Rope, Red and Rubies

#9 stand –alone story

 

 The Life and Crimes of Lockhart and Doppler

An Illustrated journal of amusement, adventure and instruction

 

“Rope, Red and Rubies”

 

Calais.

 We had been in town for about two weeks, moving from lodging house to dive, keeping a very low profile amongst the detritus of society since our encounter with Lord Nelson Orange at his mansion, and the theatre afterwards (see #8 ‘A Rotten Borough’). Where Nelson had left with his life, but his pride severely dented (as well as his face). He would never forget and he would never forgive.

So due to his standing in London society and his monetary backing, I had considered it prudent to lie low for some time. He was an enemy not to be taken lightly.

Doppler and I were dressed like down and outs, patched pants and greasy long coats. We maintained some essentials about our persons and in our cracked, leather holdalls. I also had a healthy deposit in the Banque de France made during previous excursions, should we ever require it. We had departed our current digs this grey morning and wandered in an apparently aimless fashion about the city. I know some people think I act in a rash manner at times; reckless or foolhardy. I call it adventurous, but I am not stupid, I did not believe for one minute that Lord Nelson Orange would not be attempting to track us down. (Rule #8: Never let your guard down. Ever). Now it was beginning to rain. That incredibly fine, deceptive drizzle that sits like cobwebs on hoods and hair, until that is, it soaks through then persists on making its way through to your skin. But we were so greasy from our second, nay third hand clothing and lack of washing that the water slicked off us, like a fried egg cooked in cheap fat off a greasy enamel plate.

“Lockhart.” Moaned Doppler, “I’m sick of this. Can’t we stay somewhere decent just for one night?”

“We can’t take the risk.” I replied.

“But it’s been weeks and we have seen nothing. Besides, I think I have fleas. Ugh!” she exclaimed, scratching at her belly through the thick layers.

A group of tipsy labourers were rolling and singing towards us.

“Let’s grab a drink while we think about it.” I suggested.

Doppler looked dubious. We had been thrown out of a number of ale-houses and cafes during our self-imposed exile. We had been insulted, spat at, even had some change lobbed our way. It was a far cry from some of the grand balls I had attended; invited or otherwise!

“Bonsoir madams, un aperitif?” grinned one of the moist eyed friends of everyone.

We shuffled past them, I smiled in a perfunctory manner. Doppler kept her head down. The spokesman turned, causing the shoulder linked group to swing around in the street. The man on the end moving at some speed so that he staggered and fell.

“Rejoignez-nous.” He slurred amiably.

“Thank you, but no.” I replied firmly. “Have a good night.” I added.

“You too.” Replied the spokesman.

I paused. He paused.                                                                                                                                                     

 I looked him straight in the eye and saw him straightening up, his companions crumpling to the floor like dropped toys.

“Look sharp!” I barked to Doppler.

She didn’t need telling a second time. We both dived in opposite directions as the fake drunk pulled a lumpen pistol from his back waistband. A shot rang out. The real drunks were rolling or scrambling about on the damp cobbles, attempting to crawl out of the immediate danger. A couple of cries went up and folk on the street dashed for cover. As I pulled a knife from my boot, I saw Doppler whip out her wicked stiletto come dagger. Flicking her wrist, Doppler could cause the blade to extend to eighteen inches. (See#1Penny Dreadful: The Stone of the Sons of Horus). I threw my knife which stuck in our attackers shoulder –I didn’t want to kill him (not yet anyway), I wanted to question him.         

 

  I strongly suspected Nelson had hired him. He growled and grimaced in pain, he aimed at me and pulled the trigger. I moved, but not quickly enough, these damn greasy rags were slowing me down. My left arm sang out in a sharp, bright agony. I sloughed off the heavy overcoat. As he made a dash at Doppler, perhaps to grab her as a hostage or human shield, she struck out with her silver bright stiletto. He practically ran into it. The sweeping motion of the blade scored a red line from his left eye to lower right cheek, where it pierced through, exiting at his jawline. He came to a shrieking halt. Doppler easily pulled the slender point free, wiped it clean and retracted it. I arrived barely a second later, piling into him and barrelling him to the ground. He fell heavily, his head bouncing on the hard cold street. I made it bounce some more.

“Who sent you?!”

Bounce, bash.

“Are there others?!”

Bounce, pummel.

Doppler sauntered up, tucking her wicked steel away,

“We’ll never know if you carry on like that.” She calmly said.

I paused my interrogation. There was blood everywhere, streaming from the slash across his face and the holes pierced by Doppler. He wasn’t even struggling anymore, he’d gone all floppy and weepy. Between us, Doppler and I dragged him to a sitting position against a barrel of nails outside an ironmongers. We crouched either side of him. His drinking buddies had scarpered. I suspect he had befriended them simply for cover. I asked him if he knew us and how long he had been following us.

“Ye, I knows you. Saw you ‘bout three days ago, thought I’d best keep an eye open as to what you were about.” He sniffed. He had an East London accent.

“You won’t have an eye to open if you don’t talk.” Threatened Doppler.

“You’re a bit of a way from home.” I said. “Know someone called Orange by any chance? Lord Orange.”

He shrugged. I stood and took a handful of nails from the barrel and crouched back down. They were horseshoe nails, flat sided, short, vicious.

“Got a name?” I asked.

He swallowed looking at the nails in my palm. I took one and twirled it betwixt thumb and forefinger. He pulled his head away. I aimed the tip at the entrance wound in his cheek.

“Closset!” he chattered, “Name’s Closset!”

“Just Closset?” I pressed the point, (the question point, not the nail point, you get my drift)

“Walter” he added somewhat sheepishly.

Doppler and I exchanged a look, she stood so he wouldn’t see the grin spreading across her face. Maintaining my serious expression I continued.

“W.C? Well Walter. I’m sure you weren’t just out for a bevvy with the lads and decided to take a pot shot at a couple of sacs a merde that we are supposed to be. Spill.”

Walter Closset explained that he had indeed been paid by Lord Nelson Orange to exterminate (Nelsons word, not Walters), Doppler and I. Orange had a number of people in his pay, all like Walter, from amongst the worker types. Orange was yet to make the contacts his father had in the underworld I supposed. One day though. Walter was by trade a Waterman on the Thames, like his father. But Nelson had a hold over him; Nelson had accused Walter Closset senior of murder, a crime of which he was innocent. The victim had been a business ‘associate’ of Nelsons and although Nelson cared not a fig for anyone but himself, he found he could use the man’s death as a device for blackmailing the Closset family (and others too I theorised) who were guild members and would lose their position should the accusation be made public. It would be a Lords word against a tradesman’s. Walter and his father knew who would lose.  Even if not found guilty, quite possibly they would be thrown out of the guild and never work the river again. It would destroy his mother, she was not in the best of health and so when Nelson had approached him to carry out this dirty deed, or face his father being ‘exposed’ as a murderer, Walter felt he had no choice. Walter had never fired a gun before, it was a lucky shot, not so lucky for me, but it could have been worse. The noise had frightened him he admitted.

“I need a doctor, please, let me go.” Walter begged.

“We both need stitches.” I said, “But we need cleaning up first. Listen, Walter. If we can get your father free of the blackmail threat, what say you to doing us a little favour?”

Walter’s eyes shone, “You’d do that? For me?”

“Course we would. Now let’s get clean and I’ll tell you me plan.”

I was going to attempt to get Walter senior free of the accusations, however, you know me, can’t have chaps wandering around with lingering grudges, got to make ‘em work for you and I had an idea to not only get Walter on our side, but that would annoy the hell out of Nelson Orange too.

We took Walter to one of our earlier lodging houses, in which we had stored our regular clothing and some locked boxes of ‘necessities’. I had paid the concierge a decent fee to keep a room for us, where we all had baths after sending out for a number of clothing items. Doppler stitched my arm where the bullet had scraped through (not for the first time!) and Walter’s face. The landlady had one of those new-fangled machines that does away with rubbish, a De-Fabricator they call it. In went all our old stinking clothes. Walter was delighted and grateful for his new clothes, simple though they were; a double-breasted, blue, moleskin jacket as worn by French factory workers and a pair of blue pantaloons de Nimes. An ankle length periwinkle blue, two piece suit for myself with same length, darker blue top coat with high collar, deep cuffs and inside pockets. And for Doppler a sky blue, cotton day dress and matching jacket, navy influenced.

However, Doppler and I did not don our new outfits just yet, we had business to do. We left Walter to recover from his facial wounds in our room and headed out into the grim drinking dens of the port. There are a number of insalubrious holes down there, I was looking for a particular one. One that was home to English quaffers. ‘Mother Hubbard’s Dog’ was such a place. A gin house filled with sailors, down at heel poets and criminals. Parfait! We entered and ordered drinks – Doppler maintained her sobriety, her young self not being accustomed to alcohol. However, I myself can consume large quantities of gin with little impression. I once had a drinking contest with some artist chappie, Landseer I think his name was, couldn’t hold his liquor; cried like a baby when I insulted one of his paintings.                  

Anyhow, we listened into a few conversations as we moved about the rooms. Tobacco smoke practically obscuring ones view beyond half a dozen feet. A small group of pitch eyed miscreants were playing some drinking game, a small scattering of coins between them, so I asked if I could join in. Initially they were disinclined, until I gently dropped a small pouch of coins on their table. I could almost see their ears prick up like dogs at the sound of the food bowl going down.

“Why, of course ye can missus” pipes up an elderly rogue, “Sit yerself ere, next to me.” He shuffled along a narrow bench to make room.

“Played before?” sniffed a poxy fellow on my other side.

“I don’t believe I have.” I replied innocently.

A look passed between him and another fellow with surly features. His shoulders settled back into a more relaxed posture. As we played, I kept a covert eye on pertinent things like; physique, possible weapons and how much alcohol they were consuming. Doppler stood to one side keeping quiet. The game was crude, the rules simple; pick a subject, everyone begins tapping the edge of their finger on the table together in seconds, the first person says something related to the subject and on each tap, the next person around must say a related word. So if the subject is clothing, it might go; tap – shoe, tap – stocking, tap – breeches and so on. But should a person go straight to an item not related to the previous, like glove or collar, they drink down their gin. The speed must be maintained, if you miss a beat, you drink your gin, if you say a wrong word, you drink your gin. Simple. However, after a number of gins, it becomes harder to keep the rhythm and find words with speed. The fun bit is that a subject can swerve off into a new one should a word be able to connect. Hull may be part of a ship, but it is also a place in England, so the subject of sailing ships may move to places in England. The old fellow, Connors was his name, was able to hold quite vast quantities of gin, just as well, because he was rubbish. The other two, Hobbs and Joyce, were more capable, especially Hobbs who took a vicious delight in relieving old Connors of his wages. I had my mark.

It was dark when we left the gin house. Doppler had left just prior to us and waited outside in the shadows. I saw her in a doorway opposite as I pretended to stagger and sway, supported by Hobbs. We had struck up a kind of desultory friendship. I whispered in his ear. He drunkenly shooed Joyce and Connors away. Old Connors patted him on the back in a congratulatory manner whilst Joyce called out vulgar suggestions. We wobbled off down the street, arms linked, singing. He had a terrible voice, he had appalling manners and made lewd proposals with nary an iota of creativity in them. Gods help any woman he ever encountered in the rummaging department. Except women were about to be safe from Hobbs’ future fumbling’s. Old Connors would never lose his wages to the nasty piece again. Doppler walked ahead a few yards and I followed with Hobbs. She began to slow as we came beneath a railway bridge over a narrow canal. Hobbs called out.

“Oi! Darlin’, cm’ere. Show ush ye…”

“Leave it out Hobbs, she’s jusht a kid.” I slurred back.

“Stuck up prinshesh more like.”

