Our journey to the constable house did not take long. As our little procession arrived, with Crimson only now beginning to recover from the blow Patricia had dealt her, the other constables immediately cleared a path from the door to the nearest cell. Crimson was deposited inside without any particular ceremony or care; she stirred slightly and hissed as the door slammed shut.
I steeled myself against a wave of pity for her. The method of the murders indicated that they had not been a simple moment of weakness for the vampire. She had taunted and brutalized her victims. Her kills had been chosen and hunted, and she had taken steps to confound her pursuers rather than seeking out help. Something troubled me about that; her previous conversation had hinted at a different side to her, one that I would have been disposed to help. Such doubts were not a luxury I could afford now, not when she had already nearly killed me, both at the hospital and the coaching house. There was nothing that pity or compassion could do for such a predator now.
Aberforth dusted off his hands; his expression suggested that no amount of washing would allow him to feel clean of the business in which we were engaged. “My thanks to you, Mr. Kingsley. Without your assistance, I sincerely doubt that we would have been able to work out the identity of the killer. Especially not with her interference. Between Dr. Burke’s accusation and the evidence we will find in his labs, I have no doubt that Ms. Edith Aleman, also known as Crimson, will soon be convicted.” He half smiled. “With any luck, after her execution she will be on her way to her own dissection table. I find that to be rather delicious sort of justice, don’t you?”
Somehow, the prospect of Crimson gracing some medical college’s laboratories only worsened the feeling in my stomach. I cleared my throat. “So Dr. Burke was hiding the bodies of the Dollmaker victims, then?”
The constable nodded. “Yes, he was. We’ve identified several of them among the hospital’s cadavers, and all have been displayed by Dr. Burke in his research efforts. According to the other doctors, all were completely drained of blood long before he displayed them in his lab.” Aberforth looked back toward Crimson and his lip curled. The Changling was beginning to stir more vigorously; an angry groan issued from her collapsed form. “They will be buried as soon as their families are given the news.”
Patricia shook her head. “I’m just glad we got her. I trust that you will handle the payment, Constable?”
Aberforth sighed and nodded. “Of course, Ms. Anderson. Both you and Mr. Kingsley will be very fairly paid for your work. Thank you.” He bowed and then retreated toward the nearest knot of constables, leaving us once again alone. There remained, in his absence, an awkward silence which even Patricia seemed hesitant to break. Just when she had opened her mouth to speak, Crimson sat up. Her voice was thick with confusion.
“Kingsley? Where am I? Are you all right?” Her eyes, half hidden by her hair, made a quick and fruitless search of the space about her. Patricia smirked and stepped over to confront her, though prudently she chose to stay out of arm’s reach.
“He’s here, no thanks to you. And you’re in jail, murderess, right where you belong.” The satisfaction in Patricia’s voice drew little reaction from the vampire. Crimson merely considered Patricia with an unsteady stare. Then she turned to me, her eyes touching lightly on the bruises at my throat. She looked away.
“Mr. Kingsley. You have my apologies. My Change…” Her words trailed off, and she met my gaze with what seemed to be an effort. “I regret losing control. I now have placed you in danger a third time.”
I frowned. “A third time, Ms. Crimson? Perhaps you might increase that number. As the Dollmaker, you would have placed me in danger every time we met.”
Her eyes widened slightly. She drew in a breath and lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring. “No, Mr. Kingsley. Whatever you might believe of me, I remain Crimson, at the very worst. I am not that…thing. I do not kill people for pleasure.”
Patricia bared her teeth in something that might have resembled a smile. “I’m sure you don’t. I’m betting you’ll plead that your Change drove you to it. Right? The thirst was just too strong?”
Crimson shook her head, her eyes widening even further. “Never. You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” Patricia took a step closer, her challenge blunt. I tensed. If the vampire cared to do something hostile, Patricia was in reach now, and I had already felt the strength of that Changed grip. “You’re not a victim here, vampire. You’re a murderess, a killer. The world is safer with you behind bars, and safer still once you’re gone.”
