Brass and Bone (3 page)

My tea steamed like a whistle on a train. Abigail, crunching her breakfast toast, sounded like the Charge of the Light Brigade. When Rupert brought in the kippers and set them down on the table before us, the silver cover rattled like an explosion in a gasworks.

Yes, I am sure you recognize my symptoms.

I had a hangover.

It was not, sadly, due to overdrinking. Or, at least, not entirely. Granted, I had been celebrating.
We
had been celebrating. Though the silver spider had nearly killed me, our latest caper had netted us enough to keep us going for six months at least, even with the addition of quite a tidy sum to Abigail’s greedy airship fund. And we hadn’t even had to deal with the exorbitant rates charged by our usual fence, as we were to deliver the things ourselves.

Abigail was happy about this, I could see. She loves with an unholy passion the old gas bag her dear departed grandpapa left her.

I, on the other hand, would happily never leave the ground in it. And, at the rate the airship fund was growing, I would quite possibly have my feet on the ground for decades to come.

Thievery, for all the romantical writers say of it, is not the way to wealth.

I seized my teacup in trembling hands and brought it to my lips with care. The sound of my teeth rattling against the bone china echoed through my head and, I fear, I groaned in agony.

“I warned you about Ellison’s brandy, Simon, on top of whatever was in that spider contraption,” Abigail said as she buttered another piece of toast with what I can only call a sad and most inconsiderate lack of sympathy. Her knife sounded like—well, I am sure by now you realize, and no doubt recognize, my feelings. I shall say no more on the matter. Feel free to interject the occasional moan or groan as it suits you.

Rupert came in with the morning post. At least we were in our London flat and not down in stuffy little Bartleby Manor. I could not stand cheerful birds at this time of morning; the hansom cabs, both steam-man and horse-drawn, made quite enough noise. But I am remiss; I promised not to mention my agonizing head. I beg your forgiveness.

Rupert is our servant, our major domo, our assistant when called upon, and so much more. He was once a burglar and thus has a multitude of talents to offer those in our own particular field. Now he cooks for us and polishes my boots. How have the mighty fallen.

“Here’s a letter from Claremont Manor, my lady.” Rupert lingered, curiosity plain on his plainer face. He had known Abigail from her birth, and me from the time I joined her and her grandpapa, and he took liberties other servants would not dare. “That’s Sir Eli Hopkins’ house, ain’t it?”

I shuddered. I mean, what was he thinking? He knew how tender were my sensibilities when it comes to the Queen’s English.

Then I realized what he’d said. I sat straight up—a vast change from my usual elegant slouch.

“Claremont Manor?” I asked in as sepulchral a tone as I could manage—not difficult in my condition. “Whatever could that bas—I mean, whatever could Sir Eli want? You haven’t seen him in some time. Have you, Abigail?” I fear those last two words went up into a sort of bleat, so I tried to cover my lapse by reaching for the sugar bowl and stirring two rather large teaspoons into my tea. As I had already sweetened it, it made a ghastly mess. Abigail folded the
Times
and laid it beside her plate. She was still in her ratty old green dressing gown, her dark auburn hair caught up in an untidy bundle at the back of her slender neck, her grey eyes bright with anticipation. Only Lady Abigail Moran could look so delicious in the morning, and in such attire. And if you think I have a certain amount of prejudice in this matter, you are correct. As I believe I might already have mentioned, I have always loved her, from the instant I first saw her. I was nine or ten at the time; she was rising thirteen. Since that moment she had my heart. With any luck, she shall someday realize that fact.

“I haven’t seen Eli in nearly a year,” she said as she reached for the letter. She slit it open with what I could not but consider an uncomfortable eagerness. “He lost his wife a few months ago, I believe. What a terrible pity.” She unfolded the cream-colored paper and began to read.

What a pity indeed. I had disliked Sir Eli when he was married; now he was a widower, and I could feel my dislike turning to hatred and more than a little fear.

Sir Eli and Abigail were old friends—close old friends. He was vastly rich and powerful and dressed well and lived in the most beautiful house in Kent and kept a stable and raced a steam-driven brougham and…well, I shall not continue. It is far too painful. But I suspected this Hopkins and Abigail had been, when they were away at Oxford, a bit more than just friends.