The moon was low tonight, it glimmered and wavered on the surface of the water just beyond the shade of the bridge. Doppler turned on her heel and at some speed came up close to Hobbs and I. Took him by surprise. He staggered back a little as I freed myself.

“It’s you who is stuck up mister Hobbs. Or at least you will be, soon.”

“Wha? Whatchyoonabout? Eh? Slag!” he grinned, baring his brown teeth and turned to look where I stood, arms folded, watching.

Hobbs rocked back and forth on his heels, befuddled, but he could still put up a fight. I reached inside my duster and pulled out a length of slim rope. Hobbs squinted at it. I began tying a slipknot. Hobbs squinted some more.

“What’cha doin’? Eh? Slag, I’m talkin’ t’you.”

“Well now mister Hobbs. Seems like this is the end of our acquaintanceship.” I spoke as I tightened the knot. “If you would just be so kind as to slip this over your head, there’s a good chap.” I held out the looped rope.

Hobbs gawped from me to the rope. A faint, derisory snort and then he realised he was in trouble. He straightened up with effort, reached into a back pocket and pulled out a flick knife. He waved it back and forth before my face, leering.

“Bitch, thought you’d get one over on old Hobbshy eh?” Hic. “Well, I’ve got news for you. Takes more gin than you’ve got.”

“Really mister Hobbs? Do you see me unbalanced? I think not.”

“I’m gonna cut you like a pig, I’m gonna slice you up, I’m gonna…arg!”

Doppler had moved quickly in and injected him in the neck with one of her syringes she habitually carried about. As Hobbs slapped his free hand to the place, he spun around to threaten her with the knife, she easily stepped away. He pulled his hand free to look at his palm.

“I’m bleedin’, you cut me!”

“She didn’t cut you mister Hobbs.” I said dropping the looped rope over his head, “She merely injected you.” I quickly pulled it tight before he could turn around again. “And now you will feel a little sleepy.”

Hobbs tried to turn as I held onto the rope close to the knot. He slashed wildly with the knife, I grabbed his knife hand and pressed down hard on the little finger, compressing it tightly. Hobbs yelped in pain. The knife dropped. Now he began to claw at the rope about his neck. It is quite amazing how much strength a person can muster when they feel they are about to die, even full of alcohol and sleeping draught. I held on with both hands and yanked him sideways so he toppled, then placing my boot between his shoulder blades, pulled hard. That was the easy part. When Hobbs was dead, we contrived to string him up under the bridge, it took some manoeuvring between us, but eventually experience and physics won out. Into his pocket we placed two items, one being a tattered, scrawled note, which basically admitted to the murder of Mr. John Seabank and vaguely implemented Nelson Orange. Couldn’t live with the guilt, blah, blah, blah.

A ships horn sounded. Two bells rang out from another.

“One of the clock.” I said. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls, mister Hobbs. It tolls for thee.”

And so we left him. Swinging like a coal sack under the wonderful wrought iron rails.

The following afternoon, in our new attire, Doppler and I made our way to the nearest police station. I explained that my niece here, had on the previous day been accosted by a man in labourers clothing and that he had stolen an item of hers. A small, gold hair comb. Quite unusual, and rather expensive. We gave him false names, we had just arrived on the passenger ship Pelican the previous day when this dreadful event occurred. The gendarme was sympathetic, if a little inept. I described the features and clothing of the man and he seemed to cock his head.

“Un moment s’il vous plait, madam.”

He hurried to speak to another officer. We repeated our story. We described the golden hair adornment and to our astonishment and delight (!) he produced said item from his desk drawer. Yes! This was it. How marvellous, he was marvellous. How did he find it? He made modest gestures and humble noises as we told him how magnifique he was. He lapped it up. He even told us that no matter how precious the comb was to us, he, Inspector Raymond Le Terne had discovered something far more important; a murderer that the British police would decorate him for. The dead man had obviously fled England after killing this gentleman and could not live with the guilt, so hanged himself. How awful, we gasped. He, Le Terne, would be honoured by the greatest force in the world. It was but a short telegraph message away. We left him to his self-aggrandisement.

Next, we visited a questionable photographic studio, where we convinced the leery proprietor to take a photograph of us as if dead. He quite enjoyed the macabre theme, even attempting to persuade us to “Open a button or two”. He received short shrift for that one. Doppler and I contained our giggles as we lay on fake cobbles as he exposed the glass plate for a full minute. We hung about the studio while he went off to print the image. Unfortunately, whilst he was in his darkroom, ‘someone’ pulled the dark-room curtain open a tad, thus causing the image to develop patches of darkness. The finished photograph showed two women lying askew on the cobbled street of Calais, the image was not very clear, but if you knew who they were, you could identify the bodies. It was all we needed. We took this picture to Walter Closset with instructions to return to Lord Nelson Orange, and to tell him that the Missus Lockhart and Doppler were dead. The shared blame laid at Nelsons door for the murder, would not stick, I knew that. But it would irk.

“Now can we start living decently?” Doppler said.

“Where would you like to go?” I asked

“I wish we had the Professor Selwyn.” She griped. The Professor Selwyn was our own vessel a hot air balloon with habitable sphere suspended beneath.

“Well we haven’t. We can take the steam train. You like the new railways.”

“I do.” She mused, “Alright, the south, warm and sunny, with beaches. Cannes maybe.” She glanced at me sideways.

“Beaches?” I was surprised. Doppler had never expressed an interest in the delights of sunshine and beaches before. She usually preferred the dark confines of her laboratory or a library. Her pale face testament to unhealthy habits and unsociable hours. She came up and grasped my hand in hers.

“The rich go there Lockhart! Aristocrats, the moneyed!”

“Isn’t it aristocrats we came here to be rid of?” I queried.

“Only the one.” She said, “Besides, where there are aristocrats, there’s bound to be jewels. Just think Lockhart, all those fat Ladies with diamonds in their rooms!”

“We’re not thieves Doppler.” I said, “At least, not common thieves. Too easy. We don’t steal from peoples rooms. Just peoples tombs.”

“Stealing from someone’s room is what got us here in the first place. Remember?!”

“Alright, alright.” I acquiesced. “It’ll take some time. We could do our own Grand Tour en route – of the vineyards!”

Doppler rolled her eyes. But she was getting her wish – a trip to the beach!

But there was a problem that we had not foreseen. France, wonderful as it is, did not have a rail system to match England (where did?). It did not have an iron industry on the same scale and few towns were connected up. So we took the steam train from Calais to Amiens and from there we took the Trans-France Micro Passenger Blimp to the Champagne-Ardennes region. Doppler stared out of the windows the whole time, pointing out the tiny farm houses and other airships. This section of the sky over France was not particularly busy. The French eschewed much modern transportation for the traditional horses, horse-drawn vehicles and walking, except when travelling huge distances.

In a roadside inn we lounged for a day or two drinking, what else but champagne. In Burgundy we stayed in a delightful pension where they served baguettes and rich-smelling Epoisses cheese, along with a delightfully light white wine.

“Salut Theodora.”

“Bottoms up!”

We purchased two cases of Pinot Noir to see us through the rest of the journey, although Doppler was less inclined to partake whilst we were in transit. I had a case sent home to England for future indulgence. Each time we made a stop, I personally oversaw the removal of our belongings, keeping an eye on our ruby red bottles with their waxy red seals, just in case anyone felt inclined to refresh themselves at our expense.

Despite what people say about Champagne, I have to say I was more impressed with the fayre of the Rhône-Alpes region. The landscape is a stunning variation from valleys and vineyards to aromatic lavender fields and mountains. The air is sharp, crisp and clear; just like some of their wines in fact. I had a saucy little Beaujolais with my Lyon sausage, whilst Theodora acquired a taste for Chartreuse liqueur. We were introduced to a strange dish called fondue. From Switzerland originally, it is a thing that one could easily take an instant dislike to as you have a long handled fork onto which you spear a small piece of bread, then proceed to dip it into a heated pot of melted cheese! We watched a couple of locals eating the stuff and I have to say, it looked like stringy vomit to me. However; we were persuaded to give it a try – mainly by dint of the fact it has wine in it. Soon I was dipping bread, bits of chopped sausage and even chunks of cheese into this fondue.

Let me tell you something about foreign food. When you travel abroad quite a bit as I do, you can become quite complacent about dietary care. I have eaten stuff in foreign parts that would curl your toes, stuff I would never consider back home in Blighty. What is it that gets into us English when abroad, I cannot tell. I have eaten alligator, roast bat, snake, some stinking fungi and numerous victuals that I didn’t have a clue what I was shoving down my gullet. I like to think I have developed a pretty hardy constitution. But this fondue business was something else. All through that night, after consuming what possibly amounted to a months’ worth of cheeses, I had the most horrendous hollow-like burning in my chest. I felt like the whole days’ worth of food had balled itself in a cheesy mass in my lower gullet. No amount of cheeky Pinot was getting rid of that. I thumped my sternum, attempted to belch the pressure away until Theo, turning in irritation in the bed next to me, suggested I go and “walk it off”.                                                             

  So I pulled on my boots and trews, and headed out the door. I made my way quietly along the short landing and down the two flights of uncarpeted stairs to the front parlour. I imagined the hotel to be locked up for the night. All was silent and dark. My way shown by the moon lit sky, casting its silver across the floor and furniture. The main door was in fact open, I suppose it’s a habit of country folk. Ensuring I did not disturb anyone, I softly closed the door behind me and took my curmudgeonly digestion for a brisk promenade.

I had a pretty fair idea of the land surrounding the hotel, despite what an onlooker might have perceived as a drunken disregard for the scenery, I had been paying attention. (Rule #17. Know your way out) A short trot along a pale, stony path that curved around the back of the hotel and it’s garden, then a diversion that led me away from the nearby town and up a narrow track heading onto a wooded rise. It was nowhere near being a mountain, rather a big hill, but I found myself getting breathless uncommonly quickly. It was most certainly my overzealous cheese eating rather than lack of fitness on my part. I had after all climbed mountains in Peru, fought men twice my size and held my own stamina wise, and had to run for great distances to escape various persons whom I had relieved of their wealth, status or dignity; sometimes all three.

I stopped at a suitable spot and breathed deep, surveying the scene beyond. From here, I was looking down onto the rear of the hotel. The night lay across Grenoble like a blue-black silken kerchief. It was past midnight, all the locals would be tucked up in their little beds, not a light to be seen.  Except, as I stared into the darkness, I detected the faintest of glimmers. It drew my eye because it was moving; like a firefly bobbing along quite low. Someone was approaching the hotel in the dead of night. Someone was keeping a tiny lamp low. Now as far as I’m aware, a person only carries a light for two reasons; one, to see by and two, as a signal. As the night sky was actually clear enough to create a clear path, I could only presume it was to let someone know they were approaching. A lovers triste perhaps?

I edged my way back down as carefully and quietly as I could. Somewhere off to my right, a hunting owl screeched. A sleepy bird rustled and chipped in its sleep. I could hear low voices now. To the very rear of the hotel garden I spied the tiny, hand held light. It sat on the ground now between two figures. They were having a very covert meeting thought I, and being a naturally suspicious and nosy person, I made it my job to find out more.

“Quelle heur?”

“Dix heures.”

“Le Fanny Voler. L'aérodrome Grenoble. Il les a dans un cas brune.” The Flying Fanny, Grenoble airfield. He has them in a brown case.

“Huh.”                              

“Il ne se soucie pas comment vous les obtenez, il suffit de ne pas se faire prendre.” He does not care how you get them, just do not get caught.

Another grunt of acknowledgement.

“Ici. Prends ça.” Here. Take this.

