The Traitor and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  After Velvet had finished the tour, Sin dropped onto his bed and tried to make sense of the day. Was he the result of the Eugenesis Project? Surely, this now seemed to be the case. But who was his father, or did he not have one? Had his mother been nothing more than an experimental test tube for the mixing of Super-Pangenes? If he was to find the truth, he was going to have to get back to COG.

  * * *

  Sin guessed Doctor Hotchin was in his mid-thirties, although the permanent frown that wrinkled his brow made him seem older. He’d issued Sin with a leather and brass respirator, his watery eyes seeming oddly intense as he’d instructed Sin on its usage. Once Hotchin was satisfied that Sin was adequately protected they’d commenced the morning rounds. Sin manoeuvred a clockwork-driven dispensary cabinet through the infirmary. Pushing down on the brassanium steering handles controlled power to the legs, making the large battered box waddle wherever Sin directed. The peculiar device was a pig to steer but it took his mind off the squalor of the infirmary. There were no beds, only rag mattresses on the floor on which lay the sick, the dying and, in one case, the dead. In a corner, a wooden bucket served as a toilet.

  Sin checked the fit of the respirator that clung limpet-like to the lower half of his face. It made breathing more difficult but the charcoal filters did an excellent job of removing the smells from the air, or at least replaced them with a more amenable sooty tang.

  The doctor examined the patients, making copious notes in a large journal and administering spoonfuls of medicine and pills from the cabinet. When all the patients had been seen, the doctor led Sin to a copper-plated door at the end of the ward. He removed a heavy brassanium key from the cabinet and inserted it into the lock. He fixed Sin with his watery stare. “Never go in here without me. Always wear your mask and don’t, under any circumstances, remove it.”

  Sin nodded. “What’s behind the door?”

  Hotchin’s frown deepened. “Hell,” he answered.

  The door swung inwards. Eight brass beds lined the ward. Tied to each with ropes and rags were what Sin could only assume were patients. Their once-clean gowns were stained with blood and pus. On their hands, feet and faces bulbous boils pulsated.

  “Rat Pox,” said the doctor. “If there are worse ways to die, I’ve never seen them.” From a bookcase that now doubled as storage shelves, he removed a set of thick black rubber gloves and pulled them on. “Touch nothing without these,” he said and handed Sin a pair.

  Sin’s gaze met one of the patients. The pleading look of horror and hopelessness in the man’s eyes twisted his insides. He felt bile rising in his throat and had to swallow hard. If he was sick in his mask, he’d have to remove it and there was no way he was going to do that in here. With a feeling of revulsion building inside him, he surveyed the other beds. No one should suffer like this. It would be kinder to let them die, even help them die, rather than prolong the suffering.

  The doctor approached the final patient, an emaciated woman whose legs twitched uncontrollably. From his bag he pulled a foot-long flexible brass tube with an eyepiece at one end. “I need you to hold her head still while I insert the endoscope,” he said.

  Placing his hands either side of the woman’s head, Sin applied gentle pressure. He could feel the heat of her fever through the rubber of his gloves. She struggled weakly as the doctor forced the metal tube between her lips and into her throat, but the pox had taken the fight from her and she soon went limp. Hotchin lowered his eye to the device’s optics and twiddled a knob. “Sinclair. You should see this.”

  The brass eyepiece was cold against Sin’s face. It was a bit like looking through the telescope, except that what he saw was not rolling hills or beautiful gardens but a garish pink tunnel lined with yellow pustules.

  “The latter stages of Rat Pox, I’m afraid,” said the doctor.

  Sin lifted his head away and Hotchin pulled the endoscope free. He dropped it into a bucket of bleach before wiping it clean and putting it in his bag. He dipped his gloved hands in the bleach and directed Sin to do the same before they both returned the sterilised rubber gloves to the shelves.

  Hotchin cast a final glance over the patients then ushered Sin from the room. He pulled the door closed and locked it. With the cuff of his jacket he rubbed a smudge from the shiny metal. “Interesting thing about copper and its alloys, bacteria can’t survive on it. Can’t even survive near it. I wish we could use it in here,” he said, gesturing to the squalor of the infirmary. “But it’s just too damn expensive.”

