The Traitor and the Thief

by Gareth Ward

  “What did you bring him here for?” said Velvet.

  “I had no choice. He was going to tell Hotchin.”

  “You should have smothered him and left him in the infirmary. Half the patients never make it out anyway.”

  Sin looked at her in disbelief. “I ain’t no murderer. He may be a wrong ’un but he don’t deserve that.”

  The man blindly nodded his head in agreement. Velvet poked him with the toe of her boot and he squirmed backwards. “There are no rules or chivalry. That will only get you dead,” she recited Eldritch’s words.

  “It’s not chivalry. It’s basic human decency. He’s not the enemy, is he?”

  “If he’s going to get in our way, he is.”

  Sin folded his arms. It was all well and good Velvet standing there in judgement but she’d not been the one who’d had to make a spur of the moment decision. “Fine. You kill him then,” he said.

  The colour drained from Velvet’s face and she stepped away from the man. “Why should I? You’re the one who created the problem, you should sort it.”

  “I am sorting it. He’ll have to stay here until we’re finished.”

  “Great plan. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Ignoring the gibe, Sin said, “So did you find anything in the files?”

  “I was right; there are discrepancies. Certain residents vanish from the records for no reason and their disappearances coincide with Doctor Hotchin’s orders of special caskets.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we need to take a look at that special casket.”

  * * *

  Sin knocked on the door to Hotchin’s office. He knew the doctor should have gone for the evening but it paid to be cautious. He tried the doorhandle. True to form Hotchin had locked up when he left. Sin selected a serrated metal rod from his lock picks.

  “What are you doing?” asked Velvet.

  “I’ve got to pick the lock.”

  Velvet rolled her eyes. “How quaint, and so last century.” She pulled a brass hemisphere from the folds of her dress, just like the one Eldritch had used, and held it over the keyhole. The clockwork inside the device clattered and then the door swung open. Sin hurried inside and grabbed his respirator and the brassanium key.

  “You’d better take Hotchin’s mask if you’re coming along,” he said and handed the doctor’s respirator to Velvet.

  She examined the sweat-stained leather with an air of disgust and placed it back on the doctor’s desk.

  “It’s really not my colour. It’ll clash terribly with my hair.”

  “You’ve got to have a mask. It’s Rat Pox.”

  “Von Darques don’t get sick. We die of old age or violence.”

  “But it’s Rat Pox.”

  “So you said.”

  Sin shrugged. “Suit yourself, it’s your funeral.”

  “It actually isn’t,” said Velvet and strode from the room.

  Sin and Velvet entered the Rat Pox ward, locking the door behind them. The casket still rested on the trolley beside Patient Three’s empty bed. Hotchin had secured the locks, sealing it closed.

  Velvet placed the metal hemisphere over the first lock and waited for it to do its magic. It rattled and clanked and rattled some more but as the clockwork ran down the lock remained closed. Beneath his mask, Sin grinned. “Time to go old-school,” he said. Inserting a pick into the lock, he gave it a jiggle and the lock sprang open. The second lock was more troublesome.

  An amused expression on her face, Velvet said, “I guess I must have loosened the other one.”

  “No, it’s the tension on the catch,” said Sin. “Lean on the lid, will you?”

  The springs creaked as Velvet pressed down on the casket.

  “Splendiferous,” said Sin and the lock clicked open. The casket’s lid lifted a fraction and a bluish vapour seeped from the seal with a hiss.

  Sin heaved open the lid. Inside, resting on the wrapped remains of Patient Three, was the body of a man. The corpse was emaciated, the wrinkled skin tinged the pale blue of a blackbird’s egg. From his eyes and nose leaked a sapphire-coloured liquid.

  “You just put the one body in the coffin, right?” said Velvet.

  “Yeah. Patient Three.” Sin scanned the ward in case it was another patient but all the beds were occupied. He dropped to his knees and checked under the beds. Other than an accumulation of dust and cobwebs there was nothing.

  “What are you doing? The mystery’s in that casket,” said Velvet.

