Gaslight Geezers, page 1
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Dedication
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
About the Author
Also by Garry Kilworth
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
Montagu Sylver – a descendant of the famous outlaw, Sylver – is a famous weasel detective, intent on solving mysteries.
Can he ferret out the truth when he learns that the anarchist Spindrick plans to blow everyone to smithereens with a fiendish bomb? Or find a lemming prince who vanishes almost as soon as he sets paw on Welkin soil?
From rat-controlled sewers, to the fog-shrouded docks and a banner-strewn battlefront in the north, Monty is soon on the trail, aided and abetted by his trusty weasel companions. But time is running out — especially when the corrupt Sheriff Falshed trumps up a charge against Monty and he is suddenly a fugitive from the law …
Set in a gloriously witty semi-Victorian world, Gaslight Geezers is a fast and furious animal fantasy tale that begins a new cycle of adventures for the weasels of Welkin.
For my granddaughter Chloe who knows that animals talk
WELKIN WEASELS 4: GASLIGHT GEEZERS
Garry Kilworth
CHAPTER ONE
The Right Honourable Montegu Sylver was sitting in his study sucking on a chibouque: a very long tobacco pipe which curved like a sabre down to its empty bowl. The pipe was empty because young Monty had never actually taken up smoking, but he had the habit of chewing on the pipe stem when he was in a thoughtful mood. Tonight, in his flat above Breadoven Street, with the fog nosing at the window, he was deep in thought. His distant cousin, a weasel of few summers like himself, was up to his old tricks. Someone at the Jumping Jacks club had learned that Spindrick Sylver was planning to bomb Muggidrear city, the capital of Welkin. Spindrick was an anarchist and had been wrecking property from a very young age.
‘What was that sigh for?’
The weasel who had spoken was sitting at a card table playing stoatlitaire, an innocent game with the same scoring system as the notorious seed-dice gambling game, hollyhockers. She was a young veterinary surgeon, Bryony Bludd, who treated mostly the down-and-outs and sick mustelids who slept under the bridges of the river Bronn, which flowed through the centre of the city. Bryony lived in the flat across the landing and the pair often visited each other of an evening. Both were lonely souls in need of company, though neither would admit it. It helped matters that they liked each other and enjoyed each other’s company.
The area in which they lived, Gusted Manor, was mostly populated by stoats. Being weasels they were not exactly welcome and their snooty neighbours let them know that fact by refusing to acknowledge their existence. Under normal circumstances Monty and Bryony would be living in Poppyvile, the poor area of the city, where most of the other weasels had their hovels. Since they both came from well-to-do families they could afford to live in Gusted Manor, never mind their aloof stoat neighbours.
‘It’s my cousin again,’ replied Monty, taking the chibouque out of his mouth to answer the question.
‘Spindrick?’
‘Yes – he says he’s going to blow up the city. Blow it to matchsticks, if I know him.’
‘Oh, what? Not again.’ Bryony watched as a steam-driven red stoat queen about three centimetres high shot forward and knocked the clockwork black stoat queen into a gutter around the board with a triumphant hiss of hot vapour. ‘He’s always letting off bombs all over the place. I suppose that’s what anarchists do?’
All the red pieces were steam-driven, all the black pieces, clockwork. It was a fair reflection of the views of Muggidrear’s population, some of whom were for steam, others for clockwork. In reply to the red queen, a black knight whirred and clicked and leapt across the board to avenge his defeated monarch. He hit the red queen so hard she flew upwards and struck the ceiling like a bullet, chipping the plaster before ricocheting into the water of a vase of flowers, where her tiny boiler exploded.
‘Bother,’ muttered Bryony. ‘These new pieces are too enthusiastic for a quiet game . . .’
Monty said, ‘This time it sounds serious – Spindrick, I mean.’
Bryony clucked. ‘I suppose now you’re going to go off and do your famous detecting and unearth the whereabouts of the bomb.’
‘I suppose I have to try.’
‘You’ll be taunted all the way by Spindrick, of course. He loves to get you running around doing your detective work.’ Bryony paused again and looked up at the ceiling. ‘His mother should never have given him that black cloak for his seventh birthday. It did something to his weak mind, you know.’
Monty tapped out some non-existent tobacco from his pipe bowl by force of habit. ‘That’s just the vet in you talking. He’s a very intelligent weasel. Probably a genius, if an evil one. Look,’ he stood up and stretched his forelimbs, ‘I think I’ll go for a walk on my own. I need some fresh air to clear my head. I’d rather it was a solitary stroll so that I can get some serious thinking done. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ said Bryony. ‘Wrap up well. It’s pretty cold and damp out there. That fog gets into a weasel’s lungs.’
‘I shouldn’t worry. Jis McFail, our landjill, won’t let me get further than the front door without my cloak and top hat.’
