The Firebird Mystery (2 page)

For a moment Jack felt like he was back with his parents. As a team of flying trapeze artists known as The Flying Sparrows, they had amazed circus audiences all over Britain. But one day all that had changed. His parents had tried to defy chance too many times and it had taken its revenge. They had fallen from the trapeze bars to their deaths.

Since becoming an orphan, Jack carried his two most precious belongings with him every day: a tiny locket photograph of his parents and a compass his mother had given him. The items served to remind him that no matter how dire the circumstances he was never alone.

The picture and compass now rattled in his pocket as he flew through the air, reaching out for a metal hook hanging from a chain. The chain was part of the conveyor mechanism that ran the whole length of the building. Propelled by his momentum, the hook slid along its track, taking Jack away from the bullies and back to the entrance.

The chain reached the end of its track and Jack came to an abrupt halt. Now he swung back and forth a couple of times before leaping onto another chain. Balanced by a counterweight, he descended until he found himself only a few feet above the floor.

Jack let go of the chain and landed. He looked back to the far end of the workshop. Charley and his henchmen stood on the distant mezzanine, staring at him, open-mouthed.

‘I'll see you back at Sunnyside,' he called. As he turned away, he muttered under his breath, ‘Rotters.'

He hurried outside. The bullies would not catch up now. He allowed himself a moment to relax as he weaved through the narrow streets. Steamcars and horse-driven vehicles fought for supremacy. This was a world of steam, but many people still preferred the old-fashioned methods of travel. Peering up, he saw lines of airships crisscrossing the firmament. The balloons were hydrogen-filled. Every schoolboy knew it was a combustible gas—one spark spelt disaster—but airship design had improved so much over the last twenty years that accidents were rare.

The skies were busier than ever now the express route to Europe had opened. In the distance the London Metrotower cut the horizon, rising from the heart of what was once Nortley. It reached taller into the sky than the eye could see, punching a hole through the clouds like a mighty elm tree as it soared into space.

From its upper reaches planetary steamers navigated the globe, facilitating trade and commerce with other countries as well as maintaining a military presence at the edge of space.

As the Prime Minister, Horatio Kitchener, had famously said, ‘Whoever controls the heights controls the world.'

Jack half jogged the last few blocks back to Sunnyside, the picture and compass jangling in his pockets. He stopped at the great stone entrance. From here the place looked even more like a jail than an establishment for raising children.

Home sweet home
, he thought dismally.
What did I ever do to deserve this?

He was halfway across the courtyard when he heard a voice from behind.

‘Jack Mason!'

He turned to see Mr Daniels standing in the doorway. The emaciated owner of the orphanage always reminded Jack of a funeral director. His black clothes hung off him. The ebony top hat, jammed onto his bony skull, only served to accentuate his sombre eyes and gaunt face. The man waved Jack over with a scrawny forefinger.

Surely he doesn't know about the boots
, Jack thought.
Someone must have ratted on me.

‘We need to speak.' Mr Daniels peered down at him. ‘You will be leaving Sunnyside within the hour.'

CHAPTER TWO

‘This is your new home,' Mr Daniels said. ‘221 Bee Street. You'll want the top floor. Ask for Ignatius Doyle.'

Before Jack could utter a single word, Mr Daniels tapped his driver on the shoulder with his stick. The steamcar chugged off down the street, leaving Jack stranded on the footpath, and after a moment it merged with the traffic, disappearing into the smoky haze.

Jack gazed up at the building. Ten storeys high, the old brick structure showed obvious signs of wear. Black soot stained the exterior. Most of the windows were either cracked or boarded up. Even the front steps slanted downwards.

Jack wanted to turn and run. But where could he go? He had no family and Mr Daniels had already said his farewells.

‘We have found you gainful employment,' Mr Daniels had explained in the steamcar. ‘You will be an assistant to a man with an infirmity.'

Jack was unsure what an ‘infirmity' was, but it didn't sound like fun. Still, the promise of a new life had appealed to him. He would not have to deal with Charley and his cronies any longer, and the food might be better.