  “Maybe. Earlier today, when I messed with the boiler, Hotchin did his swede. Said there was important medical equipment connected that needed steam pressure but there ain’t nothing here.”

  Velvet prodded the corpse with the tip of her knife. Where it punctured the skin more of the sapphire liquid seeped out. “I guess we know why the caskets are special. You get two cremations for the price of one.” A smile crept onto her face. “And it’s a foolproof scheme, because only a complete idiot is going to open the coffin of a Rat Pox victim.” She looked pointedly at Sin.

  “Hey, you opened it too.”

  “No. I just watched.”

  Sin pulled the casket closed and secured the locks. He wished Zonda was here. She’d probably say something oddball like “weirdelicious, bluerooney blood” but she might have had some idea of what the heck was going on. He tried to remember what he’d read in the book Lilith had given him on humours of the blood. Nothing like this was mentioned, he was certain. “So the doctor’s disposing of strange blue corpses, which is pretty suspect, but how does that help us find the spy?” said Sin.

  “I have no idea. It’s got to be connected. We need to search his office.”

  * * *

  Perching on the corner of Hotchin’s desk, Velvet examined her nails. “Going through all this paperwork has played havoc with my cuticles and we’ve not found a thing.”

  The lock of the final drawer in the desk was proving to be as tricky as the ones on the special coffin. Sin was certain Hotchin was up to no good but Velvet was right, they’d found nothing even remotely incriminating. He finessed the pick along the lock’s tumblers and was rewarded with a satisfying click.

  “What is it this time?” said Velvet as Sin slid the drawer open. “More riveting journals of Hotchin’s exploits in India? You’d think he’d won the Tea War by himself from the amount he wrote about it.”

  Sin withdrew an ornate ivory box the size of a large book. Carved on the lid was a king cobra. Its fangs dripped venom and two red jewels sparkled for eyes. “What do you reckon this is?”

  “Probably just some curio from the Raj,” said Velvet dismissively.

  The box’s lid had no hinges and no visible way of opening it. Sin ran his fingers over the ivory, feeling its cool sheen. He traced the shape of the snake until his fingertips came to rest on the Cobra’s jewels. He pressed down. Clockwork whirred.

  “How’d you know to do that?” said Velvet, suddenly interested.

  Sin had no idea. It had either been some innate thief’s instinct or blind luck. Still, there was no reason to let Velvet know that. “I could see the signs of wear around the gems and it was obvious to the trained eye that they’d been repeatedly moved,” he lied.

  The box’s lid rotated open. The inside was lined with soft velour and housed five small glass vials. Each vial contained a viscous yellow liquid.

  Sin removed one of the vials. Sounding out the syllables, he read the fine italic handwriting penned on the lid: “Naja Oxiana.”

  Velvet levered another vial free. “Naja Kaouthia,” she said.

  “It must be some sort of code,” said Sin.

  “I don’t think so.” Velvet carefully replaced the vial and wiped her hands on her skirt. “You should put yours back too.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  Rummaging through Hotchin’s journals, Velvet selected one. She folded the book open and began to read. “… breakfast today was the subject of much excitement. Some rath
er fine Cumberland sausages had just been served when the Chai Wallah burst into the mess tent waving a formidable stick and shouting ‘Naja, Naja’. The poor man’s eyes were like saucers and he danced from foot to foot like he was on burning coals. Eventually, Captain Marx abandoned his sausages and followed the Wallah outside to where a magnificent cobra swayed most hypnotically next to the latrines …” Velvet closed the book. “If I’m right, these are vials of snake venom.”

  CHAPTER 36

  DOCTOR FRANKENLINE

  Sin awoke to the sound of a fist hammering on his door. “Sinclair, get up. I need you in my office immediately,” yelled Hotchin.

  Sin pulled the blanket back and swung his legs from the bed. Had the broken endoscope been discovered? Or had he and Velvet left some telltale sign of their search of the office? Whatever the reason, Hotchin didn’t sound happy. “Coming, sir. Just got to get dressed,” answered Sin, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

  “Quick as you can. No time to waste.”

