by Quinn Loftis
“I’m quite sure of it. These crime scenes are not something I’m soon to forget.”
The mechanic hesitated, appearing as if he was wrestling with some internal decision. Then, raising his voice an octave, he responded. “These are just mere works of art. I can’t imagine any of these sculptures being remotely interesting to you. So good to catch up with you, John, but I really must be going. Pressing work. You understand.”
Foster stared at Zach for a few moments, narrowing his eyes. “Okay, I guess this isn’t what we’re looking for.” He sighed. “Thanks again for meeting me, Zacharias.” John took a step back toward the front door when he was interrupted by Zacharias clearing his throat.
“Ahem.”
Foster turned back to the mechanic, his eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
“My ten quid?” Zacharias said, holding out his hand.
“Ah, o’ course. Here ya go, buddy.” As Foster passed the money over to Zach, the mechanic grabbed John’s hand, clenching it tightly, the paper bill crumpling between them.
“You are a true friend,” Zacharias said loudly in a singsong voice. He wrenched the taller man down into a bear hug and wrapped his short arms around Foster. Zacharias stood on his tiptoes, his face mere inches from Assistant Inspector Foster’s ear. “9 p.m. tonight. The Smoking Dragon,” he whispered and then pushed himself away. Then, in the same loud singsong voice said, “So good to see an old friend. Thanks for stopping by. Don’t wait so long next time.”
With that, the mechanic turned on his heel and sped back through the large double doors from which he had, just minutes before, burst forth. Though the receptionist was glaring at him in what Foster thought was a suspicious manner, Zacharias refused to glance in her direction as he disappeared into the room beyond.
Foster stood for several moments after the mechanic had disappeared, staring after Zacharias with a puzzled look on his face. Then he noticed that the secretary had shifted her accusing glare to him. He tipped his bowler to the woman then hustled out onto Islington street.
Chapter Five
Tuesday, 3rd May 1887
Sometime around 8:00 p.m.
The dart made a hollow thumping sound as it landed on the board well left of the bull’s-eye. Jackson scowled at it, then scowled at the two darts remaining in his hand, and then scowled equally as hard at his opponent, an old military colleague called Francis Spurgeon. In fact, there had been no point since he’d left the Hill residence earlier that day that he didn’t have a look of disgust on his face. He scowled all through his surgery. He scowled during tea. He scowled as he was working in his laboratory that afternoon. And he had scowled through five pints and two darts games, both of which he lost. This wasn’t a surprise. He was rubbish at darts. The only time he ever won was when his normal partner, Thomas Hill, carried him. Thomas, however, was late. This was understandable, of course. Jackson knew that Thomas had been assigned to investigate the murders of two young women that had happened only days apart in London. Still, Dr. Elliot was irritated.
“Cheer up, old chum,” said Francis as he took careful aim at the dart board opposite them. He pulled back his arm and let fly the dart, which issued its own satisfying thump as it landed closer to the center of the board than Jackson’s. “I haven’t seen you this glum since you almost had to chop off my leg.”
“Keep it up and I might go back and finish the job,” Jackson retorted.
“I’m just glad you’re better with a scalpel than you are with those darts. I guess I should be thankful you weren’t carrying a rifle.”
“We all should,” said Elliot, no cheer reaching his voice. Jackson hated the time he’d spent in the army, but he’d owed the crown two years of his life in exchange for his scholarship to the Royal College of Medicine. When he’d graduated in 1885, Britain was in the midst of repelling a bloody revolution in India. This was a fight that the Empire couldn’t afford to lose. So far, the underground mines of India were the only place on earth that the powerful flux crystals were found. The flux crystals were stones that could power machines with a force infinitely greater than steam. They were the reason the British Empire had been able to expand across the globe so rapidly, now occupying most of Eastern Europe, Scotland, Ireland, India, Australia, and all of the Americas. Jackson had served as a combat medic, patching soldiers up and sending them back into battle. Francis had been one of those soldiers. When the musket ball from an Indian soldier had struck him in the thigh, Francis had almost bled out before Jackson had been able to clamp the femoral artery. Jackson had saved the man’s leg, though Francis still had to use a crutch to walk. Luckily for Francis, and for many other soldiers in his company, Dr. Elliot was a much better surgeon than he was a dart player.
