Lord Bobbins and the Romanian Ruckus (A TeslaCon Novel Book 1)

by Sean Little

  Clarke’s breath caught in his throat. “What the hell?”

  “Let me ask you again: Do you believe in werewolves?”

  Clarke picked up the picture with trembling fingers. He examined it in detail, but could find no trickery, no forgery. It looked like the real deal. He set the photo down and looked up at Bobbins. The man in the red coat was watching him with his eyebrow raised. He was inscrutable. Clarke made a mental note never to play the man in poker.

  “Lord Bobbins, at this juncture I do not believe in werewolves…but, I’m very interested to hear the story behind this photo.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Offer He Couldn’t Refuse

  “I recently came into some land, Mr. Clarke,” said Lord Bobbins. “A rather lovely estate along the Carpathian Mountain range in Romania. There is a castle, a fair amount land that includes farmland, mountains, and forests, and I will be the unofficial primar of a small village near the castle—that means the mayor, you know. It has fallen on my shoulders to make certain that the town has a viable economy and that their needs are met, lest they decide to revisit Vlad the Impaler’s favorite tricks upon me.”

  “And let me guess: werewolves.”

  “Not at first,” said Bobbins. “At first, my groundskeeper sent back nothing but positive letters. The people in the village were singing my praises, they were looking forward to what I could bring to their economy, and they were happy with the political ties to England. Apparently, the castle’s previous owner was something of a delinquent landlord and had vanished, leaving the people with very little. Over the course of a year, the letters began to take a downward turn, though. It started with the disappearances of a couple of foresters. Then, a mine outside of town collapsed, killing several miners.”

  “Not werewolf-related, yet.”

  “No, just the standard sorts of tragedies. However, the letters from my groundskeeper became more haggard. His penmanship began to change. See for yourself.” Bobbins handed Clarke a letter. The penmanship was neat and even, a beautifully rendered cursive.

  “He has a very nice hand. Better than I could ever manage.”

  Bobbins produced another letter from his folder. He opened it with a whip of his wrist. “That letter is from shortly after I took over the estate. This one was written just after the mine disaster.” The letter was not nearly as neat as the first one. The hand was more ragged, uneven. The loops and swirls were now craggy arcs, as if a trembling hand had written them.

  “This is more what my writing looks like,” said Clarke.

  Bobbins produced a third letter. “This is the last missive I received. This is the letter that included the daguerreotype.” It was written with a jittery, scrambling hand, a disastrous scrawl that looked as if the letter had been written while going down a cliff face in a carriage.

  “I am sensing that the man had an issue.”

  “Quite,” said Bobbins. “I have not heard from my caretaker in a month. I required him to write weekly as part of his contract. I like to know what is going on in my holdings. I fear that I must journey to Romania to make certain nothing has befallen him.”

  “And you want me to go along?”

  “I want to hire you as an investigator, Mr. Clarke. And potentially, a bodyguard.”

  “I don’t much get ‘round for the killing business anymore. I lost my taste for it.”

  “I didn’t say you had to kill anyone. You will be provided weapons, of course. Whether you choose to use them or not, that’s up to you. I need a man who can examine my castle and the town and get to the bottom of this photograph.”

  Clarke snorted. “So, what you’re really saying is that you want a damned fool to become werewolf chow so’s you don’t have to.”

  “The werewolf has been shot, Mr. Clarke. I hardly think it will be a threat any longer.”

  “They use silver bullets?”

  Bobbins raised an eyebrow at Clarke. “I have no idea.”

  “If it is a werewolf, given what I’ve heard about that sort of thing, unless they used silver bullets that were blessed by some holy man, usually a Catholic priest, it will return.”

  Bobbins clapped his hands. “See! I knew you were the man for the job! Only a moment after being hired, and you knew something of the subject. You will be perfect.”

  Clarke stood and put his hands on his hips. “I must politely decline the job, Mr. Bobbins—”

  “Lord.”

  “—and I thank you for your hospitality as well as the ride in your fancy ship, but I do believe it has come time for a parting of the ways.”