The Changling did not move beyond a certain narrowing of her eyes. “You’re mistaken, Mustang. You’ve caught the wrong person this time, and you will live to regret it.”
“As we already regret trusting you, Ms. Crimson?” Her gaze returned to me and I smiled faintly. “You’ve been a danger to us at every turn, and today you proved where your interests truly lie. Dr. Burke was our only true witness to the Dollmaker’s identity; with his death, you might have escaped detection at least a while longer, had he not already named you as the killer.”
She remained silent for a short moment. When she spoke, her voice trembled. Perhaps the reality of her situation had begun to dawn on her. “Mr. Kingsley, I have never met that man before. I do not know why he accused me, but his words were not true. Surely you are too intelligent to suggest…” I turned away, and a hint of desperation entered her voice. “I might have left you at the jewelry shop, but I had to. I smelled blood and tried to find shelter, to visit that artisan you mentioned. I did not mean to leave you in their hands, but by the time I tracked you to the warehouse, it was already on fire! Surely you don’t think…”
Then Crimson paused, and her expression went blank. “Oh, of course you do. You’re no different from the others, for all the airs you use. Just leave, then, and let me extricate myself from this comedy of errors.” With those words and no more, she retreated from the bars and into the shadows.
My heart sickened by some guilt unfazed by reason or intellect, I turned away and started toward the door. Patricia followed in my wake, silent except for the measured tread of her boots on the floor of the constable house.
As we left the building, a sudden gust of cold air bit at me, sending slashes of frigid wind across my bare skin. Foul weather had rolled in while our attention had been otherwise occupied. The clouds above us now were gray with threatened rain, and that same icy wind continued in fitful spurts as I stood on the porch. Despite myself, I shivered and drew my coat tighter around me, hoping to ward off the worst of the weather.
“Something the matter, Hector?” Patricia’s question came in a sharp, brittle voice I barely recognized. When I turned back to her, I found a shockingly vulnerable look on her face. Before I could answer, she continued. “I don’t know why I asked when you’re already hiding things from me. What shop was she talking about? And a warehouse on fire?”
I remained silent. The obvious expedient in this situation was a convenient lie, a falsehood to stave off worry and unwanted scrutiny while the investigation could continue. My mind formulated one readily. Nature and my own selfish desire to remain unhindered urged me to utter it, if only to spare myself her reaction, but both tongue and heart rebelled. For whatever weakness or fragility such inaction revealed, I did not say a word.
Unfortunately for us both, I did not have to. She already knew.
“You didn’t come to Whitechapel to help, did you, Hector?” Her voice was quiet, even tentative now, almost as if she had been physically wounded and was testing the place to gauge its depth. She plunged onward. “You’ve been wandering off and investigating other things on your own, haven’t you? Something to do with Devonshire and his supposed gang.”
Her words, already filled with a sense of deep betrayal, now took on a bitter edge that only increased my shame. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time. Has anything you’ve told me been true?” I turned slightly away, unable to face her. She came around me, attempting to force eye contact despite my efforts to avoid it. “And then you’re off running around with a vampire! A murderess who almost killed you twice, and you trusted her more than you did me!”
The exclamations began to draw stares, even from the normally under-impressed constables passing us. I felt a rush of indignation well up for Crimson’s sake. If her condition had warped her to such an extent, then at the very least her tragic fall should not have been utilized as fodder in an argument. “You have always retained my trust, Ms. Anderson, and if you recall, I expressed my feelings to you at the onset of this disaster. Had you listened to me then, and not disregarded every attempt to reason with you—”
“Oh, so I see now, Hector. You can trust me as long as I do everything you say exactly as you say it.” She folded her arms, wrapping them about the carbine in the process. “That doesn’t sound much of a partnership, Hector Kingsley. That sounds like you need a servant, not a friend, and certainly not me.”
The grim finality in her voice was undercut by a roar of wind that momentarily cut off all communication. Icy air rushed past us in a brutal flood, chilling me to the core. When the air had fallen still again, I spoke quietly. “Perhaps we should discuss this issue elsewhere, Ms. Anderson. Shall I walk you to your home?”
