Fury from Fontainebleau

by Adrian Speed

  “Tiberius–” Ibrahim began, but whatever his next attempt to placate him would have been, his words were drowned out by a thunder clap. The door to 2051 flew off its hinges and sailed across the sky. The flash blinded everyone and the shockwave sent our clothes rippling like a sudden gale had kicked up. “Hell!” Ibrahim cursed. “Move in, move in, move in!” Officers rushed into the room while fire suppressant foam burst out of emergency pipework to preserve as much precious oxygen as possible.

  “Is anyone hurt?” the police chief's voice rang out across the police officers. “Everyone sound off!”

  “Make sure this isn’t a cover,” Ibrahim yelled into his radio. “Security, make sure all the cameras are looking for Tiberius Sotheby.”

  “And pray he doesn’t have a second scramble cannon,” I said, thinking back to his first attempt to slip away from Colcom's security.

  The fires from the explosion were out almost as soon as they had started. The tenants of the other rooms were evacuated by officers immediately and started to undergo triage. Sir Reginald began striding towards the blown-out room.

  “Wait for the all clear, Reginald,” Ibrahim urged. I followed Sir Reginald.

  We didn’t need to wait for an all clear. Tiberius’s burnt and broken form was evident in the wreckage of his tiny flat. Identity chips and DNA scans confirmed it within minutes. Sir Reginald stared down quietly at the body while I excused myself to be sick. I had never seen what happened to a person in an explosion before, and I pray I never have to again. I don’t think I will be able to eat sausages again for some time.

  “It’s a terrible thing, hatred,” Sir Reginald said after a while. “But it does give people a reason to go on living, sometimes.” He looked up as Ibrahim and the police chief approached. “When the object of that hatred is no more… so goes your reason to live.”

  “All of this over a failed movie almost a century ago,” Ibrahim shook his head.

  “All of this over a lost fortune,” Sir Reginald sighed. “And that dragon, poverty.” Sir Reginald looked up at the police chief. “Ms Lamensdorf, do you have a photograph of Tiberius Sotheby? I would rather my last memory of him is something recognisable as human.”

  “Here,” the chief handed over a slate and Sir Reginald looked down at Tiberius’s face. There was no doubting he was our killer from Marlin’s rooftop, and there was no doubting that Sotheby eye fleck.

  “I hope no-one else with those eyes ever feels the way Tiberius did,” I said, coming back into the room.

  “As do I my dear,” Sir Reginald nodded. “But never think it was in the blood. Blood is just history, it is what we make of history that determines what we are.” Sir Reginald handed the pad back to the chief. “The worst part is, if Tiberius had merely asked Marlin, he would have been given the Arnold fortune.”

  “Well, Sir Reginald, it’s going to take a long time to clear up this mess.” Ibrahim waved his hands around the broken room. “But I think we can release you from bail. Give me your account details and I’ll return the lunas–”

  “Hang the lunas, Ibrahim, let’s go and retrieve my hat.”

  While Sir Reginald went to claim his hat from police custody I stood outside the police station and stared out at the city of Lucon. The city monorails trundled through the skyscrapers and a gentle breeze flowed through. A robot hawker sat with a set of tat, model moons, I Heart LC shirts, LED hairstrips and earthrise keychains. It also morbidly advertised bail bonds. I watched people come and go from the station. All the people of Lucon cringed away from their policemen. They seemed so different from the policemen I had known back in Montreal and London. I barely even saw policemen in those cities. Now I couldn’t help but notice how many police patrol vehicles were moving around the city. How many cameras were pointed at me even now. No wonder people looked twice at policemen.

  But would they look twice at the same people if they were wearing the LEDs and woven metal everyone else wore? People feared the uniform far more than they feared the men and women themselves.