Then the little light was lifted, I caught the briefest glimpse of a face. I did not recognise it. Then the two men parted. I sat still and low for some moments pondering what I had overheard. One fellow was apparently to go and retrieve something from the brown case of a man, who would be travelling at ten of the clock on The Flying Fanny from Grenoble air field. Then something had been handed over. In my experience the only people who meet up at odd hours, in the dark and exchange information are either criminals or politicians; sometimes one and the same.                         

 I was just about to rise and head back to my bed, when a third figure detached itself from the shadows of the hotel. Someone else had been listening in on the clandestine conversation. This individual was extremely adept at moving silently and remaining hidden, despite his evident bulk. This man was solid muscle, though he could move at speed. He was patient, polite and subservient, but a mean fighter. I knew him; a man named Hotchkiss, Rene de Cavelliers’ butler. The last time we had met, I had hit him with a valuable stone artefact. (See The Stone of the Sons of Horus. Part 2) I did not relish encountering him again. He was obviously here for his employer, and if he was listening in to this meeting then it could only mean one thing – there was something definitely worth having in the brown case. I watched him until he had headed, like the shadow of a cat, along the turning pathway leading into town, until I could see him no more. Then I made my way, cautiously, back inside the hotel.

In the morning, having explained to Doppler what I had seen and heard during my late night, or early morning depending on how you live your life, wanderings, we arranged to have a recce of the airfield.  There was Le Fanny Voler, one of the Trans-France Micro Passenger Blimps, amidst a number of other, almost identical dirigibles. There were a number of official buildings along the western edge of the field and a series of hangars beyond them. After some pernickety passenger acting, we discovered that The Flying Fanny and her sister ship Mutine would both be heading for Marseille this very day. Now I had to decide whether to stay with the ship the mark would be on, and risk being discovered by de Cavelliers bludger butler. Or, should we ride the sister ship in the hope he wasn’t doing the same thing? In the end we bought tickets for both airships. We did not have much time before passengers would begin arriving from their various hotels, pensions and inns, so we set too. We bid the ticket salesman au revoir and apparently left the airfield.                                                                                                                  

 Instead, we circumvented the buildings and discovered an easily accessible room, currently unoccupied, that had exactly what we were after – uniforms. They were in various states of cleanliness, however we needed something from low down the pecking order, waiters or suchlike, the kind of position that might be filled at the last minute by a newcomer and not raise suspicion. Having found a likely livery, Doppler changed. Luckily there was a hat to go with the uniform; a tight fitting beret in navy blue. Evidently the Trans-France Micro Passenger Blimp Company had aspirations to join the French Navy. Doppler’s hair fit into the slouch section that fell over to one side. With her slender physique and no make-up, she could pass for an adolescent male, if no-one looked too closely. I rummaged in my belongings and pulled out a little silver tube. Using the brush cautiously, I applied a fine amount of mascara to the downy, blonde hairs on Doppler’s upper lip, then filled in her eyebrow hairs further.

“My, you are handsome monsieur Doppler.” I curtsied.

Next, I began my transformation into a middle-aged, overweight spinster dressed from head to toe in black. It’s simply a matter of wearing most of the clothing from one’s travelling trunk, using too much powder and screwing up the face like a lemon licker. We kept ourselves out of sight until there were a number of passengers waiting to board and tickets were being collected. We scrutinised the travellers. There were about fifty or sixty individuals waiting to board the two vessels; these were not the massive airships we saw in Great Britain and America. Doppler stayed with the crew waiting to see where she would be sent. I watched, keeping a lookout for a man with a brown case and Cavelliers butler.

Hotchkiss did not bother to hide. He simply turned up, small amount of luggage in tow, showed his ticket and waited in the queue reading his newspaper. At the last minute, a carriage pulled up and a dowdy, nervous looking fellow got out. Looked like a trainee accountant to me, he had a brown leather attaché style case. He was directed straight to the open field where the dirigible waited rather than queueing and I saw him board Le Fanny Voler. Now they allowed everyone else to board. Doppler slid in amongst the staff. I would have to trust she could pull off the disguise alone now. I kept myself behind Hotchkiss’ line of sight and watched him, where he was looking would lead me to the first man watching the mark.

Finally on board, I settled at a window seat with table. The cabin was divided into sections, presumably to keep the riff-raff apart from the nobs. I pulled out my copy of Le Monde and holding it in my black lacework gloves, peered at it through circular spectacles. A waiter came to take my order of tea and gin, a rather young fellow with the beginnings of a sparse moustache grazing his lip. A large French couple sat opposite me, ruddy of cheek and wary of eye, I believe it was their first flight. We began one of those intermittent conversations that people have when thrown together for a short period of time.                                                                                                     

The young waiter returned with our drinks, and a snack selection for the large couple - I hoped the Flying Fanny would be able to take off. My gin glass rested on a circular, paper coaster. Putting it in my lap without anyone noticing I read the reverse; Fr.Pt. Neither Hotchkiss nor the drab mark were in my compartment, so I guessed Hotchkiss had a place up front too. And if Hotchkiss was there, then so was the man I had eavesdropped in the garden.                                                       

Halfway through the flight, many passengers took themselves for a stroll to stretch their legs, some went to the little smoking lounge to the very rear. I pootled off. In the front cabin, portside, I found my man, or should I say, men. There was the mark sat in a window seat, looking for all the world like he was carrying a bomb; he sweated, his right cheek twitched below his eye and he clung onto his case tightly. How anyone was to get it off him I didn’t know. In the centre sat Hotchkiss, calm as you like, sipping tea and doing a crossword puzzle. I was pretty sure he would not remember my face, he’d seen me briefly about two years ago, and only then by the light of a lantern at best. I headed into the cabin, walked past him and made my way to the observation area. From here, not only did I have a lovely view of the south of France spread before us, but I could turn around and see the whole cabin, from front to rear. The compartments were not completely separated or enclosed individually, just partial dividers and open entranceways. A steward made his way along, stopping for passengers who had questions or requests. When he entered the front compartment, he went almost directly to the attaché case man. Bent slightly in a subservient manner, as if taking the man’s order. But the dun man had not turned until spoken to. This was the fellow from the garden. I scrutinised him thoroughly, as did Hotchkiss. I knew what I was up against with Hotchkiss, to a degree, but I needed to get a feel for this fellow.        

He stood around five foot eleven, his uniform was a poor fit and he needed a shave. All in all, not very prepared for the role. Sloppy. The blue, uniform pants were high waisted, the white jacket short, my keen eye detected a slight bulge in the line of his clothing. I seriously hoped the man wasn’t dumb enough to fire off a weapon whilst in the air, we’d all go up like a firework! He went away, then came back a moment later with a glass of brown liquor, placed it on the small table, bowed with his head and departed. I watched him watching over his shoulder. Hotchkiss didn’t make any indication that he was interested at all. The mark picked up the glass in trembling fingers and knocked it back in one, screwing his eyes up in distaste. Either, he had a fear of flying or he carried something of import. I could almost feel my fingertips itching.

Guessing that no-one would make their move until we were coming into land, or passengers were disembarking, I headed back to my seat. The French couple looked rounder than when I’d left them – if possible. Everyone was disembarking at Marseilles, there was no airfield at Cannes; God forbid anything should mar the paradise playground of the rich.                                                                                       

People bustled in disorderly fashion, claiming hand luggage, grabbing a last free drink, hurrying to be first on sunny soil. Some took their time; smoking a last cigarette in the smoking lounge. I loitered around and saw the man who had been dressed as a steward, now in civilian clothing, sitting opposite the mark, apparently making conversation. There was no indication that the dun chappie was listening. Then peering around furtively, the ex-steward pried the case from the unresisting hands, stood up and nonchalantly exited the cabin. Hotchkiss was trailing him, assisting a young lady with her baggage. Disembarking was a slow process, but eventually I had my feet on terra-firma. A tap on my shoulder,

“Can I help you with your luggage madam?”

I turned to see Doppler, still in uniform, her mascara moustache looking a little sweaty and smudged. We followed the queue through Arrivals, Doppler with a bag tucked under each arm and a case in either hand.

“Blimey!” she puffed, “How do they do this?” the cases were slipping and she struggled with the weight.

I had to get her out of the disguise toute suite, or it would be a disguise no longer. I could see Hotchkiss about twenty people ahead of me, which meant he had the new mark in sight. Finally we were free of the sweating cluster. Doppler went to the public convenience to change, whilst I sat outside on one of my cases, watching were people were going. The fake steward didn’t take one of the carriages laid on for Cannes. Instead he made his way into the town of Marseilles on foot. It was only a ten minute walk. Hotchkiss hailed a small dos-a-dos, a two person dog-cart and headed along the same road. Having all our luggage and the crates of wine, we did the same. As we travelled, I kept my eyes on Hotchkiss, whilst Doppler kept the mark in sight. She stood outside the hotel with the bags whilst I booked us a room. A bellboy came to collect our things and I followed him in the elevator. As it rose, he looked me up and down from the corner of his eye.

“English?” he asked.

“Yes. That obvious?”

He shrugged, “Your style of attire madam, is, how shall I say – unusual. Not French.”

Cheeky blighter, I thought. I was not aware that leather boots, khaki pants and duster were unusual.

“You have English riding boots madam. And the way you wear your cravat, is fastened in the English style.”

“How do you know so much about clothing?”

He gave that Gallic shrug again. “When you spend as long as I do watching people, you begin to learn things.”

I looked him up and down. “How old are you?”

“Twenty madam.” Hmm, I thought. Too young.

“Listen.” I said when he had deposited the luggage. “How would you like to earn some extra francs?”

He pulled at his jacket, straightened himself, licked a finger and drew it along a brow. Raising said eyebrow, he strutted closer grinning. “And what would madam fancy?”

“Not that!” I exclaimed. He had reached out to touch my arm. His hand fell to his side. I looked him over again, considering. No, no, no, I couldn’t. “No, what I want is for you to keep a lookout for me.” I described the mark and Hotchkiss to the bellboy. He had no qualms about acting as my informant. And maybe afterwards I could... What was I thinking?! He was fourteen years younger than me!

“They’re both in the café across the…Lockhart!” Doppler was stood in the doorway.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” I protested. She was giving me the look. “Honestly, I was making arrangements with him.” She cocked an eyebrow. “To be lookout!” her expression said she didn’t believe me. I looked to the bellboy, who stood familiarly close. “Tell her.” I demanded.

“It is true mademoiselle. However, should you be interested –“

“Out!” said Doppler, stepping aside and pointing. He left.

 

After a speedy change of clothing. Doppler and I headed over to the café. I loitered outside whilst Doppler did a quick recce.

“I can’t see Hotchkiss, but the mark is still there.” She said as she exited.

This worried me just a little. Hotchkiss would be around somewhere, I didn’t like the thought of him possibly watching us. I would feel more comfortable knowing where he was. The door to the café suddenly swung open and out strode the mark. Doppler and I turned to chat face to face. He had the brown case tucked under his arm as he made his way, quickly along the avenue between trams and pedestrians and carriages.

“Keep a lookout for the butler.” I said to Doppler. She didn’t really need to be warned.

He was moving pretty quickly. We had no need to hide as the man was clearly oblivious to the fact he was being followed. I didn’t know the town of Marseilles, so made note of various points of interest or landmarks as we moved. He stopped on a corner, pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, looked about then continued. It seems he did not know the area either. Eventually he stopped before a rather smart hotel on the sea front, D’hôtel Napoleon. The lobby was all shining marble and gleaming bronze, potted ferns and pillars. The mark was not its usual clientele. We sauntered in. Doppler hung about the ferns whilst I approached the reception and stood behind the mark, listening. I got his room number; that he did not want to be disturbed unless a certain Monsieur Charlot called. As he had no luggage, he went directly to his room.