  They returned to the doctor’s office and Sin walked the dispensary cabinet to a steam-powered clockwork winder on the wall.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the misery, but I find most things seem better with a good strong cup of Earl Grey,” said Hotchin, placing a conical kettle on a small gas burner.

  “So I’ve been told,” said Sin. “I didn’t think people still got the Rat Pox.”

  “Mostly they don’t. We’ve not had an epidemic for years. Any new cases are brought directly to us before they become contagious and so we’re managing to control it.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  The doctor took two fine china teacups painted with scenes from the Raj and placed them on his desk. “They’ll die; everyone does. Patient Three, Miss Gordon, she’s got a day, maybe two if she’s unlucky. After tea I need you to run to the undertakers and tell them we’ll need one standard and one sealed casket for cremation.”

  CHAPTER 31

  BLACKMAN AND BELL

  The undertaker was half a mile across the city. Sin dawdled through the streets, enjoying being free from the oppression and misery of the workhouse. No wonder so many like him turned to crime. Living rough with a gang was a far better alternative to the wretchedness of the spike.

  A steamtram puffed past, belching soot and cinders into the air. He moved to the side of the road, avoiding the jetting steam from the carriages, and noticed a pair of young cutpurses watching him from across the street. There was something about their demeanour that made him wary. He was not the easiest or most lucrative target yet they focused on him rather than scanning the surrounds for other marks.

  Sin ducked into an alley at the back of Briton College and hurried into the sunken doorway that acted as the delivery entrance for the kitchens. He concealed himself behind a barrel of Mutton Joe’s Finest Lambs’ Offal and waited.

  The cutpurses padded past him, their pace becoming more frantic.

  “Told you he’d seen us,” said the younger of the two.

  “Shut up and run. We’ll get a beat down if we lose him.”

  The sound of their footsteps receded. Sin darted from his hiding place and gave chase. They could have been sent by Jimmy Two Sticks, but it seemed unlikely. His encounter the previous evening was hardly worthy of interest or retribution. Was the spy onto him already? It wouldn’t be out of place to hire the services of the gangs. He’d occasionally done work for the Fixer that didn’t involve thievery and was simply following someone and reporting back.

  At the end of the alley Sin slowed. He waited for a group of well-heeled students to saunter by and slipped onto the street using them as cover. The urchins tailing him would probably have split up, taking a direction each. On failing to find him they should return to the alley. He crossed the street and rummaging in his pocket retrieved a penny. Tossing it to a hawker, he plucked a Coxford Herald from the stand and sat on a bench with a good view of the alley. The front-page article showed a grainy lithograph of a multi-gunned battleship below the headline BRITANNIA NO LONGER RULES THE WAVES. Sin scanned the crowds for either of the urchins as he read the article, which detailed the launch of the first Teutonian ocean-going warship, the Brandenburg. A shadow fell over him. Overhead, a giant lozenge-shaped airship drifted across the rooftops. On its grey sides was painted a moustached man in an aviator’s helmet and goggles. He pointed down at the ground, his face stern yet imploring. Next to him, in letters high as a house, was written The Sky Na
vy Needs YOU!

  Across the street Sin clocked the urchins disappearing back down the alley. He tucked the newspaper beneath his arm and followed them. They looked pretty young and from the ease with which he’d lost them he suspected they were inexperienced, so it was odd that they would be tailing him. If a mark was worthy of surveillance, you put someone good on it, or at least partnered a greenhorn with someone who could teach them the ropes.

  An uneasy feeling niggled at Sin as they turned into Blue Boar Street. He pulled his cloth cap lower over his face and dropped further back. His smart clothes and clean looks offered a certain disguise but this was his old turf and he was chancing it coming down here.

  He slowed, lurking by a Georgian building that housed a respectable apothecary and also, Sin knew, a discreet opium den in the cellar. The urchins headed to the back door of The Bear Pit, Coxford’s oldest pub. It dated from Tudor times and had bowed white walls, gnarled oak beams and a warped tile roof. The inside of the pub was equally twisted, as was its most infamous resident, the Fixer. That explained the use of greenhorns; it had to be newbloods or Sin would have recognised them.

