And They Called Her Spider (Galvanic Century) Read online

  "D'Agostino?" The waste and excess had put me into a foul mood. "You! Are you the magician D'Agostino?"

  He muttered something that I didn't quite catch.

  "What?"

  "Illusionist!" His weak arms tried to push me away as he slumped to the side. "Prestidigitator! Never magician."

  Pity and revulsion warred within me, pity winning by the narrowest of margins. We weren't going to be getting any useful information out of the wretch in this state. I stood, still holding him, lifting the slack form of the illusionist to dangle by the waistband of his trousers.

  Bartleby turned to the den's attendant with an embarrassed chuckle. "We'll... uh, we'll be taking him home with us."

  ***

  Recovering from opiate addiction is a slow and painful ordeal. The body grows dependent on the drug to function, and when deprived it reacts like a spoilt child throwing a fit. The detoxification process naturally takes up to a week, and we did not have the luxury of time on our side. Fortunately, after hearing about Bartleby's experimentation with the drug, I resolved that if he ever should succumb I should help him recover -- and to that end I had built a detoxification apparatus.

  "I really don't think that this is entirely necessary." If I didn't know better I'd have said that Bartleby actually sounded concerned about the old addict. "We can simply sober him up and question him later."

  "Nonsense," I said. "Look at this poor wreck of man. We would be remiss in our social obligations if we didn't do all in our power to cure him of the drug's grip."

  Besides, I hadn't been able to test the Detoxification Apparatus, and if there's one thing an engineer understands, it's how to take advantage of the opportunities that providence affords.

  "Help me strap him in."

  The Apparatus took the form of a sturdy wooden chair reinforced with tin plates, having manacles and ankle cuffs built into its arms and front legs. A brass casing had been built into the back, holding an array of syringes set into a clockwork gatling cycle, along with a pair of small phonographs reading from the same wax cylinder mounted at the base. D'Agostino looked barely cognisant of where he was, and didn't react when I snapped the supportive brace around his neck.

  "Is that really necessary?"

  "Oh absolutely. We don't want him thrashing around and injuring himself or dislodging the needles." While I may not like it when others watch me work, I do so enjoy explaining the operation of my inventions to an audience.

  "Thrashing?"

  "There will be a significant amount of thrashing, Bartleby. The Apparatus is going to syphon out, filter, and recycle his blood and spinal fluids. I imagine that it is going to be quite unpleasant. I'm going to numb his brain's pain receptors, but that's still a goodly amount of needles."

  "That sounds absolutely horrid."

  "Oh my yes." I began winding the crank that would regulate the needles' movement. "But I'm no monster, Bartleby. See the twin phonograph horns? I should say some Strauss will help keep our 'illusionist' calm during the procedure."

  I stood, clapping the dust off of my hands and we left my workshop up the stairs to the ground floor. Down below we could hear the first strains of The Blue Danube beginning.

  ***

  D'Agostino was alert and awake when we returned in twelve hours to unstrapped him, cleaned him up, and gave him a nice hot bowl of pea soup.

  "You monsters!" he said by way of thanks for the new chance at an honest man's life I'd provided him with. "You lashed me down and left me for hours in that infernal torture device!"

  "So you would characterise the experience as entirely unpleasant?" I frowned in disappointment. I had really expected that the music would have alleviated the stress of going through a week's detoxification in less than a day. Perhaps if I developed a system to automatically switch cylinders when one song ended? "Yes, I imagine that nine hours of any one song could grow tedious."

  "Unpleasant? You tortured me. I'll have the Met on you! They'll have you swing in Newgate!"

  "They tore Newgate down," Bartleby informed the magician. "But if it is any consolation, you needn't go far to report us. We're currently consulting for Scotland Yard."

  D'Agostino grew very silent and still as he let that sink in. "Oh. I... I see."

  "Yes, so you'd better tell us what we want to know--"

  Bartleby was quick to cut me off. "Mr. D'Agostino, we're working on a very important case for the Home Office, and we believe that you might be able to assist us in an informative capacity. The matter relates directly to the upcoming Platinum Jubilee. You do love your Queen, don't you?"

