. What type of attacks has the school endured?”
“Vandalism and threats, mostly.” I turned back to face him. “Words were burnt into their walls using some form of accelerant.”
“And so you turn to me. Or rather, to us.” Francis hissed like water dropped onto a burning log, and I noted a flicker of sparks around both hands. More worrisome, another seemed to flit for a moment about his fine dark hair. “I wish you would not turn so quickly on such a course, Kingsley. Simply because a form of arson is involved does not mean an ifrit—”
I held up a hand to stem the flow. “I would not have brought an ordinary case of arson to you, old friend.” With a sigh, I shook my head. “The school has its own sentries, and it would be beyond difficult for the perpetrators to affect an assault of this kind using ordinary means. The equipment would have been too bulky, too noisy, too slow or all three at once.” Seeing him unmoved, I changed the course of my reasoning. “It is a school for Changlings, Francis. The kind you would enroll Roger in. I couldn’t let any possibility pass unexamined.”
At the mention of his son, Francis blinked a third and final time. The flickers faded away, and some of the tension left his shoulders. He shook his head. “I understand, Kingsley. My apologies for the assumptions I made.” With a distracted gesture toward the kitchen, he motioned me forward. “Come then, let us sit and discuss things.”
I stayed where I was. “I had hoped to talk with you in my office.” His eyes sharpened as I looked in the opposite direction. “The air might be somewhat—clearer—in there for our discussion.”
Francis surprised me with a bark of laughter, and he nodded in baffling approval. “Well thought out, Kingsley! That’s the sort of reasoning that led you to this line of work, while I remain a sad, underpaid performer in the East End.” Despite his self-depreciating comment, which I knew to be barely a quarter of the truth, I could see no sarcasm in the words. He briskly walked by me and entered the office with a flourish. After a moment’s reflection, I joined him, closing the door tight behind us. We had much to discuss.
“To my knowledge, there have been no ifrits working in that part of town. Too much trouble to get into, too many chances to hurt or be hurt. I doubt it would be a member of the Association anyhow.” Francis sat back in his chair, tilting it back onto two feet.
Studying him, I tapped the surface of my desk in reflection. “What would give you such assurances, Francis? You know as well as I do that even a reformed ifrit occasionally indulges their compulsions. That is why you formed the Association in the first place, is it not?”
He nodded. “That’s right. ‘A strength for the times when we are weakest. A chance to rebuild bridges burned.’” As he spoke, his fingers brushed a small coin that hung from a pocket on a chain, a memento awarded to him by the Association as one of its founding members. Then he shook his head. “This kind of attack, Kingsley, it isn’t some poor wayward ifrit going imp for a while. It’s deliberate, consistent. If an ifrit tends toward something like this from the start, he wouldn’t have joined the Association in the first place.”
I inclined my head. “You do make a good point, Francis.” I paused. “It wouldn’t be a new ifrit, correct? Someone new to the Change?”
“The last one we know of was Andrew. We found him after he burned down a store, three houses, and a police wagon. He wound up in the hospital for a week from smoke inhalation.” Francis gave me a smile that seemed light on the humor and heavy on the teeth. “Say what you will about us, but an ifrit is not subtle when the Distillation takes us.”
My fingers touched an old burn mark on my wrist. I returned his smile with a thin humorless version of my own. “I would never lose sight of that, Francis.” There was a brief pause as old memories intruded, and our smiles faded under the weight of our thoughts as dew before a flame. After a long moment, I gave a sigh of quiet frustration. “I apologize for disturbing you, then. I did not mean to bother you under such circumstances, and would not, had I any other alternative.”
Francis held up a hand. “Think nothing of it, Kingsley. I was glad to see you again.” He paused. “Though I would be more than happy to come if you would send the invitation directly rather than through one of your clients. Did you think I would refuse, had it come from you?”
I hesitated. “No, no I did not.” Uncomfortable, I looked away. “I merely wished to take a small precaution, to guarantee that our cooperation did not earn you the disfavor of any of my enemies, nor the displeasure of your friends. I know that some of those in the Association do not approve of your involvement with me or others among my profession.”
He nodded. “True enough. They often feel that we betray our brethren by turning to law enforcement or investigators with evidence of misdeeds. Still, I have never had much interest in pleasing anyone but myself.” Francis smiled. “Or so I have been told many times.”
Recognizing my own words from an old, bitter argument, I frowned. “Are you taking on Benjamin’s talents now Francis? Or have you been waiting to stir an old fire better left cold?”
His smile widened. “That is what we ifrits do, is it not? Stir things up a bit?” He snapped his fingers, and a spark leaped from them to dance in the air between us. Francis continued. “Though speaking of Benjamin, he must think highly of your care to cover your tracks when you contacted me. Or he would, if you had done so for him as well as myself.”
I felt a swirl of my own temper curl about me. “What happens between Benjamin and myself is our concern. You need only worry about yourself, Francis Pryor, a task you are inevitably good at.”
The smile vanished from Francis’ face, and a snarl worked its way across his features. “Selfish, am I? And why is that, Kingsley? Because I do not choose to restrain myself in order to encourage someone as incredibly unremarkable as yourself to feel unique? Special?”
The undercurrent of anger again stirred in me, stronger this time. “Francis, you tread on dangerous ground.”
Sparks suddenly snapped into life around him, and Francis leaned forward as they whirled about. “Do not lecture me about danger! What do you know of it? A pitiful little investigator so insignificant even the Distillation did not—”
“Enough!” I leaped to my feet, shaking with rage. Francis likewise stood, and for a moment we simply glared at one another in silence. Sparks continued their frantic dance between us, crackling spectators to our mutual hatred. Finally, I reigned in the anger which so constricted my throat, and ground out the next words.
“You would do well to leave, Francis. My need for your help, such as it was, has come to an end.”
Francis continued to stare at me, his eyes still filled with a fire just beneath the surface. Then he smiled, a mocking twist of the lips that carried little sincerity. “But of course, Mr. Kingsley. We would not want old friends hanging around when their usefulness is done. I will take my leave.” He turned and opened the door to the office, then walked down the hall to the end table and collected both hat and cane waiting there.
I followed him, watching the sparks dancing about his figure. He placed the top hat upon his head and tapped the floor inquisitively with the delicate cane. Then, with an indifferent air, he turned back toward me. “I should think you would not call on me for some time, Mr. Kingsley. An invitation from you would be unwelcome.”
“And unlikely as well, Mr. Pryor.” His eyes narrowed for a moment, and the sparks twirled at a somewhat fiercer pace before they settled down. He set his hand upon the door handle, and some untainted part of my soul cried out against allowing an old friend to leave in such a fashion. “Francis.”
To my surprise, he stopped. I fumbled for a moment, my tongue made clumsy by years of regret along with the newly fresh anger that still clouded my words. Still, I managed to convince my tongue to move, my voice to speak. “Take care of yourself.” An eyebrow rose on that freckled brow, and I stumbled on. “Benjamin would be hurt to hear if harm came to you, and I already put him through enough.”
The unspoken apology in those words must have reached him, for Francis smiled again. This time, it was a warm grin that reminded me of better days. “I will, Hector. Take care.” With that, he opened the door and stepped out on the landing. When he closed the door after him, I remained where I was for a long moment, looking at the space he had occupied, and pondered the way things had changed since three boys had played together in a sleepy little town so long ago.
Then, feeling the hours of the day beginning to slip through my fingers, I stirred myself and walked down the hall toward the kitchen. What remained of my chemical experiment was still waiting for my attention, and that effort was far from the last chore on my list.