The Firebird Mystery (7 page)

Yes!

Jack felt like his lungs were about to explode. He glimpsed the criminal at the far end of the platform. It was impossible to see his face because of the porcelain mask, but Jack was certain the man was livid with anger.

Leaning out the door, Jack waved. ‘Don't forget to write!'

The man did not wave back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Let's see what we have here,' Mr Doyle said.

Jack had been back in Scarlet's home only a few minutes. Both she and Mr Doyle had just about jumped through the ceiling with excitement on his return. Mr Doyle had even given him a hug. But after that he had delivered a stern warning about risking his life.

‘You are never to take such a terrible chance again,' he said.

And this even after Jack had glossed over some of the finer details of his chase.

‘The man was wearing a mask,' Jack said. ‘A porcelain mask.'

‘So I noticed,' Mr Doyle said. ‘I wonder why he wears such a thing. He may already be known to the police.'

‘Maybe there's something wrong with his face.'

‘A possibility.' Mr Doyle reached into his pockets. ‘Let me give you some more string.'

He pulled out a lump of cheese, a cricket ball and the lyrics to a song called ‘The Storming Party' before producing a length of string.

Scarlet touched Jack's arm. ‘You were most brave chasing that scoundrel.'

Jack covered his burning cheeks, pretending to cough. ‘All in a day's work,' he said.

They turned their attention to the piece of paper. The rain had stopped outside and now early afternoon sunlight streamed into the study of the apartment. This time, Mr Doyle locked and barred the front door so they could work in peace.

Laying the sheet on the desk, he clasped a pencil and rubbed it over the page. After a few seconds, the indentations formed words. He peered at them through his goggles.

‘This is a location,' Mr Doyle said. ‘Dock Sixteen West on the river.'

‘Is that
it
?' Jack asked.

‘It is indeed.' He turned to Scarlet. ‘Do you recognise this address?'

‘Not at all,' she replied. ‘My father's office is in the East End.'

‘What does it mean?' Jack asked.

Mr Doyle tapped his chin. ‘It means we're going fishing.'

Within minutes they were back aboard the
Lion's Mane
and arcing across the sky. They joined a small line of airships that traced a route across to the Thames. A fine rain was coating the city in mist.

‘It's a good thing the airships stick to flight paths across London,' Mr Doyle said. ‘Otherwise there would be chaos.'

‘You're a skilful pilot, Mr Doyle.' Scarlet laid a hand on his arm.

Jack noticed. ‘My eye is rather sore,' he intervened.

Scarlet sat next to him. ‘Poor Jack. Let me examine it.' She studied his face. ‘You have lovely blue eyes, Jack.'

‘Thank you, Scarlet.' Jack felt giddy. ‘I think my chin is a little sore too.'

‘Jack,' Mr Doyle broke in. ‘Did I tell you about a case I handled in Scotland involving a man with a stuffed canary?'

Scarlet broke away from him.

‘No, Mr Doyle,' Jack said, a trifle annoyed. ‘You have not mentioned it.'

‘Oh,' Mr Doyle said. ‘I'll tell you about it sometime.' The detective stifled a grin as he peered at the river below. ‘We are now drawing close. I will try to find a spot to land.'

The vessel drifted through the gentle rain. Many buildings provided space on their roofs for airships to land, but this part of town was mostly derelict, so Mr Doyle searched for an empty street. He expertly guided the
Lion's Mane
into a road at the back of Dock Sixteen West. It landed with a slight bump and the detective jumped out to leash the craft to an old horse pole. The others exited the vessel and huddled together in the mist for a moment. Rain cast a sheen across their features.

‘What an enormous warehouse,' Mr Doyle said. ‘One of the largest I have seen on the waterfront.' He turned to Jack. ‘My boy, have you ever handled a firearm?'

Bazookas!
Jack thought.
A gun.

He imagined himself mowing down countless attackers, while saving Scarlet's life and being forced to take control of the
Lion's Mane
. Later they would float over London and, taking Scarlet's hand...

‘Jack?' Mr Doyle interrupted his reverie.

‘No, sir.' The dream faded. ‘But I'll give it a go.'

