Rivalry and Steam Monsters, page 1
Rivalry and Steam Monsters
Heyward and Andersen, Consulting Detectives #4
A. F. Stewart
Rivalry and Steam Monsters
Heyward and Andersen, Consulting Detectives #4
A. F. Stewart
Copyright © 2024 by A. F. Stewart.
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Contents
Rivalry and Steam Monsters
ALSO IN THE SERIES
BOOKS BY A. F. STEWART
Rivalry and Steam Monsters
“NO! THERE’S ANOTHER story in the Strand by that infernal Watson!” Elspeth Heyward snorted and flapped the publication at her partner. “Another watered-down mess of what truly happened. No mention of the conspiracy, or that the bank robbers worked for Anarchists Against Automatons.” She slammed her palm onto the arm of her chair. “We could have solved that case and ensured the truth came out.”
“Most unfortunate, losing that client after doing the preliminary work, but given our current reputation...” Lars pursed his lips.
“Another fiasco caused by Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He linked our name with the corpse in Covent Garden.”
“Yes, that was poorly done; he never considered the consequences to our business.” Lars sighed. “Not a great deal we can do about it, regrettably.”
“I know, but it grates on me. Grates! I mean, why does Holmes get all the quality cases? How does he do it, Andersen? The world thinks him simply marvellous, but he’s such a fraud! Watson and the Strand always fudge on the details. You remember the Baskerville incident, how all the paranormal happenings were hushed? Sherlock Holmes is an overrated, puffed up, lying buffoon!”
“Now, Elspeth, that’s a bit much. He gets the job done. It’s Watson who pens the duplicitous stories.”
“I suppose, but I despise the man.” She sighed and tossed the periodical to the floor. “I have half a notion to stop buying that nonsensical rag of a paper.”
“I highly doubt such a radical step is necessary. The rest of the magazine is fairly enjoyable.”
“True. Perhaps I need something to calm my nerves. Willoughby!”
An arrhythmic clank of metal echoed from the hall, followed by hissing, wheezing and the soft whir of gears. The antiquated mechanical butler shuffled into the sitting room.
“You called, madam?”
“Yes. Bring me a nice cup of hot tea. Darjeeling, I think.”
“Very good. Shall I add a dollop of brandy?”
“Most definitely, and bring the bottle. A balm for my nerves, you know.”
The automaton wobbled away, a tinkle of clinks and pings echoing in his wake, and returned with refreshments. Elspeth quietly sipped as Lars perused the newspaper, the simmering distaste of Sherlock Holmes forgotten in the now peaceful bliss of the morning.
Three cups of tea into her newly acquired calm, the front bell jangled and rattled Elspeth’s nerves. “Drat. Who could that be? We’re not expecting anyone, are we?”
“No. Not unless it’s the creditors come knocking.”
“Hilarious.” She let another retort fade away as she heard Willoughby’s clank and wheeze. The automaton toddled into the sitting room, followed by a short gentleman in a brown suit holding a bowler hat. His hands fidgeted around its brim, and his entire demeanour screamed with nervousness.
“You have a potential client, Miss Heyward, a—”
But before Willoughby finished with the introductions, the man pushed past the mechanical and blurted, “My apologies for the morning intrusion, but I’m in dire need of a detective.”
Elspeth cast a look of surprise. “And you are?”
“Oh, yes, excuse my rudeness. My name is Horace Osborne. I’ve come to you on a matter of grave importance. You must listen to me.”
Mr. Osborne’s voice dripped with a quality of desperation and the brim of his hat was bending. Willoughby reached out, as if to snatch it.
“That will be all, Willoughby.” Elspeth barked and the butler reluctantly retreated, still eyeing the bowler hat. Elspeth then smiled at her guest. “Please have a seat, sir.”
He flopped into the nearest chair, his eyes wide, his behaviour restless. “I know this is unexpected, but he said you could help, and—oh.” Mr. Osborne abruptly stopped talking.
Elspeth glanced at a perplexed Lars before staring at her prospective client with suspicion. “He? Did someone refer you here?”
Her guest nodded.
The sudden silence raised Elspeth’s hackles. “Might I ask exactly how you heard of our consulting venture?”
“Um, well, I was referred.”
“You said that already. By whom?”
“Oh dear, how awkward. He advised me to stay silent, but it is too late now.” His tongue loosened again, and the words rushed out. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes sent me here. I tried to hire him yesterday, but he, um, refused to take my case. Called me a crackpot, then referred me here, adding you needed the business.”
“You went to Sherlock Holmes? Before coming here?” The hated name sent Elspeth into a spasm of anger. Her fingernails dug into the upholstery of the chair.
Lars sputtered, “Now Elspeth, stay calm—”
But her wrath boiled over. “You sought help from that horrid bit of overrated twaddle? And he said I needed the business? Referred me a crackpot case...why that cheeky little ninny!” A fury of words spat like a shower of London rain. “The gall of the man! The utter gall!” Her eyes narrowed and the corner of her mouth twitched. “How dare he? But I’ll show him!” She leaned forward, glaring. “Tell me about your situation this instant!”
