Whatever the cause, my confusion over my general location lasted only a few seconds after I opened my eyes.
My confusion over my position in particular lasted longer. I recognized the cabin, of course. I had done my share of deck swabbing and steward duties. I had never seen it from this perspective, however. The room appeared much different when lying snuggled into the feather mattress and blankets.
I donned my breeches and coat, and forayed out to find breakfast and water for a proper wash. I didn’t see Josiah anywhere, but one of the ground crew he had left on guard was leaning on the rail, watching a massive long-haul freighter maneuver into dock, its enormous hydrogen gasbags eclipsing the mid-morning sun.
“Good morning, Harris,” I called to the guard, whom I’d met multiple times over the years. “Any trouble last night?”
Harris scratched his armpit, yawning. “None a’tall, Chief. I heard as that’s being your new position. Congratulations, and all. Couldn’t happen to none finer.”
The sun appeared to burn brighter, merely from his words. “Thank you, Harris.”
“Anyways, there’ll be some of that Turkish coffee you’re so fond of in the galley. The bread’s gone stale, but it’ll do for toast.”
“You are a lifesaver, and no mistake.” I ducked into the galley to find the coffee Harris had promised. I poured myself a mug, but I left the toast for later, more concerned with ridding myself of layers of grime than with filling my belly. I had not had the energy last night to do more than rinse the soot from my hands and face before I had fallen into bed. Today I was heading for environs where my grubby appearance would be no help at all.
I carried my mug of coffee into the engine room. The door had no lock, but I had fashioned a wedge from a piece of wood, and that held it securely closed against casual entry.
Assured of momentary privacy, I stripped off my filthy work uniform and ducked under the boiler overflow spigot, reveling in the flow of warm water. I washed from head to toe, leaving my skin clean and the floor of the engine room rather muddy. I sluiced the remnants of the water across the decking and used my grubby washcloth to urge the resultant flood across the room to the drain below the water tank. Now both my floor and I gleamed.
I dressed with some difficulty, women’s clothing being difficult to don without assistance. Still, the skirt with its small bustle and front-buttoning jacket were better than some things I had worn. Ball gowns, in particular, needed an extra hand or two.
I twisted my hair up in a simple style, hoping it would stay put as it dried and not straggle about my face as if I were an urchin. I fastened on a hat—I supposed it was fashionable as Maman had given it to me—slipped some Turkish money into a tiny handbag, and pulled on a pair of white gloves. I appeared to be a respectable young English lady; one not to be turned away when I presented myself at the Russian’s Cap seyhane.
Time to take the next step to finding Captain Rollins’ killer.
Chapter Twenty
I came out on deck and spied Josiah lingering by the railing, watching the ground crew unload the heavy-lifter moored next to us.
The barge belonged to Falcon’s Flight Transport, Silas Fairlane’s company. Mr. Fairlane’s name suited his appearance, it was true, with his golden hair and small, even features. However, it now struck me that attempting to lure me away from Winged Goods at the funeral of the company’s deceased owner seemed the act of a scavenger or a particularly savage predator rather than that of a civilized businessman.
Falcon’s Flight’s emblem, writ large on the barge’s hydrogen gasbag and depicting a bird of prey clutching crossed F’s in its claws, loomed over the smaller Mercury, eyeing us as if we were its next target.
Josiah turned as I approached, his mouth opening to greet me. But no sounds came forth even though his jaw remained hanging open.
I glanced down at myself to assure that I had not neglected some essential part of my toilette.
My pale-blue and white bodice was buttoned correctly. My skirt, with its darker-blue pleated trim, hung as straight as its design permitted. No, it appeared all was in order except for the lack of a parasol, which I knew would go unnoted by most gentlemen. I could make nothing of his reaction, so I chose to ignore it.
“Good morning, Captain,” I said, coming to attention as much as my bustle would allow. The weight of the collapsible construction along with the drape of my skirts necessitated a slight forward lean in order to counterbalance the backward pull. “Did anything untoward happen during the night?”
