Authors: Sharon Joss
The great bell in the clock tower of Westminster chimed the
quarter-hour past nine o’clock in the evening as Simon eased into the cold
waters of the Thames. Stripped of his outer clothing, he wore little to protect
him from the bone-rattling chill—save for dark-dyed linen underclothes
and a waxed pouch containing his tools tied to his waist.
He’d walked to Greenwich from the bridge, making his way through
the grounds of the observatory, naval college, and hospital until he reached
the dock where the Royal yachts were moored. Easing his way behind a screen of
shrubbery he’d marked growing along the shore on one of his previous visits, he
waited up river until full dark descended.
In the old days, Simon never considered trial
runs, but his and Arvel’s future depended on a flawless execution, and they’d
learned the hard way that when the prize was greatest, the smallest detail
could unravel the most careful plan. He needed to know the exact location of
the safe, and he had to confirm that it was in proper working order
before
the job. And more than anything,
he had to make certain that his escape plan considered every contingency. The
only thing worse than not getting the safe open was getting caught with the
goods afterward.
For the Foppa estate, he and Arvel had spent
weeks observing the routines of the bravos who zealously guarded the grounds
and the servants as they performed their daily tasks. Carlo Foppa was a
goldsmith, son of a long line of goldsmiths. It was rumored that the Foppa’s
safe contained enough gold and jewels to rival the Vatican.
They’d planned the heist on the night of a new
moon, when the sky was darkest. Arvel had positioned the balloon silently over
the roof of the estate, while Simon lowered himself down the knotted rope, onto
a second floor balcony. He allowed his fingers to flare for just a moment; a
silent signal to Arvel. With watchmen patrolling the grounds, even the smallest
sliver of moonlight would reveal the balloon as the distinctive property of the
Zollo Brothers Circus. But even the most alert guards were oblivious to an
approach from above, and the very roof itself served to screen the balloon from
the men below.
Unfortunately, airships and hot air balloons were useless for
approaching a ship on the water—sailors were attuned to an aerial
approach or movement in the rigging. Simon took a deep breath and allowed the
frigid, stinking current to carry him downstream. He was an excellent swimmer,
but made no attempt to do so, merely steering himself towards his target and
allowing the current to do the work. Moments later, he was clinging to the
waterline wheelhouse of the Queen’s Royal tender, the
HMY Alberta
.
He waited for the sound of fading footsteps on the deck above. Then,
by bracing himself against the wheelhouse and using bits or wood trim around
the portholes to pull himself up, he was over the railing with minimum effort. After
even a short time in the frigid water, the night air felt almost warm by
comparison.
He kept to the deepest shadows, keeping a running count of the
passing seconds in his head. A light mist had begun to fall, leaving the deck
wet.
Good. He would not need to worry about leaving footprints.
The door to the companionway was unlocked, and
as he expected, there were no guards posted inside. He relaxed, just a little.
Until the Queen and her household were aboard, no one would expect an intruder.
Not a single lamp lit the companionway outside the Queen’s cabin
suite. Only the dimmest glow of his fingers lit the darkness. The door to her
cabin was locked, but yielded almost immediately to the slim silver pick he
pulled from the pouch at his waist. Once inside, he allowed the green flames to
truly blossom from his fingertips and illuminate the cabin.
He wasn’t worried about the light being seen; thick tapestries
covered the windows and provided complete privacy for the monarch. Only six or
eight men stood watch; the rest were asleep or lounging in their quarters. The
guard would not change for another thirty minutes, and he expected to be off the
ship and long gone by then. Based on the count in his head, he had another
twelve minutes before rounds.
As with the Foppa job.
He glanced around, his ears alert to the
slightest sound. He need not have worried—the room was effectively
soundproof. Deep Persian carpets covered the floor, masking his light tread to
anyone who might be below deck.
He made a quick search of the surprisingly modest sitting room,
then moved silently into the open doorway into the Queen’s bedchamber. Chilled
through now, he began to shiver, and he hurried his search for the safe he knew
had to be here.
A locked drawer in the rosewood dressing table offered little
resistance. The drawer was empty, and indeed, he expected the safe to be empty
as well. The next time he returned, the Queen would be asleep in her bed in
this very room. He shut and re-locked the drawer.
He found the safe in the second spot he
looked—a large wardrobe had been built around it. He grinned as he
inspected the logo on the outside of the vault. Just as he’d expected; it was a
Chubb. A newer model, but this iron lass would soon succumb to his attentions.
The company had been selling these so-called ‘burglary-resistant’ safes for
decades. He’d paid for nearly all the costs of the
Il Colibri
from them.