Mr. Osborne shrank into his chair, alarmed by this fireball of a woman, and blurted, “There’s something monstrous living in the Thames!”
Elspeth snorted. “That anything lived in that river would be surprising, considering the filth of the water—wait, you said monstrous?”
“Yes, I—I...” For a moment he stared at the floor, nudging the edge of the rug with his toe. Then he straightened his shoulders and raised his head to look Elspeth square in the eye. “It’s best to say it outright. There’s a mechanical sea monster living in the Thames. Created to host a supernatural being.”
Elspeth’s mouth dropped open like a floundering fish and Lars gasped.
“An incredulous notion, I realize, but it doesn’t make it any less true.” Mr. Osborne took a deep breath. “What’s more, it is the creation of nefarious forces. Part of a sinister plot.”
“Sinister plot? By nefarious forces?” Elspeth’s brain could do little more than repeat Osborne’s words, her mind whirring with the exciting possibilities and the disgust of possibly owing Sherlock Holmes gratitude for referring her the case.
Lars chimed in. “Are you certain? Monsters in the Thames?”
“I know how it sounds, but I’ve seen it, and the strange happenings at the riverside laboratory. They’re supposedly running medical experiments, but it’s nothing save mad science combined with the Dark Arts.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I fear they’re alchemists, and the worst type of practitioners, combining science with wicked ancient rituals. There’s a terrible business afoot, and it bodes no good for London.”
“Alchemy?” Elspeth turned her full attention to her guest as a small tidbit of memory wiggled into her consciousness, past the miasma of Mr. Osborne’s dramatic recitation. “What’s the name of this laboratory? Who owns it?”
“It’s called the Markham Laboratory, and it is owned by the Carter Institution.”
“Ah-ha!” Elspeth leapt from her chair and scurried around the furniture to her roll-top desk. She searched her papers and notes hastily, showering the floor with a flurry of discarded documents, until she held one high in triumph. “I found it!”
“Found what?” Lars’s voice brought her attention back to her guest and her partner.
“This article from Weirdlings Quarterly. I snipped it out for my files. Here, let me read the introduction.” She cleared her throat.
“Of late, an exceedingly strange conglomerate, the Carter Institution, has come to the notice of the Weirdlings editors. Through dogged investigation, we have uncovered evidence that suggests a high probability that the venture is dabbling in dark alchemy.”
Elspeth looked up from the paper, folded it and tucked it into a skirt pocket.
“It goes on to list various bits of evidence and suspected holdings, including one Markham Laboratory. So you see, Mr. Osborne, there is cause to believe you. Continue with your story.”
Her guest smiled. “Thank you. I have a small business, boat repair and such, near where the Markham building stands. My employees reported odd goings on at this so-called laboratory. Last week I went to investigate.”
Osborne paused, his hands trembling, his face ashen, and then resumed his nar
His head suddenly snapped up and he leaned forward, his body shuddering. “It was the eyes, you see. Its malevolent, crimson eyes. I’d seen the like before in North Africa, during the Unhallowed Wars.”
“Oh dear,” Lars audibly gulped, earning him a reproving look from Elspeth.
Turning back to Mr. Osborne, Elspeth clucked sympathetically. “I’ve heard the horror stories of those. The unnatural things summoned using the Dark Arts and combined with mechanicals. A nasty business, that war.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Osborne lapsed into silence, the room solemn until an impatient Elspeth broke the sober quiet.
“Are you absolutely certain the mechanized beast in the river was akin to the monsters summoned and bound in the Unhallowed Wars?”
Mr. Osborne bristled. “I’d stake my life on it. Once you witness an atrocity of their nature, you never forget their ilk.”
“That settles it then. We shall take the case.”
A relieved sigh escaped her new client. “Thank you, Miss Heyward. What is the fee?”
“Our consulting fee is nine pounds up front,” Lars smoothly interjected. “Plus any additional expenses incurred whilst ferreting out the truth.”
With a nod, Mr. Osborne dug in his pocket, retrieved his coin purse and withdrew the sovereigns. He hesitated a moment, the money just beyond the reach of Lars’ outstretched hand. “Will these additional expenses be considerable?”
“It truly depends on the case, Mr. Osborne. But we prepare an itemized list, and you are welcome to dispute anything you feel is unreasonable.”
That answer satisfied him, and Osbourne dropped the money into Lars’ palm. Following that, he stood and produced a slip of paper from his pocket.
“Here’s the address of Markham Laboratory.” He handed it to Elspeth and placed his now crumpled hat on his head, adding, “Good luck.”
Willoughby appeared and escorted him to the exit.
As the front door banged shut, Elspeth let out a whoop. “A case, Andersen! A case! We have a case!” She jumped up and danced, knocking against the table and rattling the teacups. “One Mr. High and Mighty Sherlock Holmes deemed unworthy. And when we solve it, I shall lord it over him indefinitely!” She laughed. “It’s a marvellous day, Andersen, marvellous!”