  "I love the Queen." His response was quick and almost automatic, in the way that many had adopted since the turn of the century.

  "Then you'll help us, won't you? Help us help Her Majesty?" Bartleby asked.

  He nodded with hesitation, not making eye contact with either of us.

  Bartleby slid the swatch of greasepaint across the table towards the illusionist. "This substance is related to a person of interest we're investigating, and we understand you used to use a similar foundation in your stage shows?"

  He examined it carefully, tilting the swath so that the mica glittered in the dim lights of my workroom. "Oh, something similar, yes. For misdirection's sake -- the more eye-catching my lovely assistants, the less focused the audience was on what my hands were up to."

  "And that lack of scrutiny made performing your tricks easier?" I asked.

  "They were no mere tricks," he said. "I performed illusions."

  "Why did you stop?"

  "The winds shifted. Audiences dwindled. I couldn't keep up anymore -- the illusions the younger generation could perform with the wonders of modern technology far outshone my repertoire -- and I was too old and set in my ways to adapt."

  "Did you make the paint yourself?" Bartleby asked.

  "Me? No. Such alchemy is beyond my purview, I'm afraid. I special ordered it from an apothecary down in Southwark."

  "Do you remember the address?"

  "No, not off of the top of my head -- this was years ago." D'Agostino shook his head. "I do remember that he operated out of an old church -- it shouldn't be terribly hard to find."

  ***

  The church the magician had spoken of was in similar condition to the rest of Southwark -- old, run down, largely abandoned, and bearing the legacies of multiple fires. Though in heavy disrepair, its structural integrity appeared to have suffered the ravages of time admirably, its steeple bowed and slanted but unbroken, most of the windows in its facade unbroken. A brass placard set next to the chapel doors bore the name "Henry Dobbson, R.G.E.A."

  "He's Guild, then?" Bartleby asked.

  I grunted in reply. It wasn't exceedingly difficult to proclaim yourself a member of the Royal Guild of Engineers and Artificers, and many second-rate machinists had done so without hesitation. It diffused the actual credit owed those of us who had actually completed the Academy's rigorous curriculum. There was no real enforcement because no true Guild member had the patience for administrative busywork, and the banking firm we contracted to handle mundane matters for us sold RGEA associate memberships to any dilettante who could afford the hobby and pass a correspondence course.

  Bartleby gave the door a quick rap. After a few moments it was opened by an older gentleman, stooped with age.

  I immediately revised my opinion of him. His hands, gnarled and callous, were stained with ink and dye. Heavy concentrations of grease had collected under his fingernails, and his glasses were smudged with soot and steam. Distaste and annoyance showed on his face at having to greet potential customers or clients, and his leather apron stank of sulphur and lye. This, gentle readers, was an engineer.

  "Mr. Dobbson?" Bartleby asked, covering his nose with his kerchief against the sulfuric odor.

  "Did you make greasepaint with mica for the stage magician D'Agostino?" I asked, quick and to the point, before Bartleby started with the small talk. He was my people. I could speak to him.

&nb
sp; "What? Yes. I think so. Possibly." Suspicion crept into his voice. "Why? Who are you?"

  "Do you still make it?"

  With any luck, he'd think us potential clients and let his guard down. Strangers asking questions were cause for caution. Customers could be safely dealt with and forgotten.

  "Only had one man want that slop. Idiot. He insisted on using a white lead base, despite my warnings. The poor girls he coated with it all died of lead poisoning."

  "He didn't care?" Bartleby asked.

  "Men like him never care about what their subordinates go through."

  "Do you have any left?" I asked.

  If he hadn't been making any recently, it was possible that the Spider was one of D'Agostino's old assistants with a supply of the paint. We'd have to compare samples to be sure, but it was a starting point, at the very least.

  "Are you hard of hearing or just simple-minded?" Dobbson asked. "I just told you that it was toxic. Or don't you care about the poor girl you'll have wearing it either?"

  "It's not for use," Bartleby said. "We're investigating a matter for the police."

  His thin frown vanished. "Well, then, you should have said so. If you'll follow me."

