Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (4 page)

“Did you honestly think that I wouldn’t be keeping an eye on what you were doing? Something as suspicious as this? Must say, I hadn’t reckoned on my own dear little wife being involved, though. Nice bonus. Perfect excuse to get shot of her.”

I met his gaze. “Didn’t go running to the police, then, I see. Got yourself a little band of cheap thugs. That makes sense, I suppose. I reckon that the law and you have had more than a few altercations in the past. They’d only turn a blind eye so far, eh, Tone?”

I’d been trying to keep my calm. The diminutive had just slipped out, but it had a marked effect on the man. Even in the dim light of the gas-lamps, it was easy to see his brows knitting and his colour rising. He spat his words out.

“That’s Mr. Willans to you, you shabby little prodnose!”

I risked a glance back at the Vapours. Many of them had produced pick-handles and coshes of their own. Others simply balled their fists. The possibility of an outright battle was growing by the second.

Jessica stepped forward. Her voice was strained, but she kept control. “Anthony. Please listen. Let these people go. Not even onto the ship. Just let them go free to make their own way in this country. As for me — I’ll agree to a divorce. I’ll even take the blame for it happily. Your business goes on unaffected, and I leave you to live your life as you please. There doesn’t have to be any bloodshed. Just let them go.”

Good words. With a reasonable man, they might well have worked.

Anthony guffawed. “You’re more of an idiot than I thought you were. And this matter isn’t open to negotiation.” He raised his voice. “Get ‘em, lads!”

Smirking, he stepped to one side as his mob raised their weapons and charged. The Vapours behind us stepped forwards, readied their own arms, and braced for battle. I grabbed Jessica by the arm and pulled her clear of the field of combat, very aware of the weight of my pistol in its holster.

The opposing forces met in a frenzy of blows. Anthony had presumably hoped for comparative discretion, which probably explained the lack of firearms, but the ensuing battle was no less brutal for that. Fists, clubs, and coshes smashed down again and again. Harsh yells of fury and pain rang off of the warehouse walls.

I saw three of Anthony’s thugs gripping one gigantic Vapour, wrestling him to the ground with their weight. Their arms rose and fell relentlessly. With a sudden bellow and a great blast of steam, the trio were hurled aside, thumping to the flagstones. The Vapour, bleeding profusely from his head, staggered defiantly to his feet, and then promptly collapsed.

The two Vapour dancers were fighting back to back, their cudgels arcing and jabbing, connecting with heads, bellies and groins, circling and weaving elegantly. I vowed never to get on the wrong side of a ballerina.

Jessica pulled away from me. From her jacket, she produced a heavy wrench, and threw herself into the fray, choosing her targets carefully, bludgeoning unsuspecting men, evening the odds, dashing to safety again and again.

One of the largest thugs was caught in a remorseless bear-hug with a massive stevedore Vapour. Each applied merciless pressure to each other, attempting to crush the life out of the other’s body.

I snatched up a fallen pick-handle and made myself useful wherever I could.

The struggle was savage, but the Vapours were clearly gaining the upper hand, the combination of the stevedores’ superior strength and all of the Vapours’ determination turning the tide. More and more of the thugs were sprawled on the flags, motionless. I saw several turning on their heels and fleeing, deciding that whatever they’d been offered wasn’t enough.

That was when I saw Anthony slinking towards the watch tower, then climbing its rungs. If he managed to evade capture, then all could still be lost. Throwing my handle aside, I pursued him as quickly as I could.

He reached the platform a few rungs ahead of me, only then becoming aware of my presence. Panicked as he was, he swiftly drew a pistol.

“They can fight all that they like, Bowyer. I can kill you, and get away. And ensure that their ship is blown out of the water before it reaches the coast. I win!”

