Fantastic Detectives

by Dean Wesley Smith

  Cephus snickered as he peered at the man the silly train people called Mister Stone, who now stared in his direction with much confusion on his face.

  The Orkney Isles Consortium, of which Cephus and his kind belonged, had tasked him with exposing bad people who were planning an undetermined act of destruction sometime soon in London. He hadn’t been fed all the specifics, but this had to be done without revealing the Consortium or Cephus—they were a secret group and best kept that way. Humans couldn’t handle another sentient race. It’d been tried before.

  “Hmmph,” Cephus muttered under his breath. “A rat. I’m no rat. Not in the least.” He scratched his ear. “Not at all!” He covered his mouth. “Shhh. Too loud. They’ll find you.”

  He squeezed through a loose floorboard and entered the underbelly of the car.

  “Much better.”

  Clanking and rattling below and thuds from the floorboards above, flooded the crawlspace—well, he could stand in this crawlspace, but those lumbering and foolish humans above would never fit.

  “Hopefully, this Mister Stone does what he’s supposed to do when the, what was the word,” he snapped his fingers, “dissidents, yes, get upset. Not sure it’s as easy as the Consortium promised. Slow down the train, Cephus, that’ll be enough, they said.”

  Cephus smiled as he skipped through the crawlspace, his bottom lip bled, as his snaggletooth incisor had pierced the skin. “A hint of lavender in my blood, ate too much of the stuff, I did. Silly nerves. But they needed calming. Lavender helped.”

  The floorboards above rubbed the points of his pricked-up ears. Muffled conversations and the clinking and rattling of silverware and plates and glasses cut through the steady clack, clack, clack of the train.

  “I hope they’re enjoying the food.” Cephus spat on the crawlspace’s bottom and chuckled. “Why, yes, old chap, I’ll have the phlegm flavored full breakfast.”

  He fell on his bottom, and laughed and laughed. The car bounced, lifting him off the floor an inch and jarring him from the joys of food mischief. The real mischief hadn’t even begun. Must stall the train.

  “Brake van, ho!”

  ***

  Cooper led Harland forward and the head conductor nodded at their approach.

  “Ah,” the head conductor said, “thank you so very much for providing assistance with this matter.” The man’s appearance resembled Donald Cooper’s—more than resembled, was exact. Twin brothers working on the same train, how pleasant.

  “You must be another Cooper,” Harland said, “am I right?”

  Both men nodded vigorously, sending their chins rippling like mini waves. “How could you tell?” they asked in unison.

  Were they kidding? “Call it an uncanny gift I’ve been cursed with,” Harland said, and grinned.

  “Yes, sir,” the head conductor said, “I’m Ronald.”

  “How good of your mum and pop to name you in such a manner,” Harland said. These were two nervous men, perhaps afraid of losing their jobs. Harland wasn’t unsympathetic toward these men, but why were they so damn helpless? Couldn’t they fix a train or solve problems on their own?

  “I’ll try to help you, but I’m not an engineer, and I’m not a mechanic. Seems to me you need someone to repair the train.” Harland noticed lint on the wide lapel of his jacket and picked it off and flicked it into the air.

  “Ah,” Ronald, the head conductor said, “but the locomotive has been sputtering, as have the lights and all the other systems aboard the Flying Scotsman.”

  “’Tis a ghost,” another man said, wiping his hands on a rag and stepping into the car with them.

  Harland tamped down his derision with: “And you must be the third Cooper, but we have Donald and Ronald already, who are you?”

  This brother wore a handlebar mustache as black as the exhaust from an airship, but shared his brothers’ bulbous noses. He swiped the grimy engineer’s cap from his head, revealing a bald pate sheening with sweat.

  “I’m Lou Cooper, their older, and less jumpy brother.”

  The other two nodded in agreement.

  “Figured the rhyming was over,” Harland said. “Are there any more Coopers running about the train?”

  They stared at Harland, faces blank.

  Lou said, “but there’s only three of us, how could there be another?”