Josiah appeared to pull himself together. He closed his mouth, in any case, and when he opened it again, coherent words came forth. “No, M… Everley.” He stumbled over my name, and I could see the effort it took not to put the “Miss” in front of my name. “It seems last night passed without incident.”
“Well, thank the Lord for small favors. I wonder whether, with Mr. Jones delivered safely to his destination, we have seen the last of our saboteur.”
“Perhaps we have, if the sabotage was aimed at Mr. Jones and not at us. Probably not, if Mr. Jones himself was the saboteur, indicating an animosity toward Winged Goods as a whole.” Josiah frowned and leaned back on the railing to study the gasbags and rigging looming over our decks. “I have looked over your papers and the accounts book my father left and have come to the conclusion that the mishaps could well have been aimed at us. I wish I had some clue who hated my father and his business enough to go to such extremes to bring them down.”
He passed a hand over his hair, a gesture I noted he frequently made when troubled. “I assume you are off to The Russian’s Cap, to begin your investigation of my father’s death?”
I lifted my chin, expecting an argument. “I am. Shall I bring you a report on what I learn today?”
“No need, M… Everley.” He pushed off the railing and stood, tall and gleaming in his pressed uniform and polished silver buttons. “I shall accompany you.”
I wanted to protest. His previous questioning of my skills had made me perhaps too sensitive to implied insult, and I wondered if he wished to escort me as some sort of personal guardian, or perhaps he did not trust me to handle an interrogation or investigation on my own.
I did not need his protection. I had been roaming the streets of Constantinople for years—although, I must admit, always in the company of Obadiah, Reuben, or Captain Rollins himself; but still, I knew how to conduct myself in a manner unlikely to cause difficulties on these foreign shores.
However, as I looked at Josiah’s set jaw and shadowed eyes, I began to understand the pressure the man felt: to manage his father’s complex business, to keep his ship and crew safe, and yes, to find his father’s murderer and bring him to justice.
I could not expect a man like Josiah to leave such an important task to an underling. Any underling. Not even one who had proved her worth during a difficult and trying journey.
In fact, I expect I should be flattered that he had waited for me to accompany him on his investigations.
My ruminations caused too long of a break in the conversation. Josiah’s brows drew downward. “I will not hear any arguments, Everley—”
“I shall be glad of your company, sir.” I put on my sweetest smile and stepped forward to take hold of his arm. Josiah scrambled to extend the proper elbow, looking more thunderstruck at my acquiescence than I thought strictly necessary. I was not that difficult to deal with, was I?
We left the Mercury in the hands of Whitcomb and the hired guards and made our way down the gangway, across the well-trodden weeds of the airfield, and onto the dusty, bustling streets of Constantinople.
The midday sun had not yet burned off all the morning fog. Dense banks of earth-bound cloud swirled in the crooks of enclosed alleyways. Donkey-drawn carts led by figures swathed in loose pants, caftans, and heavy robes filled the streets, swirling the grey mist like milk in tea. Hawkers called out to us from shops lining the way, hurling insults as we passed without stopping. I kept half an ear o
pen to collect any new curses for later use, strangely content with both my present location and my company, despite the grimness of our mission.
The scent of roasting goat, decaying fish, cinnamon, and other spices closed in around us, and I watched as Josiah slowed his steps and took a few cautious sniffs, before his attention was caught by a woman hurrying past, heavily veiled, yet wearing a version of the voluminous trousers that most men on the street did.
“You have never ventured so far afield before, have you?” I asked, as he absorbed the exotic atmosphere. I could not hold back a smile.
He shook his head. “Not for lack of desire,” he replied. “What is that smell? There is the sea, of course, and other less pleasant things. But that licorice aroma… is it nutmeg or anise?”
I laughed. “It’s Constantinople, sir. Do you like it?”