“Bonjoir madam, welcome to D’hôtel Napoleon.”

“Hi.” I smiled. “I would like a room for a couple of nights, if that is alright. A double, for myself and my niece.” Doppler had come to stand beside me. “Our luggage will be arriving shortly.” I explained.

Room booked, we made our way up and then found the room that the mark occupied. At this point, we still had no idea what we were going to find in the attaché case, it would be like a Lucky Dip. Quite exciting. It would have to be tonight. We decided to spend the day in the hotel, keeping an eye on things. Doppler hung about the corridors nearby the marks room. I sat in the lounge come foyer, sipping tea and leafing through newspapers.

“You are losing your touch Miss Lucy.” A suave voice said. Oh crap. I thought. I fixed my face and turned.

“Rene! How delightful to see you.” I smiled my respectable smile. I indicated the seat opposite. He sat. Rene de Cavellier smoothed his cream linen pants, adjusted his moustaches and smiled at me. He was practically grinning.

“So, what brings you here?” I said. I chided myself inwardly.

“Oh, you know, the usual.” He continued smiling. God he was handsome. And irritating. But terribly alluring. I attempted to pull my mind into focus.

“It’s my first time. In Marseilles I mean. It is quite lovely isn’t it?” I smiled back. I was going for innocent, but I knew that he knew I wasn’t. Ever.

He leant forwards suddenly, “Lucy, ma cher.” I leant closer too. I couldn’t help myself. He took both my hands in his. “It has been too long.” I tried to remember when we had last, met. Lady Celia Fox’s, after the Vatican incident. “You look lovely as ever.” He purred. His delightful French accent went straight to my libido. He kissed the backs of both my hands. “I have missed you. Why do we not find a room and…” he let the question trail off and hang in the air.

“Oh Rene, any other time and you know I wouldn’t refuse.” I replied. Dammit!

“Ah, there are always other times ma cher, of course. But I must advise you against what you are planning. Yes, I know that you and your little accomplice have followed the attaché here. This is mine Lucy and I do not want anyone, and I mean, anyone, getting in my way. Adorable as you are with your green eyes and your vivacity, your joie de vivre, I cannot allow you to interfere – not again.”

I had been staring into his handsome eyes. Me and my foolish desires. As I went to sit back, I discovered my left hand immobilized. Rene sat back smiling. He had somehow handcuffed me to the arm of my chair.

“Cavellier!” I hissed. “What are you doing?” I rattled the cuffs.

De Cavellier stood. “My insurance madam. No doubt you will get free quickly, but for now.” He made a slight bow. “I bid you adieu.”

“Cavellier!” I called as he walked away. “Rene! You bastard!”

 There were sharp intakes of breath around me. Waiters stopped waiting, receptionists stopped receiving. I fiddled in my hair and pulled a pin loose. By the time I had freed myself, Rene de Cavellier was long gone. I ran for the stairs, the elevator being up on the fourth floor, and began to race for the second floor. I snuck out onto the corridor, peering around corners. No-one there. No sign of Doppler. I slunk along the walls, listening for any unusual sounds. At the door of the mark with the attaché case, I listened. Someone was moving around. I ran on tip-toe to my room, retrieved my pistol and returned. The door was not locked and the scene inside startled me. Two figures were tied back to back, mouths gagged. They were shuffling around trying to loose the cords. In the process, chairs had been knocked over, rugs rucked and so forth. I ran over and pulled one of the gags away.

“Lockhart!” snarled Doppler. “Where were you? Cavellier and his butler came.”

I looked at the mark whom she was tied to.

“Untie me!” Doppler shouted.

“Unfortunately, if I untie you, I untie him too.” They both glared at me. I wasn’t sure who was the glariest!

“Lockhart! They’re getting away! He had the rubies for a Monsieur Charlot. Supposed to be meeting him here today. Lockhart!” The mark snarled as Doppler gave away his employers name.

“Sorry old bean.” I said to the man. His eyes widened as he saw the gun. I turned it round and struck him sharply with the handle. He slumped. After freeing Doppler, I retied the fellow who had so recently been relieved of his goods. Doppler and I raced to the reception.

“I say, could you tell me if a Monsieur Charlot has arrived. It’s terribly important.”

The receptionist looked at me a little dubiously. He ran a finger along the lists of names in the huge book before him.

“Is Monsieur a guest?”

I didn’t know. He could simply be arriving to meet with the chap upstairs. I decided that as he had not found the name in his ledger, then in all likelihood, he was not.

“Just visiting.” I said. “Could you put a call out for him?”

The receptionist called over a man stood by the elevators. Gave him the name and then sent him off around the lobby.

“What are you doing Lockhart?” hissed Doppler.

“I don’t know. I’m making it up as I go along.”

We stood watching as the valet assistant walked about calling out the name. No-one responded openly, but a small chap in the far corner did peek over his paper looking furtive.

“There is no-one here of that name madam.” Said the valet on returning. I thanked him and tipped him.

Doppler followed me to where the small chap sat. “Bonjoir Monsieur Charlot.” I said, flopping into the gilt chair next to him.

Charlot stiffened. His faced pinked. “Excuse me madam, I do not know this Monsieur Charlot that you mention. I think you have made a mistake.” He shook his newspaper and held it up before his face. He looked like a clerk.

“He hasn’t got the goods anymore Charlie.” I said.

The paper slowly lowered. I smiled broadly. “You should have met him sooner.” I said.

“What…what do you know of my affairs? Who are you?” He had regained some dignity. “And how dare you –“

“Listen Charlie. If you want your goods back we need to act quickly. We can help.” He looked dubious, “For a fee of course.”

 

Monsieur Charlot said the attaché case contained rubies. Whose rubies and where they came from, he would not say. He agreed to our assistance, for a fee, and therefore supplied us with a carriage and driver. Monsieur Heureux (Happy) looked anything but. He had a face like a love sick mule. I asked the doorman if he had noticed two gentlemen of such and such description. He had and he was able to tell us that they had taken a Berlin style carriage. For a few francs he told us it was quite distinctive; cream and black in colour, with a cream leather and silk interior. I was impressed, for another few francs pressed into his palm he was able to remember that the gentlemen had mentioned Saint Tropez.                                                                                                   

  After hastily packing our belongings from our first hotel, we headed off with Monsieur Charlot’s driver. I’m sure this carriage wasn’t half as fine as de Cavellier’s, but it was quick. Heureux, understanding that his employer would generously reward him if he could stop the thieves, had the horses moving at a brisk pace. Doppler and I were rocked and rolled about amongst our luggage.

I knew that de Cavellier had about twenty or so minutes on us, we had to close that distance before he made other plans, or took an alternate route. Heureux seemed to be enjoying our discomfiture, for every time we took a bend and yelled at being squashed by a trunk, he seemed to spur the horses more.

“Blimey Lockhart!” yelled Doppler over the grinding wheels, the horses hooves and Heureux’s excited bellows.

“Hang on, shouldn’t be much longer. Got your equipment ready?” I rocked madly from left to right buttock as I began loading my pistols.

Just as I was beginning to feel a kind of nauseous, sea-sick sensation, Heureux called out excitedly, “Je les vois! Je les vois!” I see them.

I stuck my head out of the window. Up ahead was the lovely cream and black Berliner. Hotchkiss was driving, so, unless de Cavellier had brought along some thugs, it would be two against two. Hotchkiss evidently knew we were on his tail, I could see the driving whip lashing back and forth, they sped up.

“Can you pass them?” I shouted to Heureux.

“Impossible!” he shouted back.

“Can you get closer then?”

I was thrust back into my seat as Heureux gave the horses a series of quick, short strikes. I looked at Doppler, she was grinning.

“What?” I asked.

“I’ve never been in a cab chase before.” She said, “It’s exciting isn’t it?”

“So long as you can keep you balance, you’ll be fine.”

She wiggled her fingers at me. She was wearing her ‘spider gloves’. Able to climb pretty much any surface, I wasn’t sure about their grip on a moving vehicle. I looked out of the window again, we were so very close now. De Cavelliers face appeared, he was pointing a weapon at us. A shot rang out, Heureux shrieked, ducking. Missed! He was aiming for our wheels, de Cavellier wouldn’t shoot the horses, would he? I didn’t know. I knew de Cavellier was a horseman – but I also knew the French ate horsemeat and so didn’t have a proper caring attitude towards the beasts, not like the British.

“Cover me!” I called to Doppler.

She leant out of her side, straining against the oscillation of the carriage. As she fired and both de Cavellier and the bludger ducked, I scrambled out of the madly flapping door. Clinging onto the frame, stretching across the front quarter and grasping hold of the seat irons, I came up beside Heureux. He briefly glanced sideways at me. Wild-eyed, cheeks flushed, his dour mule face looked like a donkey on amphetamines. I couldn’t tell if he were scared or exultant. I gave him directions, pointing at the Berliner. He seemed shocked, doubtful, but I insisted. He manoeuvred the horses forwards until his right leader was close by the rear, left hand side of de Cavelliers carriage. Meanwhile, I clambered down onto one of the horses. Without stirrups, I was clenching with my thighs for all I was worth, (I take a pride in the strength of my thigh muscles). After a few near misses, I caught hold of the carriage, rose to a standing position on the rear mudguard and caught hold of the rail on the roof.  Hotchkiss glanced over his shoulder, pulled a weapon free and fired. The rail next to my fingers sparked and sang. Doppler fired back. I saw she was crouched on the roof of our cab, one hand flat, presumably her gloves adhering to the surface. She pointed and fired again.

“Watch it!” I shouted.

“Sorry.”

I wrenched open the door and flung myself inside. Tumbling at de Cavelliers feet in an extremely ungainly fashion. I looked up into the barrel of his gun.

“Good afternoon Lucy.” He smiled. But he kept the gun trained on me.

I got myself straightened out and sat on the seat opposite.

“Hello Rene.” I looked around the plush interior. “Very nice.” I rubbed my hand over the cream leather seat. “Comfortable too.” I looked up through my lashes, going for sultry. He kept smiling. “Look, you’re not going to shoot me Rene. We both know that, so why don’t you put your little gun away,” I patted the leather, “And come and get cosy.” The suspension was amazing, compared to the thing Doppler and I had travelled in, de Cavellier and I gentle bobbed up and down as the carriage continued its crazy dash. He didn’t lower his weapon, so I raised mine. But not at de Cavellier. I pointed it at a careless angle over my shoulder.

“If you’re not going to behave, I shall have to put a bullet in your devoted Hotchkiss. Oh, I agree, I may miss. But consider this; the bullet will certainly pass through your beautiful woodwork and satin. Splinters of wood will strike your bludger in the rear at best. The bullet may even hit home, either way, he will most certainly lose control of the horses and then where will we be? Hurtling off the road? Crashing into a tree? Rolling down a ravine?”

“There are no ravines here.” He said, he was still self-possessed, but he’d lost the smile.

“Whatever. You know it won’t end nicely.”

“And you are prepared to risk that? You will fall too Lucy, you will collide as I collide.”

I smiled happily, keeping him chatting. “Then we shall collide together, ma cher.” I smiled. “Ah, Rene, here we are again. We have had some wonderful times, have we not? That glorious weekend at Lady Celia’s, remember?” The right side of his mouth curved at the memory. “We should team up. Become comrades in the hunt. Imagine it Rene, what a marvellous partnership, you, me, plundering the known world for its treasures.” I leant forwards slightly and breathed his name. He leant forwards too.

“Oh Lucy, if only I could trust you.”

I reached up with my free hand and gently caressed his face. I looked into his eyes. “Kiss me Rene.” I raised my chin to reveal my white neck.

