Steam Dogs (15 page)

He pointed behind her. “There’s London. And the
bridge.”

“Ooh, there’s the palace!” Unlike the view from the
cabin of the ship to the floor, she felt no sense of vertigo at all up here in
the balloon. The air was cold and she tightened her shawl around her. Simon put
his arm around her as if to offer her his warmth and she indulged in the
pleasure of his nearness and the sights stretching out before them. All that
mattered was this.

From out of nowhere, the damp greyness of London’s fog
suddenly enveloped them. She started to say something, but he held her closer. “It’s
just a cloud, we’ll be through this in a minute.”

Moisture droplets clung to her eyelashes and she wiped
them away, and a moment later, they emerged through the cloud and entered a new
world.

They were completely alone. Blue sky surrounded them
above; below them, only a carpet of clouds. Gently, the basket bumped against
the end of the tether line and she fell against his chest.

“Oh.”

“There’s a girl. "He steadied her, his presence
reassuring. The color of his eyes, reflecting the blue sky were mesmerizing. So
different from Hamm or any other man she’d ever met.

She broke his gaze, looking across the tops of the
clouds. The air was icy cold up here, but she felt as if she were instead on
fire. “You’re so lucky…”

His hand brushed her cheek. “Well, today seems to be
starting out well enough.” His eyes never left her face.

She swallowed, her mouth dry as she suddenly realized
he meant to kiss her.

And she wanted him to.

CHAPTER 28

After breakfast, Roman checked Sergeant Loman’s log
book to make certain. “You’re right. He never checked in from last night.”

“It’s a mandatory muster this morning, Inspector.”
Loman said. “We’ve got extra men coming in from the district to help out with
the crowds for that festival up at the air field. Superintendent Wallace wants
every man present for introductions.”

Worry gnawed at Roman. It wasn’t like Stackpoole to
forget to sign in, much less miss breakfast. What if he’d been run down out on
the road somewhere? What if he’d been hurt; like Billings? The lad was still a
bit spooked by the wraiths and such out on the marshes. Roman felt a strange
sense of responsibility for the lad. If something had happened out there, he
didn’t want to think about him lying alone and afraid out there; and he
couldn’t just wait around for the morning’s muster.

“I’m going to check the roads for Stackpoole. If the
constable shows up, send a boy with a message.”

Roman’s first stop of the morning was the hospital but
the missing constable was not among new patients. So with Henry trotting along
beside him, he settled into a brisk walk, heading down toward the tip of the
island toward the Ferry. The traffic along the road was especially heavy this
morning. The air held a real promise of spring, with a high overcast. Based on
experience, he was certain that tomorrow’s air show would have fair skies. As
he neared the tip of the Island, he could see dozens of workmen setting up bleachers
at the air field, and on the rise near the dock, the airship hangars. Whether
it was because the rain had stopped or the excitement of the air show, he could
not say, but as he dodged the carts and carriages, his hopes of finding
Stackpoole lying on the road began to fade.

If PC Stackpoole had been run down last night, surely
he would have been found already.

Roman reached Millwall and followed the patrol route,
even as he knew that the constable’s route would not have taken him this far. He
checked in with every pub in Millwall, just to be certain; going all the way up
to the City Arms before he turned back; more than fifteen pubs in all. No one
had seen him.

Stackpoole’s whereabouts pricked at him like a needle;
an itch that became more painful with every passing moment. He turned south
again, this time extending his search to the pubs on the southern portion of
the island, and checking the back alleyways and work yards. At the Glengall
Arms, Watt Sproule remembered serving the constable a kidney pie and a pint of
Hull Porter at around eight. “Seemed ‘is usual self, inspector, more or less.
You know he didn’t ‘old wi’ bein’ owt on the marsh at night. Kept thinkin’ he
was ‘earing things. Wolves and ghosts and such.” He snorted derisively. “Those
mainlanders ‘ave always been a flighty bunch, eh?”

Roman couldn’t stop thinking about the blood spatters
they’d found near the docks, and wondered if perhaps a pack of loose dogs
had
come on him on the road at night.
Maybe he’d gone back to the
docks to speak to the guards for some reason. Maybe he thought of something.
The lad really did have the makings of a fine detective. Roman remembered his
own proud moment when he was promoted to Inspector. The first on the island. That
was before the Cubitt Town station house was built. Even before Wickes was
assigned as superintendent.

Being a detective suited him. No doubt PC Stackpoole would feel
the same way in a few years. He checked in with the timber dock, but none of
the men on duty remembered seeing him.