  He retreated through Wheatsheaf Yard, back towards the undertaker’s. The Fixer knew he’d returned. That couldn’t be good. He’d never settled his debt and the Fixer wasn’t the sort of man who let things ride. He’d be safe in the workhouse, probably, but the streets now held an additional danger. He scanned about him, even more vigilant of his surrounds.

  The frontage to Blackman and Bell was sombre and understated. Either side of the dark wood door, satin-lined windows displayed caskets and headstones, tastefully arranged.

  Sin pushed the door open and a single deep chime rang out. A gaunt, black-suited man with slicked-back hair looked up from a ledger. His gaze travelled from Sin’s feet to his head. Sin shuddered, realising he’d been expertly sized for a coffin.

  “Welcome. How may I be of assistance?” said the undertaker, his baritone voice filling the room.

  “Doctor Hotchin sent me. We need a standard and a sealed casket for cremation.”

  The undertaker added a line to the ledger. The sound of the pen scratching at the paper seeming unduly loud in the deathly quiet.

  “Is either to be a special casket?”

  The pen paused on the word special, as if the raised eyebrow and insinuating tone weren’t enough.

  “Err. No, I don’t think so. He just said a standard and sealed casket for cremation.”

  “Very good. Delivery will be late afternoon, removal by sundown tomorrow.”

  The undertaker plucked a business card embossed with gold leaf from a holder on the counter and fastidiously wrote the details on the reverse. He rolled a blotter across the writing, drying the ink, then proffered it, clasped between pale skeletal fingers. Sin took the card and the undertaker returned to the ledger, their business concluded.

  Sin made his way back to the workhouse, double-checking for any unwanted followers. As far as he could see, there were none. Doctor Hotchin was in his office going through patient records. Sin had debated whether to confront the doctor about the special caskets. It could be entirely legitimate, but from the undertaker’s demeanour he doubted this was the case. However, it was only his first day and so he decided to play it innocent, imagining how he’d behave if he were not on the hunt for a spy.

  “It’s all arranged. They’re going to drop them off this afternoon,” said Sin, “but they asked about special caskets?”

  The doctor looked up. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t know what he was talking about. So I just said a standard and sealed casket for cremation, like you told me.”

  The doctor’s shoulders relaxed and he returned to his paperwork. “Good. Good,” he muttered.

  “What is a special casket?” asked Sin, an air of innocent curiosity in his voice.

  Hotchin’s head jerked upwards, his watery stare fixing on Sin.

  Sin shrugged. “I thought I should know, in case we ever need one.”

  The doctor fiddled nervously with his pen. “Ah, well, we sometimes need a copper-lined casket, which the body is sealed into. It depends on how advanced the Rat Pox is when the patient dies.”

  The explanation sounded reasonable but from the doctor’s discomfort it was obvious there was more to it than this.

  “Well, let’s hope we don’t need one any time soon,” said Sin. “Do you require me for anything else?”

  “No. You can take your lunch now.”

  Sin reached for the door.

  “You’ve done well, Sinclair,” said Doctor Hotchin. “You’ve coped much better than your predecessor.”

  “What happened to my predecessor?” asked Sin.

  “Patient number five,” answered Hotchin.

  CHAPTER 32

  CARPE DIEM

  The workhouse staff had a separate dining room from the giant hall where the inmates ate. Painted a drab green with a solitary portrait on the wall of Sir Max Dowell, the workhouse’s founder, the room felt less welcoming than Blackman and Bell. Sir Max appeared to be a stern, austere gentleman with dark hair, dark eyes and dark clothes. Sin guessed he had no sense of joy or frivolity, a sentiment that seemed to be echoed in the food being served. He had a stale hunk of bread and a bowl of watery stew, on top of which floated fatty globules.

  The dining room was empty, possibly an indictment of the quality of the food, and so he sat alone at the end of one of the two wooden tables. He was marvelling at the cook’s ability to make something so devoid of any discernible flavour when the door opened and Velvet slipped into the room. She eased the door closed and dropped onto the bench next to him. “How’s the food?” she asked.

  “It looks better than it tastes.”