His nose wrinkled as he took in another, less cautious, sample of the air. “Do you know? I believe I do.” He turned to smile at me, and I saw the hot glimmer of excitement he attempted to contain.
I returned his smile with one of my own. How could I not? Josiah appeared to share my own desire for adventure, for traveling to new and faraway places. My yearning for foreign sights and sounds, for new tastes and smells. My love of discovery came close to overtaking my love of the open sky, a situation I suspected Josiah also shared.
“If we have time enough, I can show you around the city, if you like,” I offered, unexpectedly shy and uncertain in the face of my growing respect… no, my growing affection for Josiah.
“I would like that,” he said. “If, that is, you allow me to call you Miss Everley for the duration of the day.”
“Does my manner of dress disturb you that much?” I sighed, feigning an irritation I did not feel. Somehow, at the moment, I did not mind so very much that Josiah saw me first as a woman. “Well, if you must, you must.” And with that coquettish reply, I guided him southward through the flow of traffic, heading for the Galata Bridge.
My steps slowed, however, as I approached the alleyway where I had found Captain Rollins a mere fortnight past. I felt a simultaneous need to revisit the spot where my dear friend had breathed his last—to pay my respects? To convince myself he was, in truth, gone?—and also a deep revulsion for the entire area. I wished to run both toward the alley, and away.
The conflicting desires battled in my breast, leaving me stalled, motionless, two streets away from the fateful site.
Josiah halted beside me. “Miss Everley, are you well?”
I drew in a breath, startled at the catch and quiver. “Yes, thank you, sir.” From Josiah’s thunderous look, I could see he did not believe me. “No, really, I am fine. It’s just… Right there, do you see? Beyond the house with the blue door. That’s where…” My voice choked off.
Josiah was no fool. He knew what I meant without my having to put it in so many cold, hard words. He took my hand and pressed it onto his arm once more, his own hands not as steady as before. He cleared his throat. “Would you show me?”
I could not refuse. As Captain Rollins’ son, he had a right to see the place, and I imagine a need as well. I squelched whatever battle raged in my breast and advanced toward the alleyway growing more visible with every step through the sun-shot mist.
At the mouth of the tunnel-like passage, I froze, my eyes locked onto the blood-darkened patch of earth, still visible if one knew where to look. “Here. Right here.”
Josiah brushed past me to enter the alley, scaring off several street dogs that were nosing through the old rags and spoiled fruit to find something edible. His booted heel came down on the stained dirt and a strangled gasp burst from my lips.
Stupid of me. Captain Rollins was not there, on the ground, anymore. Not here. Never again.
Foolish of me to expect this place to hold an echo of his spirit. I had no patience with, or belief in, those charlatans, currently so popular, who claimed to be able to communicate with the dead. I cannot imagine why I had hoped to feel Captain Rollins’ presence here.
The dead were dead. Gone on to whatever afterlife they merited. Captain Rollins would neither know nor care that his son had stepped in the remains of his lifeblood, dried, rotted, and scattered by many passing feet.
“Can you tell me how it happened?” Josiah’s hushed voice startled me from my reverie. I looked up to see him studying the scorched and burned heap of discarded baskets and crates piled against one wall, blocking the way. His hands were clasped behind his back, knuckles white.
For all my conviction that this place was no different now than it had been before Captain Rollins had been murdered, I could not force myself to step forward.
Keeping my voice as low as I thought would carry over the noise of the street, I told him of how I found the captain, throat slit, lying right here at the mouth of the alley. I told him about going through his pockets; finding his money and watch still there, along with the note and the oddly stained brass button.
Josiah turned toward me, his gaze piercing even through curling wisps of fog. “And you have never seen a button like that before? Not on any airman’s uniform, from any company?”
I shook my head. “I cannot say that I have previously paid much attention to such details, and I have had precious little chance to correct that lack during our last voyage, but no, I did not recognize either the button or the figure on it. Perhaps you could show it to other officers, those with longer service than I.”
