A Study in Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 4) (7 page)

“Hunh?”

“Here, Temperance, look at this muddy track. Take note of the distinctions I mentioned. You must run ahead and find these tracks!”

“Yessir!”

I follow along in the carriage as the two men, Mr. Temperance and this unusually adept detective, search any soil available for signs of the stolen carriage. The detective instructs Mr. Temperance on the marks of distinction for which he should be on the lookout. With occasional spots of luck we slowly follow the trail of the gang through quiet late night streets.

The London streets are heavily banked in fog as thick as curdled skink. Yellow gaslights dimly make their location known as they float in obscure little clouds of glowing faery light, failing to push their illumination through the thick atmosphere. Our horse’s hoof steps echo back to us as the two human bloodhounds run about at every intersection in search of a sign of the stolen Hansom, struggling under its over burdened occupancy.

Even with these two capable fellows at work, the track grows harder and harder to follow.

“Ooh, yuck. I found our track, sir, but it looks like it drove through some pony poop.”

“Oh, my word. That is distasteful, I must say.”

“Ha ha! Fortune has smiled upon us, Madame and Temperance. This is not ordinary London horse manure. This is of the canine variety. It is considerably more pungent and distinctive in character than the equine variety. Luck has further seen to wedge it into a deep and distinctive crevasse of one of our cart’s wheels’ steel rim. Its meat-based odor will help produce a positive scent that we may track.”

“Yes, quite; perhaps you would consider writing a monograph, detailing your findings on the matter, eh hem?”

“I got a scent of our stink cart over here, y’all”

“Well done, Temperance, stay at it, man!”

“Yessir!”

“I say, you have always reminded me of the more noble aspects of our canine friends, Mr. Temperance, but never more so than now, as you scramble about, sniffing for your foe with your olfactory sensibilities leading our efforts as a one man pack of hunting hounds.”

“Thanks, Miss Plumtartt.”

“I say, let us continue our hunt with renewed vigor!”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

“I see what you mean about the dog like attributes of Temperance, Madame. Though a rather uncouth American, he does possess an astounding amount of enthusiasm for his endeavors. One can almost imagine a frantically animated tail, behind the scampering fellow, to mark his joyful task.”

“Quite so, sir. I would have thought that even he would have tired of running about on all fours, all over London, but once again, he has proved me wrong.”

~konck.~

“Ow! I just ran into the wheel of a parked cart. Hey! This must be the cab we been looking for! This horsie must be Loosey Lou! It look like she’s all right! Oh Loosey, we were so worried about you!”

“A lightening of the skies heralds the dawn. Loosey Lou and her cab have been abandoned in one of the seedier sides of
Bishopsgate. Our trail of two-toed boot prints now reappears to give us a clewe as to where our not-so-merry band of body thieves has made off.”

“I say, the tell-tale tracks lead to a terra cotta works, the loading docks of which are stocked with surly immigrant tradesmen, ready to get an early start on their day’s work. It seems we arrive just as a foreman is producing his keys to open the doors.”

“Good morning, gentlemen, we are in search of a party that we suspect lease rooms here. May we accompany you in that we may wish them good morning as well?”

“Yeah, sure, you helps yourself, boss. Go to the back and up the stairs. They gots their own lease the same as we gots ours. None of us never seen nobodys up theres thoughs.”

“Tell me my good man, do these apartments have a rear exit?”

“No, Signore.”

“Gosh, I reckon that means we’ve got them trapped, hunh?”

“Precisely, Temperance.”

“Ciao, Bella, you dumpsa the nobodies for the real man likes a me, unh hunh?”

~thwock.~

“Eh hem, I am not, as a sharp rap of my parasol signifies, interested in the amorous advancements of an early morning plastered plasterer as yourself, sir.”

“Boo, hoo-zah. You rap-ah my knuckles and now they hurts-ah so much! Won’t you come and kiss them to make them feel better, unh hunh?”

The loading docks echo with lusty guffaws as the playful Sicilian sunrise gathering laughs at our antics.

“I say, I apologize gentlemen, but as you can see, my dance card has an extended list. Maybe next time, boys.”

The house of decorative arts is an extensive workplace. The bottom floors are filled with the business of constructing molds. The first men to enter ignite the kilns firing the ovens into astronomical temperatures as the plaster works comes to life. Sacks of dry plaster and vats for mixing stand by to pour their milky paste into architectural decorative forms and artistic household bric-a-brac, such as a Christmas Goose, a great and dreadful hound, or an infamous little French despot. Everywhere we are surrounded by tables for work and many shelves for storage. A drying vault lies beyond. The intensely active and engaged fellow that acts as our guide and host pauses at a drying rack. He pulls out a stout wooden dowel, approximately four feet in length. Testing its veracity with a brisk tattoo of sharp taps upon the floor, he then flourishes the shaft through a series of fencing warm-up maneuvers. These are, if I am not mistaken, joined by a number of the more crude technique of the sailor stick.

Turning to my companion, the dowel endowed detective directs, “Arm yourself, Temperance.”

“Yessir! I reckon this here plaster ladle ought to do the trick. This mud paddle is as tall as I am and heavy enough to deck the biggest of them varmints we’re after.”

“Good show, Mr. Temperance. I shall trust in my weighted parasol. Onward, Gentlemen!”

Our investigator leads us straight through the plaster works with hardly a glance to his surroundings and upstairs to seek out the living quarters that make up the back wall of this building, above the drying vaults. It is easy to follow the villains’ prints through the copious amount of plaster detritus. The treaded trail leads up a free standing stair with a small landing before entering a short hallway which brings our vigilante force to a locked door.