“What’s got you so down today, old chum?” Francis pressed, ordering another pint for he and Jackson.
“Nothing,” Elliot said simply as he was dragged from his memories back into the busy inn. The Queen’s Pudding, a moderately furnished pub in the center of London, prided itself on catering to thirsty clientele from all walks of life. Here, gentlemen and working class blokes rubbed shoulders at the bar, gambled at billiards, shuffleboard, and darts, and drank until they were legless, at which point all caste distinctions were forgotten. Because it was centrally located, The Queen’s Pudding was easily accessible to gentlemen who wanted to get away from the stuffiness of West London and to the poor who wanted to escape their workaday lives in the easternmost parts of the city.
This mingling of classes was probably why both Jackson and Thomas enjoyed the place so much. There were plenty of private clubs in London where the pair would be more than welcome. There the food and drink would be much finer than in The Queen’s Pudding, though Jackson would put the pub’s Shepherd’s Pie against any in the city. But the public house represented something of a microcosm of their friendship, Elliot having worked himself out of the slums and into a respectable position as a surgeon, and Hill, having eschewed his posh upbringing to dedicate himself to what he loved—police work—a profession that wouldn’t sustain the lifestyle of a gentleman, and frequently brought him into contact with London’s lower class.
“Ah, woman troubles then,” Spurgeon continued. “Sophia still won’t give you the time of day?”
“Partly, I’m afraid,” responded Jackson, winging his second dart at the board without so much as bothering to aim. It hit the edge of the board and hung limply out of scoring position. “But it’s more what I said to her. We had a row this morning. I was harsh. I shouldn’t have been.”
“No offense, mate, but this is the same bird you’ve been chasing since you were in school. Maybe it’s time to move on.”
Their ale arrived and Francis dropped a couple of pounds on the waitress’ tray, taking a quaff of his pint and passing the other to Jackson.
“It’s not that simple,” said Jackson, pausing to take a large swig of his drink. He rarely had more than one drink, but today he was already five pints in. “Even if I could forget about Sophia and try to court someone else, I couldn’t leave her now. She’s ill.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Francis. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”
“She’s dying,” said Elliot. “Her heart’s failing. She probably only has a couple of years left. That’s why she refuses to marry me, even though I’ve asked her a hundred times. She doesn’t want to make it painful on either of us when the time comes.”
Francis looked like the wind had been knocked out of him. “So sorry, Jack. I had no idea.”
“Not many people know. Just her immediate family and me. She’s brave about it, doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”
“I hate that for you,” said Francis.
“The worst part is that I can’t do anything about it. I save people for a living, Francis. It’s what I do—every day, all day, and I cannot do it for her, the one person I want to save most.” He tipped his glass back and gulped down the rest of his ale. “Another,” he roared at a passing barmaid as he slammed his gl
ass down on the high round table. “The gallbladder? Simple. The pancreas? No problem. I took two of those out last week. Your leg?” He scowled now at Francis. “Easy!” he bellowed. Now Jackson was beyond tipsy, well on his way to becoming fully pissed. He leaned upon Spurgeon, trying to focus on the man’s eyes.
“I don’t seem to remember it being so easy at the time,” chuckled Francis. Jackson, usually the most stoic of Francis’ comrades, was now pouring his heart out. Francis was enjoying the situation, even if the most unfortunate of circumstances had brought about his friend’s change in demeanor.
“And I’ve tried, Francis, I’ve tried. I spend every free moment studying the heart. I’ve read every medical book and journal regarding the accursed organ.” He spat the last word, and Francis patiently wiped a bit of saliva from his cheek. “And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. I spend all night in my lab, hunting for a cure, searching for some yet undiscovered medicine, some tincture, some superfood, some snake oil, anything that will save my beloved Sophia. But she is beyond all medical help, I’m afraid. And where is that bloody inspector?” he roared, now switching subjects so fast that Francis was confounded as to what he might mean.
