Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (2 page)

The quiet that had suddenly settled over this corner of the room was broken by a harsh bray of laughter.

“Ha! Looks like the silly ass has got an Attack of the Vapours!”

The humourist was Mrs. Willans’ husband, Anthony. A stocky man in his mid-thirties, with a close-cropped skull and incipient jowls. A regular Toad Of Toad Hall.

I’d taken an irrational distaste to him on first introduction. Now I realised that my instincts had been sound. The man was a school bully made good.

Nevertheless, his quip — an old joke which had first been recorded in Punch some two years ago — set that corner of the room on a roar, as the gathering seized gratefully on the chance to make light of the situation.

It was clear what had happened. The Staunton Limiter, more commonly known as the Clockwork Conscience, had activated. This ingenious little device was fitted as standard in any Vapour required to retain any degree of their higher functions. Should the host think any impure thoughts of rebellion or anything above mild and momentary discontent, then it detected changes in the body chemistry and mechanically caused a powerful, debilitating migraine. As Staunton himself had said when introducing this boon to the gentlemen of the press, “It’s like they’ve had a half-Nelson put on the old brain.” People like Staunton made me uncomfortably glad to be white.

I looked away at the rest of the room, and saw that Anthony’s beloved Jessica had a look of cold disdain on her face. And it seemed aimed at her husband.

Interesting.

As the party settled back into frolic and laughter (and the stricken Vapour had been quietly ushered away to recover), I quietly drew the husband and wife to one side. I asked them to also bring over their major-domo, who proved to be the Vapour who’d been providing my drinks, a distinguished middle-aged man who was introduced to me as Joshua. I needed all of them to set out my terms.

“I’ve agreed to take on this investigation. My payments have already been agreed” — at this, an ugly flush suffused Anthony’s face; he obviously preferred to be the man who made the deals — “but I will need complete access to this house and its grounds. If possible, I’d prefer to be left to my own devices until I’ve reached my solution. Also, I’d prefer to take a look at the scene of the crime right now.”

The hour was late, but a lantern was found, and Jessica and Joshua escorted me across the landscaped grounds to a small marble building below an ancient yew tree. Anthony followed as far as the end of the terrace, then cheerfully stayed there and gazed after us, seemingly more interested in his champagne.

Joshua carefully opened the door, and handed me the light. “The mistress and I will stay here. Nothing’s been disturbed since we found out.”

I thanked him, and stepped inside. Cool shadows engulfed me, and the glow of the lantern disclosed the open sarcophagus. I stepped over it and examined it carefully.

The first thing that I noticed was that it had been opened neatly — no sign of forcing. That tended to support the theory of this being an inside job. The winding-sheet had been carefully removed and folded. I read the inscription: “Tobias Clayton, True And Faithful Servant, 1818 to 1888. Your Labour’s Over; Rest At Peace With The Lord”.

There seemed to be little else of interest, and I was walking around the sarcophagus to exit when my foot struck something. I stooped, and found myself looking at a pendant: small, delicate, and very beautiful. A clear, multi-faceted stone shone in its golden housing. I pocketed it discreetly, and left.

Having been escorted back to the house, I thanked my hosts, and took my leave, picking up one of Anthony’s business cards from the hallway on a whim.

As I walked home to my rooms in Redland, I turned matters over in my mind. The thing that struck me most was that this seemed set to be an extremely easy case to solve. The number of plausible suspects was small: those members of the Willans household with full access to the grounds and the means (and will) to remove a body. The real mystery: why? What advantage did anyone stand to gain from stealing the corpse of a Vapour?

I rubbed the trinket in my pocket. Tomorrow morning, I had some visits to make in the city centre. And some questions to ask.

The next day dawned warm, and sunny. I dealt with a minor hangover by dosing it ruthlessly with coffee and cigarettes, shaved and dressed, and by eleven was walking with some semblance of wakefulness and good humour to the centre of Bristol. Business falling before pleasure, I made my first call to a small pawnbroker’s on Hobbs Lane.