I took a breath, and grinned. “Yes. You’ve always had to win, haven’t you? Any alienist would love to get their hands on you. What was it? Spoilt rotten as a child? Or maybe your parents didn’t love you? More likely nobody loved you. That’s what made you a captain of industry — no one cares for you. No one ever has. Why should they? Everyone despises you. You’re a little, pathetic excuse for a man — Tone!”

He reacted to my goading as I’d hoped; with a furious roar, and raising his gun-arm instinctively to club me. The fool!

I rushed him, grabbing his upraised arm, squeezing his wrist till his fingers parted and the gun dropped. Pulling back, I drew my own gun and levelled it — just as the frame of the tower swayed under the shift of our combined weight. I staggered and fell, my gun slipping from my grasp. Luck was on his side. He seized it, and stood over me, taking slow aim. I smelt the reek of mixed whiskey and tobacco on his breath as he leaned closer.

“I always win!”

Caught up in his gloating, he didn’t notice what I noticed. The tower lurched further as a titanic dark form loomed behind him. Before he could react, he was seized up and hoisted overhead like a bale of hay.

Robert moved swiftly to the tower’s edge. With one mighty sweep, he hurled Anthony off. Willans managed one short, terrified scream before he impacted headfirst on the flags below.

We carefully descended. The battle was all but done. I recovered my pistol — not a shot fired — and examined Anthony. Neck broken, and quite dead.

My saviour nodded slowly at me. “Was a bad man. Gone now.”

I embraced as much of his immense frame as I could. “Thank you, Robert.”

He smiled down at me. “‘S’okay, Just Dan.”

The total of the dead was just one. Many on both sides had been wounded, some were unconscious, still more had fled. But Mr. Anthony Willans was the only corpse.

As the Vapours tended to their wounded and carried those unable to move on board ship, Jessica moved to my side. Her cap had been lost in the fight, and her red hair now straggled wildly down to her shoulders. She examined her late husband with an appraising eye.

“For reasons known only to himself, my husband — clearly intoxicated — decided to visit his own empty dockyard late at night. In his inebriated condition, he climbed to the top of the watch tower, and, heedless of the danger, tripped and fell to his death. A tragic accident. Despite our differences, I’m prepared to wager that I’m the main beneficiary of his Last Will And Testament. It may be some time before that can be dealt with, but I suspect that I may just have become a very wealthy widow.”

“Especially when you take into account the contents of his safe and sundry valuables,” I reminded her.

She nodded, contented. “The kind of wealth that could finance many good works.”

The final few Vapours had boarded. The dancers, hand in hand. Robert, with a shining grin and a careful, cumbersome salute. The ship was ready to sail. Only Joshua remained on the quay with us.

I looked him fondly in the eye. “So, you have your freedom. It’s not going to be easy, though, is it?”

“At times, Dan, it’ll doubtless be a great adventure. At other times, I’m probably going to wish that I was dead, and I’m sure that a lot of the others will be just the same. But there was never a grand venture worth doing that didn’t involve some hardship. Only the idiot and the despot expect the World to shape itself for them. The rest of us understand that we’ll end up doing the shaping. But that’s part of the deal with freedom. And I’m happy to accept it.”

Jessica stepped forward and embraced him warmly. “Always remember — you’ve got friends. Whenever you do feel ready to reveal your whereabouts to the World at large, just make sure that we know first.”

He smiled. “You can count on that, Mrs. Willans.”

“Jess…” she began, and then caught his sly wink. She grinned, and returned it.

“That reminds me,” I blurted out. “You never did tell me your full name.”

He bowed, very slightly. “Mr. Joshua Josiah Sheraton, sir. At your service.”

I clasped his hand, very tightly. “God speed, Mr. Sheraton.”

A final, genial smile. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Bowyer.”

He turned smartly, and strode up the gangplank to his freedom.

We watched until the receding lights of the ship faded into the night mists. I sighed, and settled myself on a bollard. Jessica stood beside me, rested a hand on my shoulder, and then produced a hip flask of very good brandy. We passed it back and forth, and toasted the Vapour rebels.