  “So.” Harland coughed. “You say it’s a ghost.” A bright bunch, these Coopers. “You disturbed me because you have a ghost tinkering with your train.” Harland scratched the top of his head—well, something had touched his head back in the compartment now that he thought about it, but surely was a simple breeze. And his bowler was missing—no ghost would steal a bowler. Simply not possible. “Show me, or explain what brought you to that conclusion.”

  “Over here.” Lou turned and shuffled back where he’d come from and waved Harland over. They passed between cars and into the engine compartment.

  “Huh, this is one of those combustion contraptions?” Harland asked. “Thought these ran on steam.” He thought he’d see a boiler. Showed what he knew about trains.

  “A few years back maybe,” Lou said. “Nope, this runs on diesel. They used to say we wouldn’t have powerful enough engines for another twenty years or more, but something propelled the technology forward.”

  “Fascinating,” Harland said.

  It seemed he couldn’t escape progress. At least this wasn’t a dirigible, and though the train wasn’t affixed to the railing, it wasn’t airborne.

  “So, where is this problem?” Harland asked.

  “Here,” Lou said, and lifted a thick cover off a panel, exposing a hulking hunk of metal and flooding the compartment with a deep, resonating hum, ticks, and taps, and a knocking sound. “Hear that?”

  “How could I miss it?” Harland yelled. “So?

  “So?” Lou smacked his forehead as if the problem should be obvious. “Hear that knocking? Hear the taps?”

  “Yes,” Harland said, “may we step away, or could you at least put the cover back on?”

  Lou buttoned up the engine compartment and they adjourned to the adjoining carriage.

  “Explain to me what I heard and what I should have seen,” Harland said.

  Lou wiped his brow. “The engine isn’t firing properly. Someone or something has tampered with the engine’s innards.” He leaned against the wood paneling. Harland just knew Lou’s grime was transferring to the paneling, darkening the wood.

  “So a person has done this,” Harland said. “Provide me a list of all the passengers.”

  Lou shook his head vigorously. “No. No one could have gotten in there. I’ve been in this area of the train since the Flying Scotsman arrived in Edinburgh. Impossible. We performed all the required mechanical checks and the engine hummed.”

  “So, why couldn’t the misfiring engine be a simple malfunction?” Harland yawned, and rubbed his eyes.

  “Nope. A few critical wires had been yanked, easy enough to reattach, but combined with other more hard to reach areas, well,” Lou trailed off.

  “Listen,” Harland said, “I’m still not believing this is the work of a ghost. Had to be a person, or there has to be a logical explanation. Will we make it to London?”

  Lou folded his arms. “Possibly. But we won’t make it on time, unless I’m able to fix this, and soon. I’m tellin’ you, this was the work of a demon or something.”

  “If you say so,” Harland said, “but I’ll poke around a bit after I get the passenger list from Donald.”

  “Ronald,” Lou said. “He’s the head conductor.”

  “Of course.” Harland turned and rolled his eyes.

  His private compartment beckoned, but now he’d promised to assist. He was in no rush to get back to London—he only wanted some rest. Once in London, he’d have to report to the commodore at Dashing Chaps HQ in Burlington House, and would likely be assigned a new task. Taking a few more hours, or another day was not a problem for him.

  The train slowe
d drastically, sending Harland lurching past Donald and Ronald just before he reached the restaurant carriage.

  ***

  “Hee hee.” Cephus clapped. He had climbed near a set of brakes, in the last car of the train, the brake van, and actuated them enough to cause a drastic slowing of the train.

  “Oh, that was good,” he said. “Should slow the train and cause much grief. Much trouble. Oh, yes.”

  “Baggage car. Good place to rummage for odd belongings.”

  ***

  Harland recovered from his stumble and obtained a list of passengers from the Cooper brothers. They needed to check out the brake van, the end of the train to see why the train had suddenly slowed. A ghost, a phantom, or a demon they said. A crush of passengers blocked Harland’s movement aft, roughly half of the people he’d seen in the restaurant carriage.

