by Paul Crilley
“And if Barnaby is to be believed, not only are you a simulacrum of Sherlock Holmes, but you have his soul inside you?” She spoke with disapproval.
“It wasn't my choice, I assure you,” said Tweed.
“No. So much of what happens to us isn't,” she replied. “And you. Girl.” Octavia jerked and tried to straighten up even more. “You were involved? You assisted him?”
“With respect, Your Majesty, I did not assist him. We assisted each other.”
The Queen nodded. “Good answer.”
Tweed cleared his throat. “Lucien, I mean, the Prime Minister—?”
“Locked away in the Ministry cells, ranting and raving like a man possessed.”
Tweed let out a breath of relief. He had still been worried that Lucien would be able to escape.
“He denied it for a while. But then he changed tactics. He admitted it was he, Lucien, but said he did what he did for me, for the Empire. Keeps going on about scientific progress. Odious man.”
“And the Tsar?” asked Octavia.
“Ah, well there we had to stifle our pride and leave him be, I'm afraid.”
“Why?” exploded Octavia. “He plotted to kill you! He was going to try to take over the Empire.”
“Oh well, I'm sure it was nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal?” said Octavia in amazement.
“It is politics, child. All is fair in love and politics. Or something to that effect. Who is to say I would not have done something similar if I were in his position?”
“I don't think you would have,” said Octavia.
Queen Victoria smiled briefly. “Thank you. It is nice to know some still have faith in me. But the thing is, who would believe such a tale? I barely believe it and I've seen the evidence. No, we do not want a war with Russia. It is best he thinks we know nothing of his involvement. He will reveal his hand eventually, I am sure.”
Queen Victoria turned her attention to Tweed. “I find myself…nonplussed, young man.”
“How so, Your Majesty?”
“I know how you were created. In fact, you were created against my express wishes. By your very existence, your are evidence of treason against the Crown.”
“And yet?” prompted Tweed.
“Who said anything about ‘and yet’?”
Tweed shrugged. “It was implied by your choice of words.”
The Queen set her mouth in a thin line. “Hmph. I can definitely see something of the man in you, my boy. And yet,” she continued, glaring at Tweed, “I find myself rather glad that my word was ignored. Just this once.”
Queen Victoria stood up and walked to the window. “I have a proposition for you. For both of you. It is evident I have enemies within my own government. And without, but that goes without saying. Now, more than at any other time, I need people I can trust, people I can turn to when I need certain…matters looked into.”
She turned around to face them. “What I suggest is that you work for me. Not the government. Not the Ministry. For me. The Crown will pay for your training, plus a monthly retainer. And if I have need of your assistance, you will drop everything and come running to me. What do you say?”
“How much of a retainer are we talking here?” asked Tweed.
Octavia jammed her elbow hard into his ribs again. She smiled and said, “We would be honored, Your Majesty.”
“Good.”
“But if I may…?”
“Yes?”
“I'd like your permission for us to use our newly available resources to search for my mother. She was investigating Holmes and the Tsar. She was kidapped by them.”
The Queen nodded. “By all means, child. It is the least I can do.”
The Queen started to move toward the door, but Tweed stood up. “Seeing as we're now working for you, I should probably tell you that the servant that was in here just now? He's stealing silver from you. Quite a lot of it.”
Queen Victoria paused. She narrowed her eyes at Tweed, then bellowed out, “Jenkins! In here at once!”
The door opened and Jenkins hurried inside. He hesitated when he saw everyone staring at him.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Mr. Tweed? If you would be so good as to expand upon your theory?”
Tweed walked slowly forward.
“What silver polish is used at the palace?” he asked Jenkins.
“Messrs. Rombut and Slim's patented brand. Very expensive,” said Jenkins.
“Indeed. So not jewelers rouge?”
“Definitely not,” said the Queen. “The stuff is horrible. Scratches the silver.”
“Yet it is very obvious to me that Jenkins has been using jewelers rouge over an extended period of time. Using it to polish up the silverware he steals from the palace before selling it to a dealer in Whitechapel.” Tweed squinted at Jenkins. “In George Street, to be exact.”
Jenkins's eyes narrowed in anger. He looked to the Queen. “Your Majesty, I must protest. I have never stolen anything from the palace!”
“Note the rash on your fingers,” said Tweed calmly, “and the discoloration of your teeth. You have been having trouble with an upset stomach, yes? Don't answer. I know you have. All these symptoms are side effects of ferrous sulfate, the main ingredient in jewelers rouge. You have either accidentally ingested some or it has been absorbed through your skin. And for that to happen, you really must have been using it for a long time indeed.”
Jenkins stared at Tweed in shock.
“And the dealer on George Street?” pressed the Queen.