 Rene leant closer, our lips met. I breathed in his cologne and aroma of French masculinity. I sighed as our lips met. Then hit him with the butt of my gun, hard enough, but not too much. De Cavellier fell face first into my lap. I stroked his hair as he lay there. Then pushing him away so he lay across his own seat. I searched the floor of the carriage and found what I was after. The security box. After rummaging in his waistcoat pockets and relieving him of the tiny key. I made a withdrawal from the Banque de Cavellier. As the carriage continued its bouncing course, I pocketed the items. I returned the box and the key then made my retreat. I waved at Doppler and Heureux.                                                                                             

Our carriage began to drop back, to Hotchkiss it would look like they were losing speed. I kept an eye on the fields and hedgerows we passed. At an opportune moment, I flung myself from de Cavelliers carriage, curling myself into a foetal ball. I went crashing into shrubbery, my left thigh hit something hard as I rolled. I scrunched tighter. I seemed to be rolling down a slight incline, my breath being pounded out of me. I hit something else, it went crack and I stopped. I opened my eyes; I was covered in a tangle of greenery. I could hear Doppler calling, getting nearer. Her voice vibrating as she ran.

“Lockhart!” She knelt beside me. “Are you alright? Can you sit up?” She was pulling foliage from me.

As I sat upright, my head spun a little. My leg hurt, my shoulders ached. I had clenched my jaw tight and now massaged it. It felt as though I’d been punched. Then I reached awkwardly into the inner pocket of my coat, triumphantly revealing the soft leather pouch that made a pleasant sound when I shook it. I staggered to my feet to look around. We were in a vineyard.

Now, Heureux was expecting to return us to Marseilles, to his waiting employer, Monsieur Charlot. But I had no intention of returning the cache to Charlie. So we devised another trip for Heureux. Doppler administered one of her home brew compounds. And whilst Doppler drove the carriage on to Cannes, I carefully stored the rubies in half a dozen of the bottles of Pinot Noir; resealing the bottles with melted sealing wax. The stones were the most delicious, deep red; most being the size of the juicy, edible seeds of the pomegranate. Oval cut with a good finish, probably worth in the region of, well, enough. There were twelve of them. All the while I worked on this, Heureux, on the opposite seat gabbled about purple clouds and plucked at the air before him. As night drew on, he swore he could see the dark side of the moon.

Eventually we arrived in Cannes. A telegram was sent to Monsieur Charlot, explaining that, unfortunately, we had been unsuccessful in our task. Heureux recovered, with little memory of the actual events, just a jumble of images of gun fire, galloping horses, a white rabbit and myself dressed as a Joker from a pack of cards. He returned to Charlot empty handed, but with a new and expanded view on life.

We rented an old 18th century villa opposite the sea, Vélès Plage was on a slight rise surrounded by palms and slightly unruly gardens. I was considering buying it. Our residence was ransacked on four occasions during our six week stay. We did not see Rene de Cavellier or his butler around the town – but we knew it was them. They never found a thing.

By the time we returned to our home in Lancashire, the crate of Pinot Noir had been gathering dust in the cellar for quite some time.

 

 

The End

 

 

©AlexandraPeel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jonathan Green, Author: Short Story Saturday: GAME OVER

Jonathan Green, Author: Short Story Saturday: GAME OVER

The Tinkling of The Camels Bells

 

*Authors note: Before you continue, I would like to thank all of you who have followed the adventures of Lockhart and Doppler so far. Apologies for the huge gap in posting, I have been entering various writers competitions and attempting to write a book. This story was not long-listed in one of those comps, so I present to you my first submission failure...

 

 

 

 

The Tinkling of the Camels Bells

 

Somaliland 1855

An almighty explosion caused masonry, men and even camels to go soaring through the air like they were never meant to. Rifles, pistols and thrown rocks pinged and whizzed overhead. A wild eyed chappie with his kaffiya flying from his head like unravelling bandages, raced towards me, blade raised high, screaming, “Aieee!” Before he could lower it, I had planted my boot firmly in his groin. He folded like an Egyptian cotton table cloth. I gave him another kick in the side of his head, just to make sure and yanked the curved blade from his grasp. It was on occasions like these that I was glad I did not routinely wear corsets – so restrictive.      

  Rising from my crouched position I found another bearing down on me. He was intercepted by the fist of a much larger fellow, also in Arab garb, with fierce whiskers protruding from once white facial wrappings. I found myself charging for cover alongside this person. A quick glance down and I saw English riding boots flashing beneath the dishevelled robe. I myself favour Italian leather, more comfortable, softer leather you see. I have a delightful chap in Soho Square, London who makes most of my footwear, has an eye for the shape of a woman’s calf. For an extra coin or two, he will make modifications to order, simple things like a sheath for throwing knives or a compartment for darts, you know, the sort of thing a gal might need when working.

The pair of us charged towards the doorway of a partially destroyed temple, bounding over the massive doors that lay crumbling in the dirt. I knew there was a crypt beneath, should I require somewhere to hide – I had been in the process of, ahem, cataloguing the various burial items this very morning, but then some bloody, local conflict had erupted. We were thrown through the entrance by a second explosion, falling masonry shattered the floor and I found myself tumbling into darkness. Flailing, my fingers found cloth, I kept hold, it was all I had. I fell screaming into darkness, the figure with me made no sound, I presumed he had croaked, until we stopped. 

He went, “Oof!” as I landed on top of him. A moments silence as we lay face to face, our panting breaths mingling. I tried to lever myself upright, but my head hit something a mere foot above me. A stone slab must have fallen to cover the cavity I found myself in with this other individual.

“I wonder,” came his dust laden whisper “Ahem, I wonder if you could reach beneath my galibaya, I seem to remember I have some Lucifer’s in my pocket.”

He was English, educated, his voice quite deep and dare I say, commanding. I fumbled about with my right hand amidst the layers of robe till I found a deep pocket. I also found more than a box of matches. Did I detect an appreciative sigh? In the coffin like confines we found ourselves, I wriggled my arm to a position from which I could strike the long stick against the wall. As the light blossomed I found myself looking into a face I recognised. Dark, fierce eyes and marvellous moustache of the chap who had felled one of my attackers.

“Hello Dick.” I smiled.

“Hello.” He replied, “And you are?”

“Lucy Lockhart.”

“You seem to know me, but I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure.” He said this last word in a vaguely suggestive manner.

“You’re Captain Burton; explorer, soldier, translator and member of The Royal

Geographical Society.”

Everyone had heard of Captain Richard Francis Burton in the Royal Geographic Society, and even the odd few outside of it. The man had a giant reputation that many were in awe of, in fear of or simply jealous. Being female, I of course could not be a member of the Society, but, I did do work for them on occasion. Sometimes my work was unofficial. You know, they had once tried to expel me for some minor infringement of rules; something to do with not declaring all my finds or what-not.

Anyhow, I told them they couldn’t, because I’m not a member. They whined that it ‘just wasn’t cricket’ and ‘ungentlemanly’, whereupon I began unbuttoning my blouse explaining that I wasn’t a gentleman and never would be. Caused uproar as you can imagine. Banned me from their rooms and study halls. I still have my contacts though.

“You have done your research. I’m impressed. Tell me Lucy Lockhart, what brings you to the Dark Continent? Explorer?”

“Sort of, yes.”

I wriggled to test the extent of our confines. Just before the match went out, I saw him smirking with amusement, or pleasure. It was hard to tell.

“I believe there is an opening beyond your feet.” He whispered close to my ear. He smelt like cloves and tobacco. “But I believe I have dislocated my shoulder, might take me a little longer.”

I began making my way towards the small opening. I had to squeeze down the length of Burtons body, he didn’t complain, until I felt lose stones and a gap that I shoved myself through backwards. Eventually, both Burton and I were able to turnabout into crouched positions. I rooted about in my grubby satchel and found my portable light.  About nine inches in diameter and seven long, the glass bulb was encased in protective brass fitting. An attachment at the top allowed it to be hung on my belt, a winding mechanism poked out from the base. It had been exposed to enough sunlight over the past few days, so should have stored up enough power. I turned the small handle on the side and a tiny orange glow flourished. I turned faster and faster until we had a light bright enough to see some twenty or so feet away.

“There’s a crypt beneath this temple, should be easy to find.” I told him.

“Been here before have we?” He asked, one eyebrow raised. I saw that his left arm hung limply at his side.

“Research.” I said briefly. “I think we need to get your shoulder fixed before we go any further, you’re not going to be able to crawl using one hand.”

“Been in a worse state.” He said matter of factly.

 I got him to sit with his back against the tunnel wall and planted my right boot against his chest and took hold of his arm in both hands.

“This might sting a bit.” 

I pulled. Something went pop. Apart from a grimace flickering briefly across his face, he didn’t make a sound in response to the pain he must surely have felt. I was more than impressed. I retrieved a small flask from my bag and offered it to him. He sniffed at the open top,

“Brandy.” He said agreeably. Then took a swig. He proffered the flask to me. I took a deep slug before screwing back the lid.

“You’re a woman of talents Miss Lockhart. Or is it missus?”

“Lockhart will do. Shall we go?” I indicated the crawl ahead.

“Ladies first.”

“Perhaps you should go first this time. I mean, wouldn’t want you to feel emasculated, woman leading the way and all that.”

“Not at all, not at all. Though I admit that I like to lead from the front, I am certainly not averse to bringing up the rear.”

 

I began to crawl off down the tunnel, the orange light swinging back and forth at my waist and occasionally scraping against the floor as the surface undulated and the skirts of my duster trailing. I could hear Captain Burton moving behind. He was silent as we went. We must have wended our way for about half an hour. We had bypassed some side tunnels and made several oblique turns. My knees were sore, my neck ached and I had not the slightest clue where we were. 

“Should have come out into the crypt proper by now.” I exclaimed stopping mid crawl.

Burton sat back against the wall. I joined him.

“Didn’t make a map last time eh?” he asked. The slightest smirk detectable just beneath the bushy moustache.

Even when he was being jovial he looked kind of angry. His hirsute brows pulled low over his eyes made him look like a hawk, a predator. I never saw eyes like them – steel, they cut through you. I looked away, rubbing my hands together to wipe off the dirt.

“I wish I had some of Doppler’s bioluminescent gel on me. Feels like we’re going in circles.”

“Bioluminescent?” he queried.

“Yes, it was something my partner made (actually, this is a lie, she stole it from a young pharmacist when he invited her to his rooms). You can dab it or draw on surfaces with it. Use it as a directional indicator. It glows in the dark, like fire flies or phosphorescence on the sea, you know what I mean?”

“I do indeed. And who is this Doppler person, your husband?” I laughed out loud, “No, she, is not my husband. She’s my partner.”

“Ah, I see.” He nodded knowingly.

“Actually,” I began, feeling a little like I was in some sort of competition, “She is my partner in work, only.”

“No, no,” he held up his hands, “You don’t need to explain to me, I know all about l'amour qui n'ose pas dire son nom.” 

 “God Almighty man! She’s my daughter! And you sir, are obsessed!”

A stunned silence, well, on my part anyway. I had never revealed to anyone that Theodora Doppler is in fact my daughter. Travel companion, fellow treasure hunter, niece even, but never daughter. Theodora, or Doppler as she is referred to in company, is sixteen years old. Dark haired, pretty, slender, good company and intelligent. I have tried to give her a varied and well-rounded education. But most of all, she is a prodigy when it comes to the sciences. Made her first sleeping drought aged ten. Understands about voltaic piles and all that. And she accompanies me on many of my, let’s call them fact-finding missions. Burton looked at me with his fiery gaze. It made me a little uncomfortable, the intensity of it, like he was reading my thoughts. Then he reached over and took my reluctant hand in his.