  Velvet took a knife and prodded a translucent glob floating in Sin’s bowl. It sunk below the surface leaving an oily slick in its place. “I’ve not had the heart to try it. I normally pretend I’ve got to go to the post house and slip into Marmadukes for tea and cake.”

  The mention of cake made Sin think of Zonda and he wondered how she was doing. Would she be managing to abstain so she had a chance at getting over the wall? Or would she succumb to temptation without his encouragement? Despite all that had happened, he missed her more than he’d have thought possible.

  “Don’t suppose you could bring an eclair back for me?” said Sin.

  Velvet eyed him contemplatively.

  “I’ll void our bet,” said Sin.

  “I’ll think about it. Have you found anything?”

  “A room of Rat Pox victims and something suspicious to do with special coffins, but nothing cast iron. You?”

  “There’s a discrepancy in the records. I’m sure of it, but I’ve not been able to go back and check. Harris won’t leave me alone.”

  Sin fished something that he hoped was meat from his broth. “When does Harris take his lunch? I can keep cavey so you can have a proper search.”

  Velvet tilted her head. “Cavey?”

  “You know, act as a lookout.”

  “Ah, you mean cave from the Latin beware.”

  Sin swallowed the tasteless lump. “Course I did. Well known for our fluency in Latin, us street kids.”

  Velvet checked a watch hung on a silver chain around her neck. “It’s worth a try. Tomorrow’s lunch?”

  Sin dropped his spoon into the bowl and pushed it away from him. “Let’s do it now.” He winked at Velvet. “Carpe diem.”

  * * *

  Sin hovered in the doorway to the office while Velvet sifted through papers.

  “I thought you were keeping watch?” said Velvet.

  “I am keeping watch.”

  “You’re not supposed to be watching me.”

  “I don’t tell you how to sip tea and eat cucumber sandwiches, so do me the courtesy of not telling me how to do my job.”

  “You really do have a dim view of the aristocracy don’t you.” Velvet tugged at the brassanium handle on a tall wooden filing cabinet
that, unlike the rest of the battered furniture in the office, still retained its varnished sheen. “This one’s locked.”

  “That’ll be the one we’re interested in then. Have a dekko for a key. It’ll be hanging under the desk or beneath a chemlamp or something.”

  Velvet rummaged under the desk. “You were right,” she said, retrieving a small brass barrel key. “How did you know?”

  “People think thieves are stupid and assume they’ll outsmart us but we’re more cunning.”

  Velvet turned the key in the lock and pulled the lever on the side of the cabinet. Clockwork whirred inside and the drawers began to open with a mekanikal slowness.

  Sin’s head snapped around, towards the workhouse foyer. “Harris is coming.”

  Velvet froze. “You sure? I didn’t hear anything.”

  Sin tapped his nose and darted from the doorway. He slowed his gait to an unconcerned saunter and wandered into the foyer, blocking the porter’s way.

  “Mr Harris, sir. Just the man I was hoping to see,” said Sin.

  “Out my way, boy.”

  The smell of cigarettes and beer wafted from the porter and Sin guessed lunch had been a mostly liquid affair. Continuing to obstruct Harris’s path, Sin said, “Doctor Hotchin has some coffins arriving later. I was wondering what the procedure is for receiving them?”

  “There’s no procedure, undertakers bring ’um and leave ’um where the doctor wants.” Harris took a step forwards, forcing Sin back.

  “Do I need to sign for them or make an inspection to make sure it’s correct?”

  “Do what you want, just don’t bother me about it.” Harris stuck out a thick arm and brushed Sin aside. The man had a natural strength in keeping with his size. Sin could have resisted but that wasn’t the role he was playing. And besides, he’d bought enough time for Velvet to cover her tracks.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon the undertakers delivered the caskets. One was a rough wood box with rope handles and misaligned boards, which served as the last resting place for the deceased from the infirmary. The other coffin was clearly the work of a craftsman, with no gaps in the wood and a lid that sealed tight with metal clasps. This they left outside the Rat Pox ward in readiness. Sin once again accompanied Doctor Hotchin through the copper-plated door on his evening rounds where he tended to the patients and where, against all odds, Patient Three was still clinging onto life.