  Bobbins sighed dramatically. “If that is how you feel, then.” He picked up a small, silver bell from the small table before him. He rang it once. It made a dainty tintinnabulation. A second later, the door opened and the butler was there, chest out, chin up, awaiting a command.

  “Sandsworth, we are done with tea. You may take the tray.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Also, I’m afraid that Mr. Clarke here will not be joining us for the transatlantic crossing.”

  “Very sorry to hear that, sir.”

  Bobbins gave another melodramatic sigh, clearly milking the scene. “Yes, it is most distressing, isn’t it? Please throw the bag of money we had for him out the window.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Wait? What money? Out the window?” Clarke stammered. “Wait just a second! Why would you throw perfectly good money out the window?”

  “It’s that silly American currency. It will hardly do me any favors in Europe, will it?” said Bobbins. “Honestly, America should still be using the pound sterling. It would create a lot less problems. Why put stodgy old men in silly wigs on your currency? Seems silly.”

  “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much money is in that bag you’re just so casually going to scatter to the night winds?”

  Bobbins smiled politely. “How much would make you come to Romania with me?”

  Clarke cursed himself. The first rule of negotiation was to never show your hand. However, his desperation, which he had not thought to put in check, was showing his hand and then some. Bobbins had him over a coal. He tried to claw back any advantage he could. “Plenty and then some.”

  “Could you put that into a round figure?”

  Clarke shrugged. He didn’t really want to go to Europe. He didn’t really want to investigate werewolf sightings in Romania. Nothing about this appealed to him, but a considerable amount of coin might make this ordeal worth it. He shot high. “A hundred grand.”

  “In American money?” said Bobbins.

  “Coin of the realm, Philadelphia-style. American dollars.”

  Bobbins licked his lip and moved his hand in the air as if doing some sort of arithmetic on an invisible board before him. “Best I can do is fifty grand, but it will be in the silly currency.”

  Clarke felt his legs go weak. Fifty grand was stupid money. It was get outta Dodge, Philly, and any other sort of town he wanted to get out of money. It was private island someplace warm where tanned, buxom young ladies in very little clothing brought him booze in coconut cups money. Clarke fell backward into his chair.

  “Oh, wonderful!” exclaimed Bobbins, clapping his hands together beneath his chin. “Sandsworth, good news! Mr. Clarke has elected to stay on in my employ. Don’t throw the useless money out just yet. Stick it in the safe and write Mr. Clarke’s name on the bag.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler departed from the study, closing the door behind him.

  “I need my things. I left clothes in a hotel room in Philly.”

  “Clothes are replaceable, Mr. Clarke. I will have you outfitted by my personal tailor when we get to London.”

  “We’re going to London?”

  Bobbins pointed at a world map on the wall. “It is on the way to Romania.”

  “We’re going now?” said Clarke. “This feels sudden.”

  “I’m not one to waste time,
Mr. Clarke. My personal calendar is always full. We strike in the moment before the iron cools.”

  The door to the study was suddenly yanked open. In the frame, a pale woman in a tan dress with a light plaid pattern on it stood. She had hard eyes that were a deep, mahogany brown and hair to match. Her hair was tied up in a chignon on the back of her head. She looked tough, Clarke noted. He’d seen women like her out west. He glanced at her hands and saw that they were not the smooth, soft hands of a rich man’s daughter. She’d been in fights. She’d worked for a living.

  “Is he coming with us?” she said in a British accent that was much more down-to-Earth than Bobbins’ posh affectation. There was a no-nonsense tone to her voice.

  “Ms. Shaw, please join us!” said Bobbins. “Would you like Sandsworth to get you a cup for tea?”

  “Is he coming with us?” she repeated.

  “Indeed,” said Bobbins. “His mercenary little heart couldn’t turn down the money. I like it when people have simple, direct needs. Makes everything else easy.”

  “Stupid,” said Ms. Shaw. “You’ll probably be dead before you get a chance to spend it.”