That much was true. Jis McFail heard the flat door open and with her beady eye ascertained that Jal Sylver had on his thick volehair cloak, not to say hat and gloves. With silverknobbed cane (which contained a sword-blade) in paw, Monty stepped out into the cobbled streets of Muggidrear and set out through the swirling fog for the river. Mustelids were not all that keen on clothes and most tried to wear as little as possible, being furry already. However, some covering was needed in such inclement weather. Monty’s cloak sufficed.
The streets were poorly lit by gas lamps, but at least there were these island glows in the fog to comfort the evening stroller. Few mammals were about, however, most preferring to remain by a fire. Those he saw were hidden beneath swirling cloaks and hats of many kinds.
Muggidrear was a city split into two by the murky river Bronn. On the southern side there stood the old Castle Rayn, now called Whistleminster Palace and the home of Queen Varicose, a human with no real power in these democratic times. Humans lived on the south side, while on the other side of the many bridges, the mustelids – weasels, stoats, pine martens, polecats, ferrets, otters and one or two others – had their homes. Humans and mustelids did not really mix, mostly because of the difference in size rather than any dislike of each other. Some of Monty’s best friends were humans, but while he could fit into their houses, they could not fit into his. On the south side carriages and carts were drawn by horses. On the north side they were mostly pulled by teams of snorting yellow-necked mice, though steam-driven and clockwork vehicles were beginning to appear on the streets.
Both parts of the city were split into roughly three areas. On the human side of the river was The Dreggs, where the poor people lived; Spiffin Place, where the rich had their homes; and Scatter Green, the commercial and business district. On the mustelid side there was Poppyvile, Gusted Manor and Docklands. The two largest buildings in both places, which faced each other across the water, were the grim, grimy-walled prisons, with their mean and narrow windows where pale inmates drifted by like furry ghosts in another world.
In truth, the mustelids tended to be more energetic than the humans, and far more was going on the north side of the city. It was a bustling place, full of trade and commerce, run by the locally elected Mayor Poynt. There were rumours that the elections had been rigged, since there were far more weasels than stoats to vote and no weasel would have voted for the descendant of the notorious Prince Poynt of Rayn Castle. It is true we inherit the social crimes if not the sins of our forebears.
The corpulent stoat mayor, Jeremy Poynt, had recently appointed an old crony of his as chief of police: one Zacharias Falshed. These two stoats between them ran the northern half of the city. The word on the streets was that a bribe would get you further at City Hall than any properly submitted request. Six centuries had passed since Monty’s ancestor, Lord Sylver of Thistle Hall and County Elleswhere, had fought a bitter battle agains
t Prince Poynt and his court of stoats. Although Lord Sylver, once an outlaw, had in a sense won that battle, very little had changed in the land of Welkin. The stoats still had the upper paw and the weasels and other mustelids were kept poor and ignorant.
These thoughts went through the head of the Right Honourable Montegu Sylver as he strode briskly through the narrow winding streets down the promenade which ran alongside the river.
Suddenly there came the sound of something monstrous heading towards him from through the fog.
Monty was in a narrow alley. He could hear a hissing, snorting sound as the dark shadow of a large moving thing passed under the light from a gas lamp. This thing lumbered rapidly forwards, virtually filling the whole alley and almost touching both sides. Clearly there was not room enough for Monty and the snorting brute. Its jaundiced yellow eyes and leering face drew ever nearer. Luckily Monty was close to a gaslight lamppost and he leapt agilely for the iron cross on top of the lamp which the lamplighters used to steady their ladders. He grasped it with one paw, pulling himself up and out of reach of the monster. It passed underneath, its hot breath going up his flapping black cloak and causing him a little discomfort in that region. Then it was gone, hissing and clanking, into the fog which rolled around it, swallowing its form.
‘That was a close thing,’ muttered Monty, dropping from the lamppost, his cane still in his left paw. ‘These mouseless carriage-drivers ought to look where they’re going . . .’
The ‘monster’ was one of the new steam carriages which were still quite rare as a means of transport in the city. The steam and coal-smoke they threw out did nothing to help the problem of fog in the damp streets around the river. Better, in Monty’s opinion, were the clockwork carriages. At least they were clean, though admittedly they had enormous, curled, metal springs which tended to fly out wickedly when they snapped, threatening to decapitate innocent passers-by.
There was a war going on between the city’s two inventors – Wm. Jott, the inventor of the steam engine, and Thos. Tempus Fugit, the inventor of clockwork – for control of the city transport. Mayor Poynt was making the most of this battle, taking bribes in both paws and promising victory to each of the warring parties. The longer it went on, the richer Poynt became.
Finally the dark stones of the river parapet came into view. Here there were one or two strollers, like Monty, taking in a breath of air, fog-laden though it was. They walked along the promenade which followed the river, past statues of stoat generals and stoat politicians and old stoat kings and queens. There were seats there too, of wrought-iron, a material which was becoming almost as popular as wood had once been.
The strollers, mostly stoats, regarded Monty with great suspicion. What was a well-dressed weasel doing in their district? Monty had borne these stares long enough to be able to ignore them now. Instead of glaring back he leaned on the stone parapet and stared over at the human side of the city, equally shrouded in fog, then down at the river traffic which was busy on both sides of the water. Boats, barges, sailcraft, went to and fro, plying their various trades on the great commercial river.
