Sigmund Shaw: A Steampunk Adventure (14 page)

Every step towards Harry’s home caused Sigmund to be more anxious. He started to wonder if jail would be all that bad. Despite the warm day, he felt cold to the core. Harry was very proud of Sigmund, and Sigmund knew it. The truth was going to devastate Harry, which was not something he deserved. Again coming to the conclusion that there was no other good choice, he continued on to his destination and the inevitable hurt he would cause his friend.

After several worrisome miles he eventually made it to the intersection that led to Harry’s stables. Checking his watch, he found that it was half past one. Despite the nauseating smell that lingered on his person, his stomach growled. It would be nice to sit and eat without the constant fear of being recognized.

Before getting any closer, Sigmund surveyed the street. He had been here so many times over the years it was easy to spot the constable watching the stables. It made sense. They would undoubtedly have found out where he worked and watch to see if he showed up. All the more so since his work entailed a vehicle that could take him out of the city. There was probably another constable outside of his home and probably one at his sister’s. With the place being watched, walking up to the front of the stables was out of the question but the back alley where Harry had his hay delivered would probably not be watched.

Sigmund walked past Harry’s street and on to the next one. Turning up it he kept an eye out for another watchman. After a couple minutes, he was fairly certain that there was no one there, just average citizens moving about. Walking up the street, still keeping his head down and hidden as much as possible, he reached the back alley and turned down it. He paused again to observe since the alley would be a good spot to have a second watchman, but outside of the little pools of water and various detritus, there was nothing. Unless someone was hiding
in
the stable – which seemed unlikely for many reasons, especially the unpleasant smell of the manure – Sigmund would make it inside. Hard to believe that the manure could actually improve Sigmund’s current scent. And yet, his stomach growled again.

The back door to the stable, or as Harry called them, the ‘hay doors’ were two wooden doors that swung out. Sigmund pulled gently on the handle, expecting them to be locked, and they were. Sigmund looked around the ground near him and found what he was looking for, a thin stick. Sliding the stick between the small gap where the two doors met in the middle, he slid the stick up quickly and unlatched the simple wooden drop latch. Opening the doors just wide enough to slide in, he closed and latched them behind him.

In the last stall, next to the ‘hay doors’ was Sigmund’s horse. Reaching over and patting his neck he said, “Hey girl. It is nice to see a friendly face.” Then looking at the empty stall across from Ham, he said, “Looks like we’re going to be flat mates.”

12.

Harry Thorpe always took a brief nap after lunch. The nap allowed time for his lunch to settle and gave him the needed rest to take on the afternoon task of mucking the stalls. As a younger man he thought that nap taking was a pure waste of time. Why, sleep altogether seemed to be more of an annoyance to him – there was always something to do. As he got older, and especially after the passing of Katherine, he found that the chores in the stables, along with the all the housework, left him tired. He wasn’t one of those old codgers who was lax on housework, no sir, his wife would never have approved of that. So, for the love of his wife, he kept his place neat and clean. However, his cooking skills left much to be desired.

His sleep this afternoon had been fairly restless, as it was the night before. All he could think about was Sigmund. Harry had had police at his door asking about him but not saying why exactly, and then the morning
Times
showed up – Sigmund was wanted for murder and treason. Harry figured that his heart must still be good, for if it wasn’t, reading that headline would have stopped it. How could Sig be involved in all of this? It can’t be true. Harry had known Sigmund since he was a boy, was practically his father, and could not fathom that the previous night’s events had anything to do with Sigmund. He also couldn’t fathom how such an egregious mistake could be made as to the identity of the bomber.
God help you, my lad.

Stepping outside his home, which was adjacent to his stables, he pulled on his work boots. They were old but still kept the wet out. Maybe he’d get another year or two out of them – how he hated to break in a new pair. Walking towards the stables he glanced across the street at the watchman that had been posted there since the night before. It was a different one than had been there in the morning. Must be a boring job, especially, he thought, knowing that Sigmund was too smart to come here.

Walking into the stable he grabbed the wide shovel that leaned against the inside wall next to the door. Placing the shovel in a wheeled cart, he rolled them down the dirt path up the center of the stables to work his way from back to front. Except for Sigmund’s horse, the stables were empty as all the other horses were out with their owners. Looking at Ham, Harry said, “Hey, old girl. You worried too?”

Harry did not expect an answer and nearly fell over when he heard a voice say, “I sure am, Harry.”

After a moment, Harry realized that the horse could not have said anything – that realization taking longer than he would care to admit. He turned to the stall across from Ham and saw a battered but familiar face looking at him. “Hi, Harry.”

Harry stared for a few seconds, not knowing whether to hug Sigmund or scold him. Both. He hurried to him and gave a hug over the stable gate and said intensely, “Are you insane? There is a constable across the street from here!”