She stared at me, her arms still folded before her. Her cheeks had gone red from the unseasonal cold, and the contrast with her green eyes made her all the fiercer. Patricia had opened her mouth to answer me when another, hateful intrusion stopped her. Mr. Eaton, having just left the shelter of the constable house, called out to her. His voice rang with a good nature curiously at odds to our own situation. “So Trish, you managed to get the best of me this time after all. What do you say to giving a poor, down-on-his-luck friend a bite to eat?”
He caught sight of our expressions, and his grin faltered a little. I rounded on him, having found at last a truly deserving target for my dislike. “Mr. Eaton, perhaps another time would—”
“You know, Billie, I think a nice dinner would be exactly what I need right now.” There was a vicious quality to Patricia’s voice that twisted in my stomach. The sensation was less than pleasant; a knife would have been preferable. Yet she continued. “I’m sure, since Mr. Kingsley here is busy with other cases, he can catch up with us later. You know, unless his schedule has suddenly cleared up.”
I met her eyes. Her expression had made the last sentence a challenge, one I decided it would be undesirable to meet. Perhaps once her fury had cooled we could discuss things—preferably without the unwelcome audience of both Aberforth’s constables and the accursed Mr. Eaton. As I attempted to put aside my guilt and anger, I bowed. “I’m afraid not, Ms. Anderson. Another investigation demands my attention now. I shall have to speak with you later.”
My efforts to remove all trace of bitterness or resignation from my voice must have failed, for when I straightened I caught a hint of victory in Mr. Eaton’s expression. Patricia, for her part, merely turned away from me as if to hide her own reaction. She smiled brightly at Mr. Eaton and offered him her arm. “Well then, we’ll be off. Have fun with your work, Hector.”
Mr. Eaton took her proffered arm without any apparent consciousness of the lack of propriety he demonstrated in doing so. His eyes sparkled with equally apparent amusement at my discomfort. “Yes, Hector. Have fun. I’m sure we will see you later.” He offered me a sly smile that I dearly wished to remove from his contemptible face. Fortunately, though strained almost to the breaking point, my own code of conduct held firm. I directed the barest of nods in their general direction, and then turned to leave.
As I strode away down the cobblestone street, their laughter seemed to chase after me. Those ringing peals of Patricia’s mirth, mingling with the ghastly choking sounds which Mr. Eaton uttered, caused far more annoyance—and far, far more pain—than any gust of wintery wind ever could. My arms folded and my head down against the chill, I made my way toward Francis’ residence. There I hoped to find shelter, and it would not only be from the cold.
The temperature had continued to fall as I walked through the streets of Whitechapel. Each gust of wintry air dealt me another blow encouraged me to speed my pace. As it was, I already felt the bite of the wintry air through my fingers. Mist had started to gather as well, threatening me with damp as well as cold. It scarcely helped matters that the outward iciness had found a ready and willing ally in the heaviness that now afflicted my heart.
Nevertheless, I continued on, and soon I caught sight of Francis’ home. Predictably, the ifrit had seized the excuse brought by the weather and lit the ancient fireplace within the small apartment. Smoke streamed up from the chimney, likely fed by a large and varied fire beneath it. In contrast, many of the chimneys around the small house remained unblemished by soot and ash; they were likely heated by Warme Furnaces or Tenner Woodless Hearths. The wonders of the Distillation had done away with the mess and inconvenience of wooden fires, but Francis had never given up an opportunity to heat his home by his own powers.
Another gust of wind brought the chill to my torso; I shivered again despite my resolve. Motivated still further to reach the relative safety of Francis’ home, I hurried across the cobblestones and knocked on the door. I heard an exclamation or two from within and Daniel opened the door, my old cane in his hands. “Kingsley! Welcome back. I’ve just managed to finish repairs on…”
His words trailed off, and his expression lost something of its excitement. “Kingsley, what’s wrong?” He looked about the street, as if searching. “And where is Patricia?”