‘Evenin’ guv’nor!’ called a voice from below. ‘Ain’t sin you for a while now.’
Monty looked below to see an otter in a rowing-boat. He recognized him instantly as an otter named Jaffer Silke, one of those mustelids whose job it was to keep the river surface free of flotsam and jetsam. Jaffer was dressed in a ragged old coat, scarf and greasy cloth cap. Monty was horrified to see that Jaffer had a body stretched out long and wet-furred in the bottom of the boat.
It was a foreigner by the look it, since the corpse belonged to a lemming. Though Jaffer had arranged its torso and limbs as elegantly as he had been able, the evidence was that the creature had drowned, a victim of the cold hard river. It was bloated and glassy-eyed and there was mucky river water trickling out of its half-open mouth.
‘What have you fished out there, Jaffer?’
‘Ar, this geezer?’ growled Jaffer, nudging the corpse with his hind paw. ‘Found him floatin’ downstream not more’n an hour since. Drowned away, I’d say. Not a farthin’ in his pockets, neither. City morgue’ll give me a penny for it though, when I turns it over to ’em.’
‘What? What do they do with them?’
‘Gives ’em to the vets, they do, for practisin’ cuttin’ up. Gruesome if you asks me, which not many mustelids do. S’pose they’ve got to get their knowlidge from somewheres, eh? This geezer’s bladder’s full of honey dew, ’e is. Look ’ow he wobbles when you kick ’im.’
Jaffer nudged the body a second time and it did indeed wobble like a balloon full of water.
Monty wanted to say something about respect for the dead but he didn’t think Jaffer would understand. A corpse was much the same as a log or a lump of driftwood to Jaffer: it was a danger to river traffic and best dragged out and thrown away. Jaffer did not recognize any rites that might be accorded to a nuisance lump of wood.
‘Has he got any identification? Perhaps his family would like to know how he came to his end.’
‘Nary a sausage skin in ’is pocket, mouse or vole. Nuthink. Anonimousey, that’s what ’e is. Could be the police will draw ’is pitcher and post it up somewheres, but it’s my guess no-one’ll ever know ’is name. Sad but true. Them lemmin’s, they’re allus goin’ off and gettin’ drowned anyways. I hear tell they jump off the cliffs in their thousands where they comes from, just for the drop down to the sea.’
‘I think that’s a bit of a myth, Jaffer – at least the part which says they do it for fun. Overbreeding is their problem. Still, the poor fellow would no doubt have wanted to live. I wonder which ship he was off? Was there nothing at all in his pockets?’
‘Not a forin grote.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Monty, drawing back from the parapet. ‘Sad, as you say. Good evening to you, Jaffer. I’m glad to see you’re busy, even if your task has been rather grisly tonight. Just a minute,’ Monty bent down and stared at the dead lemming’s breast, ‘this creature’s been stabbed, before he went into the river. Look at that bead of blood on his fur. I’ll wager there’s a hole underneath in his breast . . .’
Jaffer wiped away the blood and sure enough there was a puncture wound, very small, in the corpse’s pelt, right above the heart.
‘You’re right as usual, guv’nor. I’ll mention this to the police.’
Monty walked back home, still no nearer to solving the likely whereabouts of his cousin’s bomb. He had no doubt it was lying somewhere, round and black and fizzing; ticking away, due to explode in a week, a month, a year from now. But where that place was remained a mystery. He determined to pass on the warning to Mayor Poynt in the morning and the city’s officials could take up the search.
When he arrived back at the flat Jis McFail was waiting for him.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she whispered in the hallway. ‘A foreign jill, from across the seas.’
‘Foreign you say, Jis McFail?’ replied Monty, taking off his hat and cloak. ‘What sort of foreign?’
‘Lemming,’ came the whispered reply. ‘If ever I saw one.’
CHAPTER TWO
The creature who was pacing the rug before Monty’s roaring coal fire was not large. Moreover she was swathed from head to clawtip in robes of an exotic design which Monty recognized as belonging to the mammals of the Ice Islands. They were held together by an enormous brooch the shape of a harp with a long sharp, broad-bladed pin where the strings would be on a real instrument.
Only a pair of the most beautiful eyes Monty had ever seen were visible below a brow of the softest, most silky fur imaginable. Monty was lost in those eyes for a moment. Then they changed, subtly, perhaps with the light. Despite their great beauty there was something behind them which sent a chill down Monty’s spine.
Yet even with this hint of evil in her eyes, this lemming’s features remained the most attractive the young weasel had ever encountered and he found himself wishing Bryony were not there to witness his involuntary fascination with a female of another species. Normally Monty was immune to the charms of others, whatever their gender. In this case he did not trust himself to be his normal impartial and clear-thinking self.
Monty then noticed that Bryony was still sitting at the table, her game remaining half-finished. She was looking tense and awkward. The red-brown fur on her neck was bristling and her white bib looked ruffled.