“Keep your voice down. Just because your hearing is going, old man, doesn’t mean that anyone else’s is.”

“Nice to see that whatever is going on hasn’t matured you any.”

With a more serious tone, Sigmund said, “Harry, I need help. I don’t know what you’ve read or heard about me, but I didn’t kill anyone, I was set up. My shoulder is injured and I need a place to stay and think things through. And yes, I saw the man watching across the street but there was no one watching the hay doors.”

“Are you sure you were unseen?”

“Positive. If I was seen, do you really think we’d be standing here alone? Look Harry, I figured I could stay in here. I would need a couple of blankets, some food, and a change of clothes. As long as no one sees me come or go, they won’t search the stables.”

“And if they do?”

“I’ll run.”

“And if they arrest me for helping you?”

“I’ll turn myself in and tell them that you did not know I was here. Well, that or send a note saying you are behind the whole thing.”

Harry smiled, “I wouldn’t put it past you.” Then seriously, “Sigmund, what is going on? Why does Scotland Yard think you are behind the explosion at the hotel?”

Half wanting to stall, half actually worried about the watchman, Sigmund said, “Is it safe to talk now? Will the man across the street get suspicious if he doesn’t see you moving about?”

“We’ll be fine. Just be ready to duck if I start scraping my shovel.”

A pause, then a nod. Harry could see that Sigmund was disturbed, something was troubling him that went deep. With a sympathetic smile Harry encouraged softly, “Come on my lad, tell me what is going on.”

To Harry’s surprise, Sigmund’s eye’s gleamed with the beginning of tears. “Sigmund, please, it’ll be alright.”

Sigmund stared at the floor and started talking. During the narration he made eye contact with Harry infrequently, generally choosing to look anywhere else, usually the floor, than to see Harry’s face.

Sigmund told the story of his life, the part that Harry was not aware of. Stealing, pawning, eavesdropping. Harry listened to every word, never commenting, never looking away. To think that there was a whole other life that Sigmund kept from him didn’t seem possible. And yet, there was no humor in Sigmund’s words, there was none of frivolity that Harry had grown accustomed to. No, this story was possible. More than that, this story was true. True and frightening. Frightening to think that this man in front of him went from his most trusted friend to now seemingly being capable of anything. For the first time since he read of the explosion and murders, Harry allowed the thought that Sigmund could be responsible.

When Sigmund was finished, there were tear trails that washed through the dirt that had gathered on his face the last two days. Ham made some chuffing noises from his stall. Harry was not surprised to find that his own eyes were welling with tears. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to feel. On one hand, there was a betrayal here; on the other hand, Sigmund was in serious trouble. But the betrayal of the secret life hurt. Hurt for the now unknown man that was in front of him, hurt for the failure of the friendship that he thought he provided. It was too much to comment on. Without a word, Harry turned away from Sigmund, shovel in hand dragging behind him, and slowly walked out of the stable.

* * *

Sigmund watched as Harry walked down the center of the stables, becoming a silhouette as he approached the open front doors. The sound of the shovel scraping was like the tearing of Sigmund’s heart. When Harry had exited the building he turned toward his house and out of sight.

Sigmund had imagined this moment. He knew it would be bad, terrible, awful. But it was worse. Letting down this man, this truest of friends, made Sigmund question what he was capable of. Despite his illegal acts, he always thought of himself as a good man, justified in his actions, a man who protected his family and friends. Now, he thought of himself as a criminal and worthy of any punishment. With no power left in him, Sigmund fell to the stall floor and wept.

13.

The next week was warm and sunny, and the darkest, coldest week of Sigmund’s life. Harry brought him some blankets, food, and even some spare clothing, but wouldn’t say more than a word or two. The kindness in Harry’s face was gone, he looked for the first time in Sigmund’s experience, truly old and tired. He had a look of defeat that stabbed Sigmund’s heart with every brief visit. It reminded him of how Harry looked the days after his wife died.

Sigmund hardly moved during that long week. He created a small bed with hay and blankets and spent his days and nights laying on it. Occasionally, he would head out the hay doors and to a drain in the back alley to relieve himself, but with the little food he could manage to eat, this wasn’t needed very often. The lack of activity was good for his shoulder but bad for his spirit. This absence of movement was not a purposeful convalescence but a depression of mind, heart, and spirit. His thoughts were dark, his self-hatred eating his insides like a frost slowly growing across a window on a winter’s night.

When his shoulder was out of place as he was escaping police, it caused the greatest physical pain that he had ever experienced, and yet he would welcome that pain, and more, if it could replace the loathing of his existence that he then felt.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind continually reminded him that he needed to find out what was going on, who had set him up, and why. The voice was ignored, punished with vicious rebukes, buried in a wave of apathy. Sigmund could not justify why it mattered.