  Dobbson stepped back, letting us into the old church's chapel. The pews and other furnishings had been removed, replaced with a number of racks holding commonly available alchemical concoctions for sale. Make-ups, purgatives, abortifacient, exfoliants, analgesics. Along the opposite wall hung a number of sophisticated clocks and novelty clockworks.

  "You're a tinkerer and an apothecary?" Bartleby asked.

  "And author, painter, sculptor, and engineer," Dobbson replied. "The working class likes to keep busy, good sir."

  I chuckled at Bartleby's discomfort. It was a rare thing to see him unbalanced.

  "Wait here. I'll fetch what's left of the magician's greasepaint."

  Bartleby and I busied ourselves looking through the old man's wares while waiting for his return. Most of the clockworks he had on display were toys and gimmicks -- idle fancies that perform no useful functions and serve only to entertain the easily bored. The sort of use of mechanics I despise, so after a brief glance I left Bartleby to it and examined the medicinal goods for sale. Alongside the apothecary staples-- the aloe vera, the chamomile, the fennel, the hemp-- were substances of more dubious use. Wormwood and aconite, hemlock and nightshade. There were some jars that went unlabelled, and I'm not enough the chemist to hazard at their contents.

  "Bartleby?" I asked.

  "Mmm?"

  "D'Agostino seemed to have an odd reaction to your mention of the Queen. Instant obsequious compliance beyond normal, healthy patriotism. I've seemed to notice that quite a bit lately. Is this some sort of recent nationalistic trend I'm unfamiliar with?"

  Bartleby gave me an odd gaze. "My friend, you need to step out of your workshop more often."

  Something in his tone compelled me to drop the subject.

  First five, and then ten more minutes of idle browsing passed before Bartleby glanced towards me with a questioning look. I nodded, and we left the clockworks and herbs behind, heading to the back of the chapel where Dobbson had disappeared to. There were no other exits, save a ladder heading up into the steeple tower above us. Bartleby stood aside as I began to climb, spanner in hand.

  "Dobbson?" I called, ascending into the space above, which apparently served as his bedroom. A simple box mattress sat against the wall, barely leaving enough room for the small wardrobe next to it.

  A streak of red and black fell from the bell tower above before I could climb into the room, breaking my grip on the ladder and sending me crashing down to the chapel below. Sharp knees dug into my abdomen as a rain of powerful fists fell upon my brow, each blow knocking my skull back against the chapel's wooden floor. I managed to get a forearm up to guard my face in time to see a girl--- the Spider, a slight thing dressed in a red and black Jester's motley--- spring back from her kneeling position atop my torso. My face felt raw and numb from her vicious attack, and my lower back screamed as I scrambled back into a half-standing crouch.

  The girl's leap away took her towards the wall beyond the ladder. Her legs folded again as she hit the wall, whatever purchase she managed there sufficing to spring off and away at an angle that carried her past the shocked Bartleby and towards the narrow window. It was thin-- too thin for even the slender girl that had attacked me-- but somehow she slipped through it effortlessly, and was gone into the night.

  Bartleby ran up to me. "Oh god, James, are you alright?"

  "Don't worry about me, go after her!" The fingers I put to my face came away red and sticky. She'd split my lip at the very least, and it felt as though one of my eyes was swelling shut. Thankfully all my teeth were in place, and it didn't feel like my skull had been cracked.

  Self inventory complete, I ran after Bartleby.

  ***

  A few hours later we were back at the church with a small army of Metropolitan Police, searching the place by gaslight.

  Inspector Abel approached with a frown. He had been against hiring outside contractors to assist with a police matter, but when the order came down from the Home Office, he'd had no choice but to comply. "No sign of the old man or the girl. We did find, in his apartment, schematics and drawings of the parade route with a number of choke-points indicated."

  "He's smart," I begrudgingly allowed. "He'll have changed his plans."

  "No he won't," Bartleby disagreed. "It's all the spectacle of the thing, yes? Choosing hard targets, dramatic entrances, the attention-getting greasepaint. He knows we have his plans, and he'll have the girl do her work in spite of us. Imagine the publicity he'll garner if he pulls it off."