I shook my head. “Never mind that, Mr. Summervale. Let us discuss things inside, if you please.” Daniel seemed almost about to continue his interrogation on the doorstep, but a blast of early winter’s cold easily convinced him otherwise. With a shiver, he retreated enough to let me pass, and I sighed with relief as the warmth of Francis’ home washed over me.
With the door shut rather firmly behind me, I felt the chill begin to melt from my clothes and skin. I warded off the temptation to stomp my feet and reawaken the toes which still felt so numb and considered the situation. I could see that Francis was indeed employing his great talents to feed and build the small inferno within the fireplace. A look of rapture consumed his expression as he contemplated his handiwork; I doubted he realized I had entered at all.
Benjamin, on the other hand, required no warning of my arrival. Indeed, he seemed to have positioned himself so as to best express his enthusiastic greeting, though his face fell when he realized that Patricia was not about to appear as well. He still spread his arms wide and announced to the world in the same theatrical voice he had pirated from some unfortunate performer. I had begun to wonder exactly how far in debt the actor must have gotten to provide Benjamin with so many words, but Benjamin’s statement distracted me from such idle speculations.
“Greetings, noble hero, oh victor in Whitechapel. Congratulations we bring you on your capture of the Dollmaker.” He threw an arm about my shoulders and bore me into the study where Francis was still bent over the fire. “Behold, the device of our destiny!”
With such grand introduction, one might have expected a great statue or some refined weapon meant for heroes and conquerors to wield against their foe. Instead, I found an ignoble collection of spare pipes and gears, all bound up in a length of sturdy tubing. Nested within that tangle of machinery lay a thick tank etched with the symbol of a lotus, where, I surmised, the sedatives would wait to be released. It was not overly large for a machine, barely big enough that Benjamin and I would have to carry it to its place together between us. I coughed and turned to Daniel. “Mr. Summervale, are you sure that this sedative will be enough to overcome Devonshire’s men? We will be in quite a bad place if they manage to recover or resist the dosage.”
Daniel smiled. “Yes, Kingsley, I’m quite certain that this amount will be enough. The tank may look small, but I’ve managed to concentrate the sedative exceptionally well. There is enough of the gas that we could easily lay out the entire company of the Coldstream Guards, given the right conditions.” His smile faded slightly. “In fact, I must caution you somewhat, Kingsley. You must not deploy too much of the gas at once; to do so would sedate the men too heavily and the weaker of their number would die as a result. Try to administer measured doses, and you should be able to keep them contained until the constables arrive.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Of course, Mr. Summervale.” I turned my doubtful gaze from him to where Francis still crouched. The ifrit, his attention still captured by the fire, made a gesture; the flames danced higher with a sudden flare. Another worry arose along with those flames. “Might I ask if the gas is flammable?”
The question drew a startled glance from Daniel, but Benjamin merely laughed and spread his hands. “It is not, Hector. Though Francis tried very hard.”
His words, delivered in my voice, provoked a glare from Francis, significant when a fire burned so close. “Oh, be silent, you accursed mimic. Why must you always mock and distract me when there are such wonderful fires about?”
He returned his gaze to the flames, his face appearing sullen. I shook my head; Francis’ Change worked oddly at times, occasionally shifting his thoughts into less mature channels. It was especially common for those spurts of childishness to occur when his study of an open flame was interrupted, particularly one he had started himself. Fortunately, his sharp words had little effect on Benjamin’s apparent good mood; the mimic simply shrugged and turned back to me, addressing me once again in my own words.
“It is a good thing you arrived, Hector! The device is now ready, and my sources tell me that Devonshire will be moving tonight.” Benjamin laid a finger alongside his nose and winked. “We can catch them in the act and have the whole thing done in time to go find Patricia.”
The prospect of finally finishing with Devonshire’s criminal empire had brought a bright wave of hope across my tired soul. It was followed by a feeling of discouragement and disgust at the idea of finding Patricia and Mr. Eaton still eating together—unchaperoned and undignified, of course. The disturbance washed over me and left my stomach sour, but I forced a smile in spite of it. “Of course, Benjamin. First of all, I suppose we must go to intercept Ms. Hermiter before she reaches the bank. Otherwise all will be for naught.”