‘I think we may wait until you've taken a few lessons.' Mr Doyle turned to Scarlet. ‘I will not offer you a weapon, Miss Bell. A lady does not carry firearms.'

‘On the contrary, Mr Doyle.' Scarlet reached into her purse and produced a small handgun. ‘I have taken to carrying a revolver I found in my father's drawer.'

‘My dear,' Mr Doyle blustered. ‘I've never known a lady to be armed.'

‘As I said before, Mr Doyle, I am a modern woman. You may even be shocked to learn I am in favour of women's rights.'

‘A
suffragette
?' Mr Doyle uttered the word with a gasp of horror.

Jack was not sure what a suffragette was. He thought it might have been a type of religion—a cross between Roman Catholic and Church of England.

‘I believe women must have equal rights,' Scarlet said. ‘One day we will have the vote.'

Mr Doyle took the prudent action that all men of wisdom throughout the ages have followed—he changed the subject. ‘Follow me,' he said. ‘We will find a point of possible egress.'

The warehouse was indeed vast. Its walls were lined with tall windows. The group walked around the building until they reached a small door, set into a large pair of doors at the front. Mr Doyle went to the smaller entry and produced a lock pick from his pocket similar to the one he had given Jack. He started manipulating the latch.

‘Mr Doyle,' Scarlet said. ‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm breaking and entering,' Mr Doyle said.

‘So I have become a daring criminal,' Scarlet enthused. ‘I shall have to give a dissertation at the next meeting of the Young Ladies Primrose Society.'

Both Jack and Mr Doyle looked at her.

She blushed. ‘Or I may record it in my memoirs for publication after my demise.'

The lock clicked and the door swung open. Mr Doyle stuck his head through the gap and listened.

‘I don't believe anyone is here,' he said. ‘But we had best proceed with caution.'

They closed the door behind them. Jack could hear the rain pattering on the metal roof high above. The interior smelled of mould and rotting wood. A loose covering of mulch and hay lay over the stone floor. Breathing out, Jack formed a cloud of fog; it was freezing in the warehouse. Huge timber shelves ran along both sides of the room, stacked high with wooden boxes. The shelving ended near the ceiling and a line of windows. Jack felt like an ant as they walked down the centre aisle.

Mr Doyle chose a side alley through the stacks and took a smallish box from the shelf. He produced a knife and applied it to the end. He had it open within a minute. Leafing through the interior, he pulled straw out onto the ground.

‘Nothing,' he said.

‘You mean, nothing of importance?' Scarlet asked.

‘No, I mean there is nothing in this box. Apart from straw.'

They all stared into the empty box.

‘That doesn't make any sense,' Jack said.

‘I can think of a possibility,' Scarlet said. ‘There was a Brinkie Buckeridge novel where it turned out the stencilled writing on the packing boxes was actually a secret code. It indicated the location of a gang of spies.'

Jack peered at the label of a nearby box. ‘Made in China,' he read. ‘I don't see how that could be a code.'

‘I must agree,' Mr Doyle said. He went to a larger box. ‘Jack, please help me to get this down.'

They pulled the box onto the floor and thoroughly searched it. Again the container held nothing but straw. Wordlessly, Mr Doyle repacked both the boxes, reattached the lids and stacked them back on the shelves. He stood back, stroking his chin.

‘I'll wager every box in this warehouse is empty.'

‘But why?' Scarlet asked. ‘Why fill a warehouse with empty cartons?'

‘If you want to hide a book, place it on a bookshelf,' Mr Doyle replied. ‘I believe there is something to be found here. Something very unusual.'

‘How will we find it?' Jack asked.

Mr Doyle didn't answer. Instead he walked two circuits of the building before crossing to a shelf and running a finger along the edge of it.

‘Just as I thought,' he said, examining the dust on his finger. ‘These boxes have been here for quite some time. And there are tracks here from a steamtruck, but they are old. Nothing has been moved in or out of here for many, many years.'

‘So is this a dead end?' Scarlet said.

‘Not at all,' Mr Doyle replied. ‘We will search until we make a relevant discovery.'

He continued to stride up and down the warehouse. His eyes finally settled on a spot in the middle of the floor. He moved over to it with sudden excitement, made a wide circle with his foot, and fell to his knees. Scooping out his knife, he started to work at an indentation in the stonework.