“That bloody inspector is right behind you, you legless twat,” said Thomas Hill, who had appeared out of the noisy crowd of the pub to stand behind the pair facing the dartboard. “What in god’s name have you done to the man, Francis?”
“Not me, mate. He was well on his way when I got here. Apparently, he’s having troubles of the female persuasion.”
“Ah,” said Hill with a knowing look. “I guess you two have been discussing my sister.”
Francis’ face suddenly turned somber. “So sorry, Thom. I had no idea she was even sick.”
“Thank you, Francis. But I think it’s been harder on Jack here than it has been on Olivia and me. Isn’t that right, Jackie, old boy?” he said loudly, clapping Elliot on the back.
“She loves me, Thom. I know she does,” said Jackson, clinging to the front of Thomas’ suit. “Why does she have to be so damn stubborn?”
Now it was Thom’s turn to chuckle. “Oh, you know the answer to that. Two words—Edward Hill. That girl is her father’s daughter. Once my father dug his heels into the ground on a subject, a team of wild horses couldn’t move him. Sophia is worse.”
The waitress appeared with Jackson’s pint of ale. “Anything for you, hon?” she asked Thomas. The doctor reached for his pint and Hill snatched it away, putting it to his own lips. “This one tastes fine.”
“You git,” said Elliot halfheartedly.
“But you better bring a couple more for my friends here. It looks like it’s going to be a long night.”
Very few members of Scotland Yard could boast of frequenting as many pubs as Assistant Inspector John Foster. But even Foster had never had occasion to visit The Smoking Dragon, a mechanic’s-only pub on Islington Street, a mere block away from the guild itself. Foster was still bemoaning the fact he was going to have to justify two expense slips to Islington in one day: one for his earlier trip to the mechanic’s guild, and one to the Dragon. Inspector Hill had already approved this little excursion after Foster had relayed to the inspector his unusual meeting with Zacharias earlier in the day, but the Chief Inspector might not be as understanding. Hopefully, Zacharias would provide some information that would help them understand why mechanical hearts kept showing up in dead bodies around the city.
All thoughts of paperwork immediately flew from Foster’s mind when he stepped through the revolving door, which moved on its own accord, and into the Smoking Dragon. The pub was unlike anything Foster had ever seen before, both because of its unique décor and because of the strangeness of its patrons. Instead of the traditional mirror, behind the bar hung a giant copper-and-brass sculpture of a dragon, its mouth open, revealing a set of teeth made of various machinery parts. Foster thought he recognized pistons and swing arms, things he remembered from his time working with mechanics in the war. The skin of the dragon was made of sheet metal, but a side panel was removed so that cogs and gears of every width and circumference were visible to the customers. The gears were ever in motion, some moving fast, while others moved so slow as to be almost imperceptible.
Just then, on the stroke of nine p.m., Foster realized, the dragon made a loud noise, a sound that reminded Foster of a steam engine’s whistle. White vapor issued forth from its metal nostrils and floated harmlessly up into the rafters of the building. Apparently, this was such a regular occurrence that the other patrons took no notice, as the assistant inspector was the only one that actually jumped in surprise at the sound.
Foster was immediately uncomfortable. Mostly because he was the only one in the place who seemed to have left his leather working apron at home. The patrons, of which there were several dozen, all seemed to be wearing some variation of the same thing. The men wore sleeveless vests, grease-covered aprons, or coveralls with the top half unzipped and resting around their waist, and at least half sported some kind of eyewear, either welding or aviator goggles, covering their eyes or resting on top of their heads. The women, for their part, were dressed in skirts and tight leather corsets, or they wore leather pants and a work apron. Foster noticed that the former were a little less grease stained than their apron-clad counterparts. Both men and women alike wore tall leather boots of black or brown.