It was a matter of simplicity in itself to tell when the band of thieves had begun their attempt on Barings. After all, it was certain that Ms. Hermiter would wish to supervise an operation of such delicacy in person. If the Oracle stone I had concealed in her coat yet remained undetected, then the moment the Delphic alerted us to the fact that she had returned to the jewelry store, we could strike and thus catch Hermiter in the act. Thus, when the arrow that marked Hermiter’s position began to inch in that direction, I alerted my friends, and we were once again off.
Our journey through the streets of Whitechapel was not entirely pleasant. The wind had only grown colder, and my short shelter from the biting air had only made the sting of each frigid gust that much more terrible to confront. Overhead, the clouds had continued to darken and there were occasional soft patters of rain on the cobblestones, as if the sky was testing the fortitude of the earth before releasing the deluge upon us. All in all, it was proving to be a rather miserable day in late November, and at the very least I hoped that the obvious rainstorm would not interrupt or interfere with our work.
Carrying Daniel’s new device, marvelous as it was, had so far proven to be rather hard labor. It was a burden only worsened by my choice of companions. Francis, deprived of his glorious fireplace and forced out into the cold by those he had once considered close friends—as he had repeatedly informed us since our departure—now sulked along the cobblestones, hands jammed deep into his pockets and sparks whirling sporadically about his hair. Benjamin, for his part, had at least contrived to be moderately helpful. He had volunteered readily to carry the opposite end of Daniel’s device, but the mimic had not become much accustomed to hard labor in his years as an information broker. His lack of bulk now began to tell, forcing us to pause every so often to rest and allow his vigor to recover before we continued on.
Despite such obstacles, we found that the conditions of the situation suited our objectives rather admirably. The streets, under the threat of the chill and rain, remained nearly vacant now, and the constables had all gathered to the opposite end of the borough, likely to fuss over the cell that now held Ms. Crimson. After all, they had managed to gain quite a prize for the constabulary, one which I was sure would improve their meager standing in the eyes of London for years to come. I did not doubt that by the time the news of the event was released to the public, my own contributions, as well as those of the other hunters, would be all but eliminated. Such was the constant, frustrating fate of an investigator, but discretion was something any client prized, whether rich nobleman or humble servant of the law. To rail against that minor injustice would be a pitiful and futile gesture.
So it was that none had remained to challenge or hinder our steady progress through the streets, with Benjamin huffing and puffing along with me and Francis kicking at loose stones as would a petulant child. It would have been quite a sight for anyone who cared to watch, but whatever observers took advantage of the opportunity did not care to make themselves known to us. Before long, we had arrived at the jewelry shop, and there we faced our first obstacle.
Given my previous intrusion, we rightly surmised that Ms. Hermiter would take further precautions in regards to her security and that of her project. I was both pleased and annoyed to find that my assumptions about her reaction were entirely accurate. The number of guards had increased, along with the alertness of their attitude and the armaments they displayed. Many had been positioned inside the shop, watching the street from the windows or patrolling within the small rooms that made up the store itself. Those in plain sight wore clever little false badges which identified them as members of a local volunteer fire brigade. My distraction during my first visit, combined with Francis’ fiery assault on the warehouse, had obviously suggested the ruse to Ms. Hermiter’s agile mind, and I mentally congratulated Devonshire’s lackey for her quick thinking.
Naturally, in most cases a direct approach in full view of such diligent and well-armed guards would have ended in a clear disaster. Had I been unaccompanied, I would have settled on a more subtle approach to the matter. Some combination of sedative gas, deception, and cleverness would have supplied me with the opportunity to gain entry, while my own wits and arsenal of equipment would have safeguarded my passage through the shop. Such efforts would have left me greatly vulnerable to the vagaries of fortune and the whims of luck, and though many of those gambles had turned rapidly to my favor, my most recent expeditions suggested that Fate did not smile upon me as she once might have done.