The only occasion that he moved for any significant amount of time was in the morning when the other cabbies came to claim their horses. There was no reason to think that they would look into the empty stable in the back, the one Sigmund now called home, but he didn’t take the chance. He spent a piece of the morning in the back alley while the drivers headed out for their day of work. That tiny voice in Sigmund’s head would point out that if he had really given up, why would he care if he was discovered. It was a spark of hope but would not be enough on its own to get Sigmund to do any more than what he was currently doing, the very minimum of existence.

Night after night he lay on his bed almost hoping that he wouldn’t have to wake up in the morning. That some sympathetic power of the universe would end his miserable existence. Day after day, he laid on his bed wondering how to proceed in living, wondering why his body insisted on taking breaths, while his mind and heart condemned every conscious moment he had.

On the ninth night after the explosion, Sigmund was in the middle of restless sleep when he awoke from a noise. Living among horses made for several noises through the night but this was not one of the sounds Sigmund had grown accustomed to, not at this late hour. He grew alert, his depression lagging behind his adrenaline, and he crept to the stable door. Holding his breath, he strained to hear anything. A few of the horses made uneasy whinnies, also alert to something happening. This only served to confirm Sigmund’s thoughts of trouble.

Footsteps. To Sigmund’s surprise the sound did not come from the front door but from outside of the hay doors. A wandering homeless person? A horse thief? Police?

“Sigmund,” came a half whispered voice. “Sigmund, wake up.”

It took only a moment to determine who it was. “Harry?”

“Yes, it’s me. Come out the hay doors.”

Worried that this was Harry initiating an escape attempt, that Harry has discovered something that meant Sigmund needed to go, he quickly left his stable, and opened the hay door.

“Quickly, quickly.” Harry urged.

Sigmund slipped out the door, closing it behind him. Heart racing, he looked around for danger and asked, “What is going on Harry?”

“Not here. My back window is open, can you get inside through there?” Harry indicated Sigmund’s shoulder.

“Yes. I can make it.”

“Good. Climb in and I’ll meet you inside.” Harry then walked off down the alley leaving Sigmund alone and confused.

There was a small walkway between the stable building and Harry’s house. Although the watchman across the street could have a view down this walkway, the darkness of the hour and lack of lighting would make it impossible to see anything at this distance. Still, taking no chances, Sigmund stuck to the darkest of shadows and moved as silently as he could across the walkway to the back window of Harry’s home.

The bottom of the window was around shoulder height. It was taller than it was wide, though plenty wide for him to crawl through. The two panels were pushed open, like double doors welcoming him into the dark interior. Inside was Harry’s bedroom. Below the window, in the room, there was a dresser visible with nothing on top of it.

Sigmund hadn’t actually tested his shoulder much. There was still soreness but it was more than tolerable, and his range of movement seemed much better. Still, he wasn’t going to push it too far, instead he would continue to rely extra on his right shoulder. So, instead of pulling himself in, Sigmund leapt into the window head first landing with his stomach squarely on the pane, with his right hand braced against the dresser to control his momentum. This action gave a small spike of pain to his shoulder but nothing too bad – better than Sigmund thought it would be. Bringing his left hand to help brace his body – testing his shoulder’s limits – he lowered himself across the dresser, like a snake coming through the window, and eventually letting gravity pull him down while he rolled to land on his right shoulder on the floor of the room. The noise of this entrance sounded loud in Sigmund’s ears but he had to admit that it was unlikely that the watchman across the street could have heard it.

He stayed still on the floor for several moments, trying to hear anything. There were no noises. Not knowing what Harry had in mind, Sigmund got off the floor and sat in the chair that Harry kept next to the dresser. He sat there alone, in the dark, for the next several minutes growing more uncomfortable with each passing second. Alone in the dark is the recipe for the mind to wander, generally towards the macabre. Many strange thoughts passed through Sigmund’s mind, nothing more nonsensical than the idea that maybe it was Harry’s ghost that had lured Sigmund here for some sort of revenge. Sigmund had to shake himself out of such rubbish, admitting that these thoughts would be thoroughly laughed at in the light. At this point a sound pierced through the darkness, the front door squeaking – it had to be Harry. His nerves thin, he stood up from the chair and put himself in a position to jump back out the window if he had to. Footsteps sounded and a light grew faintly from under the door. Sigmund tensed, ready to move. The light grew brighter, the door opened, and in walked Harry with a candle in his hand. Despite the discomfort Sigmund felt around his longtime friend and mentor, he was happy to see Harry and not some ghost.

Seeing Sigmund’s taut pose, Harry said, “Have a seat Sig, you are not in danger. I don’t believe I raised any concern with that busy body across the street. I even talked to him.”

“You what?”

“I talked with him. After meeting with you at the hay door, I strolled back around front and approached the watchman. I offered him some tea, which he refused, and talked about how my lungs needed some fresh air. He brought you up and I told him I hoped they catch the traitor.”