He removed a bit of emery cloth from his pouch and rubbed across
his waterlogged fingertips. It wasn’t until he met Arvel, that Simon learned
the value of goals and planning. And with his newfound passion for flying,
Simon came to share Arvel’s vision of owning their own fleet of airships. With
Arvel as his partner, they planned far fewer jobs, but made far more money than
he ever had on his own.
Time to go to work.
It took him nearly seven minutes to open the safe the first time. The
door squealed like a stuck pig as he opened it, and he bit back a silent curse.
Not good. He used a drop of whale oil from the vial he’d brought in the pouch
at his waist, and worked the hinges back and forth until they moved in complete
silence. Then, using a swatch of dry flannel, he carefully wiped the surfaces
clean of oil.
The interior of the Queen’s safe appeared nearly empty, but he
went through the contents anyway. Only a few photographs and a stale,
violet-scented sachet.
On the Foppa job, he’d learned to be thorough.
They knew in advance that the safe was a treasure chest, but when he opened it,
he’d been disappointed by the relatively small number of stacked bank notes
inside. Surely there must be another safe. He’d filled his small knapsack with
the cash before he realized that a silk scarf thrown carelessly across the
bottom of the safe covered up six layers of gold ingots.
Simon remembered staring in disbelief at the
trove. He’d never seen so much gold in his life. Each bar was stamped with the
Foppa family crest, which Simon recognized from the lintels over the gates of
the estate. He hefted one of the bars—it was far heavier than he
expected. He’d never get them to the balloon. Reluctantly, he put the ingot
back on the shelf.
Not wanting to overlook anything else, he’d
then turned his attention to hundreds of small paper packets piled haphazardly
behind where the bundles of cash had been. He tore one open and a dozen large
rubies fell into his hand, each as large as his thumbnail. Untraceable—and
worth far more than a single gold ingot.
This
was what they’d come for. He stuffed as many of the packets as he could into
the money belt at his waist. As a final act before he closed up the safe, he
placed a little pig sculpture he’d fashioned out of copper wire on top of the
gold ingots. Had he not taken his time to check those packets that night, he
and Arvel might still be dreaming of the
Il
Colibri,
instead of flying her.
Simon shut the royal safe, making sure it was properly locked
before having another go at it. This time, it took him two and a half minutes,
and the door opened without even a whisper of a squeak.
Good enough.
He closed the safe, ready to try it one last time, and froze.
Someone was rattling the doorknob in the outer sitting room,
checking the lock. Good thing he’d remembered to relock it when he’d come in. If
the guard had a key, he was in trouble, though. He glanced around the room, searching
for a place to hide.
Only the wardrobe, but if the guard had a lantern, he’d no doubt
see the damp spots Simon had tracked across the carpet. The port holes were too
small to squeeze through.
No way out.
Constable Billings was asleep
when Roman arrived at the hospital, but the nurse on the men’s ward informed
him that Billings was due for his pain medication soon, and would awaken
shortly, so Roman sat on a chair beside the bed and waited. The ward held
twelve beds, of which only four were occupied, all by unconscious men; one of whom
moaned constantly, even in his unconscious stupor. The smell of disinfectant,
unwashed bodies, and the unspecific reek of human suffering filled the room,
illuminated only by the fading grey skies of Cubitt Town leaking through the
room’s many windows.
Roman remembered the
telegram, and pulled it from his pocket to read. It was addressed to him from
the Chief Constable in Brussels:
Regarding inquiry onto Simon Atters, suspected in numerous thefts
as the Cavalier Thief of Brussels. Arrived from Italy four months ago, but he’s
English, not Italian. Son of the late Sir Hillary Atters, a weather wizard
employed by the city of Ryde on the Isle of Wight. Father died in a fire of
suspicious origins, and the boy disappeared. Years later, he was working as a
juggler and aerialist in a string of circuses He is well-dressed, if a bit
flamboyant, and often dines at expensive restaurants. He has no known means of
support, although he has claimed to be an actor on occasion.
We have no hard evidence to support our suspicions, but since his
arrival in Brussels, there has been an increase in major theft—one or
more per week, all through second story windows. Only cash and jewelry are
taken from locked safes; larger valuables are ignored. Clever windup figures
crafted of copper wire are often left for our officers to find—many of
them rather rude. In particular, there was a pair of buttocks which defecated
copper pennies, and a charming winged pig, which I keep in my office. Travelling
in the company of one self-proclaimed “Captain” Arvel Paretti, a boyhood friend
from Italy who runs an airship service, but is suspected in a number of
instances with aiding the thief in his escape by means of airship.
One of our men trained his dog to bark whenever he smelled this
particular fellow’s scent at a crime scene. We planned to arrest Atters and let
Otto take a sniff at him, but the dog disappeared the same time as Atters. By
coincidence, the thefts have also stopped, and until I received your inquiry,
we had no idea where Atters and his friends had gone.