With both Francis and Benjamin, however, my options were much more varied and secure—and made possible a rather more straightforward form of action. Rather than conceal our approach my some artful strategy, my friends and I simply marched up the street as if we were going to a building further on, lugging the sedative device between us the whole way. The guards noticed us, of course—no self-respecting thug could have failed to see us as we heaved our burden closer to the shop—but we had several advantages which allowed us to nearly reach the entrance unmolested.
Firstly, they obviously seemed to be on the lookout for an individual intruder. Neither Francis nor Benjamin had been seen during their rescue mission at the warehouse, and Hermiter must have assumed that I had staged my escape alone when the opportunity presented itself. With our cloaks drawn tightly around us and the unfamiliar device weighing us down, we could hardly have looked less like the stealthy intruder the thugs had assumed I would be.
Secondly, the guards, while vigilant, were only attentive for an approach made directly toward the shop. Our weary journey seemed to take us beyond that solitary little store, though as we stumbled along with our machinery, we drew quite near their side of the street. They saw no harm in the awkward path of such obviously overburdened men on the way past their sanctuary, and in the jumble of parts, tubing, and tank we carried, they recognized no more threat than what a set of carpenter’s tools would provide.
Last of all, and most important, the guards had taken their own superiority for granted. Our opponents did not simply patrol their perches or watch their assigned areas. They sauntered along, supremely confident in their preparations. Such arrogance only served to increase our already considerable advantages, and when we stumbled closer to the shop’s doorway, we did so under their collectively upturned noses. Given that handicap alone, it would not simply be easier to confound such men, but more pleasurable as well.
Our good fortune could not hold forever, no matter how skillful our approach, and as we slid sideways toward the door, a guard called out to us. He was one of the four guards who had been placed to watch from the shelter of the doorway itself; given his sour expression, I could only guess that the assignment had not been voluntary. In a hoarse voice, he shouted at us and gestured for us to come to a halt. “Hey! Watch where you’re—”
He got no further in his fruitless warning. Francis spun to face him, and with no introduction or statement of his intentions, he reared back. A thousand specks of light and heat filled his palm. Before the guards could unlimber the rifles laid casually in their arms or draw the pistols in their belts, my inflammatory old friend hurled the handful of nascent fire into the wooden doorframe.
The door had no chance to survive such an assault. Even one of those errant sparks might have set it on fire; a half dozen might have left it burning merrily beyond repair. Such a concentrated swarm, delivered all at once, shattered the door into a shower of burning splinters. The unfortunate guard yelped in alarm, throwing his arms up and dropping the gun he carried. His fellows yelled and tumbled away from the burning wreckage, abandoning their posts with a fervor I assumed was seldom seen in their other endeavors.
Shouts of alarm filled the jewelry shop as the other guards reacted to our assault. Their frantic exclamations only grew more urgent as the fire spread along the remnants of the front entrance. Their cries were soon accompanied by gunshots as a few of the more hasty thugs tried their luck. Bullets skipped off the cobblestones as both Benjamin and I lunged forward through the burning portal to enter the shop itself. There we found a trio of befuddled men with pistols, their eyes still dazzled by the inferno behind us. As they recovered, the barrels of their weapons turned toward us.
Benjamin did not give them any chance to fire. He dropped his end of the device—earning a spiteful glance from me as the entire weight of the tank nearly pulled me from my feet. Then he stalked forward, his mouth falling open in preparation for his own response to threats. Letting my own end of the tank fall, I clapped both hands over my ears and ducked lower to avoid any errant shots.
Through the dubious barrier of my hands, I heard the primordial wail of an accursed machine, one of the old air raid sirens from the Great War. The terrible sound had been a sign that French airships had been sighted en route to attack. Our engineers had not been subtle in their efforts. The sound reverberated in the enclosed space, redoubling the impact of his assault. All three of Hermiter’s men staggered back and away from us, their guns falling from their hands. I could not hear them clatter to the floor as Benjamin continued to stalk forward.
