by Ash, C. B.
"But .. Sirrah ... Cap'n Hunter ... Sirrah?" When the captain did not even pause, Lydia looked at Moira and William helplessly.
Moira shrugged. "The Cap'n be like that." The blacksmith took Lydia gently by the arm and guided her across the street. "Best thing is ta get a full boiler o' steam going and follow as fast as ya can. Especially in times like this."
Another whisper of voices in the long, dark shadows that lay against the White Hart Tavern became a brief scuffle. Abruptly there was a grunt and a figure fell heavily to the edge of darkness. William's eyes widened as he thought, for only a moment, he saw something dark and wet stain the cobblestones before the figure was dragged back into the shadows. The young tracker quickly turned and easily fell into step with the two women while they walked away. "Aye, true enough. The Cap'n sometimes can be a bit stiff, but he means well."
"So, Allison be yer friend, right? What would she be doin' out in a place like here at night?" Moira asked quickly in an effort to return the conversation back to one over which she had more control.
Lydia glanced between Moira and William with a look that bordered between alarm and confusion. "Oh, uhm, well, Allison's a parts-monger. Sells right nice flowers, too. Herself usually makes her way along the Grassmarket since a lot of 'em clockwork and steam workers show themselves there. They're always needin' some gear, bearing or bolt. It always seemed a long walk with that heavy little wagon she's usin', but she kept ta better hours than I been at the wool mill."
"How long has she been missin'?" William asked, stepping around a parked horse-drawn cab.
"Four days, or close onta it." Lydia answered while the trio crossed the road. "She only be tellin' me about the cattle market once awhile back, though. Not recent-like."
A few paces ahead, Captain Hunter waited for the others to catch up to him. "So, Miss Olivander, you've been casting about here for four days, you've said."
Lydia nodded a little. "Much as me job could allow, y'see. I don' have much time away from the wool mill, what with workin' nearly all day."
"So that explains why you'd risk being out at night." Hunter concluded thoughtfully.
"Anyone tell ya much so far? Like havin' seen her pushin' her cart about in the last day or so?" Moira asked hopefully.
Lydia shrugged helplessly. "Either they'd na be hearin' of her, or they'd na seen her lately." Suddenly, she looked at the trio excitedly. "Wait, I remember somthin'. Jimmy did tell me he seen her come along the Cattle Market. Which ta me own thinkin' be odd. Like I told ya, Allison didna' come along here much."
"Jimmy?" William asked curiously. "Who's that bloke?"
Lydia shrugged a little at William. "Jus' know him as Jimmy. Runs messages about, he does, for those that need it. Some call him 'Jimmy Quick'."
Captain Hunter looked up from Lydia and around at the cattle market to the boarding houses along West Port Road. "We can't disturb the boarding houses at this hour, however the cattle market is fair game I'd say. It's at least a place to start. Next would be to find this Jimmy you mentioned. Everyone spread out and look around."
"What're we lookin' for Cap'n?" William asked with a confused look.
"Details, Mr. Falke, details. A scrap of cloth from a woman's blue gingham dress, a distressed patch of ground out of place, something that just does not quite belong. You've spent time as a lookout and a tracker, I shouldn't need to remind you of the weight any detail can play." Hunter explained with a faint smirk.
"Right, Cap'n." Falke replied with a grin before he looked out at the dark cattle market grounds.
On the southern side of West Port Road, the cattle market spread out like a festering wound among the dingy, ill-repaired boarding houses around and to the north of it. During the day, in market season, it was often ankle deep in mire and filth. Cattle and sheep were packed into small pens that sat in the center of the market grounds, and a musky steam rose to mix with the light oily smoke that hung perpetually in the air. Crowds of cattle and sheep owners, butchers, thieves, pickpockets and many others filled the area. The bleating of animals to the roar of voices from the onlookers crashed together in a wave of sounds, sights and smells that was all at once a perfect symphony of chaos.