  Clarke got to his feet, as was proper in the presence of a lady. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We haven’t met. I’m—”

  “I know who you are, and frankly I’m not impressed. Sit down.”

  Bobbins remained sitting, but he flashed a toothy grin at Clarke. “Mr. Nicodemus Clarke, please allow me to introduce you to my bodyguard, Ms. Dolly Shaw, of the Sussex Shaws.”

  “I’m not familiar with your family, Ms. Shaw. My apologies,” said Clarke.

  “No reason you should be.”

  “You’re a bodyguard? That hardly seems a fitting occupation for a lady as beautiful as yourself.”

  Shaw rolled her eyes so hard, it almost made the gondola of the airship sway. “Save it for some poor, desperate, needy thing who will actually buy your empty lies, Mr. Clarke. And I’m a very good bodyguard.” She folded her arms in front of her, indignant to Clarke’s suggestion of her femininity.

  “I never implied that you weren’t,” said Clarke, “only that it is unusual to see a woman of your beauty in that line of work.”

  “I only hire the best, Mr. Clarke,” said Bobbins.

  “Until now,” said Shaw. “If you’re coming with, you better know what you’re doing.”

  “I can hold my own,” said Clarke.

  “Fine. See that you do, then.” Shaw shut the door to the study without entering. Slammed, actually. The door closed so hard it made the airship jiggle.

  “She’s a bit brusque,” said Bobbins, “but she is the best. I trust her with my life. That should tell you something. You’ll be working with her when we get to Romania. Until then, she has a tendency to stay to herself when we’re airborne. If I were you, though—I would refrain from making her angry.”

  “That’s some pretty solid advice, I reckon,” said Clarke. “What’s she like when she’s angry?”

  “No one has survived to tell,” said Bobbins. “More tea?”

  The Endeavour crossed the ocean in two days and two nights, arriving in London at six in the morning on the third day. There were faster airships, but none of those would have been as luxurious.

  The trip had been filled with exquisite meals prepared by Bobbins’ personal chef, a diminutive Swiss man who spoke only German, save for a few fragmented English phrases thrown in for good measure. He seemed to understand English perfectly, though. Bobbins never said anything to him in another language and every task was performed without confusion, every meal delivered on time and to Bobbins’ specifications. The chef called Clarke “Cowboy” and accented this by shooting him with finger guns. Bang, bang! The chef cooked all his food in a kitchen the size of a closet, which only made the deliciousness of the meals all the more impressive. They dined on squab and tenderloin, lavish German dishes of which Clarke couldn’t pronounce the names, and egg dishes where the eggs were light and fluffy, filled with flavor. The chef would then ply them with rich desserts and fine Swiss chocolates in the evenings. Clarke had never eaten so well in his life.

  Between the meals, Bobbins regaled Clarke with tales of his travels and adventures, his hopes for the British Empire, and his visions for the future of England. It was clear to Clarke that Bobbins was an idea man, a big-picture dreamer of the highest order. Bobbins was also a world-class talker, able to keep a monologue moving at length well-peppered with anecdotes, reenactments, sound-effects, and humorous asides. Clarke was not so much of a conversationalist, nor was he a skilled listener, but since he had nowhere else to be, he would sit in the large sitting room of the gondola and nod along to Bobbins’ tales.

  Miss Shaw kept to herself during the transit. She appeared briefly for meals, usually taking a small plate to her room after an exchange of pleasantries that was just long enough to be accepted as polite for mixed company, without being terse or rude. She would then excuse herself and disappear into her room, which was adjacent to Bobbins’ master suite.

  Clarke was housed in a guest bedroom. It was decorated simply, but not cheaply. The bed was narrow, but its quality put it as one of the finest mattresses on which Clarke had ever slept. There was a small, but handsome oak desk with paper and a fine quill pen. There was a small bookcase of novels and poetry books. When he wasn’t sleeping or listening to Bobbins, he could read. Normally, Clarke wasn’t much of a reader, but being three-thousand feet into the aether, there was little else to do. He walked the gondola rail a few times, but could only see the dark black water of the Atlantic below him, when the weather conditions allowed it. Otherwise, there was only sun and the puffy white bottoms of the clouds above stretched out before him like a carpet. Besides, at that altitude, the gondola rail was frigid and raging with wind. No one went out on it, if he could help it. The crew looked at Clarke as if he was insane when he suggested it.