While all these difficult thoughts and horrible images sped through my aching brain, Abigail was reading the letter and absently sipping her third cup of tea. I drank mine off, burning my tongue in the process, but what was one more agony added to my already overwhelming burden?

Abigail slapped the letter on the table, barely missing the butter dish. “Rupert! Pack our bags. We’re going to Claremont on the earliest train.” She jumped up and disappeared into her bedroom. An instant later I heard bumping and cries of anger and the occasional crash, as if a wooly mammoth were giving birth to triplets in the next room—the usual sounds of Abigail packing.

I groaned and buried my head in my hands.

“Something amiss, Mr. Simon?” asked Rupert as he calmly began to clear the breakfast things away.

“Oh, no, nothing at all,” I said, my words muffled by my fingers. “Not a thing, in fact. We’re just going down to Claremont to see Sir Eli, the Lord knows why.” I looked up at Rupert’s intentionally bland face. “I say, Rupert. Could you just mix me up one of those hangover remedies? And don’t forget to pack the recipe. I feel as if I should need it more than ever in the coming days.”

***

By the time I was packed, with Rupert’s kind assistance, Abigail was dressed and had our reliable Jeremiah at the door, helping with the loading of our trunks. His steam man, Old Lamentation, stood at the head of the hansom cab, his iron top hat gleaming with boot polish and his broad metal chest, wherein resided his boiler, glowing a brilliant cherry red.

When I managed to drag both self and luggage down from our first floor flat, Abigail was giving Rupert instructions to head down to Bartleby, her poky little manor in Kent. I said nothing, simply shaking my head.

It was going to be a long few days.

We reached Victoria Station well in time for the 12:13 to Ashford, the closest town to Sir Eli’s manor. When Abigail reserved a first-class carriage, I was somewhat surprised; she tended to skimp on travel arrangements even at the best of times, meaning when we were in funds.

When I cast her a questioning look, she grinned at me. “Eli sent our travel expenses in the letter. Didn’t you notice the envelope had already been opened? But I don’t think Rupert kept more than half of it, so there’s plenty for our tickets. I thought you needed a quiet trip.”

At least part of this news, of course, caused me little surprise. Rupert had spent his formative years being trained in a variety of skills by Abigail’s redoubtable grandpapa. Since then, he’d found it next door to impossible to keep pound notes from sticking to his fingers, so the knowledge that he had kept some of the dosh which Sir Eli sent did not surprise me. What did offer me a bit of a shock was one simple thing: if Rupert had left us enough for two first-class tickets, then how generous had Abigail’s old friend been?

We settled into our unaccustomed luxury. I watched out the window as the train pulled from the station. We were soon out of London, but I kept my eyes on the passing view, though sheep had never held much interest for me, nor did the occasional thatched cottage provide any attraction either. Once we passed a steam-man factory, with rows of iron-and-brass men standing as if at attention in an open field beside it.

A boot kicked me gently on the leg. I tore my gaze from the fascinating countryside—honestly, how did folks abide it?—and reluctantly turned to face Abigail.

“What’s wrong, Simon?” she asked, her head cocked to one side in the completely adorable inquiring way she has. “Head still bothering you?”

“Actually, no. One of Rupert’s concoctions,” I explained and shook my head to prove it.

“Then what?”

I debated telling her my concerns. After all, we had had a rather rough few days; my wrist still ached at times from the silver spider device Mr. Slice had removed from it, and we’d only just finished a difficult time making friends with some beastly
nouveau riches
who had no idea even now their diamond necklace was a large part of our current source of funds.

But none of this mattered, of course.

“It’s this…trip. To Claremont,” I finally admitted.

“Ah.” Now she turned to look out the window. Really, those sheep were getting quite the attention. “Eli Hopkins is an old friend. He is in need of our help.”

“
Our
help? He wants to see you, you mean. I’m surprised he waited as long as he did. Hasn’t his wife been dead for several months?” I knew I sounded childish, not to mention churlish, but in my defense, I was not at my best.