Foster began scanning the room for a place to sit, preferably in the corner. A few of the patrons threw him puzzled glances, but most ignored him completely. All the furnishings in the Smoking Dragon, including the bar itself, were made of metal in various states of ionization, some shiny and polished, others rusty as a railroad spike. The place smelled strongly of coal and industrial grease, both old and fresh. After a few moments staring in stupefaction, Foster spotted an empty table for two resting against a wall. With many utterances of ‘excuse me, sir’ and ‘pardon me, miss,’ he made his way through the crowd to the table.
Once seated, Foster was able to make a more thorough inspection of the pub’s occupants. Several waitresses weaved in and out of the low tables, carrying round aluminum trays above their heads. Foster noted that all of the servers were women and were all the corset-skirt wearing types, rather than the grease-stained apron bearers. The trays were filled with the strangest collection of drinks the worldly assistant inspector had ever seen. Bright blue and electric orange liquids were being served from beakers, some thick and bubbling, others hissing and smoking. There was nary a pint of ale in sight.
This troubled John at first, as he was awfully thirsty and could certainly use a pint after the day he’d had, until he realized after a few moments it was abundantly clear he wasn’t going to be served any time soon. Again and again, the waitresses passed by his table without so much as a smile and a greeting, much less stopping to take his order. This brought the man’s ire up, and he was just about to shout a few less-than-pleasant words at a passing barmaid when he thought better of it. The mechanics he had known in the service were a prickly bunch, prone to extreme temperaments and frequently sought quarrel without cause. They rarely befriended anyone outside their guild, which made Foster’s acquaintance with Zacharias very peculiar indeed. Further, the mechanics would never breathe a word about the projects they worked on. Top secret was the only thing they would say anytime he’d pressed them for information. The group in the pub was tolerating his presence for the moment. John thought perhaps it was best if he just kept a low profile until Zacharias showed up. This gave the assistant inspector a moment to reflect on what he actually knew about the guild, which wasn’t much.
The secrecy of the mechanic’s guild was legendary throughout London. The only thing that was really known about them was that their founder, Archimedes Tesla, and Lord Grey were like two peas in a pod. Most people guessed this is why the guild’s most amazing inventions, not the least of which were the organization’s war machines, ended up in the service of the crown. Grey was the leader of the British Parliament, and he
requisitioned anything Queen Victoria needed to defend the empire. While Victoria and Grey had an amiable working relationship, at least while the public was watching, rumors abounded that Grey was resentful of the queen and wanted to usurp some of her power. Many of Britain’s citizens thought this a good thing, believing Grey would transfer that power to the hands of the people. Others weren’t so sure. Regardless, if Grey ever succeeded, it wouldn’t be without the guild’s help.
As he sat, drumming his fingers on the table and watching the Dragon’s clientele, he noticed that almost all of them possessed at least one, and in some cases, several, small contraption, the likes of which Foster could not identify. As he watched the patrons further, he realized they were comparing their devices one to another, almost sizing them up, like some men might compare the size of their biceps. This fascinated the inquisitive Foster, and he tried to discreetly listen to the conversation of a pair of women sitting at a table next to him.
One of the women, who was very broad, had a wide nose, eyes set far apart on her face, and extremely large hands, held aloft a long, smooth, round pipe.
“Revolutionary, this is,” the woman was saying to her counterpart. “Metal’s infused with carbon, making it much harder than traditional steel, lighter too. Took me three months to find the right ratio.”
“And practical applications?” said the woman opposite her, a petite young lady with shocking pink hair braided into pig tails, who was absentmindedly toying with what looked like a mechanical arm sitting in front of her on the table.
“Endless,” said the first. “What was the biggest problem we had with the walkers during the Indian revolution?”
“They kept stepping in holes, snapping their legs,” replied the second woman. “As soon as those Hindi devils realized the machines’ weaknesses, they kept digging huge trenches that tripped them up, basically immobilizing them.”