by Adam Millard
How thoughtful of him…
“What do you think?” Octavius asked.
His voice startled her. She’d been miles away, and suddenly, she found herself staring down at a small contraption no bigger than a thumbnail. She could just about make out its wings, and the small golden body beneath. Once again, the tinkerer had opted for an insectile whatsit. He couldn’t get enough of those damn creepy crawlies.
“Looks like a fly,” Abigale said, picking it up and turning it over. She could see six tiny legs, no thicker than a strand of hair. It always amazed her how he could be so intricate with a hammer, a grinder, and a few good prayers.
“It is a fly,” he said. “It will act in the exact same way as those scorpions you lost.”
Again with the damn scorpions. Abigale thought about apologising again, but it would do no good. She would be hearing about those abandoned contraptions for quite some time.
“We just need to set it on the same frequency as your monovision eyeglass, and you’re good to go.”
Abigale handed the tiny gadget back to Octavius. “What else you got, old man?” It was affectionate, and not in the least bit insulting.
Octavius shot her a stern glance that quickly transformed into a smile. “Less of the old,” he said. “I’m very sensitive. And you’re one to talk. I’ve seen those silvers pushing through all that red.” He gestured to her head.
Abigale’s mouth fell open, and she reached up to finger her hair. He was, of course, joshing. She might be one of the greatest thieves in the world, but her gullibility was something she needed to work on.
The tinkerer placed the clockwork fly in a small, black box and handed it to Abigale. “I know you hate guns, but I’d rather you carried one on this occasion.”
He walked back to his workshop, lighting his pipe as he went. When he returned, he was brandishing a rather splendid looking weapon. Its brass grip looked as if it had been designed specifically for her small hands, but that was the only understated thing about it.
“I call it Big Daddy,” Octavius said.
Abigale could see why. It was an apt name.
“Steam-powered ammunition, holds six in the chamber.” He spun the cylinder like some Wild West wannabe. “Instead of a hammer, you pull this bit out here.” He tugged at a brass nugget at the rear of the gun, and a previously hidden section slid out. “And then you pull the trigger,” he said. “That gauge on the top will tell you when it’s ready to fire. Keep it topped up and the needle will stay up out of the red. The last thing you want is to pull the trigger, only to find you haven’t given her enough steam.”
“The last thing I want is to kill anyone,” she said. “I’m a thief, not an assassin. You’re mistaking me for John Bellingham.”
“I had a feeling that’s what you’d say,” the tinkerer sighed. “So I created these.” He reached into his pocket and came out with a handful of green cylinders, which shimmered upon his palm like glow-worms. “These will have all the effects of a real bullet, but without the death. Anyone comes at you, don’t hesitate. Take them down. They will live to see another day, and you will have enough time to make good your escape.”
She took one of the rounds from Octavius’s palm and examined it. At one end was a tiny pin, almost imperceptible. “Puts them to sleep?” she said.
“For a while,” Octavius said. “It leaves quite a nasty mark, too. You don’t have a problem with bruising your enemies, do you?” He sardonically smiled.
“Bruises are fine,” she said. “But I draw the line at grazes and nicks.” She dropped the round into his palm. “How many do I have?”
Octavius did a little count in his head, his lips moving, but nothing coming out. Then he said, “Thirty-six, all told. That means you use them wisely. Don’t go shooting pigeons at the top of the Eiffel Tower. If you run out, that’s it. I want that gun back in one piece, too. It’s a prototype.”
Oh, spiffing! I’m off to shoot people with something that hasn’t even been tested properly. Jolly good!
“I like pigeons,” she said. “And I expect to return with thirty-six unused rounds.” Gullible but optimistic, that was Abigale Egars.
“I’ve made a few adjustments to your glass cutter, too. Should be powerful enough to get through an inch now. Maybe more.”
“Wow, you really don’t want me to mess this up, do you?”
Octavius’s smile faltered. “I don’t want you getting caught,” he said, “or…” he trailed off.