“My own beloved mother was descended from the illegitimate son of King Louis the fourteenth. Or so it is said in the family. I do not know if it is true and what is more, I do not care. I will not let myself be subjugated by another’s appetites. Do you not think half of England is born out of wedlock? Perhaps more. If only we did not care so much about what society thought, our lives would trundle along the merrier. I may have only just met you Ms. Lockhart, but I do believe we are cut from a similar cloth.

We crave the excitement of ‘the other’, we must travel and we must escape the confines of a society that must always present itself as correct. Beneath the cool banality lies hypocrisy fed by desires. I see it wherever I travel. Except, not in those societies that our English cousins would call primitive. They may be naked ma’am, but at least they do not clothe themselves in false morals.”

I had found his deep voice quite relaxing, absorbing even. Here was a man who did not judge women for their actions which, if on a par with men would be considered indecent and immoral. A modern man, an enlightened man, a…

“So, how about it?” He ended suggestively.

“I think we should continue” I interrupted, pulling my hand free and escaping those blazing eyes.

We did not have much farther to go before we squeezed through some tumble of rock into a small square chamber. Shining the light around revealed it to have been some sort of store room. Rotten baskets with mouldy grain spilling forth dotted the corners. Decaying parcels revealed themselves to be large leaves tied with twine, inside were indeterminate things, dried fish or strips of meat possibly. I turned around to face the now upright Captain, he was stunningly tall.

“Gosh, you are big.” I remarked.

“You’ve no idea.” He grinned wolfishly. “Must have been one of the Somali food stores.” Burton continued indicating the old supplies.

“It’s rather lofty” I commented, shining my lamp upwards. Looked like twenty feet at least.

“They lowered their packages on ropes, one man would climb down, see there,” he pointed at shallow recesses in one wall, “He would untie the food parcels, pile it up then climb out.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble, why not build a store house?”

“Look around Ms Lockhart, what don’t you see?”

I scanned the floor space. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for at first, then I saw.

“Bones, there’s no bones.”

“Precisely. What do farmers struggle with apart from weather and invading tribes? Animals that would eat their crops. And there have been plenty of times when there have been droughts or food shortages to warrant building a fortress for food. Rats, hyenas, fox, even leopards would have ransacked storehouses if built up top. The locals found a way to prevent that, dig down and dig deep. Brilliant what the human mind can come up with in times of necessity.”

“Speaking of food, do you have anything on you? I think this is a good place to stop and take a break.”

I opened my satchel bringing out the flask of brandy. Plus some dried fruit and a bar of chocolate. Burton threw the ends of his galibaya up and across both shoulders. Beneath, he was wearing standard travelling clothes of a westerner; boots, light pants and a once white, collarless shirt. He pulled out the box of matches I had returned to him, a squashed packet of cigarettes and a large handful of what looked like small, yellowish rocks.

“What is that?” I asked, poking at them with the end of my gloved finger.

“Smell it.” He raised his palm to my face.

I sniffed.

“Frankincense!”

“Looks like we have ourselves a veritable feast Ms Lockhart.”

I frowned at him. Burton took off his robe and spread it across the floor and sat down cross legged. Then as if laying a table, he placed his only possessions in a neat row. 

“Will you join me?” he held out a hand in invitation.

I sat, then I too placed my edibles on the makeshift picnic blanket. I pointed at the frankincense and cigarettes,

“They aren’t foodstuffs.”

“Not quite, but the next best thing.”

“How? Cigarettes and incense?”

“Do you smoke Ms Lockhart?”

“I do. And could you please just call me Lockhart, Ms just makes me sound formal, stuffy. Like a school mistress.”

“Very well, Lockhart. You will know that smoking reduces the appetite, you must have been hungry at times and you have reached for a cigarette, have you not?”

This was true. There had been many occasions when I had staved off hunger with a Gauloises or a roll-your-own.

“Ok, I’ll give you that. But what about the frankincense?”

“Frankincense is edible indeed. It has been used for thousands of years throughout Africa. As medicine, a spiritual purifier, as a calming agent, mostly burnt on charcoal but is even chewed and eaten. It can take a little getting used to, its flavour is somewhat unique and it warms in the mouth. It also gives a mild feeling of euphoria if enough is consumed. The farmers hereabouts chew it the same way the American

Indians chew spruce sap in gum form.”

I picked up a small fragment and rolled it around between finger and thumb. The smell increased as it warmed up. Then I popped it into my mouth and chewed.

“Same cloth.” He smiled, picking up a couple of pieces and beginning to chew.

 The flavour was exactly as it smelt, it reminded me of when I was small. My uncle had built me a tree house, but he had not allowed the wood to cure and every spring, resin would seep out, golden red and sticky. I would pick it off with my nails and roll it between my fingers, sniffing at it. I had even tried tasting it once, but I was scared I would be poisoned so spat it out. It was actually quite disgusting. The frankincense was not unpleasant, quite strong with a background hint of bitterness. Kind of brittle to start with, gradually becoming a chewy wad that got tougher. By the time I had swallowed it, Burton had consumed another three or four pieces. We continued eating resin and sipping brandy, foregoing the fruit and chocolate. The warmth that had started in my mouth was beginning to spread to my head and down my limbs. I began to relax in this slightly intimidating man’s company. We lay on our sides, propped up on our elbows against old woven baskets and I found myself talking to him freely. Captain Burton was not only well travelled, but incredibly intelligent and well informed on practically everything we touched on.

“So when you say treasure hunter, you mean thief?” he accused, though not without a twinkle in his eye.

“I’m not a thief! Well, not in the usual way.”

“And what would the usual way be Lockhart?”

“Well, shop lifting, pick pocketing, stealing from homes, you know, a common thief.”

“Ah, so you are an uncommon thief? You only take from the dead? Those that cannot fight back, protest or prevent.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Now you sound like a child. Be honest with yourself if not me. I do not care either way. I have no respect for religions, they all seem to me to be about man’s praise for himself rather than a higher being.”

“You’re very hard on mankind aren’t you?”

“Not mankind. Falsity, that’s what upsets me. Lucy, I have travelled in the guise of an Afghan doctor, a tribesman of Saudi and as a pilgrim, but I would never presume to imitate another man’s culture or religion only to ridicule it as soon as my feet touched England’s shores, as so many do. That is ungentlemanly and not Christian.”

I did not know if he was aware of the contradictions in his speech regarding his belief or non-belief, but I did not press him on it. He was in a comfortable frame of mind, his moustache seemed less threatening for a start. He regaled me with tales from his days at Oxford College, where he had been suspended for some minor misdemeanour. I told him of my education I received from my mad uncle after my father had died. We shared stories and the brandy and ate too much frankincense.

“It’s very hot in here isn’t it?” I panted, pulling at my necktie and sloughing off my duster.

The gap between us seemed to have closed. He leant over to assist, grunting at the weight on his shoulder that had been dislocated, he collapsed back down into the fusty baskets sending up a cloud of dust motes.

“Come to me Lucy.” He held out one hand gazing at me beneath his brows like a wolf.

I paused in the process of tipping back the almost empty flask. This was Captain Richard Francis Burton; Egyptologist, expert swordsman, adventurer, linguist and renowned shagger – how could I refuse?

 

I came awake with a twitch, the kind you get when you’re about to drop off and your leg kicks of its own volition. Sitting up sharply, I put my hand to my aching head.

“That’ll be lack of water. Sweated it all out.” 

Burton was sat cross legged against a wall with my lamp close to him. He was naked and appeared to be writing in a small, dog-eared notebook. Looking down quickly, I remembered I too was still naked and pulled the corner of our picnic blanket up around me. Burton, catching my movements, shook his head in disappointment. Realising the stupidity of my action, I let the cloth fall. I padded over to where he sat and quite blatantly read over his shoulder; when the English female is free to give vent to her passions, free from the constraints of ‘civilised’ society, she is as wild and ardent as any whore I have lain with in Cairo, she can…

“What the hell are you doing?!” I shrilled.

“Writing my notes.” He replied evenly.

“You’re writing about me! How dare you! What sort of person writes about…well, what we did…?”

“Sex, Lucy.” He closed the book with the pencil marking the page. “Quite amazing. I have travelled far and wide experiencing and recording. Everything. Everything Lucy, including sex. And do you know what I have found?”

I shook my head dumbly.

“That nowhere in the world can people take part in the act of copulation and not be able to talk about it afterwards. Except Europe, particularly Britain and especially the English. There are people all over the world making love at this very moment and only in England will you find them shaking hands afterwards and unable to make eye contact. I never fail to be amazed by how a person can make themselves bare without baring themselves. And here we are, you and me, alone, isolated with no-one to see. We make love all night and what is the first thing you do when you awake? You attempt to cover your nakedness. The habits of so called civilized society bore me.” 

Crikey, I thought, bit intense!

“Well I don’t know about you, but I need to get dressed and out of here. I need water and real food and a wash” I said, peeling a dried apricot from my buttock. I dropped it into my mouth and looked down at him impudently.

“Got any more where that came from?” he looked to where I’d found my apricot.

“Sorry sir, not today sir, I’m fresh out of bum-pricots.” I teased in a fake London servant girl voice.

“In that case,” 

I slapped his hand away.

“No Dick! We need to get going.”

Eventually, after much prevarication, we were both dressed. All our belongings collected, nothing, not an apricot remained on the floor. Burton insisted on it. He claimed he could climb the sheer wall with its miniscule hand holds despite his previously dislocated shoulder. I shrugged, who was I to argue with a beast like Burton? We began our ascent. The handholds dug into the rock face were a mere inch deep in some places and difficult to push the toe of a boot into. The original Somali farmers almost certainly climbed it barefoot. It was slow progress.

“You needn’t worry. I didn’t write your name.” Burton suddenly said from the dark.

The lantern at my waist was fading, it had been running constantly for some hours and we were reduced to a weak, orange glow, barely enough to see the wall that was inches from my face. However, I could now make out a very slim outline of dim light up above. Had to be the doorway to the store hole. I hoped it wasn’t fixed shut.

“What?

“The notes I was making about intercourse with an Eng...”

“Alright!” I interrupted with a hiss, almost losing my grip on the wall. “Can we not discuss it right at this moment please?” Loose flakes fell from beneath my left boot. “As you wish.” He sighed.

We continued in silence and pretty soon my face was up against a rough wooden panel. In my youth I went mountaineering with a crazy schoolteacher and her nieces in Austria over a couple of winters. She impressed on us the need to “maintain three points of contact at all times gels”. I never forgot, but don’t always practice to be perfectly honest. But right now, I was doing so. This would be a straight drop of some twenty five feet to thirty feet, not a killer, but I didn’t want a broken leg. I ground my toes as far into the shallow dips as they would go, tensed my hold and with my free fist, hit at the wooden panel. It didn’t budge. I couldn’t push, gravity would find me out. Burton arrived seconds later and the two of us thumped at the panel. Either someone would hear us, or we would eventually shift it. Sand began to seep through the slim gap, sifting over our hands and shoulders in a slow continuous flow.

“Damn!” exclaimed Burton, “We’re going to drown in sand at this rate.”

He bashed harder at the recalcitrant door. The weight of sand on my shoulders was causing my fingers to begin a slow, inevitable slip on the rock. I reached for the knife at my belt and thrusting as hard as I dared, stabbed the point into the wood. It went in a reasonable amount, allowing me to relieve the weight ever so slightly on my gripping hand that was beginning to tremble with the effort. 

“Have at it!” barked Burton, alternating between punching the wood and shoving sand away.

