by Darrell Pitt
‘How much longer?’
‘Only five years. It’ll fly by.’
Mr Doyle leant forward. ‘Why have you asked for me, Bruiser? You know the police want your assistance to track down the bomber.’
‘I don’t help coppers,’ Sykes said, sitting back and looking relaxed. ‘That’s not how things are done. You know that.’
‘But you’ll talk to me.’
‘You’re not a copper.’
‘I assume you want something in exchange.’
Bruiser Sykes grinned, showing a row of small yellow teeth. ‘That’s how business works, Ignatius,’ he said. ‘I do something and you do something in return.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Let me see the timer first.’
Mr Doyle laid the photographs flat on the table. Sykes examined them before nodding thoughtfully. ‘I know whose work this is. No doubt about it.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But here’s the deal. I want you to do some investigating for me.’
‘Really?’ Mr Doyle raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know you were community-minded.’
‘I’m not,’ Sykes said, sighing. ‘Do your young assistants know much about me?’
‘Not much.’
The criminal’s eyes darted from Jack to Scarlet. ‘You’re both nice young kids,’ he said. ‘A circus orphan and a kid whose father works in China.’
‘How—’ Scarlet started.
‘Knowledge is power,’ Sykes said. ‘You’ve both had some rough and tumble in your lives, but you’re on the straight and narrow. I didn’t grow up the same way. There was me and my two brothers—Charles and Ben. Our mum did her best, but we each went our own ways. I started work early, made a lot of money fast.’
‘You mean you became a criminal,’ Jack said.
‘An entrepreneur,’ Sykes corrected him. ‘Charles left home early, got a job on a merchant ship. He’s doing okay for himself. But Ben’s the one who makes me proud. He was a good-looking bloke—and smart. I paid for his education. Made certain he went to university. He became a doctor. Then he joined those Darwinists.’
Jack knew about the Darwinist League: they worked on the edge of medical science. Most scientists operated within the regulations, helping to change the world with their inventions. But others disregarded authority, breaking the laws of man and God for profit rather than universal benefit.
‘He liked his work,’ Sykes continued. ‘He said he was doing research. Real excited, he was.’
‘What happened?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘One day he didn’t turn up for work,’ Sykes said, his face falling. ‘One of his Darwinist friends went around to his home and found everything closed up, neat and tidy. No sign of a struggle or robbery. But he was gone.’
‘Have the police been informed?’
‘Oh, they went around to his house. Checked it out, but when they found he was related to me…’
‘…they assumed he was also involved in a criminal enterprise.’
Bruiser Sykes nodded. ‘Ben was the best of us. His future was bright. He was really going places. I have to know what happened to him. And you’re the best in the business. After all,’ he added grimly, ‘you got me, didn’t you?’
Mr Doyle turned to Jack and Scarlet. ‘Mr Sykes was wearing a pair of custom made leather gloves when he murdered Peter Black, a stockbroker,’ he explained. ‘The bloody pattern from the gloves was as distinctive as any fingerprint.’
‘I still say I’m innocent.’
‘As you would.’ Mr Doyle stroked his chin. ‘I will investigate the disappearance of your brother, but I have another case I’m attending to at present.’
‘But Ben—’
‘I appreciate your concern, but I must complete my current investigation first.’
‘But then you’ll search for Ben?’
Mr Doyle nodded. ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘Although missing people can be notoriously hard to locate, especially if they don’t want to be found.’
‘But you’ll do your best?’
‘I will.’
Sykes leant close. ‘Tick-Tock,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Sykes indicated the photographs. ‘The bloke who made this timepiece is Joe Tockly,’ he explained. ‘He’s known as Tick-Tock in the business. He’s top-notch.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jack asked.
‘No doubt about it. Only one fella crafts a device like this. All the pieces are handmade. It’s as much a work of art as a bomb.’
‘How do we find him?’ Scarlet asked.
‘He owns a house in Margate, but the last I heard he was retired and living in Barcelona.’
‘Spain?’ Mr Doyle said. ‘I wonder what’s brought him out of retirement.’
‘No idea.’ Sykes gave Joe Tockly’s addresses to Mr Doyle. ‘Don’t mention my name. Secrecy counts in this game.’
A bell chimed and people began saying their goodbyes. As Mr Doyle got to his feet, Sykes reached out, grabbing his hand.
‘Remember your promise,’ he said, darkly. ‘You know I don’t like people who cross me.’
‘I said I’d do my best and I will.’
After returning to Bee Street, Mr Doyle sent a message to Scotland Yard regarding Joe Tockly. They received a reply as they sat down to dinner.
‘The Yard have already investigated Tockly,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Apparently he was one of their first suspects. A search was conducted of his home in Margate, but without any success. They think he may even be dead.’