Abigale knew how that sentence finished. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “But when this thing is out of my head, I’m paying a visit to that bastard Mordecai and shoving Big Daddy so far up his—”
“Abigale Egars, you are not too old for a spanking,” Octavius said, feigning astonishment.
Abigale sniggered.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
She nodded, rolling her eyes. “I promise. Honestly, it’s not as if we haven’t done this a hundred times before.” It was closer to a thousand, but Abigale had stopped counting after the tenth. The only thing that changed was the setting and the target article. It was easy to forget how many times she’d done it.
“This is different,” Octavius said, suddenly very serious. “If there are wizards involved, it could be very dangerous.”
Abigale had forgotten all about the wizards. Maybe it was because she was still coming to terms that such things actually existed. “Big Daddy works on wizards, doesn’t it?” She smiled, but it was forced. The atmosphere in the workshop had changed to an altogether more solemn one, and she was certain the temperature had dropped.
“Let’s hope you don’t have to find out,” Octavius said, which was about as comforting as a queen-size, four-poster bed of nails. “If they get wind that you’re in possession of something they want, they will follow you to the ends of the Earth.”
“Okay, stop now. You’re starting to creep me out.” It was true. Gooseflesh peppered her skin, and she shuddered at the thought of being pursued by anything more formidable than the Parisian Police.
“You’re right,” Octavius said, rattling the pipe against his teeth. “No point in speculating. I’ll just be happy when you’re back in London, that’s all.” Abigale knew he was thinking back where he could keep an eye on her, but he would never say it aloud, for fear she wouldn’t understand. “Well, I haven’t left yet,” she said. “And if I don’t memorise all this by midnight, I won’t even make it as far as Poseidon’s Gale. They’ll have me in a cage by tomorrow afternoon.” Alcorn would love that. He’d probably visit regularly, if only to tease her with bits of food. She didn’t know what gaol was like, but according to the vision in her head, it was similar to a zoo, only with more poo flinging and less yard time.
Octavius nodded. “You’re right. I’ll let you get back to it.” He looked, for a moment, as if he was about to add something else, but then he gave up and made his way back across to the workshop.
The sound of machinery kicking in spurred her on. The thought of aiming Big Daddy at someone and pulling the trigger distracted her for a second, but then she fell back into the work, learning everything she could from the pages Mordecai had left her. It was going to be a long night.
And a hell of a long day to follow.
9
People. Glorious people everywhere. The sun was shining, and hansom cabs pulled by magnificent beasts made their way along the cobbles, delivering the affluent to their desired destination. A person would have to be a miserable wretch not to appreciate the glory of life in that moment.
Abigale stood facing the Victoria and Albert Museum with the weight of the world upon her shoulders, and even she felt a grandness that she’d never experienced before. The weight of Big Daddy beneath her shawl was a constant reminder of what she was about to do. However, if she pretended it was something else, like a handbag filled with coins, or a particularly weighty article of jewellery, it somewhat soothed her.
She calmly made her way up the steps
at the front of the museum, being careful not to trip. A trip would send the giant weapon from its holster and sprawling across the pavement. With all the people around, it would be disastrous. A person didn’t have to be a wizard to spot a brass and steel hand cannon.
As she reached the top of the steps, she took a long, deep breath. London smelt good. Three words she never thought she would put together, but it was true. There was a sweet tang in the air, perhaps from all the classy perfume wafting around. It was what Abigale imagined heaven to smell like.
She pulled her satchel tight to her shoulder and made her way into the museum, where a concierge waved her on as if she was of no interest to him. Abigale was a little annoyed he didn’t offer her a smile, internally grumping that it was their only job.
She turned into the room and took it all in. No matter how many times she’d pored over Mordecai’s pages, how many times she’d examined the diagrams and photographs, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. She might as well have retired to bed early, instead of cramming into the early hours.