He paused outside the Steam Dog Tavern, debating
whether to pop in and see Welsie. Better not. Instead, he continued his search
of the Island, checking in with every pub along the patrol route, even going so
far as to check in with the night man at the North London Railway Dock. No one,
it seemed had seen PC Stackpoole since he’d left the Glengall Arms at around
nine o’clock the previous evening.

When Roman checked in with the station house, Loman
informed him that the missing constable remained unaccounted for. Roman sat
down at the common desk to fill out his log report, but his mind would not let
him sit still. Something untoward had happened to Owain Stackpoole, he was
certain. Sergeant Loman and the rest didn’t seem much alarmed at his sudden
absence, thinking he must have just up and quit. Surely Stackpoole wouldn’t
have been the first rookie who’d decided that a career in the Met Police wasn’t
their cuppa. But Roman thought that the constable was made of sterner stuff. After
all, he was from Portsmouth. As rough and rowdy an area as any part of East
London.

The blood splatters found outside the docks and the
air hangar had occurred within a couple weeks of each other. Signs of an
obvious crime, but no body, coming shortly after the disappearance of the
entire crew of the Valkyrie from behind the thirty-foot walls of the timber
dock several days before. Was there a connection? And if so, was Stackpoole
part of it, or was he a victim of bad luck, like Constable Billings being run
down by that carriage? Billings was still in a coma, so no one had yet been
able to ask him about the incident.

I haven’t got a
bloody clue.

Frustrated, Roman composed a telegraph cable to send
to the police bureaus in Paris and Rome, asking for any information on the two
air pilots, Captain Arvel Paretti and Captain Marcel Fournier. On a whim, he
also added the name of the wanker, Simon Atters, saying he was travelling with
a small brown terrier, and as an afterthought, sent a copy of the request to
Brussels.

Henry gazed at him with a reproachful look.

He rubbed the dog’s ears, saying, “It’s all right,
lad. Your home is with me, now, right?” The dog leaned into him. “Come on,
then. Let’s get back out there.”

He could swear he could almost hear Stackpoole calling
his name.

CHAPTER 29

The balloon rose through the damp layer of fog. Welsie
clung to the rigging as they rose, frowning as she endured the sooty fog layer.

Simon gave her an encouraging grin, remembering his
own first flight.

She gave a nervous laugh that echoed oddly the in the
murk. He could see she was having second thoughts about her earlier decision to
ascend.

 
“Wait for
it, love.” He said.

When they finally emerged into the brilliant blue
sunshine, she gasped.

“Oh!” Her voice, tinged with reverence and wonder,
echoed his own feelings about flight; even in this tethered balloon. She stared
out over the sea of broken grey, seemingly enchanted by the view. She released
her grip on the ropes to better see the view around them.

Simon grinned, remembering his own first day aloft with Arvel. High
above the ancient city of Turin, the view had been magnificent. He had never
been so high—and Arvel had been just as excited, even though he boasted
he’d been piloting the balloon all by himself for years. He pointed out the
circus encampment in the royal gardens, as well as the nearby peaks of Monte
Calvo and Monte Capra.

Below them, a flock of pigeons flew past and Welsie laughed at the
sight.
She shivered, pulling her shawl tighter around
her shoulders as the balloon continued to ascend. It
was
cold up here, even with his leather jacket and gloves, he felt
it. He should have warned her.

He moved closer, and wrapped his arms around her,
offering his warmth; she didn’t seem to mind. She smelled good. Clean. Like the
froth of surf against the white sand beach of his youth. A hint of rosewater. With
her hair pinned up like that, she reminded him of one of the statues of Aphrodite
he’d seen in Rome.

They were high enough now that they could see bits of
the landscape between broken bits of fog. She pointed out the landmarks she
recognized; the Millwall Docks, the airfield, even Buckingham Palace. Without
warning, she gave him a shove.

"What are you doing?"

The halo of his greenfire encircled them both.

He smothered them immediately, his cheeks burning.
"Sorry." He hadn't lost control of them since he was a boy. Funny how
it seemed harder to control his flames when he was near her. He couldn't help
but notice that the green in her eyes exactly matched the flarings of his
greenfire.

Benoit’s voice whispered in his ear.
Never let your guard down, lad, if you know
what’s good for you. Quickest way to prison is to give a man your word or a woman
your heart.

“It’s all right. I was just surprised, that’s all.”
She stared at him with an expectant expression; her cheeks rosy with the cold
and excitement. The morning sun brought out the freckles scattered across every
inch of her exposed skin.