‘Aha,' he said. ‘I think we have it.'

Jack and Scarlet crowded around him as he revealed a large ring set into the floor. Mr Doyle pulled on it and a trapdoor lifted, exposing a set of stairs leading into darkness. Jack retrieved a lantern hanging on a nearby nail. They lit it and started down into the murkiness.

‘I pray…' Scarlet's voice faltered.

‘Scarlet?' Jack said.

‘I pray my father is not in this terrible place.'

‘He is not,' Mr Doyle said. ‘This chamber has remained undisturbed for some time.'

The lantern cast sepia light, revealing a large empty room with a damp floor and moss growing over the walls. Supporting beams held up the roof. They were below the river level, and Jack felt his heart beat a little faster as he contemplated the stone walls holding the water back just a few feet away. A bronze machine, shrouded in dust, sat on a small bench. It looked like a cross between an ancient sewing machine and a vacuum cleaner. Jack suspected it was neither.

A rectangular object lay in the centre of the chamber, measuring about eight feet by three feet and standing about four feet high. A huge sheet lay draped over it. Mr Doyle looked at his companions before he walked over, grasped hold of the sheet, and pulled it back.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jack had only ever seen two dead bodies—those of his parents, although his memory of them swam with confusion. It was like one of those flickering shows at the magic-lantern theatre. He could remember separate images from that terrible day, never the entire incident.

He had stood on the high platform as his father swung from one trapeze to meet his mother on another. She hung upside down, her arms outstretched. Their hands met. Then the trapeze supporting his mother snapped.

Jack had cried out. Never had this happened in over a thousand performances. But as they tumbled towards the net, Jack knew they would land safely in the mesh.

He would never forget them hitting the net at the same instant, hand in hand, as if somehow they knew this signalled the end. Because—against all reason—the net snapped...

Mr Doyle's voice shattered the memory. ‘She is perfectly preserved,' he said.

They grouped around the stone sarcophagus and gazed through the glass top. The lamplight illuminated a woman inside. She was wearing a long black dress. Her face looked as if it had been carved from ivory. Her gleaming white hands lay across her body, resting against her stomach. Long greying hair cascaded across the silk pillow supporting her head. She seemed about to draw breath.

After his initial shock, Jack found himself staring at the woman. She was really very beautiful. For a dead person.

‘I wonder who she is,' Scarlet said.

‘Oh I know her,' Mr Doyle said. ‘She is Lisa Gherardini.'

‘What?' Jack asked. ‘Is she a murder victim? Or a missing person?'

‘Merely the model for the most famous painting on earth. You may have heard of it—the
Mona Lisa
.'

‘But who…?' Jack stopped.

Mr Doyle held up his hand. ‘Who is responsible for leaving her body here? I can only speculate.' He examined the sarcophagus. ‘The stonework for her tomb matches that of the early Roman popes.' Mr Doyle stood back. ‘Yes. It is the same ancient carving. Constructed centuries before her death. Her body was obviously preserved by the odd contraption on the bench. Judging by the mould around the base of the sarcophagus, I would venture to say she has been here for centuries.'

‘Mr Doyle,' Scarlet said. ‘You're saying this is the Mona Lisa.'

‘Yes. This is the model da Vinci used for his famous painting.'

‘But what is she doing here?' Jack asked.

‘Very little,' Mr Doyle replied. ‘She is, after all, dead.'

Jack and Scarlet stared at him in silence.

‘Just a small joke.' He coughed. ‘But there is an interesting connection we cannot ignore. Today we have seen both an unknown painting by Leonardo da Vinci and the famous model for another of his works. The link in the chain is the artist himself. But how did Scarlet's father acquire the painting? And who left this body here?'

‘Could my father be responsible?' Scarlet asked. ‘And where is he now?'

‘I don't know, my dear,' Mr Doyle said. ‘I am sorry.'

He swept the sheet back over the sarcophagus and they filed upstairs to the warehouse. The sound of rain was a welcome relief for Jack. It had been unnerving being with the body. She appeared ready to awaken at any second.

Mr Doyle closed the trapdoor and smoothed over the muck and hay. He returned the lantern to its position on the wall.