  “Let Mister Stone through,” Ronald Cooper yelled over the din of complaints.

  Harland placed a hand on Ronald’s shoulder and leaned in. “It’s all right, I’ll wait. Handle them.”

  “Oh,” Ronald said, “of course.”

  Harland stepped back and perused the passenger list and watched as the Cooper brothers organized the angry mob. This was a perfect opportunity to see who complained, why they complained, and who seemed a little off.

  The Americans were front and center and the most vocal. Important business in London, couldn’t be late, that sort of rot.

  The Prussian wasn’t far behind—huffing and puffing and altogether boring. Not the threat Harland had first imagined.

  The Scot and English businessmen protested loudly, and even argued with each other. They had other engagements and important business of course and simply could not be late. They appeared to know each other, as if they’d been to University together.

  The male halves of the unhappy married couples stood in the background, apparently satisfied to have the businessmen take charge and handle the evil Caledonian Railway Company.

  Only one woman stood amidst the crowd, content to sit back, listen, and watch apparently. Was she a threat? It was the nanny. He hadn’t paid much attention to her earlier, but she carried herself in a way that spelled trouble. Perhaps she’d been in trouble with the authorities at one time or another. Her face was hard, penetrated by deep lines of worry and that of a hard life.

  The random single people voiced minor protests, but seemed satisfied with the excuses provided by the Coopers.

  The crowd soon dissipated, melting away to the aft carriages and their compartments. He matched names on the list to the people he’d seen—fairly certain he’d paired them properly, but none stood out. He was only missing some of the married couples—those few that were happy or at least acting as if they were happy.

  “What say you?” Ronald asked, staring at Harland.

  Harland shrugged. “An angry mob. The baggage car, mind if I take a peek?”

  “That’d be highly irregular, Mister Stone,” Donald said.

  “This is an irregular situation,” Ronald said, placing a hand on Donald’s arm. “Go ahead, Mister Stone, but do please practice discretion.” Ronald handed Harland a worn key.

  “Of course.”

  ***

  Harland worked his way aft toward the baggage car, passing his compartment along the way, and sighing. Sleep. He yawned.

  He eased the key into the baggage car’s lock and turned slowly. Why? He didn’t know other than a few years worth of entering places he had no right to visit. Rustling sounds from within touched his ears. He burst through the door and a grey-green form disappeared within a pile of baggage—likely upturned from the sudden braking earlier.

  “If that was a rat, it’s the biggest bloody—”

  “Hmmph.”

  Harland jumped back. The wrinkles in his forehead must have created deep furrows, he could feel them pinching his skin his eyes were open so wide.

  “Hello?” Harland crept forward, moving bags and smaller trunks from his path. The “hmmph” must have been a leathery bag or something falling. Had to be.

  The baggage was a mess. Trunks, bags, satchels, and sporting equipment littered the floor. The sharp braking must have snapped the retention cords. Harland shoved an enormous steamer trunk out of the way.

  Scrambling, like a cat or small animal attempting to run away but not getting traction, sounded from amidst the pile.

  “All right, a rat or rodent of some sort. Could even be a cat, I suppose,” Harland said. He shrugged and searched for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing obvious stood out, just a huge mess was all.

  He left the baggage car and returned to his compartment. They wouldn’t notice a quick nap.

  ***

  The deep cushion felt so good on Harland’s weary body. A quick nap—no chance, he was headed for a pleasant slumber. Let them arrive late in London.

  Something tickled his ear. He snapped his head to the left and the right and looked up. He bent forward and glanced at the floor. Nothing. He sat up and leaned back once again, and drifted.

  Something thumped the top of his head. He jumped up and flailed at his head, knocking a crumpled and dusty bowler to the floor.

  “What?” Harland asked. “How?”

  Had the bowler been on a shelf and fallen? No. He would have noticed, wouldn’t he? He bent over and snatched up the bowler and dusted it off with his sleeve. What he wore no longer mattered either. It’d been a nice ensemble once, before the traipsing he’d done in Scotland. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. Perhaps he needed to look over the passenger list again.