Never give your
heart to a woman.

Hard to listen to the old man with her looking at him
like this. A man could lose himself in her eyes. He wanted to drink her in;
emblaze this image of her in his memory forever. He wanted to kiss her. To
touch her--to see her naked with her hair unbound. He wondered if the rest of
her was covered in freckles as well.

She leaned closer.

And then suddenly the anchor line tightened and the
basket jerked to a halt. The decision was out of his hands.

"Oops!" She fell against him.

Was it his imagination, or was she deliberately
lingering in his arms, drawing out the moment? Simon cursed his earlier
hesitation. Too late, he wondered if she’d been expecting him to kiss her. They
stood apart now; she seemed uncomfortable.

The winch dragged them back down through the clouds.
Already, the fog had begun to thin. She kept her attention focused on the
landscape below; pointing excitedly to other local landmarks she recognized.

“Look Simon, there’s the Tavern—and the ferry too!”

Her home. Maybe one day I’ll have one too. A place to
look forward to returning to. A family. Or maybe—he gave her a quick
glance. A woman, to start.

When they reached the landing, Arvel was waiting for
them. Welsie allowed Nuncio to help her out of the basket, but left after a too-brief
thank you, saying she needed to get back to the pub. Simon watched her walk
down the hill and cross the airfield, heading toward the main road. He felt
Arvel’s gaze on him, but said nothing.

"What’s the plan? What have you decided?"

"I'm still working on it." Even from this
distance, he could feel her presence. The scent of rosewater.

"Did you kiss her?"

"What? No. Of course not."

Arvel grinned. "I know you thought about it. I
grant you, she’s a lovely girl, but I don’t understand your obsession with
her.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“Infatuated, then.”

He shrugged. “Not at all. It’s chemical. My father explained
that when he met my mother, his air and water magick were instinctively attracted
to her fire magick. He never knew if it was love came first, or if it was the
elements of their magick that bonded them, but they both knew they were meant
to be together. I never understood what he meant until now.”

Arvel elbowed him in the ribs. “If that’s true, why is
it you never look at me like that, eh?”

Simon shoved him back, grinning. “You know what I
mean.”

“Neither you nor that barmaid is a wizard.”

“Of course not. A mage controls a single element of
magick, a wizard can control two or more elements. She’s not a wizard—she’s
a latent, like me. Like us. It’s one of the reasons you and I became friends . She’s
got an undeveloped innate ability for air and maybe water too, I think, which
makes sense, because she’s an Islander, and this place is thick with it. Her
talent was never recognized—never developed. Whatever it is, I know she
feels it too.”

“Maybe.” Arvel gave an acquiescent shrug. “Let me
remind you that we do not need that kind of complication in our lives right
now. I need you focused on the job at hand." Arvel snapped his fingers. “Wake
up!”

“Hey, I’m in complete control." Simon handed over
the thick wad of notes he'd removed from the dock manager's wallet. "This
should cover the repairs. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

Arvel gave a low whistle as he counted out the notes.
"
Molto bene
, my friend. I
continue to underestimate you."

Simon pulled off his leather gloves. “I’m going over
to Greenwich again.”

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind about the
job?”

“I’m not saying anything. I still have a couple of
ideas. Meet me at the pub tonight?"

Arvel pocketed the notes. "That is not a good
place for us. That inspector fellow doesn't like you. Anything that happens
around here, he'll try to find a way to put his finger on you. On all of us."

Simon slapped his gloves against his thigh. "Hey,
he’s the one who
stole
Vectis! What
kind of policeman steals a man’s dog? Why aren't you upset about that?"

Arvel gave him a knowing smirk. "The pot calling
the kettle black, wouldn’t you say? Of course, you have far more experience
with the police than I do, my friend.”

#

INTERLUDE

Turin, Kingdom of Italy

August, 1853

The
Polizia di Stato
headquarters in Turin was squeezed into a cramped storefront, located between a
dry goods and a bakery near the city center. The door and windows had been
thrown wide to catch the cool air of morning, and the heady aroma of
fresh-baked bread filled the room. Simon’s stomach rumbled loudly. At this hour
in the morning, he was the only person cuffed to the heavy bench beside the
sergeant’s desk.

The sergeant finished counting out the wad of lira notes he’d
confiscated from Simon not ten minutes earlier in the bakery. He tapped the
thick stack of hundred lira notes. “Who did you steal this from?” he asked, in
Italian. “And don’t tell me you don’t understand. I heard you speak to the girl
at the counter. A boy your age doesn’t carry around this much lire in his
pocket.”