‘Bill Sykes said he might be in Spain,’ Scarlet pointed out.
‘Scotland Yard doesn’t have any jurisdiction in Spain,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Being independent investigators, that’s where we can help.’
Mr Doyle asked them to pack. As Jack and Scarlet loaded their bags onto the Lion’s Mane, Gloria appeared with another message for Mr Doyle. He read it grimly.
‘I just had some news from Lansmark Jail.’
‘What is it?’ Scarlet said.
‘It’s Bruiser Sykes. He’s been found dead in his cell. A suspected heart attack.’ Mr Doyle gazed at their astonished faces. ‘It’s an amazing coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’
‘How could it be anything else?’ Scarlet asked.
‘There are ways and means of doing things in prison. An autopsy will be held into his death, but I’m sure he was poisoned.’
‘What will we do?’ Jack asked.
‘Exactly what we were already planning,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We’re going to Spain.’ His face darkened. ‘The Valkyrie Circle have influence in many places—let’s hope Spain is not one of them.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘Barcelona,’ Jack said, shaking his head in amazement. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘I don’t think there is anything else like it,’ Scarlet said.
The Lion’s Mane cut across the night sky, a thousand city lights below. It had taken several days to reach Spain. On the way, Mr Doyle had
told them to expect an extraordinary metropolis. He was not mistaken. Not a single building was made of straight lines. Everything was curved and twisted, constructed from iron, stained glass and ceramics, masses of copper and bronze.
The entire city had been influenced by the work of one man: Antoni Gaudi.
‘You see what I mean,’ Mr Doyle said, leaning close to the window, ‘when I say Mr Gaudi was inspired by nature.’
‘I’ve never seen anything in nature like this,’ Jack said.
‘But I’m sure you’ll agree that nothing in nature is straight. Everything is contoured and bent.’
Mr Doyle was right. The more Jack stared down at the city, the more it reminded him of a dark forest, mysterious and infinite.
‘Have you been here before?’ he asked Mr Doyle.
‘Interesting you should ask. I once investigated a case involving a headless doll, a rubber pony and a pair of dancing chickens. It began when—’
‘What’s that building down there?’ Scarlet interrupted.
‘It’s a church. The Sagrada Família. Half a mile in length, it is Gaudi’s crowning achievement. There is nothing else on Earth quite like it—and never will be again, I’ll wager.’
‘Despite coming here to investigate a crime,’ Scarlet said, ‘I must admit I can’t wait to look around.’
‘Sightseeing?’ Mr Doyle smiled. ‘I’m sure there’ll be time for that.’
He brought the airship down into the heart of the city, parking in a small lot adjacent to a hotel. After disappearing into the lobby for a few minutes, Mr Doyle returned, smiling. ‘I have found our accommodation,’ he said. ‘The price is reasonable and the hotel appears clean.’
Unloading their bags, Scarlet began to tell Jack about another Brinkie Buckeridge novel. ‘Brinkie’s stayed in all sorts of hotels and boarding houses over the years,’ she said. ‘Ranging from excellent to awful. She once had to sleep in an oven for three months while monitoring a suspect.’
‘An oven! But how did she stretch out?’
‘She couldn’t, but discomfort is the name of the game when dealing with evildoers,’ Scarlet said happily. ‘I aspire to be her one day.’
‘You should start practicing by sleeping in the oven at Bee Street. Might get warm if we try to cook in it, though.’
Their hotel room was on the first floor. As Mr Doyle had said, the facilities were basic, but clean. The walls were cream-coloured and the doors led to small balconies that overlooked the street.
‘This will do,’ Mr Doyle said, looking about. ‘Yes, this will do quite nicely.’ He ordered meals for everyone, which arrived minutes later. ‘This is Pa Amb Tomàquet. A local specialty.’
‘Really?’ Jack said. ‘It looks like squashed tomato on bread.’
‘It is.’
Jack tasted it and decided it was delicious. Later, as he lay in bed, he listened to the city. There were still sounds seeping in from outside: people singing, a man and a woman having an argument, someone playing a mournful tune on a guitar.
Jack woke the next morning to Mr Doyle knocking on his door. ‘Are you coming, my boy? We’re breakfasting at a local café before continuing our search for Mr Tockly.’
As soon as they hit the streets, Jack sneezed. ‘I thought Spain was supposed to be hot,’ he said, grateful he was wearing his green coat.
‘It warms up later in the year,’ Mr Doyle said.
They found a tiny café, tucked away from the main road. Small square tables jutted up against timber-panelled walls. Marble columns ran from floor to ceiling. Drinks and food were served from a bar to one side.