  ***

  Cephus sat in the crawlspace beneath the galley. Few sounds penetrated the floorboards above him—they must have finished with food service for the time being. The only sounds came from beneath him and the clacking and ground noise of the train chugging along.

  “So difficult,” he said. “Difficult indeed. Dissidents. Provoke. How?” So far, people had complained, but no one had done anything to get Stone to act. In fact, he’d fallen asleep.

  He stroked his lengthy nose, tapping the tip with his forefinger. He giggled. “Got it. Provoke.”

  Cephus climbed up through a hole much wider than the drainage pipe running through it and peered into the empty galley. Dark and quiet, but smelly. Rotten food. He pinched his nose shut.

  A red flash caught his eye.

  “What is that?”

  Cephus crawled under a table, inching toward the red flash.

  A door opened and the lights in the galley illuminated. Two men spoke, hushed and intelligible save for their accents—a brogue and the other a proper Queen’s English or some nonsense.

  “I’ll watch, you reset the device’s timer,” the English voice said.

  A knee thumped to the floor before him, slapping a small puddle of liquid. “Damn.”

  “Quiet.”

  The man reached under the table and grabbed the device—the other had called it a device. What sort of device?

  “Hurry it up,” the English voice said.

  “I canna think, shush.”

  Cephus poked his head from under the table and saw the man fiddling with the device.

  The man holding the device kneeled down once again and placed it under the table.

  “What the? A rat. The train has rats.”

  “So what. Pretty soon they’ll be gone. Poof.”

  The men doused the light and left the room.

  “A rat. Always with the rat,” Cephus said.

  He crawled for the device. His eyes made out every detail; dim lighting was perfect for him. Sudden bright lights hurt, but he could adapt.

  “What is this, device? They said poof.” Cephus stroked his nose. “It makes us disappear? Didn’t know the Consortium had given humans that sort of technology yet.”

  But that wasn’t important. They had to be the men, the dissidents. Now he had to make Stone do something about them.

  ***

  Harland perused the list. This was a waste of t
ime. They should fix the train and stop worrying. So what if a few businessmen got upset. No one had bothered him and none of the Coopers had sought him out again. He shrugged. This time he drew shut the drapes and darkened the compartment, even lowering the shade on the door’s window.

  Sleep.

  The door creaked.

  Harland’s gaze snapped toward the door. “Why can’t I get some rest?” He yelled to no one.

  Two men ran by. The shade was up, but he had lowered it. Was that the Coopers? Harland leaned forward, rolling off the plush bench seat and opened the door. “This is the most odd trip.” He poked his head out of the door. The two men had reached the end of the passageway and spun back around.

  “Back that way!” Ronald yelled.

  They halted at Harland’s compartment.

  “Let us in,” Donald said and they pushed their way in, shoving Harland out of the way.

  “Excuse me,” Harland said. “What is going on?”

  “It’s in here,” Ronald said.

  “What is wrong with you two? Leave my compartment this moment.”

  The door slammed closed.

  Harland and the two Coopers jumped.

  “Come with us, Mister Stone,” Ronald said. “We knew it was a demon.”

  “Is an Imp,” Donald said.

  “Same thing,” Ronald said.

  They gave chase, but Harland saw nothing. He simply followed these crazy Coopers. The passengers they passed only seemed mildly concerned. As they approached the restaurant car, the Englishman, who was speaking with the Scot, stopped them, and asked what the problem was. The Coopers said nothing and rushed forward. The Englishman glanced at Harland and frowned. The Scot smirked. Harland glanced down, noticing a round wet mark on the man’s knee. Odd.

  The Coopers entered the galley and flicked on the lights.

  “What are we doing here, gentlemen?” Harland asked, surveying the room. Pots and pans and cooking utensils littered the prep area.

  “Chasing the imp.”

  “Demon!”

  “Whatever,” Harland said. “Why?”