However, at night, it was much different. With the animals and crowds dispersed, only the tired and worn wooden fence posts of the pens stood watch over the mire. A faint musk still rode in the air, as if a specter drifted lazily about, waiting for the overly-curious or unwary to happen by. Shadows from the moon stretched long over the soggy ground in the form of cages and broken wood that appeared like skeletal fingers reaching outward to anyone passing by. To the right side sat a haphazard collection of carts, to the left sat squat, sagging wooden benches for any of the weary visitors during the day. Towards the end farthest from the road itself, stood a small collection of run down cattle sheds framed on either side by a set of heavily stained, wooden buckets.
The quartet entered the foreboding market, each taking a section for themselves. While Hunter occupied himself with the cattle sheds, Lydia went to examine the carts, and Moira to the long benches. William was left to search the entrance, then the animal pens that sat in the middle of the bog-like cattle market grounds.
One by one, Hunter walked to each of the small wooden sheds and tried the door. As soon as the first door opened, the stench of cattle and sheep rolled outwards in a choking cloud. The captain turned his head and coughed, then proceeded through the door. Inside, the shed was as weathered and dilapidated as it was on the outside. Along the walls thick, coiled rope hung neatly on rough-cut wooden pegs. Next to the rope hung an assortment of droving whips. Hunter pulled open the door wide to allow the moonlight to shine into the room.
The sole stretch of light struck a path down the middle of the shed. Well lit enough for Hunter to enter, but not enough to enable him to search it. Reaching into his coat pocket he withdrew a small leather case and pulled out a matchstick. This he struck against the rough wood of the shed's door frame. Immediately, the match roared to life with a tiny, orange flame. Carefully, Hunter looked around the room, taking in the smallest detail for the hint of a clue. Instead he found only more rope, a fewer number of whips.
Once he was done, he extinguished the match before it burnt to his fingers and repeated the entire process in the next shed. Then again with the shed following that one. With each cattle shed that Hunter searched, he came away with nothing more than a burnt match to show for it. His frustration began to show on his face, in his expression and in the way he stalked from door to door like an angry hunting cat.
Inside the last shed, Hunter paused at the ropes and whips. "Interesting, one would think they'd take as good a care of the rest of this market as they do the rope." He turned to make his way back to the door, only instead, he tripped over a cart that had been turned on its side to rest against the wall of the shed. In the darkness, Hunter had missed seeing it upon entering. The captain grabbed the edge of the door frame, catching himself in time before he pitched face forward into muddy ground.
"Bloody hell!" He exclaimed, then slowly righted himself. Once back on his feet, Hunter lit another match, squatted down in the doorway and turned the modest-sized cart, easily two feet wide and four feet long, upright on its wooden wheels. Beneath it, the captain took note of a few items on the ground: a bag of springs, some large bolts for a steam boiler, a few wilted heather blossoms, and several cans of lamp oil. From out of the darkness, he heard running footsteps approaching.
"Cap'n?" William called out in alarm. "Cap'n, are ya well?"
In moments, Lydia, Moira and William converged on the cattle sheds. Hunter waved a hand to let them know where he was.
"Here. Over here." The captain replied. "I'm unharmed. However, I do believe I've found something interesting."
"'Ere, now!" Came a shout from off to their right. "What're ya doin'?" In the darkness, a stout man carrying a lantern and looking to have just been roused from his bed struggled to slip on his long coat while he navigate
d the cattle market grounds. His balding head held an unkempt, wild ring of wispy reddish-gray hair, his eyes wide with a mix between anger and trepidation. "Ya better na be thieves! Ah'll give ye a thrashin' ye'll na forget!"
Hunter motioned quickly towards the cart that had been hidden in the shed. "Odd that a cart would be left in such a way, when all the others are kept together." The captain then turned to face towards the stout man hurrying in their direction. "It seems we've company." He raised his voice.
"We are no thieves, Sirrah. I am Captain Anthony Hunter. Who might you be, Sirrah?" Hunter called out.
On hearing Anthony's reply, the stout man slowed his pace. His body language told Hunter volumes. The man had been expecting petty thieves, not what he actually found.
"Ah be Elias Ross, if ye need ta know. Ah be the manager of this wee property. Ah'll be wantin' a few answers from ye Captain, startin' with why ye be causin' a racket around me cattle sheds?"