“He needs me, Simon.” Abigail still looked out the window, a dreamy half smile on her lips. I would offer my last chance at salvation to call up a smile like that on her.

“Hmph.” I crossed my arms and leaned back against the plush seats. And I meant it to sting.

She turned, and her dreamy smile metamorphosed into a cocky grin. “There, I knew I could get a ‘hmph’ out of you, Simon.” She clicked open the leather bag beside her, the one she wouldn’t allow me to put up in the luggage rack, and pulled out a letter. “Here. Read this, and perhaps you’ll see. I would have shown it to you earlier, but I could not resist a bit of teasing. Sorry, my dear old chap.”

I seized the letter and opened it, then gritted my teeth—silently—at the salutation, though the letter, note really, was brief and to the point, though irritatingly vague:

I could not resist. “Hmph,” I said again.

“Yes, as to that, my dear old thing.” Abigail sounded a touch strange. I looked at her with even more than my usual attention. “There are, I fear, a few bits of information I’ve kept from you—for your own good, naturally.”

“Ah, for my own good. I see.” I did not, but thought it necessary to pretend. “Exactly what, pray, are you keeping from me, for my own good or no?”

Abigail settled back against the horsehair cushions. She looked quite embarrassed, I was surprised to see. “Well, the bits and bobs we stole the other night, the crystal device and the silver pocketwatch-
cum
-spider?”

“I recall them quite well.” I sniffed. I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to like what she was about to tell me.

“Sir Eli hired us to steal them,” Abigail said. “Well, no, not precisely Eli. He has a scientist called Tesla working for him. The gentleman had some things stolen when ruffians broke into his laboratory in the country, quite near where we’re going as a matter of fact. So this Herr Tesla inquired of Eli, who sent him to me. The things we stole are in my bag.”

I confess I drew back a bit. “The silver spider? Abigail, are you quite sure that’s safe?”

“Never worry, my dear. Rupert helped me. It’s in a heavy wooden box, strapped shut, and that is in another box, also strapped. The crystal device was giving off the oddest humming, but I ignored it. Doubtless it is quite harmless.”

“Abigail!” I shouted. “Throw the thing out the window this instant!”

Abigail, the insufferable wench, laughed at me. “Nonsense, Simon. It hasn’t exploded yet. Surely we can reach Eli’s manor before it does, don’t you agree?”

“But Abigail,” I tried again.

She waved away my words. “Besides, we’ve already been paid for the deed, so in all honesty I cannot but take the things to Herr Tesla. After all, my dear grandpapa would roll over in his grave—if he resided in such a commonplace thing, naturally—if he thought I’d broken Rule Six.”

“‘Always supply any goods which are paid for in advance,’” I quoted.

“‘After all, you can always steal them again if necessary,’” she finished.

I didn’t like it. But I didn’t see I had any choice in the matter. “Hmph,” I said as I crossed my arms and stared out the window.

***

A carriage waited for us at Ashford; it was an elegant equipage with a matched pair of bays. The crest on the door was draped in black velvet, and the coachman and footman both wore a mourning band around their sleeves. Between the efforts of the two of them, our trunks were loaded and we were away before the train pulled out of the station.

“You’ve never been to Claremont, have you?” Abigail asked me after we had been through a small village and were traveling down a county road.

She knew very well I hadn’t; I’d not been invited. In point of fact, I’d not been invited this time, but I felt it was not the proper moment to point this lapse out to her.

“Never,” I said. “I’m sure it’s very grand. Sir Eli is the owner of WFG, is he not?”

Abigail made no reply, as at that moment the carriage turned into a drive. Soon we reached tall black iron gates in a brick wall, which must have been twenty feet high. I could see iron spikes all along the top of it. The gatekeeper came out of a small cottage just inside the wall, and if I was not mistaken, he carried pistols under his coat. He opened the gate with a massive key and waved the carriage inside. I glanced back when we were through to see him closing and locking the gates behind us.

I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat. I felt we were entering a prison instead of an elegant county estate, and I have no love of prisons. The few I have been forced to enter were not among my fondest memories.