The sound soon faded, but Benjamin was within arms’ reach of his opponents now. Life had been hard on Benjamin since his arrival in London, and he had learned well enough the skills required to survive. Even as the men tried to recover their wits, he laid them out with three precise blows. Their guns he left discarded upon the floor; he typically regarded their use as a resort for the unimaginative—and Benjamin was nothing if not imaginative.
He inspected his own handiwork for a moment, a satisfied smile upon his face. From outside the shop, I heard another blast, followed by a cackle from Francis. While normally such spirited use of the ifrit’s powers disturbed me, this time it had been part of the plan. After all, we needed nothing from the upper floor of the shop, and he could keep the guards there quite occupied on his own. The guards on the ground floor would be Benjamin’s responsibility, given his effectiveness in close quarters, while I continued to the basement and our true objective.
Leaving the device at the entrance, I rushed to the stairs which descended to the basement. Without a moment’s hesitation, I dashed down the fragile wooden steps. Above, Benjamin’s terrible wail rose in a fearful battle cry, drowning out the pitiful shouts of his opponents.
Below, I found the room much as I had last left it, with two notable differences. The drilling machine had vanished and a plume of dust had risen from the tunnel, leaving a brown stain drifting in the air. Obviously, until our attack the drill had been in use, being employed by its unethical masters to finish the tunnel and bring them to their larcenous goal. Our attack had been perfectly timed.
I could not focus on those details, however, as Ms. Hermiter had left guards at the tunnel entrance. Neither of the men looked especially pleased to find me there, but I had not anticipated a warm welcome in any case. Fortunately, I had come more than well prepared for such an eventuality. Even as they stepped forward and leveled their formidable weapons at me, I drew my cane and Patricia’s brass knuckles from inside my coat and advanced with a smile.
One guard made the mistake of attempting to close with me and strike me with the butt of his rifle. Perhaps he wanted our confrontation to remain silent so he could surprise the other intruders rampaging in the rest of the shop; such would be the most charitable of interpretations. I met the weapon partway through its swing with a strike from the knuckles. The mechanism within filled the device with power; the rifle shattered into fragments that spun back into the face of its former owner.
As the man reeled back and screamed, I leveled my pistol at the second guard. He had wisely stayed back, and snarled at me over the sights of his rifle. Before he could fire, I took one long step forward and swung my cane, hoping to deflect the weapon enough that the bullet would not find me. I heard him squeeze the trigger jut as my cane hit the barrel.
His shot struck the wood of the wall behind me. In its path it left only the barest scratch upon my forearm. Unwilling to wait for him to try again, I swung the knuckles at his face, forcing him to back toward the tunnel. Then I pointed the blunt end of my cane at his chest and triggered the device within.
This time, Daniel’s handiwork functioned perfectly. The sheath caught the guard in the gut, knocking him across the room. His rifle tumbled free as he rolled along the floorboards, and before he could stop himself, the unfortunate man had disappeared, with a choking cry, into the tunnel’s mouth.
I had little time to celebrate my achievement. The first guard, having recovered from the destruction of his weapon, now charged toward me, head lowered like that of an enraged bull. The distance was too close to risk the use of a pistol and I found myself unwilling to use the knuckles or the blade on so valiant a man, thug though he might be. Instead, I stepped to the side of his charge and swung the hilt of my blade, hard. The pommel connected with the man’s head, and he collapsed with a groan.
I considered the injured man for a moment, and then decided that he would need to join his friends. With little effort, I dragged him to the hole and tossed him in as well, where he landed with a wheeze atop his companion. Already there were shouts and rustles that indicated that Hermiter’s men had recognized the significance of the chaos above them. Knowing they would be delayed by their defeated comrades, I busied myself by reattaching the sheath in its proper place, and then drawing my pistol. When the first of the conscious thugs arrived at the base of the ladder, I fired a pistol shot in warning. With a cry of alarm, they retreated back into safety, dragging their fallen friends with them.
