The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  Raised voices, heavy footsteps; a hand jerked at the back of John’s coat; he felt himself almost topple over the side of the wagon.

  With a flick of his wrists, John’s hands were free. He let himself fall, landing on his feet, lashing out blind at his assailant who cried out in surprise. John tore the bag from his head.

  A gleam of torchlight shone from a blade. John ducked as the knife thudded against the side of the wagon. He drove hooking blows into his attacker’s ribs, a quick flurry, one-two-three. The man fell to the ground. A celestial leapt forwards, and John ducked, then jerked upwards, connecting with a blistering uppercut. Another man came, and another, not just celestials, but Romani – he recognised their curses, their outlandish dress. He twisted, blocked, countered, realised his foes were fighting each other as well as him.

  Xiang strode into the fray, hacking aside a gypsy with a fierce blow to the temple, aiming a kick at John. Before John could even brace himself, he flew backwards five yards, vivid pain in his chest where Xiang’s heel connected. John fell into the arms of more men, who held him fast. The gypsy who had pulled him from the wagon was similarly restrained, and John stared into the man’s hate-filled eyes.

  Andre. The leader of a gypsy troupe John had long thought fled abroad. Andre had loved Rosanna once, had treated the ‘Five Sisters’ like family. But he had lost her heart to John, and his resentment of that fact had never been more clear.

  ‘What is it the English say?’ sneered Xiang. ‘There is no love lost between you?’

  ‘Dog!’ spat Andre, struggling against the men who now held him. The other gypsies held back. John wondered how many of them also recognised him, and harboured him ill will. He felt sick to his stomach.

  ‘What are you doing here? Why do you work with these men?’ John demanded.

  ‘How dare you ask anything of me? I owe you nothing, treacherous worm!’

  ‘Rosanna? Is she with you?’ John asked, a glimmer of hope filling him as he realised the significance of it all. If Andre had anything to do with securing Elsbet, then Rosanna must be behind it.

  ‘She is lost to you,’ Andre growled. ‘And to me.’

  ‘What does that mean? Does she live?’

  A hand snatched at John’s throat before he could say more. The tong leader stood before him.

  ‘That is enough. You promised not to resist – a man who breaks his word does not last long amongst our kind.’

  Xiang released John’s throat, and planted a clubbing right hook into his stomach. John gasped, the breath forced from his lungs, bile rising in his throat. The bag was placed over John’s head once more, and his hands tied, more tightly than before. His ankles were bound this time, too, and he found himself hoisted upwards, and thrown unceremoniously onto the wagon.

  John heard another exchange between Xiang and Andre. ‘The girl is yours, gypsy,’ the celestial barked. ‘Take her away, far away, and never return. Do not test us again. The prisoner belongs to the Artist. The debt to you is now paid, you understand?’

  There was a harsh exchange, but Andre relented, and eventually cartwheels crunched through piles of fallen leaves, and receded into the distance. Before John had been bound, he had barely had time to take in his surroundings in the dark and confusion. He was sure they were near the coast, with a forest at their backs, but that was all.

  As his own wagon lurched on, John wondered just what deal the gypsies had done with the Artist, and just what Andre had meant when he had said Rosanna was lost.

  EIGHTEEN

  John had stood in darkness for nearly half an hour, or so he estimated. He could smell sea air. The ground beneath his feet was soft, sandy. The sound of nesting gulls nearby scraped through him, like the cries of a discomfited baby. His legs were numb, but no longer bound. His hands were tied behind his back. Cold wind bit at his fingers. He was almost thankful for the hessian sack over his head, which protected him from the elements. Each time he had tried to move from the spot, he had received a hard slap to the head, or a jab in the ribs with a rifle butt.

  The sound of the last wagon wheels began to fade, clattering and splashing, along what John assumed was the causeway by which they had come.

  Finally, the hood was removed from John’s head. He blinked, freezing air making his one eye water. The only light came from six burning torches, held aloft by his guards, flanking a path ahead that wound some distance before fading into a thin, silvery mist. An austere house with lightless windows loomed at the periphery of this fog, black and square. If this was Osea, as he was almost certain it was, then that would be the Charrington house.