  Sin heaved on his breeches as Hotchin’s footsteps receded down the corridor. He eased past the gagged and bound man on his floor. At least the doctor hadn’t burst into his room. Even with Sin’s prowess at lying he may have struggled to talk himself out of that one.

  He slipped on his shirt and laced his boots while trying to make sense of the previous night’s discoveries. Had Hotchin poisoned the second man in the casket? It seemed likely, but why? And what did any of that have to do with their hunt for the spy?

  Sin fetched his jacket from the back of the door and steeled himself to face Hotchin. Whatever the doctor accused him of he would play the innocent and deny any involvement. He would keep calm and lie through his teeth if necessary.

  Hotchin was hurriedly scribbling something on a piece of paper as Sin stepped into the office.

  “That bloody idiot Harris has let the boiler men from Pratt and Witney turn off the steam. It’s an absolute disaster.” He thrust the piece of paper at Sin. “I need you to fetch Doctor Frankenline from this address. Tell him I need his help with the patients. Tell him we’ve lost all steam.”

  Sin read the address. Sixty-three Merton Street, right in the middle of his old thieving grounds. He should have felt comforted by the fact, instead it filled him with unease. He’d not spotted any urchins following him since the two he’d lost in the alley but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The Fixer could have put more experienced members of the crew on it.

  “Yes, sir, I know the street.”

  The doctor dabbed his forehead with a spotted handkerchief. “Be as quick as you can, Sinclair. It could be a matter of life and death.”

  * * *

  Sin rushed along Crooked Row, his feet pounding the cobbles. The last time he’d been here he’d been running too, away from Eldritch. How much his life had changed in a few short weeks. He needed to find the spy or it would all change back again. When he’d not had two halfpennies to his name it hadn’t particularly bothered him. Simply lifting a pie from one of the street vendors was a gratifying victory and enough to brighten his day. However, now he knew better, the thought of going back to the gangs was far from appealing.

  Merton Street was a mixture of old stone buildings that formed part of Merton College and much newer brick townhouses. Number sixty-three fell into the latter category. Sin climbed the steps leading to the glossy black door and pressed the porcelain knocker-button. Steam spurted from a piston that raised the fist-shaped door knocker before it pumped back and forth rapping three times in quick succession. He heard hurried but measured footsteps inside and the door swung open.

  “Yes?” said a dour-faced butler. His posture as stiff as his starched shirt.

  Sin inhaled deeply, trying to calm his breathing. “Urgent message for Doctor Frankenline from Doctor Hotchin,” he said.

  The butler appraised him, staring down his nose. Sin knew he was deciding whether this was some type of con to get into the house and thieve. It was exactly the sort of thing the Fixer had him do in the past, and despite his better clothes he probably still had an air of urchin about him.

  “I’m his assistant at the workhouse. I think it’s to do with the Rat Pox,” Sin added.

  The butler ushered Sin inside and directed him to an ornate Georgian chair. “Wait here. I will see if the doctor is available.”

  Sin dropped into the seat, grateful for an opportunity to rest his legs and regain his breath. The butler sauntered away, obviously having a different understanding of the word urgent than Sin.

  After what seemed like an age, but was probably only a matter of minutes, an elderly man in a herringbone suit hobbled towards him. Sin recognised Doctor Frankenline’s ruddy face. He’d been in a heated discussion with a younger man when they’d visited the Arguementorium with Nimrod.

  “You have a message for me?” said the doctor.

  “Doctor Hotchin needs help with the patients. There was a problem with the steam system and he’s worried about the medical equipment and the Rat Pox patients.”

  It was an overelaboration of Hotchin’s instructions, but Sin wanted to gauge the doctor’s reaction. Frankenline didn’t query the message, but he took a sharp intake of breath and his pupils widened, confirming Sin’s suspicions. There was something more going on with the Rat Pox patients than he’d so far seen.

  “I need my bag. I’ll get Pennyweather to summon a cab. If what you say is true, speed is of the utmost importance.”

  * * *

  With a whoosh of steam, the cab complained to a halt outside the workhouse. Frankenline handed the driver a crisp pound note and then hobbled to Hotchin’s office with as much speed as his old bones could muster.