  Sir Reginald’s hat was his uniform. People remembered the top hat that came to save the day if they wrote to it. They didn’t remember the man with soft blond hair and deep grey eyes. They didn’t remember how his face twitched into a smile whenever he found a puzzle difficult. They didn’t remember how thin and soft his fingers were. They didn’t remember the way he could hide behind a blank smile for hours at a time. All they remembered was a hat.

  If I was going to continue as a chrononaut, as a real time detective like Sir Reginald... I needed my own uniform. My own symbol that people would remember before they remembered my face. I walked down the slope towards the hawker.

  A few minutes later Sir Reginald left the building with a smile on his face as wide as the skydome, brandishing his beloved hat.

  “Well it needs a bit of a brush,” Sir Reginald said, showing off the scuffs. “But all in all the ruffians in the evidence department didn’t guff it up too much.” He looked over to me and smiled. “Ah, LEDs, all the range in the twenty-second and twenty-third centuries,” he nodded. “They look excellent, my dear.”

  “Thank you,” I said, finishing up the plait I had been weaving. Thick bands of blonde folded in and around strips of white and came over my left shoulder. “The robot said they’ll charge from my body heat and motion.”

  “That they should,” Sir Reginald nodded, sliding the hat back onto his head like a crown. “Although I thought we were about to head back to the twenty-first century.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “You have your nineteenth-century clothing, I have my twenty-second.”

  “Touché, my dear, touché.” Sir Reginald smiled. “Then by your leave, we’ll head for the time machine.”

  *****

  It was raining when we landed in the back yard of Sir Reginald’s home in the Edgware Road. It might be early July, but the British weather didn’t care. The plink-plonk of the raindrops was oddly comforting after the heat of Sarajevo, the inferno of London, and the weatherless Lucon.

  “You head upstairs and put the kettle on,” Sir Reginald instructed as he rolled up his sleeves and turned his attention to the boiler. “I’ll put the old girl to bed.”

  I made good use of my umbrella getting from the cover of the time machine to the back corridor of Sir Reginald’s building and climbed the stairs to his rooms. The leather tube of Alsa still pulsed gently, sucking letters from the letter box up to the top floor.

  It took half an hour to leave the time machine in a fit state, and the tea was rather unpleasantly stewed, but Sir Reginald drank it nonetheless, staring at the wall in quiet accomplishment. Neither of us wanted to talk, and just took in the luxury of sitting with nothing to do, listening to the rain and the puff-puff of Alsa. He occasionally looked to his hat, set reverently down on the table.

  “It’s rather nice to finish a mystery with full use of my arms and legs,” Sir Reginald said after he finished his tea and set it aside. “I think I would like to make a habit of that.” He turned to me. “My dear, you know despite the... hard words we have had recently... I could not have solved these mysteries without you.”

  “I... I know,” I said, looking down at my tea. I had not wanted to drink more than a sip of its sour sludge. “I... I understand what you mean now. History... history has a way of working itself out. I don’t have your sense for paradox yet... but I know more of what it means.”

  “Now, if I recall correctly we still have two and a bit weeks before your internship begins at Rolls-Royce.” Sir Reginald sat forward with a finger raised. “Time to get you on an aeroplane for Canada.”

  “Sir Reginald–”

  “Now now, I know the journey is long, but with a fortnight to spare you should easily manage a full week in Montreal,” Sir Reginald said. “Yes we can take the train to Southampton today, get you on a plane for Foynes, and from there to Newfoundland, and on to Montreal.”

  “I think a jet from Heathrow could get me there in about seven hours.�
�

  “Really? By Jove, what an age we live in. Well then, yes, we shall have another cup of tea, and then you can pack your bags and–”

  “Sir Reginald I really don’t need to go back to Montreal.”

  “Hannah, my dear corn rose, after all we’ve seen together these last few weeks, are you sure you want to spurn an opportunity to see your parents?”

  “I...”

  “Please. For me.”

  I sat silently. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see my parents. I just... I had so many other things to do.