What then took place must have been a fairly frantic debate amongst the criminals now trapped down below. With such a disadvantage, they could hardly hope to carry off their scheme successfully. Their own realization of that fact must have spurred many of the sharp comments and angry murmurs in the tunnel. I could almost imagine the thugs whispering and barking at each other, perhaps even poking fingers at each other in a threatening manner. For a moment I wondered which of the criminals would assert authority over the rest; I idly hoped that Tershire or Miles would be among them, as a measure of revenge was not foreign to my otherwise distinguished nature.
My dreams were rewarded beyond my wildest hopes when the voice of Ms. Hermiter herself drifted up to me. She sounded somewhat perturbed, though I suppose that could be forgiven of her in such circumstances. “Mr. Kingsley, is that you up there? You might as well give up. You can’t win.”
“It rather appears that I have, Ms. Hermiter.” I tried to purge the satisfaction from my voice, but only managed a partial success. “I believe that now would be a good time to undo the damage you’ve done to my notes on your employer; confess any details you know of him and his goals, and it may yet go well for you. You would be wise to consider your situation carefully.” Another shot down the mouth of the tunnel served to accentuate my position.
“As would you, Mr. Kingsley. You are playing a dangerous game with quite the wrong sort of people.” There was an odd note in Hermiter’s voice, still audible beside her more obvious frustration. I immediately began to circle the hole; it was well within reason to assume that Devonshire had supplied his underling with a Changling to help with the tunneling. Perhaps the presence of a moleman, or maybe a gnome, would explain the vague confidence I identified in her voice. The last thing I wished was for me to be toppled from my superior position by some Changling with low moral quality.
“Now, now, Ms. Hermiter, you give yourself too little credit. The only games worth playing are usually with your sort of people.” A low growl of frustration told me that the remark had struck a nerve with her, though I did not allow it to distract me. I could ill afford to be overconfident, not until Benjamin and Francis rejoined me with Daniel’s device at least. “Why not give up the information? Surely you realize it is not your destruction I wish to see.”
Hermiter’s voice was as hard and as clear as a diamond. “It’s not going to happen, Kingsley, whatever you say. Now leave before your luck runs out.”
I frowned. Apparently Lord Devonshire had somehow managed to instill some sort of loyalty into this particular minion, and such feelings were normally very difficult to overcome. Perhaps I needed to emphasize how hopeless the situation truly was for her to break. Worse, the criminals below might be inspired to make some attempt to escape, whether by directing their drilling machine to create a new exit outside the shop or some other stratagem that I failed to perceive. It would be impossible to outthink them at every turn, and every moment that I did not delay them would allow them to plot and scheme.
There was a very simple solution to that conundrum. I unhooked a grenade from my belt—this one designed to release a cloud of spices and irritants rather than some of Daniel’s sedative—and dropped it down the hole. It bounced off the tough earth at the bottom, rolled a short distance toward the part of the tunnel where Hermiter and her men were hiding, and exploded. The air below was instantly filled with a noxious wave of spice, and the coughing and hacking of the criminals inside told me my attack had been rather effective.
Meanwhile, I realized that the battle upstairs must have reached its conclusion. Benjamin’s demon wail was no longer audible, and there hadn’t been another explosion to mark Francis’ fight for some time. Moments later, I heard the stomping footsteps of my friends as they carried the sedative device into the shop above me.
Hermiter, obviously less than pleased, shouted up at me once the spice cleared. Her voice was now clogged and stifled by congestion, and it was simple to imagine her face puffy from my attack, with tears streaming from her eyes. “You’ll pay for that, Kingsley! I promise you, you’ll suffer for it.” Her exclamation choked off into a fit of coughing. It was hard not to sound entirely smug when I answered the poor crook, but I did manage to maintain a dignified air.
“I might at that, Ms. Hermiter, but I remain confident that it will not be an event you live to see. Do not worry, however. I do not intend to use more grenades.” I paused. “Soon you will have something else to occupy yourselves with.” My friends appeared, carrying the device between them, and my heart filled with the joy of victory. We had done it; Devonshire’s plot was ruined. I had finally won.