Suddenly, Lydia gasped in shock. Moira caught her arm as the young girl stumbled backwards out of the shed, nearly falling into the mud, as Hunter had.
"What? What'd ya see?" Moira asked quickly.
"Blood! On the cart! On Allison's cart! Near the corner!" Lydia said with a horrified voice.
Hunter half-turned to look inside the shed again. With the door wide, the yellowish moonlight danced across the mud and over the cart itself. Just as Lydia described was the unmistakable smear of blood in the shape of a hand print.
The captain shot William a hard glance. "William, fetch a constable. Hurry!"
"Aye!" William shouted, already racing off into the night.
Chapter 3
Within the cattle market, despite the late hour, the crowds had returned. This time the crowd of people was not one associated with buying or selling livestock, but were here for other interests. Across the length and breadth of the bog-filled market, the yellow glow of hand lanterns bobbed like corks on a wind-tossed, dark lake. Each lantern was carried by a constable, dressed in their distinctive woolen, dark blue uniform, custodian helmet and Wellington boots. Methodically, they had spread out in pairs to search the grounds, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Anything that would shed more light on the discovery brought to their attention earlier. Among the constables, the stout figure of Elias Ross shuffled about, wringing his hands in consternation. Occasionally he would exclaim his dismay over the police invasion, or plead that they be careful as he had to be ready for market in the coming week.
Beyond the commotion, next to the squat cattle sheds, Captain Hunter pushed his hands into the pockets of his long coat to fend off the evening chill. Stoically, he watched while a police detective spoke with Lydia at length. For several long minutes he gently asked her questions about Allison, such as when she last saw her, when they were supposed to meet, among many others. They spoke in low tones, which made it impossible for the captain to overhear more than the occasional word or two. Once the detective had turned away, Moira stepped up to speak quietly to the upset young woman. William lingered nearby with a long face that looked as if he would give all he could to be anywhere but where he was at the moment.
Detective Oren MacTaggart closed his small notebook and adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles that seemed to perpetually slide to the end of his thin nose. "Ah think that'll be all the questions Ah've got for the moment. While Ah'm very grateful ye've brought this to our attention, Ah must be remindin' ye ... all of ye ... that if ye recall any more, you'd do wise to contact us immediately. In the meantime, we may be seekin' all of ye out for more information as our investigation proceeds."
Hunter nodded politely. "Of course, Detective. I can speak for my crew in that we'll be berthed in Edinburgh for some time, yet."
Behind the detective, a burly, older constable, brown mustache shot through with the first hint of gray, emerged from the run-down cattle shed where two other constables still lingered over Allison's small cart. "Detective? Ah be thinkin' we have all we'll be findin' here."
"Very well then. Have the lads make another pass and we'll be headin' back ta headquarters then." Detective MacTaggart looked over at Lydia. "Miss Olivander, where might ye be stayin'?"
Lydia flushed slightly. "A boarding house on down Candlemaker Row. Neily's Boarding House it's called. It's not much but it's all I can be gettin' on me wages."
The detective nodded sympathetically. "Ah understand, M'dear. We may come 'round ta speak with ye later. For now, Ah'll be havin' a constable take ye along home."
Lydia fidgeted nervously, looking between the detective and the several constables that roamed about. Hunter had seen the look before. While in practice, the idea of a constabulary was a good one - and an idea Hunter agreed with - the general public did not widely share that same agreement. Often constables were viewed with suspicion, disdain, or irritation. Usually more the latter than the former.
The young woman cleared her throat. "Oh, well, that's rather kind of ya detective. If'n ya don't mind, I'll make me own way back. It's just a short stretch around the corner. No need ta trouble anyone over the likes o' me."
Detective MacTaggart adjusted his spectacles again. "Nonsense. It's what we be here for. Constable Martin? Be seein' Miss Olivander safely on her way."
The burly constable with the grayish brown mustache inclined his head slightly in a half nod. "Right away." He turned to Lydia with a reassuring smile. "When ye be ready miss, we'll be along."
Moira put a hand on the young lady's arm. "If ya not workin' tomorrow, we'll stop on by ta call. Just ta see if yer doin' well. If that's a'right."