  “Have I... have I ever told you why I value my hat so much?” Sir Reginald sat forward on the end of his seat.

  “No.”

  “Let me... let me show you.” Sir Reginald reached out a hand to his hat, flipped it upside down and reached inside. There was a little scrape of silk, and then Sir Reginald’s hand came back out. A scrap of sepia tintype came out with it. Sir Reginald held it out to me gingerly and I cradled it in my hands, barely daring to touch it. It was not so old, but the corners had been torn, and by the look of it had come too close to a fire in the past. The figures... it looked like Sir Reginald, standing proudly next to another woman, seated, with a bouncing baby on her knee and a surly child in between them. Then it clicked.

  “Your family,” I looked up and Sir Reginald nodded.

  “The last evidence they existed.” Sir Reginald took the photograph back. “That we all existed.” He carefully tucked it back inside the lining. “That and my memories.” Sir Reginald tapped his forehead. “That’s all they are. And in the end, its all any of us are.” Sir Reginald twirled his hat in his hand. “So please go make some memories with them. For me, if no-one else.”

  “Alright, alright,” I raised my hands in defeat. “On one condition.”

  “Oh, I’m happy to pay–”

  “You’re coming too.”

  “Ah, I see, but I have so many books to catch… up… on...” Sir Reginald quailed under my gaze. “Oh very well. Better to visit Montreal in summer after all. And it will be nice... being with you without having to solve a mystery together.” Sir Reginald frowned and put a finger to his lips. “I shall have to cancel my deliveries from Wilson’s.”

  “And I’ll need to pack.” I stood up. “How about we meet back here in a few hours?”

  “Capital, capital idea,” Sir Reginald smiled. “And we can take the time machine, save a few pounds.”

  “Few thousand pounds.”

  “Er... ah... yes... twenty-first century, I forgot about that.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said, and headed for the door.

  “Ah, my dear,” Sir Reginald said as I turned the handle to let myself out. I stopped. “I... I have been thinking. You’ve been calling me Sir Reginald ever since we met, and I do very much appreciate it of course, I just... well... if it would save you a bit of time...” Sir Reginald swallowed. “My brother used to have a nickname for me, he had ever such difficulty with Reginald and you know how children are, and... and... and it would make me very happy to hear it said by another living person again. Would you mind... would you mind it terribly if you would call me Wren?”

  “Of course. I’ll be back in a few hours, Wren.”

  And the smile that spilt out across his face burned out so brightly all the rain melted away.

  Thank you for reading Fury from Fontainebleau. To see all titles by Adrian Speed and to see his latest releases please head to AdrianSpeed.com

  If you have enjoyed this title please consider reviewing it on Good Reads or Amazon.co.uk.

  Also by Adrian Speed:

  Curse of the Purple Pearl

  Hannah Delaronde has an unusual hobby. While her fellow students at Imperial College head home for the holidays Hannah Delaronde makes her way to Edgware Road to take up her post with Sir Reginald Derby in the Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company.

  Who killed Marcus Aurelius? Who plucked the purple pearl ring from his finger? How did someone get past the door locked from the inside? And which villain will rise to claim the Roman Empire?

  The Derby and Delaronde Time Travel Company are employed to find out. But as Sir Reginald Derby and Hannah Delaronde dig through the courtly intrigue of Ancient Rome they find threads of darker mystery that will drag them from antiquity to the roaring twenties and to the Lunar Colonies of the twenty-third century.

  What is the Curse of the Purple Pearl?

  Everything I Need to Save my Friend and Doom the Universe

  All Victoria wanted was to go back to sleep when her best friend Martha dragged her out of bed in the middle of the night to study a fallen star – a mysterious crystal with entire galaxies trapped inside.

  Now thanks to a freak accident she’s stuck in an alien galaxy, wearing nothing but her pyjamas and borrowed shoes, hunted by the monstrous General Dranslen, and even all of Martha’s genius seems to have no hope of getting them home alive...