Beautiful women sauntered around, closed parasols swinging from arms drenched in jewellery, while men in expensive waistcoats glanced up at hanging art with concentrated enthusiasm. If Abigale had known the place was so elegant, she would have targeted it before then.
She casually walked the breadth of the foyer. She wasn’t even in one of the main rooms, and already, she was excited. The objective was not to allow her sudden exhilaration to show. That was the kind of thing that garnered attention, though not from the concierge, apparently. He was far too busy being grumpy to notice an obviously out-of-place girl’s strange elation.
A fine oil painting of an African elephant hung on the wall. It was nowhere near as grand as Wanderlust, but then she doubted anything was. Still, as far as elephants went, it was all there. Four legs and a trunk, yes indeed. The artist certainly knew his elephants from his aardvarks.
She made her way through the large double doors at the edge of the room, and was greeted almost immediately by the exquisite sound of Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis”. Abigale wasn’t a connoisseur of classical music, but she knew a good beat when she heard it, and old Ludwig was a favourite of hers. People could keep their Bach, Mozart and Chopin. Beethoven, in her insignificant opinion, made those others sound amateurish. And he had the best hair.
In the centre of the room, several ladies and gentlemen gathered around a small display. She couldn’t see what they were looking at, but their mumbles of approval suggested it was something worthwhile. She made her way into the room, still doing a damn good job blending and absorbing her surroundings as she went.
It was second nature to her. If she walked past a door, she took it in. If she saw a window up on the second floor, she marked it down. If three guards were chatting casually over at the edge of the room, she wanted to remember that. If there were a group of people blocking her exits, she needed to memorise that fact. For when the time came, she didn’t want to be hanging about for the police to show, and she certainly didn’t fancy getting wrestled to the ground by a trio of overzealous security guards.
She recalled the plans, laying them all out in her mind. “Bansei” was in the room two across from where she stood, and she would get there in her own sweet time. The time she spent wandering was the calm before the storm, and unlike when she’d stood facing Harriett Haversham’s, a few nights prior, she was absolutely inspired. She took long, deep breaths, regulating her heartbeat and making sure that she didn’t start to perspire. It was all part of the game, and it was a game that she knew well. The rules never changed, but the stakes did.
“Are you here for anything in particular,” a resonant voice said.
Abigale almost screamed. Way to blend, you fool. She turned, expecting to find one of the security guards standing beside her. That would have been very bad, indeed. But it wasn’t a guard, and thankfully it wasn’t John Wesley Alcorn, either, which would have been worse than all the guards combined. It was a middle-aged gentleman with a monocle pressed tight to his eye-socket. His smile was relaxed and the Baker Street bowler perched upon his head was an aspect she’d seen on many a city banker.
“Sorry I startled you,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”
Abigale sighed. The poor soul had no idea how close he had come to being the first volunteer to test out Big Daddy. “Yes, it is,” she said. “I’m not here for anything in particular” A bit of a white lie never hurt anyone. “Though I did quite like the elephant painting back there.”
The man grunted, clearly disappointed with her lack of taste. “Yes, well, I’m here for the Chinese exhibition. I’m not from London, but it came highly recommended by a dear friend of mine from Wimbledon.” He turned up the end of the sentence.
Quite why he would intend it as a question was a mystery to Abigale. Perhaps he was inferring that she must, of course, know his dear friend from Wimbledon.
Don’t all you Londoners know one another?
Chinese exhibition? Dammit, Abigale thought. That’s what I’m here for.
“Well, have a very pleasant day,” he said, tipping his hat and smiling a thin-lipped smile. “I hope you discover something you like more than that…elephant.” And with that, off he went, through the door at the left of the room.
The door that led to the room, which led to the door to “Bansei”.
Stay calm, stay focused, and whatever you do, don’t talk to anyone else. She’d already made a mistake by conversing with the out-of-town banker, not that he’d given her much choice. What was it with people these days? Thinking it perfectly acceptable behaviour to just start a conversation with a complete stranger? The world, Abigale thought, has gone mad.