The hardest part was leaving his friend, Harry Stoker. The boy had been his closest companion during his time at Sunnyside. After a quick goodbye, Mr Daniels bundled Jack into his vehicle and escorted him across London to this rundown location.

Jack sighed.

Overflowing rubbish bins lined the pavement. A dead horse lay in the gutter on the other side of the road. Fullner 45s wheezed smoke and steam as they chugged along the street. The open doors of workshops revealed men forging metals and assembling goods for sale. Altogether it was an unremarkable street in a shabby section of London.

Still, anything had to be better than Sunnyside.

Jack gripped the wrought-iron railing and mounted the tilting stairs. He pushed open the front door and entered the hallway. A glass frame listed the tenants. Mr Doyle's name appeared next to Level Ten, the top floor. The stencilled letters did not display the name of his business.

The elevator shaft lay opposite, and to its right the staircase. A man occupied the bottom three stairs, sprawled out as if dead, a bottle in a paper bag under his left arm.

Blimey
, Jack thought.
Not exactly the best house in town, is it?

He decided to take the elevator.

Jack pressed the call switch and waited. A clanking sound filled the shalf until the chamber heralded its arrival with a blast of steam. Jack climbed in. Pulling the iron door shut, he pushed the button marked ‘10'. The elevator shuddered—as if about to suffer cardiac arrest—and started to ascend. Jack caught glimpses of the other floors through the small glass window. He heard people arguing, saw a fist fight, witnessed a man and woman in a passionate embrace and heard someone singing opera.

The elevator stopped with an uncertain groan. Jack climbed out. A short hallway lay before him with a door at the far end. A pane of glass in the middle had some words inscribed upon it. Jack touched his pockets, making certain he still had his picture and compass, before walking the length of the hall, feeling all the while like he was marching to his execution. A single, spidery crack ran diagonally across the bottom of the glass. Two lines of text were written above it.

Ignatius Doyle
Consulting Detective

Jack stood reading the words for a moment, then summoned the courage to knock.

‘Come in,' a female voice responded.

Jack entered a small dusty office. Empty chairs lined the walls. A woman sat at the desk. She wore a ladies walking suit with a white blouse and a blue leg-o'-mutton jacket. But it wasn't her clothing that caught Jack's attention. It was her heart-shaped face, full lips and mess of blonde ringlet curls that made him mute.

Bazookas
, he thought.
I'm in heaven.

Her eyes gave a mischievous twinkle as she smiled at him. ‘Hello. You must be from the orphanage.'

He nodded.

‘No words? Cat got your tongue?'

He shook his head.

‘What's your name?'

‘Jack Mason.'

‘I'm Gloria Scott,' she introduced herself. ‘You can call me Gloria.'

‘Hello Gloria.'

‘And you're an orphan.' She got up and, before Jack knew what was happening, gave him a hug. Jack was amazed. No-one at the orphanage had ever embraced him. The last woman he could remember hugging him was his mother. A strange sensation welled up in his chest and he felt ridiculous, as if he was about to burst into tears.

Gloria drew back and held him at arm's length. ‘It must be so hard losing your parents. Ignatius lost his a long time ago.'

‘Ignatius?' he asked.

‘Yes. Mr Doyle.'

Of course.

‘So you two are orphans together.'

Nothing could be said to that. A bell sounded on Gloria's desk. She opened a door behind her and leaned through.

‘Yes, Mr Doyle.'

‘Is the young man here from Sunnyside?'

‘He is, indeed.'

‘Well, send him in. We have work to do.'

‘You have work to do,' Gloria said, turning to Jack with mock sternness. ‘Mr Doyle will see you now.'

Jack passed through the door into an enormous chamber. A large desk crowded the entrance. He stepped around it, his eyes widening. The apartment seemed to take up the entire top floor. A maze of brass pipes and tubing, leaking steam and smoke, ran across the ceiling. Rooms appeared to have been jammed into the space like boxes of different heights. None of them stretched as far as the roof. Rectangular windows allowed slanted prisms of light into the cavern. Piles of books and odd-looking contraptions made the place resemble a junk shop. Low tables, filing cabinets and shelves created corridors through the chaos.