“I didn’t steal it,” he lied.

“That’s what they all say. Where are your parents?”

Simon felt the weight of the capo’s gaze. This would not go well.
Simon's boots, bought less than a month ago, were leather, and of good quality.
His clothes, which he’d bought only a few days previously were not yet dirty or
ragged enough to betray him as a street urchin. But if he made up a name, the
sergeant would surely check. He would be locked up inside an orphanage or
workhouse in a matter of hours. The thought of being locked up again made his
palms sweat.

On a sudden inspiration, he remembered the circus posters
plastered on the wall outside the bakery. “I’m with the circus. Zollo
Brothers.”

The sergeant took a crispy cream horn drizzled in chocolate from
the box of pastries and took a big bite. Paper-thin flakes of
sfoglia
dusted his bushy dark moustache.
“You’re going to the reformatory unless I get the truth.”

Simon swallowed, his mouth watering.
I paid for those.
Turin had been a revelation for him. A beautiful
city, with a great deal of wealth and many opportunities in the Crocetta
district for an enterprising yet careful fellow like himself to line his
pockets and socks with bank notes. The weather suited him. And the food--well,
it was simply out of this world. He’d planned to eat the entire box of pastries
himself.

“I’m a juggler.” He pulled at the cuff around his wrist that
tethered him to the bench. “I earned that money. Unlock me and I can prove it!”

The sergeant leaned back in his chair, a skeptical expression on
his face. “No juggler would have that kind of money.” He brushed the crumbs
from his navy blue uniform and took another big bite of
cannoncini
.

 
“Don’t be so certain. I’m
the best you’ve ever seen,” he boasted. “Give me something to juggle and I’ll
prove it.”

A second uniformed officer, seated at his desk a few feet away,
looked interested. “I’d like to see that. Come on, sergeant. I’ll send a runner
for the ringmaster and guard the door. Let’s see what he can do.”

A box of red and green bocce balls was found in a cupboard, minus
two. The men removed Simon's shackle and shoved the desks a bit further apart
to give him room.

Simon tossed the first four balls into the air. They were heavy,
but lighter than the clubs he’d practiced with Holly and Glenn on Ryde.
 
He grinned, his hands moving in
effortless rhythm,

The sergeant finished the last bite of
cannoncini
and helped himself to a
cannolo.
“
Bene,
you can
juggle. But I see nothing that would earn you so much lire.”

 
“Watch this,” Simon released
his greenfire, allowing it to flare through his fingers. The flames transferred
to the balls as they passed through his hands. Using the focus his father had
taught him as a boy, he moved the flame from ball to ball for a few passes,
before releasing more. Instantly, all four balls moved in graceful arcs, each
surrounded by a flaming green halo.

Simon glanced out the big plate glass window, where few spectators
stood, watching the performance.

The sergeant froze, the pastry in his hand forgotten. “
Merda!
”

“Yes, yes,” a tall, gaunt, bearded stranger rushed into the
station house, his wild dark hair bound up in a topknot and a large gold ring
in each ear. “Thank heavens you’re safe, boy. When the officer told me you were
here, I rushed right over!”

 
He wore a pale yellow
linen suit, a crisp white shirt, and a bright red-and-purple sash tied in an
extravagant knot around his narrow hips. The fellow cocked his head toward
Simon and winked hugely, as if to say,
follow my lead
.
 

“This is Signore Xavier Zollo,
Capo
,”
the other officer announced, coming up behind him. “Ringmaster of the Zollo
Brothers Circus.”

The sergeant licked powdered sugar from his fingers. “You’re
saying this thief is one of yours?”

 
“Yes, yes!” Zollo
waggled his finger in the air. “One of the more gifted and valued members of
the troupe, as you can see.”

Simon silently placed the balls back into the box as Zollo
explained that he’d sent the lad on an errand for pastries. He clasped his long
thin fingers together in front of him, as if in prayer. “But not a thief,” he
said, frowning.

The sergeant held up the thick wad of bank notes. “You sent him
out with enough money to buy a horse?”

The ringmaster slapped his forehead. “Yes, yes! Forgive me, I was
preoccupied. I gave him a handful of notes without thinking. You have no idea
how much we miss the simple pleasures of fresh bread and pastries when we’re
travelling. Please,
capo
, release the
boy to my custody. All is well. I will give all your men free passes to
tonight’s performance, eh?” He glanced toward the crowd of spectators peering
in through the front windows. “We have even more spectacular acts under the big
tent tonight!”