  John looked around. The sea surrounded them, rough waves crashing, their peaks whitened by the light of a low, waning moon. More fog, thicker now, billowed towards the island across the dark water. He could make out the faintest impression of the causeway to his left, and only by the coach-lamps that swayed their way towards the dark mainland.

  A sharp jab to the kidneys caused John to grunt in pain, spinning to see the grinning features of a guard, a rifle pointed directly at him. A second man grabbed John, and cut the bonds from his wrists. He took up John’s cane, and presented it to him. John glowered at the man warily, and took the concealed sword. He half expected to be beaten again once he had placed hands upon the weapon, but he was not. Instead, the man before him merely grinned, and the man with the rifle shouted an order: ‘Go now. Go, to house.’

  John scanned the faces around him. Xiang was gone, leaving just his minions behind. Enough to subdue one prisoner perhaps. John sized them up all the same.

  ‘Where is your headman? I would speak with him,’ John said.

  The man at his back jabbed him again, harder. John stumbled to one knee, rising angrily. Mocking smiles crossed the faces of the men around him. John recalled such a smile on the face of Maung, his gaoler in Burma. He recalled, too, a similar smile on the face of Tsun Pen when his lackey, Hu, had taken John’s eye. Rage grew inside of him, but not for these mere hirelings. The prospect of coming face-to-face with the Artist once more became not so daunting. Indeed, he began to wonder if he really had made a terrible hash of executing the tyrant of the dockyards; perhaps tonight he would have the opportunity to atone for that error. The celestials had made a mistake of their own in giving John his cane. Surely they knew it contained the very sword that had once slain Tsun Pen? He knew not what games they played, but they would regret it.

  John nodded, more to himself than to the guards, and began the walk. He shivered – they had not returned his coat.

  As he trudged the gravel path towards the house, John became increasingly aware that there was movement around him. He glanced over his shoulder; the guards had not followed. They stood in a close group, holding their torches high. To the right of the path, large, thorny bushes hid the rest of the island from view. To the left, rocky outcrops dropped sharply to a spit of beach, to which the fog clung tenaciously.

  There came a rustling through the bushes. John turned sharply, scouring the darkness for any sign of a hidden foe. For a moment, he swore he heard a low growl, as of some stalking hound nearby, but the sound was quickly carried off by the whistling wind coming in off the sea. He quickened his pace a notch. The sound came again, more distinctly. John looked all around, trying to pinpoint it. He felt sure he saw some dark shape move along the rocky bank to his left, scree tumbling down to the beach at its advance. The briefest shadow, nothing more – an animal perhaps. Then he heard grating breaths nearby. He stared into the bushes, and for a second a pair of beady, shining eyes stared back at him.

  Something ran across the path behind him. John spun as gravel crunched beneath skittering feet. The men at the bottom of the path were almost out of sight now, but John heard their laughter. There was a nervous quality to it. They were frightened, and that meant John should not loiter. He knew not what the enemy was for sure, but he could guess, and even the hint that the island was occupied by these ‘ghouls’ was reason enough not to stray from the path.<
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  * * *

  Jim stood on the foredeck of the Royal Navy sloop Daphne, observing Osea across the Blackwater through his field-glasses. It was a long, thin island, divided almost equally between farmland and marsh, mostly uninhabited bar the one house. That house would be visible, were it not for the darkness and gathering mist conspiring to hide it. Other than two jetties, north and south, the only way onto the island was via a narrow causeway, along which a line of wagons now departed the island, their dim lamps giving away their position.

  ‘There they go, back to the mainland,’ he said.

  ‘Tide’s coming in, and more fog with it,’ Captain Abrams said. ‘If they’re not gone in the next half an hour, they’re stuck there ’til morning.’

  ‘Any sign of Colonel Hardwick?’ Miss Furnival asked.

  ‘No,’ Jim replied. ‘This fog is deuced inconvenient. We have to get closer, but we can’t risk it yet. Captain, would you be so good as to signal ashore? I want those wagons followed.’

  ‘That I will.’