“Oh, yes, the thought of finding an eldritch sea monster is a lovely prospect.” Lars scowled. “Remind me to send Mr. Holmes a thank you note.”
Elspeth stopped dancing. “Pish posh. This will restore our good standing, you’ll see. And we must prepare! Investigate at once!” Elspeth scurried over to a large metal trunk; her portable storage depository for weaponry.
She flung open the lid, which banged against the wall with a thunk. “A situation like this requires suitable equipment, of course.” Rummaging through an impressive array of weapons—pistols, knives, swords, brass knuckles, even a blunderbuss—her face beamed with delight reminiscent of a child on Christmas. She barely noticed Lars as he sidled over to confer with the returned Willoughby.
“We must make haste as soon as we’ve prepared.” Elspeth’s voice cut through the whispers of her confederates. “Andersen, have Willoughby fire up the mechanical carriage.” She barked the order as she strapped a dirk onto her calf.
Averting his eyes to her activities, Lars replied, “Um, the engine is currently in disarray. Remember, you wanted to check the pistons, and you said the carburetor gave off an odd ping. Most of the engine is in pieces on the shed floor.”
She looked up from her weapons sorting. “Oh yes. Drat. And not enough time to reassemble it. We’ll have to take the Thames airship service then.”
“That also presents a problem, I’m afraid, as we are short on funds at the moment. We’ve spent the remainder of your last allowance allotment, and we haven’t enough in petty cash for the fares. Even with Mr. Osborne’s nine pounds.” He grimaced before continuing, “We need six pounds of that payment to pay the grocer. He’s refused to take any more orders unless we pay cash, and Willoughby informs me our cupboards are rather bare.”
“What? How did that happen?”
“Due to the shortage of clients, we've been lacking in both work and money. Plus, that last case of brandy you bought was rather costly. Funds are sparse these days. We’ve been relatively subsisting this last week or so.”
“Oh dear, but that brandy was worth the price. Still, we have to get there somehow. And restock the cupboards.” She stared at the pistol she held. “We can’t take the steam tram. Not with weapons. Not after the last incident.” She glanced at Lars. “Is there enough in petty cash for a hansom cab?”
“Not a mechanical one. Not if you want any supper. Willoughby has set an eight-pound minimum for payments and provisions. But,” he hesitated for the briefest moment, “we can afford one of the antiquated horse-drawn cabs.”
“A horse-drawn—that’s mortifying! Exactly how much is in petty cash? Surely it cannot be that low?”
“Our accounts, without the newly paid fee, are three shillings and one penny. After debts and expenses, we can hire a regular carriage or walk.”
“Walk?” Elspeth sighed, remembering the blisters from their last excursion. “We’ve been doing too much of that lately. Are you sure there are no more funds?”
“We could pilfer from our vacation fund, but—”
“No. Not that.” Elspeth sighed. “Go hire the horse-drawn carriage.”
Lars left the room, followed by Willoughby, while Elspeth stuffed a derringer into her purse and a second pistol into her satchel.
ONCE SETTLED IN THE cab, and travelling to the mysterious laboratory, Elspeth’s distaste morphed into excitement. “Such anticipation, Andersen. Oh, what a wondrous adventure this will be!”
“Yes, I suppose, a fine adventure.” Lars squirmed in his seat as she cast a fierce look in his direction. “Yet, what exactly will we do upon reaching Markham Laboratories?”
“Why, investigate, of course.”
“Um, but how, precisely? You were vague about the details.”
Elspeth smirked. “We shall inspect the facilities, for one. Do some clandestine snooping, go down to that spot on the river Osborne mentioned. The usual things done in these situations.”
“Our customary improvised method, then?”
“Precisely.” Elspeth’s expression dripped in smug satisfaction.
Lars sighed, ever so softly. “I hope we’re not arrested for trespass again.”
“Oh, pish posh. That was a misunderstanding, and we weren’t taken to the station house.” Lars grumbled something unintelligible under his breath so she added, “We’ll be more careful this time. It's only a preliminary excursion, after all.”
Lars made a capitulating noise, and the rest of the trip lapsed into silence until they reached their destination.
“We’re here.” The shout came from the driver as the rickety cab lurched to a halt, parking above the river, some distance from Markham Laboratory.
“Wonderful! Out we go, Andersen.” Elspeth roused her partner from a near catnap, gathered her skirts, flung open the door and jumped to the ground. Lars stepped out in a more sedate manner.
“Pay the driver, so we can begin our work.”
“Yes, I suppose, but...” The rest of the sentence he mumbled to himself, exasperating Elspeth. Her partner had an annoying habit of mumbling.
“Well, what is it?”
“Hiring another cab from here might prove difficult.” He turned to the driver. “Would you mind waiting, or possibly return in, say, an hour?”
“I’ll wait if it’s all the same. I ain’t likely to get other passengers, and I’d rather not risk losing the extra fare. Things is tough these days.”
“That will be fine.” Elspeth’s voice interjected, and she drew Lars aside. She whispered, “Do you have any shillings from petty cash with you?”