Roman crumpled the telegram
into his fist.
I knew it.
Perhaps
something good could come from this miserable day after all.
Billings finally woke up. He
seemed lucid enough, if somewhat testy from the pain. Both his eyes were
swollen with black and purple bruises, and his nose appeared broken. He
remembered nothing of the accident, but beseeched Roman find his attacker, if
for no other reason than he’d like to repay the favor and beat the stuffing out
of him.
Roman doubted Billings would
be able to knock the stuffing out of anything more animated than a pillow for
several months, at least, but promised to find the man.
It was late by the time he
left the hospital. Henry had waited on the steps outside for more than an hour,
and greeted him like long-lost family, fawning at his shoes, his tail a
‘frantic. In spite of the awfulness of the day’s events out on the marsh, the
dog seemed unaffected. He rubbed Henry’s ears, and the dog sighed heavily. “What
a good chappie. You feeling peckish? What say we go see if Welsie has kept our
supper warming, eh?”
He set off down Ferry Road,
the dog trotting happily beside him. No doubt that bounder Simon Atters and
Captain Paretti would already be there, flirting with Welsie or chatting up the
locals, making a general nuisance of himself. He couldn’t wait to see the
expression on Atters's face as he placed him under arrest.
When he reached the tavern,
he found a hand-written note nailed to the door:
Due to a family emergency, the ferry will not
be running today. Please try again tomorrow.
Odd. Welsie wasn’t close to
her bothers, and as far as he knew, Hamm didn’t have any family. At least none
he ever spoke of.
He tried the door. Locked. First
time he could remember the pub being closed.
At least that blasted Atters won’t be with her.
Henry whined, as if to
remind him he hadn’t eaten. At this time of night, their options were limited.
“No
dinner tonight, then, eh, Henry? Guess we’ll have to make do with leftovers
from the ice box at the station.”
But the dog wasn’t paying attention. He
stood stiffly, hackles raised, staring intently into the darkness down by the
ferry dock. A low growl whispered low in his throat.
The sounds of a scuffle came
from the shadows behind the pub, where the
Hound
of the Mist
was tied to the dock. Roman frowned, wondering if Hamm has
having some sort of trouble.
A woman’s scream pierced the
darkness. Henry raced forward, with Roman right behind.
Welsie!
The only light came from the
open back door of the pub’s kitchen. The tide was high, the dock was floating. Water
lapped along the sides of the ferry, like the sound of tongues lapping up blood.
Roman hesitated. Neither the
river nor the floating dock were something he would ordinarily get anywhere
near. Another scream sounded from behind the wheelhouse. He took a deep breath
and stepped up onto the unsteady dock and scrambled toward the ferry. Henry was
already at the end of the pier, barking angrily. Roman clambered aboard and
rounded the pilot’s cabin, where he spotted Hamm and Welsie.
Or at least he thought it
was Hamm. It was, but it wasn’t. It was as if Hamm was some giant barefoot troll
in rags.
Welsie had a gaff gripped in
both hands, and she swung it at Hamm’s head. He grabbed it from her and twisted
it out of her grasp.
“Halt!” Roman drew his
cutlass and attacked the thing, but it swung the gaff at him. Roman ducked and tried
to reach Welsie, but Hamm cut him off.
With his heart hammering in
his chest, Roman gripped his handle of his cutlass more firmly. In the scant
light, the Hamm-thing towered at least a foot taller than any man he’d ever
seen. The eyes appeared cloudy, and glowed with an eerie blue gleam. The Hamm-thing
advanced on him, and feinted with the gaff, then grabbed his wrist as Roman
chopped at it with his sword.
Roman felt his wrist snap,
and the cutlass dropped from his fingers. Hamm grabbed him around his neck
one-handed and pulled him overboard, into the filthy black waters of the
Thames.
As the cold waters closed
over him, Roman panicked, frantically clawing at the creature’s vice-like grip.
He squirmed and kicked, but the monster had found it’s footing and held him at
arm’s length, then shoved him down into the inky waters.
This can’t be happening!
Terror robbed him of oxygen, there was only
filthy water. Try as he might, he could not lessen the Hamm-thing’s crushing
grip on his neck. He held his breath as he fought, but could not get away. Desperate
now, he sought only to escape. Nothing he did seemed to matter.
A familiar sense of
déjà vu
settled over him.
I’m going to drown. Just like that time when
his horse had panicked and he’d gotten tangled in the stirrup—I’m going
to drown and there’s nothing I can do.
He thought of Stackpoole,
and wondered if there were wraiths of the river as well as the marsh. He
screamed, but only icy blackness filled his lungs. A cold lassitude filled his
limbs.
In the distance, a horse
screamed in panic. Or was it a woman?
Welsie--!