She really wished she was wearing her monovision eyeglass, but that wasn’t acceptable, not out where everyone would see it. There was nothing more conspicuous than a corseted girl with a luminously glowing contraption strapped to her face. It was in her satchel, where it would remain unless she absolutely needed it. Still, she felt strange going into a caper without it, almost as if a piece of her was missing.
Without wasting any more time, Abigale made her way into the next room. Beethoven continued to drift from seemingly nowhere, and it relaxed her, bringing her back to her senses. In her opinion, that was another thing he was good at. If that was Haydn flowing into the museum, Abigale would have been trotting around the room, removing her overbust corset and swinging it around her head. Thankfully, it wasn’t Haydn.
The room was a little larger than the last. In the corner, a mediaeval knight stood guard, a blunt sword beside him. A flag hung upon the wall depicting a huge red dragon with flames erupting from its mouth. Beneath that, a set of stocks and a myriad of torturing apparatuses stood, none of which looked benevolent. Then again, a criminal couldn’t be persecuted with a feather and a few choice words.
Still blending and hoping that the banker in room three would let her browse in peace, she made her way through to the Chinese exhibition to where “Bansei” would be displayed.
The room, much to Abigale’s delight, was almost uninhabited. A woman stood at the far side, mesmerised by a traditional painting of a woman, replete with cheong-sam, battling a grotesque horned beast. It wasn’t what Abigale would call beautiful, but it was a step up from the elephant in the foyer.
There, standing a few feet from the hypnotised lady, was the banker, bent over a glass case, scrutinising a row of battered coins. He didn’t notice Abigale at the door. He was far too busy poring over ancient currency to notice anything else. Occasionally, he muttered appreciatively as if he knew exactly what he was looking at. If Abigale had been right with her assessment, and he was indeed a banker, then coins were his forte.
Abigale took a tentative step forwards, remembering herself and trying not to stand out. In her mind, a map presented itself to her. She closed her eyes for a second, arranging things so that they were just so. She thought she heard the ticking of the device up ab
ove her skull, ready to kill her, but then it waned and all she could hear was Beethoven. Wonderful, wonderful Beethoven.
She opened her eyes, and everything seemed to make sense. The clarity was overwhelming, but she managed to compose herself. Nothing less than complete control would suffice.
Six steps forward, the cabinet directly to her left. She turned and walked toward it, her gaze immediately drawn to the large, green vase behind the glass.
“Bansei”. Nothing special. Nothing that she would happily place next to her collection of porcelain swine. It looked, well, old. The glaze was all cracked, peeling off in places, and once again, she found herself wondering how it had survived all those years in one piece. Apparently priceless, and yet Abigale would have given all the money she had in her pocket not to have to look at it ever again.
Just then, a group of gents announced their entrance to the room with hearty banter and sonorous chortles. Abigale could see them in the glass, and, therefore, remained wholly focused on the vase. She didn’t have to turn, to face the potential witnesses, to offer them a glimpse of the girl that took “Bansei”. She knew their positions thanks to the replications in the cabinet’s glass, and they were ambling across to the other side of the room, which suited Abigale no end.
With her back to those present, she slowly removed the glass cutter from her satchel and pushed it to the cabinet. There was a slight tinkle as steel met glass, but the jolly fellows on the other side of the room were loud enough to cover it. Abigale took a deep breath and began to move the blade around in a wide arc. There was a muted screech as the blade cut through the glass, and she saw in the reflection, the woman examining the Chinese-demon painting. Momentarily distracted by the odd sound the lady glance across her shoulder. Abigale paused and waited for the woman to mind her own business before continuing.
It took less than a minute to create the hole, but it felt like an eternity to Abigale. She eased the circle of glass out and placed it into her satchel, leaving no evidence. She slipped her hand in through the aperture, and just as she brushed the cold, flaying glaze of “Bansei”, a voice stopped her in her tracks.