  The captain went to organise his men. A party of marines was already ashore at the bluff east of St Lawrence, awaiting orders. The remainder from the Daphne were readying the boats, along with twenty more men aboard HMS Sparrow, hanging further back.

  ‘So far so good,’ said Jim. ‘It looks as though your uncle was right.’

  ‘I hope not entirely,’ Miss Furnival said. ‘It sounded like there’d be terrible danger on that island.’

  ‘Then we should make haste, because Colonel Hardwick is alone there.’

  ‘You seem most concerned about him. Yet I sensed there was some… hostility between you.’

  ‘More a… difference of opinion. Our old ties have become somewhat strained. Perhaps that can be rectified, if we get out of this.’

  ‘And what of me, Captain Denny? May I take our current state of cooperation as a sign that you trust me at last?’

  Jim thought for a moment. He looked over his shoulder to see where the seamen were. Confident that there was no one in earshot, he turned to Miss Furnival. ‘In honesty, I am not sure. There is much about you that I do not know, and what I do know does not instil confidence within me. Do I think you would try to harm me directly? No. I think I am a good enough judge of character for that, at least. Do I trust you implicitly…? I am afraid it is too early for that. Miss Furnival, I have spent several years rooting out your kind, and bringing them to justice. I cannot take it on faith that you are the exception to the rule.’

  ‘The rule?’

  ‘That the Othersiders mean us ill; that they are trained to deceive us. Even at the start of all this, Colonel Hardwick and I were taken in by an Otherside agent. He turned us against each other expertly. He evaded detection for six years, all told.’

  ‘Whatever Ambrose Hanlocke was, I hear that if he hadn’t seen the light at the end, you’d likely be dead. In any case, judging all of us by his standards is hardly fair.’

  ‘No, it’s not. But I’ve seen the Othersiders’ treachery up close many times since then. One of my own men – hand-picked – at the Battle of the Thames… he turned out to be in the employ of Lazarus; that is, Marcus Hardwick. And then there were the agents who were only revealed after Lazarus was gone. I counted friends amongst them – men I had known for years, and in whose hands I would have placed my life. Yet I know now that my life would have been forfeit if I had. There was one…’ Jim almost choked on the words, and realised he was about to confide too much in the girl. ‘Let us just say that John Hardwick was not the only man who lost someone he cared about in the line of duty.’

  Marie frowned. ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Please, do not press me. Accept that I had reason for my prejudice, and be done with it.’

  ‘Captain Denny, I think I know of what you speak, and let me say you have some nerve to stand before me and talk of prejudice. That night we dined together… do you think I didn’t follow you further after you left the restaurant?’

  Jim felt his colour rise. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw where you went, Captain. What you did there is hardly difficult to guess.’

  ‘I do not know what you think, I’m quite sure. But be careful what you say.’

  ‘Does Colonel Hardwick know? Is that what passed so unpleasantly between you?’

  ‘No! I mean…’ Jim bit his tongue. For all he knew, Miss Furnival could be playing games with him even now; she could have pulled the wool over the eyes of Sir Arthur, Sir Toby… even Cherleten. Yet he did not think her false. He had become a veritable inquisitor these past three years. If he had any faith in his own ability to root out deception, then he had to listen to his instinct. ‘John knows. But he never held it against me, as far as I could tell.’ It was something of a confession. A weight that he had barely known he carried lifted from his shoulders.

  Miss Furnival nodded thoughtfully. ‘So he knows your most intimate secret – a secret that most men would spurn you for, or even have you arrested for – and yet he doesn’t judge you?’

  ‘I… suppose you could say that, yes.’

  ‘A pity you could not extend him that same regard. You sit up there on your high horse, cutting off your friend for not living up to some moral standard that you set, passing sentence on the likes of me. It seems to me that you and the colonel have more in common than you might think. It would be remiss of me not to help reunite such soul-mates.’

  Jim was about to conjure some retort, when they were interrupted by Abrams.

  ‘The men are ready for you, Captain Denny,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Captain. Miss Furnival, you do not have to come with us, and I cannot ask you to risk your life again.’