I began repeatedly stabbing at the closest corner. More sand sifted through, but the wood had begun to splinter. As I hacked, Burton clawed away sand and bits of wood to prevent it falling into my face. I was sweating with the effort, my arms burned taking the strain. Presently, Burton growling, wrenched off a good sized chunk and sand poured over me. I closed my eyes and tried to lower my head. I had sand in my mouth and nostrils, I slashed blindly and struck rock. The sudden impact rocked through my body, my fingers were slipping from the gritty handhold, and my toes scrabbled for contact as I fell away from the wall. For the longest moment in my life, I was suspended in empty space, sand raining all about me. Then abruptly yanked backed against the wall. Burton had caught hold of my duster coat, unfortunately it wasn’t fastened and I began slipping out of it.

“Grab the wall damn you!” he commanded, “Come on woman! Pull yourself together!”

Woman?! Woman? I scrabbled angrily against the wall, feeling for the shallow holds and found them. I began pulling my outraged self up to the door. Burton had shaken a whole narrow plank free, I thrust out my hand grasping at the external wall and clenching my teeth, hauled myself up and out, pulling the remaining pieces of door with me. I turned to assist Burton and we lay panting in the sand staring up at the night sky for a moment. Spitting sand we stood and dusted ourselves down.

“Don’t!” I slapped his arm, “Call me woman again!” I yelled, giving him another thump.

I stood, hands on hips, glaring. He looked down at me calmly, hands folded in front.

“But you are a woman Lucy.”

“You know what I mean,” I waggled my finger at him. “That tone, that way you said it, that way men say it. God it makes my blood boil.” I growled.

“Would you rather I had said, “No Lucy, don’t let go, Lucy hang on, please Lucy.””? He put on a pathetic, imploring tone.

Now I felt foolish. Burton had used the oldest trick in the book. Fury can give you wings and he knew exactly what to say to give me the strength to exert myself that one last bit. I scowled at the sand.

“You’re acting like a child again.” He teased.

I took a deep breath, about to argue back, but stopped. He was right. I was being childish, and ungrateful.

“I’m sorry.” I stepped towards him putting my hand on his arm, “I am sorry and thank you.” I added more sincerely.

“Apology accepted. By the way, that was my injured arm you punched.”

“Now whose being a baby.” I teased.

We scanned about us. Not very far away we could make out the temple where all the fighting had been going on. Now it was silent. There was light enough from the stars to see the huge, ancient stones that had once formed the temple complex. We approached, the area in front of the main buildings was strewn with bodies, a couple of camels and a horse too. We searched for the living, but found none. Burton turned bodies over as if looking for someone. Many of those who had died had been carrying clubs, but one or two had scimitars, there were a couple of rifles but no ammo, the odd pistol here and there, a couple of water flasks attached to the corpse of a camel and other oddments. We helped ourselves.

“Looks like camel is on the menu then.” Announced Burton as he made a small fire.

“Blast! My horses aren’t here.” I yelled as I returned from searching behind the dilapidated walls alongside the temple.

“Probably made a bolt for it, or were ridden out.” He replied dully, “Just as well, because if they were still here, it would be because they were dead.”

“All my supplies were on them. God what a mess!” I grumbled, dropping down cross-legged on the opposite side of the camp fire. “Barely found a thing in there,” I pointed towards the temple, “and now this!” I indicated the surrounding disorder.

Burton poked the fire into life silently. His mouth tight. He had a look on his face that shut me up. Then he took a knife he had found and began cutting into the haunches of a small camel. Whilst he was occupied, I checked around again to see if any of my possessions had fallen from my mount and packhorse. I generally ensure all my items are securely fastened and I discovered nothing. Working my way back to where Burton was now roasting camel meat, I availed myself of a second scimitar with sheathe.                                                                                                                

Something I had wondered about, but not asked him yet, returned to mind.

“So how come you were in the area? I mean, what’s here that the Royal Society would be interested in?”

He eyed me over a strip of meat. I suddenly felt like I had hit upon a risky topic.

“You first.” He said.

Burton already had an idea of what I did, so I decided to tell the truth.

“I was sent in a semi-official capacity to collect information about Punt. Its architecture, art and culture, but primarily its relationship to Egypt. Some scholars believe that Puntland was attached to the bottom of Egypt.”

“But you’re not a scholar.”

“Not really, no.”

“So?” he had one eyebrow raised in an infuriatingly seductive manner. Or maybe it was an effect from the heat above the fire.

“I work for Sir Rowland Cornish, staunch member of the Royal Society.” I continued.

“I have heard of him.”

“Sir Rowland had heard a story about an artefact in Africa. A lidded bowl that had belonged to both Queen Hatshepsut and Cleopatra, supposedly created as a divination device. The item passed through the hands of a number of female rulers, it travelled around the continent, occasionally disappearing from the records, to reappear suddenly when a female of some standing required it. Or so it is said.”

“And it is this item you seek?”

“It is. Sir Rowland has a private collection to rival the best in England, perhaps the world.”

“And he wants to add to his collection with this, possibly non-existent artefact?”

“He’s pretty certain of its actuality. He has researchers continuously collecting stories, oral and written, potential locations and recent siting’s of all sorts of objects.”

“And so under the guise of a researcher for the Royal Society, you’re treasure hunting for Cornish. Does he pay you well?”

“Well enough.” I wasn’t going to say how much. Sir Rowland always paid well. Plus, he ensured my reputation in the Royal Society was not sullied, at least not too much.

“How did you get here?” continued Burton, “And why, in God’s name, are you travelling alone?”

“I have my own transport, the Professor Selwyn. It’s a balloon with sphere suspended beneath.”

Captain Burton frowned questioningly.

“I designed it with a Mr Cavor and Mr Wells. It is based on a space worthy craft designed by Professor Cavor, but instead of gravity defying Cavorite, my sphere is made of mahogany wood, white ash and brass, with six portholes. The interior walls are lined in dark, red leather, seating of the same. Hand sewn in London at ‘Leytons

Leather Bodies’, who will make practically anything you want in leather, very obliging, highly recommended. There is plenty of space beneath the flooring for storage. It’s watertight, you never know when you’re going to crash land in the sea.”

Burton gawped at me like I had spoken some alien language. Not one of the twenty five he spoke.

“You fly in a wooden ball suspended beneath a hot air balloon?” he finally asked.

“Correct.”

“And you flew from England, alone?”

“That’s right.” I didn’t embellish.

 I didn’t mention the days spent messing about in Hungary with a minor prince.

Paying ‘in kind’ for gas and supplies in Greece, or doing a runner in Yemen for reasons I will not bore you with here. Needless to say it had something to do with dignitaries and drink. 

“And where is this marvellous balloon sphere of yours now then?”

“Berbera. Some very obliging local has it tucked away. It was his horses I borrowed for the trip out here.”

He nodded, understanding the predicament of explaining how one lost transport that didn’t belong to you.

“Your turn.”  

I ripped at a piece of moist camel meat with my teeth. It tasted wonderful. If you’ve never eaten camel I can recommend it highly. Forget your beef, pork and chicken.

This tastes like a perfect blend of all three together, delicious. 

Burton chewed over his lingering wonder at my account. He probably wasn’t sure if he should believe me or not. I’m not sure I believe me! He took a deep breath and lobbing a bone into the small fire, fixed me with those eyes. “You know, I might have to kill you after I have told you.”

I raised my brows, “Well don’t tell me then. I like being alive. Not much to do when you’re dead.”

“Does anything frighten you Lockhart?” he shook his head.

“Oh, lots of things, but you’re not going to find out tonight. It’s still your turn.” I took a swig from one of the canteens Burton had found.

“Like yourself, I have an official and unofficial reason for my presence in the area.”

“Go on.” I encouraged gently. I was hoping his reasons were…..

“I was on a pilgrimage to Mecca last year, when the caravan I was travelling with was attacked. Many animals and brave men died on both sides. There are so many conflicts going on all the time here, it’s deuced hard to keep track of who’s who. I had left the military to one side for the duration of this journey and I was almost hoping I wouldn’t have to return. But after my Hajj, I headed south hoping to meet up with some friends in Al Lith. My plans were scuppered when I was intercepted by an odious Lieutenant from my company who presented me to Carmichael, one of our intelligence officers. Told me to get myself to Somalia, chum up with the Italians and get a feel for the climate.”

“You’re a spy?” I whispered agog.

“Of course not! And I’ll deny it to anyone who asks!”

I remained silent under his ferocious glare. Eventually he continued.

“So, I got myself to Djibouti tout suite and made my way with a small caravan to

Hargeisa, where I was to meet up with a contact. Except that didn’t work out.”

“Why?”

“On account he was dead. Fellow had a run in with an Abgaal chappie. These Italians don’t know how to keep their emotions in check, he had no respect for the order of things and lost his head, literally. So, I’m on my way to Mogadishu, Italian Consulate down there, long way round, when we were attacked by bandits. Chased here and this is the result.” He indicated the surrounding chaos. “Officially, I am recording the rivers and lakes of Somaliland.”

We sat in silence for some time, gazing into the fire, chewing on camel and swigging whatever liquid refreshments we had found, arak was on the list judging by the aniseed flavour. I was thinking about how I was going to get to Berbera on foot. It would be a two day walk, through semi-desert, with no water. And if Burton was on his way to Mogadishu then he was headed in the opposite direction, so I would be on my own. Blast. I hadn’t found the bowl that Sir Rowland Cornish was after. My investigations had amounted to nothing. I had plundered another temple on my journey here. The small finds that I did manage were tied onto one of my horses, probably on their way to a market in Ethiopia by now. The information Cornish had been given must have been misheard or simply wrong. I wasn’t particularly perturbed by this. Plenty of times I have risked life and limb, or just time and money, to come away empty handed. It wasn’t simply the things that I was after; the gold, the statuettes, necklaces, jade masks and so forth. It was the journey itself. The excitement, the thrill of the chase. I wouldn’t do it if it were easy. And now I found myself in the company of a man who was on his own journey. Arguably a more significant one than mine. I watched him watching the stars. His eyebrows scowled, his moustache menaced his top lip and his black Gypsy hair was a storm across his forehead. Had he been an animal encountered in the wild, I should have run the other way. Hang about, I thought to myself, he is kind of an animal you’ve encountered in the wild, why didn’t you run the other way? Because beasts, cads and bounders were part of the thrill of life for me.

“What are you staring at?” Burton’s husky voice broke me from my reverie.

“Oh, I was just admiring your moustache. You know, it is quite possibly the largest ‘tache I have ever encountered.”

“Would you like to encounter it again?” he murmured.

 

The following morning saw us making use of dead men’s clothes. Burton was more inclined than I to cover himself as if he were not a white westerner. His skin was dark enough from constant exposure to the sun and his facial hair black enough for an Afghan. I stuck to my duster, jodhpurs, waistcoat and blouse. The only exception being a white kaffiya to fend off the sun, which Burton helped to arrange on my head and across the lower portion of my face. It had been decided that Burton would escort me back to Berbera on the north coast where I would reunite with my much loved Professor Selwyn and from there I would take him south to Mogadishu. He was rather keen to experience a ride in the Professor. The journey would take at least a day and a half I reckoned.

“We may be extremely lucky and encounter a caravan heading the way we’re travelling. We may be lucky enough to encounter a caravan that will give us water if not companionship. Or we may be alone to fend for ourselves. As we have no water to start with, with must be patient, not talk and keep a lookout for possible water sources.” Burton explained, unnecessarily I felt.

We left the ancient, tumbled complex and headed into a world of searing sand and sun. I had insisted on bringing both the scimitars I had found, despite Burton telling me to leave one as they would become burdensome. He himself had a pair of pistols with about four rounds apiece as well as his knife and a Djibouti short sword, an oddly curved blade with a vicious point, he carried across his body on a woven cord. We walked slowly in silence, keeping our breathing regular and using as little energy as possible. I had my kaffiya pulled across most of my face leaving only enough space to peek through. I could still catch the scent of its previous owner, faintly pungent man sweat. At least the land was fairly flat around here, slight undulations with hills to the north, nothing like the Arabian desert with all that shifting sand and mountainous dunes. After three or four hours I was parched, I couldn’t stop licking my lips. My eyes burned and I was tempted to just close them as I walked along. I squinted and blinked, my lids felt gritty. The temperature seemed to be rising, must have been at least ninety degrees. Another couple of hours and it would be reaching mid-day.