“No loose brass button was included in the personal effects returned to me with my father’s body.”
“No button? But who could have taken it? Who would have?” No wonder he had been so angry with me when he had discovered my notes. He must have believed I had made up the story out of whole cloth, perhaps dishonoring his father in the process.
I stiffened, unsure if Josiah’s harsh tone indicated his disbelief in the existence of the button, and therefore, of my story, or if he finally realized that his father’s death was, indeed, part of a larger conspiracy. The mysterious missing button seemed like a convincing argument to me. “I assure you, sir, the button was there when I found him.”
He strode out of the alley, pausing as he reached my side. “I know it. As, I am sure, was the note, although you and my father were by all accounts the only people to lay eyes upon it.”
I staggered, and threw out an arm to steady myself as the loss of even more evidence as to the identity of the murderer struck me like a blow. “The note gone, too? But how? Who?” I shook my head, trying to think. “No, at least three people saw that button and note. Me, your father, and the man who stole it.”
“As you say,” Josiah replied. Not meeting my eyes, he held out his elbow for me to grasp.
The lifting fog did little to lift the silence that fell between us as we wound our way through the crowded streets to the bridge. My mind went over all I knew of the case, treading the same ground over and over again.
Someone meant to punish Captain Rollins; that seemed obvious, since the man had been murdered in cold blood in an alley. That someone might now be attempting to take down Winged Goods, as well. But that did not make sense. If the target was Edmund Rollins, then why ruin his life’s work after the man was dead and could not be tortured by the failure?
Could the target be Josiah? Had he managed, in his short life, to make so determined an enemy? Josiah was irritating at times, but not to the point of inspiring such dedicated revenge.
Perhaps I was making up a conspiracy out of whole cloth, and the sabotage had nothing to do with the Rollins family at all.
However, the missing button and note certainly seemed to point to some sort of plot, somewhere.
Chapter Twenty-One
Our silence held as we wound our way to the base of the Galata Bridge, paid our toll of a penny apiece, and stepped onto the roadway. The fog gave up at last, and Constantinople stretched before our eyes. I paused, lifting my gaze to the ancient city covering the mount across the Golden Horn.
Before
us lay mosques with their multiple spires reaching like needles into the sky, blocks of buildings of pink and red and white, and the Galata tower, round, tiered and soaring above all else, from which this bridge took its name.
Ships with triangular white sails cruised below us on the sea. People passed us on the bridge, men in suits and fezzes, ladies in walking dresses and others fully swathed in veils, stopping at the little shops and eateries to either side. Conversations in a dozen languages filled the air, in between the cries of merchants hawking their wares and the yips and growls of the street dogs.
Josiah, beside me, took it all in.
His arm lifted and sank as he sucked in a deep gulp of air and blew it out. “I can see why my father loved this city.”
“He never brought you here to see it?”
Josiah moved toward the far shore once more, with me tagging along on his arm. “No. Mother wished to keep me closer to home. And my duties aboard the Eros took up much of my time.”
I chanced a look up at his face, surprised at the tightness of his tone. He had a lost, over-awed look in his eyes, quickly disguised as he caught me studying him. I gave him a teasing nudge with my elbow. “Well, it’s high time you started getting acquainted with the larger world.”
Leaving the bridge and the shushing waves of the Bosporus behind, I guided us to the lower opening of the Tunel, the Turkish version of the underground railway recently introduced in London.
Where the London system traveled horizontally, covering several neighborhoods, the Tunel consisted mainly of a steam-driven cog-train, hauling passengers and their conveyances from sea level up several hundred steep feet to the Grande Rue de Pera, in the Beyoglu area, the province of the English tourist. Schools, hotels, embassies, restaurants, and expensive shops lined the avenue, serving as a focus for the European influence in the city.
Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic Page 17