  ‘Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. Do lead on.’

  * * *

  The door was open. Wisps of drifting fog felt their way inside the house, into a dark, cold hallway. The low, rumbling growls at John’s back intensified as he paused on the threshold, encouraging him inside. He went, but reluctantly, and closed the door behind him, feeling for a bolt and throwing it shut to keep the creatures at bay. He did not think it would make a difference, but the small act made him feel better.

  John fumbled about in the dark, until at last he found a candlestick upon the hall table, and a book of matches beside it. They must have been left on purpose, but he was not so foolish as to refuse this one small comfort. He struck a match, squinting against its bright flare, and lit the candle, slipping the matches back into his pocket. It took a moment for his sight to adjust, but gradually the house solidified into focus.

  John stood in a narrow space, with wood panelling extending from floor to ceiling on both sides. There was a door beside him, locked. Another door lay ahead, half open, revealing pitch darkness beyond. John realised that he had passed the stairs while searching for his candle, and now backed along the hall, peering upwards into a black void, lined by peeling walls and redolent with the smell of mould. He hesitated. Up the stairs, or forwards? There seemed no favourable prospect. In the end, he pocketed the remainder of the matches and strode purposefully forward, determined to scour the ground floor for other exits in case he had the opportunity to mount an escape later.

  He pushed the door with the tip of his cane. It swung open too noisily, hinges grating. John could see nothing; there might as well have been a black curtain hanging over the doorway. Through this veil of darkness, John pushed forward, holding the candle out before him. By its cold light, a large kitchen swam into view. Dark stains covered every surface. Mould bloomed overhead and underfoot. John’s heels crunched on broken glass and chipped tiles. A long workbench divided the kitchen in two. A large table stood against the wall on one side, an oven and more benches on the other. The windows, which lined one entire wall, were boarded over, planks screwed tight into window-frames.

  John was sure he saw a reflection at the far end of the room, of light on glass. He felt his way around the table. At times like these, he mourned the loss of his eye, for he could not focus
well in poor light, or judge distances accurately. He stumbled over an upturned stool on the kitchen floor. When he righted himself, he hit his head on a brace of saucepans hanging from a rack. He started at the sudden noise they made; it made him realise just how deathly silent the house had been.

  When the ringing subsided, John ventured forward again, more stealthily. He reached a door, with a panel of begrimed frosted glass set into it. It was locked. John wiped the dirt from the glass and tried to peer through. Nothing. He held up the candle, and detected no draught. He did not think this way led outside. Perhaps that was why there were no guards. He had made up his mind to go back to the hall when he saw reflected by candlelight a figure, distorted in the dimpled surface of the glass. Feminine. Long, dark hair. A yellow dress…

  John spun about. There was no one behind him, and no sign of anyone in the kitchen, although there were plenty of places to hide. He chanced a look back at the glass to see if it was a trick of the light. There was nothing but his own fractured visage.

  With a jolting thud, something threw itself at the glass. The door rattled in its frame. John leapt backwards.

  Hands pawed at the pane of glass. A pair of purplish eyes shone from the gloom. The creature sniffed the air loudly, and then it was gone.

  John turned back to the kitchen; there was no way out beyond that door.

  Something moved ahead of him. A dark shape lurched from one bench to the next. John gripped the candlestick more firmly, held it out towards the movement. He suppressed a flinch as the moving light caused all of the shadows to push their way around the room like the figures in a magic lantern. He hefted his cane in the other hand, its weighted, monogrammed pommel a fine weapon even before the blade was drawn.

  There was no further movement, so John crept towards where he had seen it last. He managed perhaps half the length of the kitchen before he heard a scuff behind him. This time, when he held the light towards the source of the noise, he was met by the sound of dull, thudding footsteps, like a large animal moving away from him on the other side of the bench. Or, John could not help but think, someone moving spiderlike, on all fours, bare feet and palms of hands slapping against tiles. So vivid was this image that John gave up all thought of investigation, and instead raced to the door by which he had entered. He checked himself for a second when he saw that, in the hall beyond, several candles had been lit in his absence.