“Lockhart!”

I opened my eyes. And staggering on the spot turned to where the voice had come from. Burton’s blurry figure was walking towards me.

“Have you been walking with your eyes shut or something?” he demanded.

“No.” I croaked.

“You fool.” He began to untie the cord from the blade he carried, “What were you thinking. It is a good job I looked around when I did,” he tucked the blade into his belt and began to make a slip knot in either end of the cord, “How would you have managed alone? Do you think some passing Samaritan would just turn up? Look lively now!” he slipped one end over my unprotesting wrist and the other over his own. Then he gave a slight tug and I followed like a dog on a leash.

We continued on for I don’t know how long, when Burton suggested we halt for a while. He removed the loop of cord from his wrist and wandered away a short distance. He had propped me up against the trunk of one of the stubby trees that were beginning to appear dotted around. The shade was most welcome. I pulled the cloth from my face and gasped at the hot air. I could see Burton crouching down now and again, raising rocks, poking things with a stick and stabbing stuff with his knife.

He returned, licking the blade as he came.

“Here. Eat.”

He handed me a knobbly root. I chewed on its slightly bitter flesh. First I thought my tongue would shrivel up, but very quickly and in a sudden rush, my mouth became full of saliva and moisture. I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t care. I could hear Burton crunching away next to me. As I looked at him curiously, he proffered me something small and brown, it was some sort of beetle, no, a scorpion! I watched as he snapped the stinger off the tail end of one and pop it into his mouth and begin crunching. I wasn’t sure how desperately hungry I was.

“Eat it, it’s good for you. Better cooked I admit, but,” he shrugged and ate another.

The thing was already dead. I looked at it. I could see its horrible little eyes. I copied Burton and snapped off the stinger, then closing my eyes tight, I put it into my mouth. I wanted to gag. I shuffled it around without biting down, hoping to swallow it whole, like a child with vegetables on its fork, not wanting to taste it. But it wouldn’t go down, so I bit and chewed very, very quickly to get it over with.                                                    

A booming noise burst from Burton. He was laughing! He was laughing at me!

“You should see your face.” He chortled.

“It was disgusting!” I whined.

“More disgusting than dying and have them fed off you?” he said darkly, “Now, what we really need are termites.”

“Termites!” I spluttered.

“Full of calories. Keep us going termites will.” He stood and held out his hand to help me rise. “Look, “he pointed into the distance, “We’re nearly there.”

“Where, Berbera?” I was puzzled.

“No, that’s miles away. There, over there,” he continued insistently. “Looks like a narrow wadi. More shrubs, trees too. See?”

I squinted in the direction he pointed. I could see the grey-pink dust becoming grey-green plant life. 

“And if I’m right, that looks like the tip of a termite hill en route. Come on, best foot forwards.”

He began striding off towards lunch. I followed feeling pathetic and hungry and excruciatingly thirsty. I don’t think I had ever walked across a desert before. I didn’t think I would be doing it again any time soon either.  I hoped that Burton was right about there being water up ahead, I fantasised about gulping down huge mouthfuls, splashing it over my hot, dry skin and rolling in it. I managed to catch up to Burton, who seemed very intent on getting his termites, when he came to an abrupt halt. I stopped a few feet behind him.

“What is it? Food we can eat?” I asked hopefully.

He didn’t reply, except to wave me quiet with one hand whilst drawing a pistol from his belt with the other. I did as he bid and went into a slight crouch, scanning the trees up ahead. I couldn’t see anything except rocks and shrubs and trees, and more rocks and shrubs. I was expecting a deer or rabbit to come bounding out of the treeline ahead. Stepping cautiously forwards and raising his gun hand high in a show of non-aggression, Burton called out in a language I did not know. Nothing happened for a second or two. Then a spear came hurtling towards him, quickly followed by seven men who had been perfectly hidden until the moment they moved. They let out a high pitched ululation as they came.

“Ok, not Berber then!” he noted coolly.

Burton stepped sideways as the spear flew at him, at the same time following its trajectory and seeing it miss me, turned back immediately to fire his pistols alternately, left, right, left, right at the onrushing figures. His aim was good, two or three shots apiece though and he was out of ammunition. He dropped one pistol, switched his grip on the second to use the handle as a club and pulled his Djibouti blade free and stood tall, arms slightly out from his sides, chest swelled. This was not the time to admire I chided myself, pulling both scimitars free and readying myself. Our attackers, like the ones at the temple site, used clubs and scimitars. Burton had shot and killed three men as they ran but we had four left to deal with. I charged with a battle cry I’m sure they would never forget, had they spoken English; 

“I need a drink you bastards!”

I sliced at the first figure to my left, baring my teeth and growling. Burton was having at three of them, alternating between clubbing them with his pistol butt and jabbing with his blade. My opponent swung his club at my head, I ducked and kicked him hard in the shin. That took him by surprise and in that moment I shoved my blade through his midriff. He fell into me with a grunt. But I couldn’t pull the blade free! I was still trying to shake the fellow loose when one of Burton’s attackers broke free and ran at me. I let go of the scimitar and readied myself with the other, this one was keeping a wary distance, eyeing up the situation. I went into a low crouch maintaining the horizontal position of the blade and keeping my eyes fixed on his, I reached slowly to my boot and slid out my dagger. I could hear the grunts and cries of the fight Burton was having with his two remaining attackers. I made it obvious that I was about to stand and swing my sword arm, my attacker made his move, rushing forwards with his sword raised high, but instead of standing I remained low and with an underarm action that the England Cricket team would have been proud of, loosed the dagger. It found its mark and the briefly startled fellow tipped and fell alongside me, the hilt of my dagger protruding from under his chin.

Twisting my dagger free, I looked over to where Burton was checking the dead for anything useful. I could see now that they weren’t a ragtag bunch of bandits. The cloth of their white pants, shirts and robes was beyond the usual. Their hair was tied in top knots with decorative beads. He stood and looked at me askance.

“I need a drink you bastards?”

I didn’t have a suitable quip so I just shrugged.

“That’s an, interesting war cry.” He said.

We made our way through the trees into a dip where there was a camp made near a shallow pool that emerged from beneath a stone slab one end and trickled off as a narrow stream a few hundred yards away. But most glorious of all, there were three camels. They were all females, smaller than their male counterparts, with blonde hair, gaily harnessed with bells and laden with tents, spears and water skins. We settled down near the smokeless fire they had made, ate their rations and drank their arak.

“Thank the gods we don’t have to eat termites.” I said.

“They’re quite tasty actually.” Replied Burton, “Kind of pulpy and squishy to start with,”

“Ok, I get the picture. I’m just glad that I’m not eating them.” I said as I popped a salty morsel of meat into my mouth.

“So what about rats?” he asked.

“Rats? I’d rather not.” I said with a grimace.

He gave a hint of a smile. I looked at him with a questioning expression. He smiled wider and nodded at my hand. As I was about to take another bite, I paused.

“No?!”

“Yes.”

I instinctively spat it out.

“Eurgh!” I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand.

“What do you usually do when you travel? Take a five course dinner and a waiter to serve it?” he teased.

“Oh, you’re a very funny man.” I sneered, and threw the remainder at him.

He threw what I presumed was a date at me, so I picked up the nearest item and lobbed that.

“Christ!” he put his hand to his head. He picked up what I’d thrown. It was a perfectly spherical metal object with three lines cut into it parallel.

“What is it?” I asked going over to him.

“I haven’t a clue, but it hurts like hell.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t look, I just picked up the nearest thing.”

Now, looking again, I saw there were four more of these unusual items laid on an open cloth. They were about the size of a ball from a child’s cup and ball toy, all metal but what metal I did not know and they all had these three grooves running around them. I’d never seen anything like them.

“Perhaps your collector chappie would be interested in them.” Suggested Burton.

Perhaps he would I thought. So I wrapped them again in the cloth and stuffed them into my leather bag. After we had rested for half an hour we took a bathe in the pool. It was delicious. Warmed by the midday sun, it was tepid and smelt green. The bells on the camel’s harnesses tinkled as they ate. I was by now completely at ease in Burtons company, so being naked held no fear, or shame. Despite his initial impression, he was the most delightful company once I came to know him, he had a way of making me forget I was from a society that was governed by strict adherence to rules of correctness. He really did treat a woman as his equal, in all ways.The slight breeze carried the aroma of the surrounding trees across the water and over my bare skin. Insects hummed lazily over teensy, yellow flowers. A beetle scurried to grapple with a centipede, a brief battle ensued ending with the glossy beetle having its dinner. I closed my eyes against the suns glare and simply breathed it all in.                                                                                                         

Around late afternoon, after a very languid lovemaking session, we set off. Burton and I riding a camel each, the third tied to his saddle. We left most of the items they had been carrying, especially the tents and spears. I think the camels were mightily relieved. I hate camels. They’re bad tempered, some say single minded, they smell, they have bad breath and they spit. I tried to keep away from the front end. Riding them is not a pleasure. The spine is continuously rocking back and forth until your teeth grate. I could only bear it for a couple of hours at a time before I got down and walked, leading the ugly beast. Burton, as expected, seemed quite at home on his. Was there no situation that made this man uncomfortable?

However, riding the camels reduced our travel time immeasurably, especially when we had races. I clung on tight, squeezing with my thighs as I shouted ‘Hut! Hut!’ I wasn’t going to let Burton win this competition. I did fall off twice though and we had to chase the stupid animal as it dashed off free of its cranky burden. At night, we sheltered in an ancient structure that had almost disappeared into the sand, its walls having been knocked down and blocks stolen to perhaps build houses or temples elsewhere. We snuggled together under the camel blankets as the temperature plummeted.                                                                                                                      

The following morning, we reached Berber without any further incidents. I sold the camels to a trader in the market and used some of the money to recompense the gentleman who had kindly loaned his horses to me. He was quite upset at first, they were his favourites, but paying over the odds soon put the smile back on his face.

Burton did not want any of the money, apart from a handful of change that would ‘see me through’.                                                                                                                    

I was delighted to be reunited with the Professor Selwyn and after a little difficulty getting the balloon inflated, we were off. The journey to Mogadishu was uneventful and apart from one or two hours when I took my eye off the charts, we made decent progress. Burton was totally enamoured of the sphere. He kept looking out of the portholes at the landscape below and wanting to stand on the gantry with the lid open and watch the clouds around us.                                                                  

Mogadishu proved to be a marvellously bustling township of merchants, military and markets. We spent our final night together in a relatively clean hotel. It was a joyous and yet sad occasion. We parted outside the front door in the morning, he to find the Italian Consulate and me to head off to wherever I felt like.

“Well this is it then.” I said. “It’s been fun.”

He raised his dangerous brow,

“Sort of.” I added. “Goodbye Dick. And thank you.”

Taking my hand in his he said something that moved me in a way I could not put into words,

“Like a star you came, across my night sky. All the radiance of this morning was you.”

He kissed my hand and walked away into the crowds of galibaya, uniforms and the scent of pomegranates.

 

The End

 

 

 

 ©alexandrapeel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another on bites the dust!

Thank you readers for following the adventures so far. there will be more coming soon, however, I am currently working on a new project. A full length Steampunk story, not based on these characters. the Lockhart & Doppler series is now being published monthly in:

http://gosteampunk.com/articles/

an online magazine comprising all things steamy.

Regards

Alexandra