Howard Gold greeted me cheerily as the shop-bell rang. “Good morning, Dan! And what can I do for you this fine day?”

I gazed at the short, wild-haired septuagenarian with affection. Howard and his money-lending abilities had kept me afloat during some very lean periods for a Bristolian man of investigative business. Also, while he was genuinely friendly to his clientèle, when it came to valuations he had an intellect as cool and vast as any Martian’s. And that was exactly what I needed right now.

I reached into my pocket, drew out the pendant, and placed it squarely in front of him on the counter. “I’d like to know how much I could get for this, if you don’t mind.”

My tone had been light, playful — deliberately jocular. But Howard’s reaction was anything but. It was as if a switch had been thrown; in an instant, he was leaning forward to examine the jewellery with an expression composed of equal parts amazement and cold intensity.

“Where did you get this?” His voice was blunt, almost brutally business-like.

“Found it while I was taking a constitutional.” I tried to keep my voice airy. I’d never seen Howard react like this, and to be honest it unnerved me a little. “Anyway — as I was saying, how much is it worth?”

Howard had reached into a drawer and produced a loupe, which he unhesitatingly screwed into his eye. Firing up an oil lamp, he lifted the pendant close to the beam. Almost off-handedly, he muttered, “If I gave you an honest loan for this one, then I’d bankrupt myself.”

I shut up and let him carry out his examination.

After much careful gazing, rifling through various volumes, and the occasional low whistle, he straightened up. “Well, that’s a genuine diamond. Extremely pure. Not many carats — too small for that — but very valuable. Quite exquisitely cut, done by a real expert. The housing and the chain are hallmarked gold, definite 24 carat-stuff. It’s not going to be giving the Cullinan any sleepless nights, but it is worth a tidy sum. Somebody like yourself could probably live the rest of their life very comfortably on the proceeds of this. Definitely somewhere in the region of five thousand pounds, maybe more, the property of a lady of considerable wealth. You’re lucky. If I were thirty years younger and you didn’t habitually carry a firearm, you might just be a corpse by now. You sure that you didn’t steal it?”

He did, at least, grin as he said that.

“No, Howard. I really did find it. But Honesty’s a harsh mistress. I think that I’d better return it to its rightful owner, if I can find her. And no, I’m sorry, but you can’t have it.” I slid half a crown across the counter. “But have a large drink on me. Helps to drown large sorrows.”

Howard smiled, and bade me a good day.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in a private club off of King Street, holding a pint of porter and pondering. The lunchtime crowd hadn’t appeared yet, so it was just me, the barman, and my thoughts.

The conclusion was obvious. The pendant belonged to Mrs. Jessica Willans. Wife of — as his business card informed me — renowned importer and exporter Mr. Anthony Willans. So how had it ended up at a crime scene?

That was easy, as well. Mrs. Jessica Willans was involved in the crime.

Which, again, returned me to the big mystery. Why should she, or anybody else, want to steal a dead Vapour? And why this particular one? I decided that a brisk stroll might aid my deductive processes. I wolfed down the last of my cheese roll, swallowed the last of the beer, lit a fresh gasper as I walked out of the door, and headed through the welcome leafy shade of Queen Square towards the harbourside, and the head office of Willans’ Universal Import & Export.

We almost had to shout to make ourselves heard above the clamour of voices and the clangour of machinery. Trying to find out more about Anthony’s wife was proving surprisingly easy; the man himself was ready to talk. And to denigrate.

“Dan, I had to marry her! The little idiot went running to her parents after I got her preggers, and what did they do? Insisted that I marry her! Of course, she lost the child — far too young and frail for motherhood, anyway — but it didn’t alter the fact that she was married to me. She threw herself into all sorts of charitable work — sits on several committees for reforms of one sort or another. To be frank, I’d be glad to be shot of her. She was good for a tumble, if scrawny, but as a wife she’s a sanctimonious sourpuss.”