Jack's eyes gradually focused on strange items within the confusion. He saw:

A stuffed owl and a stuffed rabbit

A miniature Ferris wheel

Animals preserved in jars

A plaster of Paris bust of a man

A life-size mannequin of a woman with a missing head

A chemistry set with Bunsen burners and beakers.

Without doubt, this was the strangest place he had ever seen. He half expected a white rabbit to leap out from behind a shelf, checking its watch. Easing the door shut, Jack looked around the ramshackle interior for signs of life.

Harry had told him about a racket where children were sold into slavery and sent to faraway places like India. There they worked in the mines until they died of old age or exhaustion—whichever came first. Jack had laughed at him, but a seed of doubt had been planted.

Now he heard a shuffling sound from behind him. Beyond another desk, jammed between two Grecian columns, a man leapt up wearing a bizarre mask—a beekeeper's hood.

He waved a gun at Jack.

‘Don't move,' the masked man ordered.

Bang!

Jack threw himself sideways, hitting the ground. He rolled once, leapt to his feet and tugged open the door to the reception area. Gloria cried out to him, but he ignored her as he hurtled down the corridor. When he reached the elevator he heard the man's voice.

‘Wait! Stop!'

Not bloomin' likely
, Jack thought.

Waiting for the elevator would take too long. Jack charged down the stairs in terror, his heart banging like a hammer as the gloomy stairwell closed in around him.

CHAPTER THREE

Harry's words rang in Jack's ears.

‘They kidnap and drug you…you wake up on a boat...forced to work in the mines…feed you scraps...'

As far as Jack was concerned, no-one was drugging him, forcing him to work in a mine or feeding him any scraps. He would rather live on the streets. The elevator clanged behind him as he sped down the stairs two at a time.

Was his assailant after him?

The stairs seemed to take forever. Finally he saw the old drunk at the bottom. He sailed over him in one smooth leap, just as the elevator reached ground level. The metal door chuffed open and a well-dressed man stepped out. He held the beekeeper's mask in one hand. It was the man who had shot at him. It was Ignatius Doyle.

Ignatius Doyle: man with an infirmity.

Ignatius Doyle: child kidnapper and slave trader.

Ignatius Doyle: scoundrel.

‘Wait!' Mr Doyle cried out. Jack ignored him and bolted outside. When he reached the footpath he darted left and right.

Where to run? Where to hide?

A small group of people were waiting to cross the street. Jack pushed between them. A woman cried out as he started to run.

His feet slipped on the cobblestones.

A horse screamed.

Jack looked up to see a team of horses charging towards him. He tried to stand, but slipped again in the muck on the road. He could see the froth running from the horses' mouths, their noses snorting, their legs bearing down on him…

‘Blimey,' Jack breathed.

A hand darted out of nowhere, grabbed his coat and dragged him sideways just as the carriage charged by. One more second and he would have been finished. He stared up into the face of Ignatius Doyle.

‘You need to let me explain,' the detective began. But he got no further as a dainty fist collided with his shoulder.

‘Mr Doyle!' Gloria was crimson with fury. ‘How dare you scare the boy! He's only just walked in the door!'

‘I was merely testing a hypothesis,' Mr Doyle said. ‘Can a gun be accurately fired whilst wearing a beekeeper's hood?'

‘Mr Doyle!' Gloria drew Jack close to her. ‘I've told you before about shooting inside!'

The detective stuck his bottom lip out like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong. ‘A little bullet here and there won't hurt anything.'

‘A little bullet,' Gloria muttered, turning Jack around to face her. ‘Don't you mind Mr Doyle. He's a good man, but a tad eccentric. You know what I mean?'

‘Uh,' Jack began. ‘I think I do.'

He studied Ignatius Doyle for the first time. He wore a bowler hat with goggles wrapped around the brim, a long black coat and a brown chequered cape. He was slim, wiry and about sixty years old. His face was animated, as if he were thinking of three things at once, but his eyes were kindly as he peered at Jack.
He looks like the sort of person who would throw a stick of dynamite into a fire
, Jack thought,
just to see what would happen
.

Mr Doyle took a step and Jack noticed he moved with a slight limp; he favoured his left leg. ‘I apologise for the scare,' he said.