  After dawn on the third day, when the zeppelin began its descent, Clarke stood at the bow of the gondola, clutched the rail, and watched the city of London splay out below him. He’d been to London before, sure, but that had been on a boat, a long watery voyage of almost twelve days. This time, he was arriving in style. It was an arrival worthy of a man who was tasked with saving the world, even if the world was oblivious to it.

  Clarke had never been one who sought greatness or heroics, it had just been thrust upon him by circumstance and he ended up being good at it. When he had just been a boy and joined the Army to get away from his father, he didn’t ask to be made a sniper, but he had a way with a gun. And he was good at the whole aspect of being a sniper. He could think like the enemy. He knew where they would be and when they would be there. He could creep through the bush silent as a garter snake, drop his heartbeat below fifty beats just by thinking about it, and he squeezed the trigger slow and steady, never fearing the jump of the rifle. He could camp motionless, letting the mosquitoes and sand fleas turn him into their own personal buffet, and never take a swat at them, even when he knew he could. He was ruthless, too. In those days of war, he had no problems watching a man die. He was as lethal a sniper as had ever come out of the 141st. Later, when he was taking mercenary work for foreign powers, those talents had come in quite handy for pulling his group out of snares. At some point, the brain just decides it has had enough. And then those talents just…lessened. When you start thinking about retirement, you stop working hard enough to keep your job.

  London was much, much larger than New York or Philadelphia. It was a larger city than most in the world. The steamsmog was thick as Endeavour descended through the clouds. The industrial furnaces belched black smoke out of towering brick chimneys to add to the choking miasma. The buildings were showing the wear of generations of life and living. All in all, it was pretty horrid. It made Clarke long for the simple, pollution-free air of the American rural areas.

  The dirigible cruised low over the city, heading toward the massive field that served as London’s aerodrome. Dozens of airships circled
in holding patterns around the field. Clarke looked at the tail-fins and saw Denmark, Sweden, Germany, and France in the mix. There were private and public ships either taking off from the aerodrome or landing at it day and night every day of the year.

  A steady stream of Steamcabs, horse-drawn hackneys and broughams, and long lines of foot traffic was moving to, or away from, the aerodrome constantly. Deliveries of goods and people were constant. The streets surrounding the airfield were lined with restaurants, vendor carts, and shops of all sorts. Men and women, boys and girls, all milled about, either working or spending coin. For shortly after dawn, it was incredibly crowded and busy, but the aerodrome never slept and neither did commerce.

  Bobbins joined Clarke at the rail of the gondola. “Ah, Brittania. I’ve missed it, Mr. Clarke. There are things to be said about New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, but London is my home and heart.”

  “I’ve been here a few times,” said Clarke.

  “But never on my dime!” said Bobbins. “I will have a carriage and driver waiting to take us for supplies and a light breakfast. We will get you outfitted for Romania. I hope you don’t mind, but I had Sandsworth send your sizes to my tailor ahead of time. He will have a wardrobe waiting for you.”

  “Much obliged,” said Clarke. “How do you send messages from a dirigible?”

  “Pigeon. They are trained to return to my London abode, and my servants there pluck the messages and take care of the rest.”

  “What about weapons?”

  “What about them?”

  “Aren’t we going to need them?”

  “Oh, Ms. Shaw takes care of all that. I’m sure she’ll give you a pistol if she thinks you’ll need a pistol.”

  Clarke frowned. “I’m not sure I like that. I like to think I know my own needs pretty well.”

  “Then just ask her for a pistol, or whatever. I don’t like to sully my hands with such things. That’s why I hired Ms. Shaw.”

  Endeavour circled its way down to the field, and a team of workers caught its mooring ropes and secured it to cleats set in cement blocks that were well anchored into the ground.