  "I didn't think engineers cared about that sort of thing," Inspector Abel said.

  "We don't," I replied.

  "He won't pull it off." The Inspector was adamant. "If you don't manage to catch him, my boys will stop this Spider of his in the act."

  Bartleby and I glanced at one another, not sharing his enthusiasm.

  ***

  The Home Office didn't appear to, either. The next day we were called into a meeting with the Home Secretary, Herbert Gladstone.

  "The Queen's Jubilee is rapidly approaching, gentlemen. The spectacle is vital to the mental and economic health of this Empire."

  "More so than Her Majesty's life?" Bartleby asked.

  Gladstone's face darkened. "Cancelling the parade is an admission of weakness, of fear, something I cannot tolerate even if the Queen were to allow such a craven response."

  "Seeing the monarch gutted on a parade float would be a good deal worse for morale, I'd imagine," I said.

  Gladstone and Bartleby stared at me in abject horror before doing the respectable thing and pretending I'd never said it.

  "It is imperative that the two of you catch this Spider before the parade." Gladstone set a doll atop the desk. Garbed in red and black with a porcelain face it was the very image of the assassin.

  "What's this?" Bartleby asked.

  "Blast if I know. The Scotland Yard found it in the church after you two departed for the evening. It's some sort of clockwork-- see if it gives you some insight into the killer."

  ***

  The doll was incredible. An absolute marvel of clockwork ingenuity disguised as a children's toy. It was capable of articulation impossible by most engineer's standards, and when wound moved with an almost prescient autonomy. The patterns it moved through-- gymnastic routines, capering, mime-work-- were varied and almost human. Its creator was a true master. Sadly, once disassembled, I lacked the skill or tools to put it back together. No matter-- it had served its purpose down in my workshop.

  I joined Bartleby in the dining room to tell him my findings of a supper over cold knots of beef and ginger beer.

  "If Dobbson made the clockwork then he's got to be guild-accredited. We should visit the Academy hall of records and see what they have on him."

  Bartleby put his plate aside. "Well.
We'd best hurry, then-- the Jubilee is but days away."

  "What? I thought we had a week?"

  "It's Thursday, James. You've been obsessing over that doll for thirty-six hours."

  "That makes sense. Yes, of course. To the Academy then?"

  "Maybe you should take some time and rest?"

  "I'll sleep when I'm dead." I gave my partner a grin borne on wings of sleep-deprivation, enthusiasm fuelled by my examination of a true masterwork of modern clockwork engineering.

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  ***

  "Dobbson. Two 'B's'."

  "I'm afraid I'm not seeing it here." Mr. Gregory, the aged clerk at the Academy register's office wasn't a member of the Guild; no guild member worthy of membership would be content with a paper shuffling job. I had known him since my own academy days, and rumour claimed that he'd worked as an administrator since the founding, though that would put his age well beyond the reasonable.

  "Hm. It'd make sense that he'd be using a pseudonym. Still, it's unlikely that a man with such skill wouldn't be a member."

  "What did you say it was that he'd made?"

  "Toys. Dolls. Clockworks of various sorts."

  Bartleby wasn't here to handle the talking, citing an appointment with his own contacts elsewhere. It wasn't a problem, though-- old Gregory was well used to engineers and our social shortcomings.

  "And how aged would you say he was?"

  "Indeterminate. Somewhere between sixty and seventy if I had to hazard a guess."

  The clerk nodded and turned, disappearing between the stacks of folders and walls of filing cabinets. After a few minutes he returned, laden with leather-bound folios. "These are the class pictures of the men in the Academy clockworks program between 1840 and 1860. I don't know if they'll help, but this is the best I can do."

  I thanked the clerk and set about looking through the materials he'd offered me. Class sizes over the last century weren't very large-- even in my own graduating class of 1894 we only numbered fifteen-- but that still gave me over one hundred poorly lithographed clockwork engineers to sift through. Trying to match those almost identical small portraits to the old man I'd met earlier was a daunting task. Bartleby had a better eye for this sort of thing, but the records were for the perusal of alumni alone.