  “Bring your mask,” he said to Hotchin. “You too, Mr Sinclair. This could be a three-man job.”

  Hotchin’s brow furrowed deeper and he shot Frankenline a look Sin couldn’t decipher.

  “Where’s the key?” snapped Frankenline.

  Sin pulled his mask over his face as Hotchin removed the key from the trolley. Frankenline hoisted his bag and hobbled from the room.

  Hotchin inserted the key into the copper-plated door in the infirmary and checked his mask.

  “You first, Hotchin, then Mr Sinclair. I’ll secure the door,” said Frankenline, his voice muffled by the respirator.

  Hotchin turned the key and stepped into the room. Sin followed close behind, his eyes fixing on the special casket. He heard the door clank closed, then a sharp pain stung the back of his neck. He whipped around. Doctor Frankenline stood with his medical bag open and an empty syringe in his hand. “You’re spying on us. You were in the Arguementorium when Nimrod was attacked,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to join Patient Five.”

  Sin’s legs gave way and he slumped to the floor.

  CHAPTER 37

  WHATEVER IT TAKES

  Sin tried to open his eyes but his eyelids refused to respond. They were as dead as his arms and legs. Not that he could have moved them anyway – they were bound at the wrists and ankles. He remembered Doctor Frankenline’s words, and a vision of the Rat Pox patients, secured to their beds, played through his mind. He inhaled, the air flowing easily into his lungs. His mask was gone.

  “You may feel a little pain as I inject a stimulant,” said Doctor Frankenline from somewhere behind him. “You’ve been out for nearly two days.”

  He felt a needle slide into his arm and then fire ran up his veins, spreading throughout his body. In his head he screamed, while from his mouth came only the faintest of complaints. His eyes popped open. He wasn’t tied to a bed in the Rat Pox ward but in a low-vaulted room surrounded by machinery. He managed to lift his head an inch and gaze down at his near-naked body. Thick leather straps secured him to a padded table. Needles skewered his arms and legs from which clear rubber tubes snaked to an ominously humming machine.

  “Try to remain calm. You probably don’t have Rat Pox yet,” said Frankenline, twisting a dial on the machine. “Doctor Hotchin assures me he tol
d you nothing of our experiments, so it appears we have a problem. How did you know about us?”

  “I don’t know anything. I’ve only just started here,” croaked Sin.

  “I’m a scientist. I seek truth from chaos, and you, Mr Grant, are not being honest. You are going to die here. That is the truth. I can make it quick and painless or you can die in the prolonged agony of Rat Pox. The choice is yours.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re doing. I was just helping Doctor Hotchin.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you. It matters not. The syndicate’s sending you a special visitor and they can decide your fate.”

  Frankenline strapped a gag across Sin’s mouth. “You’ve got some time to consider your options but perhaps this will help motivate you.”

  The doctor tilted the table forwards so Sin was nearly upright. Opposite him, strapped to tables identical to his, were the emaciated forms of two men. Both had the same odd pallor to their skin as the corpse in the casket. A piston on the machines attached to them pumped up and down forcing a translucent blue liquid around their bodies. Secured to a third table was the man from Sin’s room, his face contorted with fear. Above his head on a chalkboard was written Patient Twelve.

  “We’re transfusing them with an artificial blood I’ve developed,” said Frankenline. “It’s a super-efficient oxygen carrier and provides an immunity to Rat Pox and other poisons. It really is jolly clever stuff.”

  Frankenline adjusted the dials on the machine connected to Patient Twelve and it began to vibrate. “Doctor Hotchin came up with the immunity concept after seeing a mongoose attack a cobra in India. A most remarkable creature and totally immune to the cobra’s venom.” He pulled a lever and the piston on top of the machine began to pump up and down, drawing blood up the tubes from Patient Twelve’s body. “I was already working on the oxygen-carrying properties of octopus blood and a sponsor brought us together. Imagine our soldiers charging unhindered through clouds of poisonous gas as our enemies choke in their trenches.”