Those last words cut deep. Did Harry really think that of him? Should Harry think any different? The now familiar dark thoughts started to creep into Sigmund’s mind – thoughts of worthlessness and failure. Sigmund sat back in the chair next to the dresser and Harry sat on the edge of his bed across from him.

“Sigmund, I think it’s quite obvious that I’m not happy with you.” Sigmund stared, no response came to his mind. Harry continued, “I need you to understand some things. When I look back at my life there are a few people who stand out as pillars of that life, individuals who gave my life the most meaning. My wife, Katherine, of course, your father and mother, your sister, and you. When your father passed, your mother withdrew from everyone, she never overcame that loss. She was not in a position to take care of you and Alexis. Katherine and I did all we could to help.”

“Harry, you–”

Interrupting Sigmund, Harry said, in a kindly voice that made Sigmund have a hope he hadn’t felt in some time, “Please Sigmund, allow me to finish.” Sigmund nodded and Harry went on, “We helped with the sale of your father’s shop, which helped financially, we helped with our own money when we could. During this time I saw you do everything you could to also help. You took on more than any young man should have to. When you bought your cab and horse, I was proud of you, so proud.” Harry’s eyes glistened with the beginning of tears. “It was at that moment that I knew that your family was going to be okay. The people I loved were going to be okay. When my Katherine passed, you became the support for me, you became my closest friend in her absence.”

Sigmund fought to not comment, he had so much he wanted to say about how much Harry meant to him. But out of respect for Harry’s wishes, he kept silent.

Harry, dabbing at his eyes with his bed sheet, said, “Maybe I was naïve. Perhaps I should have suspected that the task of taking care of a family was too much for one young man, but I thought you exceptional. I had no secrets from you Sigmund, nothing about my life that I didn’t trust you with. The revelation that you kept a whole part of your own life from me was hard to swallow. I felt betrayed, a fool, and angry. This lasted for several days, as you know. Slowly I started to calm down, started to take a fresh look at things. To be clear, I do not condone anything you did, but perhaps I understand it. Desperation, seeing family members suffer, would cause the most sane, the most honest man to act in ways that could be considered foolish. Lord knows what I would have done to save Katherine. I know you didn’t tell me about these illegal acts so as to not disappoint me, I understand that. But perhaps I wasn’t as good a friend to you as you were to me in that you couldn’t trust me.”

Sigmund could hold back no more, “Harry, you are the greatest friend I know, the greatest man I know. My mistakes are completely owned by me, my silence is my error, not any error of yours.” The tears that had been welling in his eyes started to overflow. “Keeping these secrets from you is the greatest regret of my life, more so now than ever. Harry, I beg for your forgiveness. I will do anything, I will walk up to the constable across the street if you want, if it means that I can have you back as someone I can call my friend.”

With a warm smile, Harry responded, “My dear boy, you never lost me as a friend. I was angry and am still hurt but we remain friends and always will. And friends help each other when they are in trouble, and Sig, you are in a heap of it.”

Sigmund nodded but needed one more answer, “Harry, do you believe me innocent, or am I a traitor to you like you told the watchman?”

“I told the watchman what he wanted to hear. I believe you are innocent. Despite the abilities of yours that I recently learned about, I cannot believe you capable of murder.”

“I appreciate that, truly. What do you think I should do now?”

Harry thought for a moment, then said, “
We
need information. I need you to go over with me everything you know again and we can add to that from the papers, I have a stack of them that I have collected since the bombing. Maybe we can glean something from there.”

Harry left the room and then came back with a second candle which he handed to Sigmund. He went back out again and this time returned with a stack of papers that, as he carried them and held his candle, came dangerously close to being set aflame. Harry dropped the stack on the floor between them and Sigmund started to retell his experiences in full to Harry. The empty jewelry box, the dark stranger, the amalgam cube, waking up in custody, and his escape.

They both agreed that the stranger was the prime suspect for the setup. Whether he is the mastermind or just a compatriot, there was no way to know. But he was the clear starting point.

The complete story now retold, all of Harry’s questions answered, and their initial assumptions brought up, they turned to the stack of papers and began reading. Sigmund learned of all the deaths that night, two Germans, the Defence Minister, a British official assisting the minister, and a mother and father in the adjoining room. He thought back to the young girl crying outside the hotel and he once again couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility, a tiny bug gnawing at his conscience.

Reading through the papers did not give them much information that they didn’t already know. As the date of the papers went farther from the event, the more sensational they became, striving to keep people buying the ‘latest update.’ Sigmund was slightly amused that he was being called the ‘Bomb Bandit’;
how England loved its nicknames
. One article even quoted a woman who claimed to be a former lover of Sigmund. Harry raised his eyes at this and said, “Another secret?”