At length, she drew back and smiled at me. “Rest assured, Dan, you’ll be paid in full. Thank you for everything. It’s been a fascinating few days. Definitely something for your memoirs.”

“The Curious Case Of The Steam Spartacus?” I grinned. “I fear that the World isn’t ready for that, just yet.”

“Authorship not to your taste?” Her eyes sparkled in the gaslight. “Well, here’s an idea… how about taking on some more emancipatory work? A change of career can do wonders for a fellow.”

I wagged a stern finger. “Let’s at least discuss this properly, first. Preferably over another drink.”

“I have an excellent cellar back at the house, Dan. If you’d care to join me?”

“Jessica,” I said, rising to my feet, “There’s a good chance that this could prove to be the birth of a fruitfully philanthropic partnership.”

- Christine Morgan -

It’s at times, don’t you know, when I’m aboard an airscrew-driven factory, about to meet a captain of industry while pretending to be a peer of the realm, that even I have to stop and ask myself, “Reggie, old bean, how
do
you get into these predics?”

Not aloud, obviously, as that might’ve drawn me a look or two, and I earned plenty of those already, on a daily basis.

Besides, the answer’s simplicity itself.

A chap’s got to be matey, doesn’t he? Got to rally round for the sake of his nearest and dearest, his good chums?

As Moggy reminded me continuously, we’d been to
school
together, dash it all! If that didn’t bond a pair of blokes tighter than brothers, what did?

Moggy being Cyril Moglington, of course. He’d turned up at my flat in a right state —
him
being in a right state, that is, not the flat — though to set the cards on the table, the table itself would first have to be cleared, if not unburied. Even in his agitated state, Moggy checked at the door to goggle about with some surprise.

Conditions
chez
Reginald Wilmott had gone a smidge lax of late, I’d have to admit. I’d burned through not one but two valets recently, under experiences that had well put me off the idea. The results, sorry to say, were more than beginning to show.

The first fellow … well, far be it from me to fault a man for having a fondness for spirits. But a chap has to draw the line when the hired help indulges that fondness at the master’s expense, let alone by nipping away at my private reserves. And to put the pip in the cherry on the iced-cream soda, attempting a cover-up with the watered-down was insult to injury. I mean to say! We Wilmotts being known for our discerning palates, he might as well have refilled the bottles with industrial gear-solvent.

As for the second, well, the less said about a bloke who’d been not quite discreet about my indiscretions, the better. It was one thing, to be sure, to share an amusing or titillating anecdote now and then with the boys at the club. Then, it’s all chumminess an’ good fun, don’t you know. Ladding about, as it were, hey-what? To have one’s own trusted manservant spilling the proverbial beans all around the neighbourhood, well, that was rather another matter.

However, be that as it may and whatnot, my current dishevelment of domestic affairs took the rumble-seat of the runabout, while Moggy’s crisis claimed the seat with the legroom.

My first thought was that he’d gone and gotten himself in the soup over some girl again. Turns out, of course, he had. Just not in the usual way, where he’d fall in love with a waitress or hat-check chippie, then want my help convincing his uncle to permit the engagement. Not to mention convincing said uncle, a notorious skinflint, to increase his allowance in accordance with the commensurate costs of married life.

No, this time, Moggy had actually gone and taken the whole-hog propositional plunge. His family was in no financial opposition, and for deuced good reason.

“Gertrude Plimsby?” I’d echoed, sure I misheard him. “Not …
Plimsby
-Plimsby?”

“Do you know her?” Moggy had a worried look I recognized; there’d been occasions before when he’d done the head-over-heels for someone I’d been engaged to myself, though I’d thus far always managed to escape the matrimonial noose.

He and I were both relieved to put him off the hook. I’d never met the girl — and when I did, it was to discover she was the chirpy sort, a fluffy blonde dumpling of a creature with bright eyes and one of those voices that sounds sweet to start, then drives into your ears like needles. Not my type, not my type at all.