The fatigue and weight of the situation had begun to wear on Lydia. She nodded and managed a smile despite the fatigue in her eyes. "The factory's shut down fer the the day, somethin' needin' repairs from what I recall. I don' know what. So, I'll be at the boardin' house helpin' clean, most likely. Just so anyone don't mind bein' seen at a boardin' house ... that is?"
William chuckled with a grin. "Nothin' ta worry over. Moira's been thrown out 'a more establishments than I can count! Don't think we can get embarrassed over it no more!" Moira, with a stern look, elbowed the young man in the stomach, knocking the wind from him.
With a small laugh and a tired smile, Lydia waved, then walked with Constable Martin across the cattle market grounds. A moment later, they vanished from view into the night, a ghostly swirl of smoke in their wake under the gaslamps. Detective MacTaggart sighed heavily as if a lead weight hung from his shoulders.
"At least this time there be somethin' ta look at." The dectective glanced at Hunter. "Ah shouldn'a say this, but ye young lady friend be against some tall odds."
The captain frowned. "How do you mean?"
"Ah'm assumin' that ye know by now this na be the first person ta go missing along here. Nor the first time such happened." MacTaggart explained. "West Port's got it's own wee share o' murders. First, it be a pair of resurrection men, another time it be a bunch 'hirin' help among the poor here which in turn be just another name fer slavery. This time? Na sure. Now we've got more complaints of missin' people than we've constables ta be seein' after them all."
The detective waved a hand at the small shed and wooden cart that could partially be seen from the open doorway. "From all this, Ah'd be havin' ta call it theft. An if'n Ah don't, headquarters might be anyway just ta be rid of it. Goods taken, blood stain where the young lass be fightin' back ta keep her livelihood. Ah'd na be wantin' ta say it aloud, but her friend may na be comin' back, if it were a theft." The detective smiled thinly, a tired but genuine attempt to be polite, and offered his hand to the captain. "Nonetheless, we'll be doin' what we can. Thank ye again for ye cooperation. If'n we need ta know more, we'll come ta the White Hart and ask for ye."
Hunter clapsed the man's hand in a brief, firm handshake. "Certainly. Good evening, Detective."
Slowly, in pairs or groups, the police slipped away from the cattle market. In the end, even Elias Ross, with a final look of irritation at Captain Hunter and his crew,
returned to the seclusion of his small home that squatted to the right most side of the darkened livestock pens.
"Doesn't sound as if they've got an idea." William said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the departed police. "Ask a cargo load a' questions and that be it."
Hunter stared off in the direction the police departed. "Their investigations, as I understand it, take much longer. Though given what the detective did say, I'm worried they have too little to work with."
"So, what do we do?" William asked with a concerned look. "We can't be just going about our way."
Hunter turned to look at Moira and William. "Of course not. We help them. Discreetly, of course. The good detective labeled this as a theft. I'd say that was a decision based more on frustration and fatigue than on the facts. William, you're a tracker. Look into the shed yourself."
"All right. Do ya have a lucifer I can use?" William asked Moira and Hunter.
The captain withdrew his leather matchstick case from an inner coat pocket and handed it over. William smiled, popped the case open and withdrew a match while he walked over to the small cattle shed. "Thank ya, Cap'n."
When struck against the door frame, the match roared to life. Immediately the small area inside the doorway was bathed in a flickering orange light. William moved the light back and forth while he examined the cart, the ground, and even the few items left behind by the police, such as the tins of oil. Eventually the tracker stood and blew out the match before it burned his fingers. "Pretty odd fer a theft. Them tins of oil look new. Oil's pricey these days."
Hunter withdrew a brass gear from his pocket and handed it to Moira. "And this?"
Moira turned the gear over in her hands. The circumference of the gear was approximately the size of a man's hand, and it was made of a finely tooled, thin brass. Surrounding the edge were the customary 'teeth' of the gear, that when used in conjunction could provide some means of motion to whatever the gear was attached to. However, brass as a metal was flexible, and often made for a poor metal for gears unless it was for something delicate, like a clock.