I took a deep breath and banished an image of a morning-star impacting forcefully with Mr. Willans’ skull . I’d only wanted to learn a little more about his wife, but I’d learnt enough about the husband to last me a lifetime. No amount of hail-fellow-well-met could disguise the fundamental callous self-interest of the man. I felt glad that I hadn’t returned her pendant to him.

We continued to stroll along the busy harbourside. All around us, various overseers were supervising Vapours as they lumbered to and fro, shifting heavy cargoes on and off ships and constructing basic stores and sheds. These Vapours had none of the grace of those that ensured the smooth running of the Willans estate. Their implants were far more sturdy, far more obvious. Great pistons pumped along their limbs, emitting thick clouds of steam. They were all larger and stronger than average, chosen for heavy work and then made more capable of doing so. None of them warranted the expense of a Clockwork Conscience. Instead, every one of their foreheads bore the signs of brain surgery. Some scars were still fresh and even had large, functional stitches. Others had faded to greyish seams like scratches on slate.

“None of them are wearing much in the way of safety clothing,” I commented. “Isn’t work like this potentially very dangerous?”

Willans waved the observation away with a waft of his huge cigar. “Why bother? Cheap labour, easily enough replaced. If one of ‘em takes a crate to the noggin, or gets crushed under a falling girder, then there’s plenty more to take his place. Easier than forking out a bundle on safety nonsense.”

I’d barely taken this in when I heard an ominous creaking noise. Looking up, I saw that a large pallet of goods being lowered to the quay was barely hanging in the grip of a hawser. A hawser that was fraying, fast. Directly over one oblivious Vapour, who was hunched down and tying his heavy work-boot.

I launched myself forward instinctively, barely aware of Willans’ surprised yell from behind me. As I did so, the overloaded rope snapped with a pistol-shot crack.

I’m not the strongest of men, nor the heaviest. But I’m no lightweight, either, and if faith can move mountains then a fast-moving human body can shift a somewhat larger one. I cannoned into the Vapour, sending us both sprawling awkwardly, but luckily, several feet clear of the plummeting pallet, which hit the quay with a colossal thump, splintering badly as crates of ale jolted to the ground and shattered.

As we clambered to our feet and I heard the heavy sound of my own shocked breath, Willans strode swiftly but calmly over to us. I swallowed hard, and turned my attention to the Vapour. Thankfully, like myself, the only damage had been done to his clothing. “Are you all right?”

His voice rumbled like coal into a cellar. “Yes, I’m okay.”

Willans took me by the arm and drew me slightly to one side. “Don’t be so bloody sentimental,” he hissed. Having assured himself that I was uninjured, he passed me a hip flask. I took a careful swallow of brandy and he promptly grabbed it back, sealing and pocketing it before turning to the Vapour. “Well? Thank Mr. Bowyer, there’s a good lad.”

I extended my hand swiftly to the towering figure. “Just Dan. What’s your name?”

He spoke slowly, carefully. “My name Robert. Thanks, Just Dan.”

His huge paw engulfed my hand, and his eyes met mine. He squeezed hard, painfully in fact, but I bit back on the discomfort, smiled, and gripped his hand. “My pleasure, Robert.”

Robert nodded slowly. He opened his mouth gradually as if to add more, but Willans tugged brusquely on my sleeve and pulled me away. “Get that mess cleared up,” he snapped at the overseer. Then a broad, chummy grin spread over his florid face. “Is there anything else that I can do for you, Mr. Bowyer?”

I smiled back with all of the politesse that I could muster. “Not right now, Mr. Willans. But I would like to visit your house again. Is your wife likely to be at home to visitors? I’d like to ask her a few questions, too.”

“Course she is. Probably writing letters to one or other of her blessed charities. She’ll most likely appreciate a visitor. Make a nice change for her to see somebody other than the staff.”

I left him stumping back to his site office. Looking down at my torn and dirty garments, I decided to detour by my lodgings first. Standards, after all, are there to be maintained. I waved towards Robert, but he’d turned back to his labours. Shrugging, I went on my way.