Churros, a type of long donut, arrived on triangular plates. They were also delicious. Mr Doyle chose to drink coffee instead of his usual cup of tea. ‘This is café con leche,’ he said. ‘It contains a shot of espresso coffee and is topped with hot milk.’
Jack and Scarlet stuck to hot chocolate.
Mr Doyle spoke impeccable Spanish. He knew twelve languages, and was also learning Swahili and Inuit. He chatted to the waitress as if he was a local.
Though it was still early, the narrow Barcelona streets were crowded. Jack wondered if the city ever slept. Horse-drawn carts were everywhere. Men wore simple pants and overhanging shirts of earthen colours. Shawls were common among the women. What Jack didn’t see much of were steamcars.
‘Many people are still living like their ancestors,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘It doesn’t seem very efficient,’ Scarlet said. ‘And the city doesn’t even have a metrotower.’
‘Must every place be at the cutting edge of technology?’
After breakfast, Mr Doyle produced a map. ‘Joe Tockly’s last known address was in the suburb of Horta, a short distance from here,’ he said. ‘I suggest we take a steamcab, if we can find one.’
But there were no cabs on the street, so they ended up catching a bus. As the vehicle ambled through uneven streets, Jack watched the scenery flash by. Every building was an apartment block, most a dozen storeys high, painted cream, orange or burnt-red.
But Gaudi’s influence was everywhere—none of the walls were straight, and they were all stippled to look like skin or scales. Many resembled tortoise shells, others had a harlequin design, with brightly coloured diamonds that ran from the street to the rooftops. Even the windows were irregular: some square, others round, oval or kidney-shaped—or some variation in between. Roofs were blue, red, orange or gold. Drainpipes had even been made to look like scaly snakes.
Then there were strange objects that seemed to serve no purpose at all. Huge brass bubbles covered some walls, others were ribbed with patterns that looked like seaweed. Among all this were mosaics of lizards, birds, elephants and tigers, some of them bleeding, freeform, from walls to streets.
‘I feel like I’m hallucinating,’ Jack said.
‘It’s quite an experience,’ Mr Doyle agreed, peering up at the endless menagerie of shapes. ‘Not at all like London.’
‘Brinkie’s boyfriend, Dudley, hallucinated once,’ Scarlet said. ‘Someone slipped a potion into his hot chocolate. He spent three days wandering the streets of Rome alternately thinking he was Edward I, a bumblebee and woody shrub.’
The bus eventually reached the suburb of Horta. This was a quieter area for families. Mr Doyle, after consulting his map, led them down a street to a boarding house at the end. A mosaic of a night sky decorated the front, and the windows were crescent moons pointing in different directions.
‘Doesn’t look a lot like Bee Street,’ Jack said.
Mr Doyle rang the bell. A lady answered, identifying herself as Elena. Mr Doyle spoke to her for a moment in Spanish before she offered to speak English.
‘I know the man you mean,’ she said. ‘He said his name was Jones.’
‘Is he here now?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘Not for long time. Some men take him away.’
‘Against his will?’
She looked fearfully up and down the street. ‘They did not seem like good men,’ she whispered. ‘Mr Jones was quiet. Keep to himself. There was argument. The other men took him in a steamcar.’
‘Hmm,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘May we see his room? We are worried for his safety.’
Elena was reluctant, but then Mr Doyle suggested the authorities might become involved and she became more accommodating.
Tockly’s room was on the second floor.
‘The men also came and took his things,’ Elena said. ‘That was later. Then I think someone else has been here too.’
‘Really?’
‘One day, I came home and found the front door—how do you say it—ajar?’
After Elena excused herself back down the stairs, they looked around the empty room, checking the wardrobe, chest of drawers and under the bed. The writing pad on the bedside table was blank.
Mr Doyle peered into a corner, took out his goggles and examined some refuse.
‘It looks like Tockly was here,’ he said. ‘These are strips of wire, obviously used for bomb making.’ He checked the bottom of a small bin. ‘And here are some cogs for the timing devices.’
Scarlet looked at the writing pad. ‘Someone was using this,’ she said. ‘You can still see the impressions.’
Mr Doyle took out a pencil and ran it lightly across the paper. ‘Angel’s Bar, Ciutat Vella,’ he read. ‘I wonder where that is?’
As they left the building, Mr Doyle asked Elena about the bar.
‘A dangerous place, senor,’ she said. ‘Many fights in that part of the city.’
‘Did Mr Jones ever go there?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Do you think he was in hiding?’
‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘He say he is retired. Never have visitors.’
She had little more to offer, so they said farewell and moved on. Since it was lunchtime, they had a small meal of chicken, sausage and seafood at a nearby restaurant.
Paella. Jack had never tasted anything like it.