“There was an accident in George Street last week,” said Tweed. “A cart carrying quicklime to a building site overturned, spilling the contents into the rain. The quicklime reacted violently with the rainwater. The slight redness around Jenkins's nose and eyes indicates healing from these burns. Plus, his shoes, although highly polished, bear discoloration from the quicklime. I deduce that Jenkins was on his way to the dealer when the accident happened. He was caught right in the middle of it. Isn't that right, Jenkins?”
Jenkins stared at Tweed, his mouth hanging open. Then he turned and bolted from the room.
The Queen watched him go. “Good job, Mr. Tweed. Looks as if you just might be as clever as you think you are. Excuse me.” The Queen walked to the door. “Stop that man!” she shouted. She waited a moment. “Good job! Hit him for me, if you will—not too hard! There. Thank you.”
The Queen closed the door and turned to Octavia and Tweed. “Remember, you work for me now. If I have need of you, you will attend me at once. Understand?”
“We understand,” said Octavia.
Tweed nodded.
“Good,” She smiled again, that brief smile that was gone almost before it appeared. “‘Sebastian Tweed and Octavia Nightingale, Consulting Detectives to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.’ It has rather a pleasing ring to it, has it not?”
She nodded at them both, then turned and left the room.
“So, how did you do it?” asked Octavia.
They were walking down the steps of Buckingham Palace, heading out into the late afternoon. The autumn sun was breaking through the clouds, limning the buildings around them with golden light.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on. It was a trick, wasn't it?”
“Not at all. I saw the evidence and I deduced the answer. I used rational thinking,” Tweed said, glancing at Octavia as he emphasized the words.
“I don't believe you.”
“Not my problem.”
The steamcoach was parked at the bottom of the steps. It hadn't been fixed after the events of the past week. Tweed couldn't afford the repairs. But maybe now, with this monthly retainer, he could send her in to a mechanic. The rather battered carriage was attracting a lot of disapproving stairs from the royal guards.
Tweed and Octavia climbed inside.
“Just tell me how you did it,” said Octavia.
“Stop being annoying,” said Tweed.
“You
think this is annoying? Just wait. I'm going to keep going on about it until you tell me the truth. Then you'll see what annoying really is.”
“Fine! But it wasn't a trick. I thought I recognized Jenkins when we first arrived. I saw the burns on his nose, the discoloration of his shoes. Then I noted the stained teeth and the rash on his hands and deduced he had been using jewelers rouge. I remembered there was a rather shady secondhand dealer on George Street, and that's when I remembered where I'd seen him before. I was on the street when the quicklime spill happened. I saw Jenkins that night, carrying a package. When the accident happened he ran into the dealer's shop. But obviously not quick enough to avoid some ill-effects.”
Tweed pumped the handle and released the brake. “Satisfied?”
Tweed started the carriage moving.
Octavia was silent for a while.
“So what you're basically saying is, you saw Jenkins take the silver into the dealer's shop.”
“No…! Yes. But I didn't remember that at first. I made the deduction first, then remembered that fact later. It doesn't invalidate my cleverness.”
“Oh, I'm afraid it does.”
“It doesn't!”
“Does.”
“Doesn't”
“It does!”
“It doesn't! I arrived at my conclusion before remembering where I saw him.”
“Liar!”
“I am not a liar. You…you flap dragon!”
“How dare you! You…you rump-headed miscreant!”
“Barnacle.”
“Over-used codpiece!”
Tweed paused, then said, “Well, that's just disgusting.”
Octavia smiled. “Thank you.”
Tweed was silent for a while. Then he asked, “Should we get something to eat?”
“Are you paying?”
“No. I'm poor. You can pay.”
“Fine. But I get to pick where we're going.”
“Nowhere fancy. I don't think I want to be surrounded by other people like you.”
“How dare you…”
And the steamcoach lurches and judders into the traffic, joining the stream of London commuters as they wend their slow way through the claustrophobic city. Tweed and Nightingale's argument trails behind them as they crawl through the streets, causing those who overhear to raise their eyebrows and peer inside the coach, hoping to catch a glimpse of the couple having such a fierce fight.
They raise their eyebrows even more when they see that the occupants of the coach are actually smiling as they argue.
Paul Crilley is a Scotsman with absolutely no tolerance for tropical climates and a love of all things cold. So naturally, he and his family now live in South Africa. When he is not sitting in front of the electric fan writing he can be found chasing monkeys out of the kitchen. (Really.)
Paul has also written a middle-grade fantasy series called The Invisible Order, about secret societies, faeries, and Victorian England, and spent a year writing on the computer game Star Wars: The Old Republic. He also writes scripts for comics and television. His website can be found at www.paulcrilley.com, and you can follow him on Twitter @paulcrilley. (Only if you want to, of course. No pressure.)
Paul is currently at work on the sequel to The Lazarus Machine.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter one
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
About the Author
Back Cover