In an effort to maintain absolute silence, Mr. Temperance points to the floor with his index finger to indicate the powdered boot prints. He then mimics with his first two digits, the act of walking into the room. He then reverses the direction of his hand and fingers, shaking his head in a negative manner to indicate that there are no prints leading back out. The inference is that though we hear no noise from within, we must assume that we are entering a den of deadly killers.

With just a quick glance between them to confirm their actions, Mr. Temperance and our tall detective together ram their shoulders into the door and force the lock through the door frame, allowing a speedy entrance to the room.

“I fear our arrival is a bit tardy, Mister H...”

“Yes, I was afraid we would lose the scoundrels,” the deprived detective interrupts me in his disappointment. “Though we shall make the most of it and glean what information that we can. I suspect the rogues have had this place laid aside as a possible route of escape, as they evidently had a key for entrance. I doubt we will gain any useful information from the proprietor as they most likely used a confederate in its acquisition.”
~sniff.~
“Clothing has recently been burned in here. The fire place is smoldering! I must smother the fire yet do it with care so that we may still learn what they would hide through incineration.”

“Do you find anything of interest, eh hem?”

“Yes, Madam, for here are the charred remains of our villains’ imaginative costumes. They have, tragically, burned away most of their colourful togges in an attempt to cover their tracks. Eureka, an envelope! It is only a trifle scorched on one side, and otherwise undamaged, a very common, though commercial grade and brand of envelope. This variety is often favored by independent entrepreneurs. It has no address nor any other writing upon it suggesting a hand delivery or pick-up. Let us see what it possesses. How very interesting! Why, it’s a photograph of our Madame, no less, and a very recent picture I would venture, as it is the same dress you wear at this time. It is coupled with a British Museum brochure. One reproduction contained therein is heavily outlined in a bold black line. The pencil used was very likely an UberWeber 8B Manager’s Special Double Wide Soft Graphite, if I am not mistaken. And I must comment that you bear a striking resemblance to the ancient Pharaoh queen designated in the brochure. The photograph goes a long way in bearing that out as the photographer has gone to some effort in catching you with the same pose and stern facial expression.”

“Why, that there must be the photograph that enterprising young freelance photographer Parker Peters took, Miss Plumtartt.”

“May I see the photograph please, eh hem? Yes, my word, it is a little unnerving to see the uncanny resemblance between myself and this, let’s see, whom is this woman purported to be? Ah, yes, a ‘Queen Nefertatas’.”

“May I have that picture please, Ma’am?!”

Ichabod’s face is brightly joyful for a moment before flushing from bottom to top with a burgundy blush. He drops his eyes and modestly looks away. Clasping his hands behind his back, my shy boy traces circles with his toe.

“I don’t have no photograph of you, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am. If I had that, I would always look to it as my own one and only true love. To me, you are always ‘
the
Woman’, Miss Plumtartt.”

“Of course you may keep the photograph, Mr. Temperance. I am so happy that my image brings you joy. I thrill to be the object of your adoration dear boy. Your bashful face is, inexplicably, irresistible to me.”

~squeal!~
“Gee whiz, thanks, Miss Plumtartt!”

“Oh, my little hero,
I find myself compelled to lightly prance over and
place an appreciatory kiss upon your  beaming cheek.”

“Golly, that’s swell, Miss Plumtartt, but we need to keep our minds on more pressing matters than our shameless romanticizing.”

“Of course, Mr. Temperance. It would seem our ashe shifting detective has a habit of producing jubilant little noises of happiness as he is able to read volumes from the meagre scraps of burned material.”

“As I thought, we have the remains of our villains’ costumes. They have now, certainly, returned to normal state of dress. Hello! What’s this?”

After carefully sifting through the charred remains of ruffly shirts, soft boots, silky pants and extravagant headwear, the thoroughly thorough investigator discovers another layer of ashe that is visibly different than the rest.

“The remains of a glabrous leaved plant. Though I have worked to expand my knowledge of botanicae, this species eludes me.”

“I’m familiar with a few different plants, may I have a look, sir?”

“By all means, Temperance, I appreciate your input.”

“Nossir, I’m sorry, I don’t recognize this plant.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but may I conduct an examination myself of this mysterious botanical evidencia? Though I do not claim an expertise in these manners, and I positively loathe the concept of putting my face to that ashe heap, I do feel that I too should be doing all in my power to assist in this investigation. Perhaps I should peruse the remains as it appears so important to our counselor.”

Mr. Temperance produces a large red handkerchief and spreads it out upon the floor to protect me from any errant soot. I am already completely covered in filth and muck from my travels through earthen tunnels and subway ditches, but it is a sweet and considerate gesture nonetheless.

Most of the flora has been burned, but there do remain a few of the heavier stems and stalks. These are of a plant that must have stood approximately fifteen feet in height. Its branches have been folded many times to reduce it for entrance to this fireplace.

Something moves me to waft the scent of an unburned leave.

Oh, no! I know that smell! I know this plant!

Impulsively, I fall back from the thing in horror.

“Madame!”

“Miss Plumtartt! Are you all right, Ma’am?”

Too late! I have revealed my most private of secrets!

“Oh, oh yes, Mr. Temperance, gentlemen, I am quite all right, really, er, eh, ahem, yes, indeed.”

“I am afraid that will not do, Madame. Please be so good as to be forthright and completely honest with us at this time. If you have any information that can assist our investigation, then I must strongly, unequivocally and under the most rigid of terms, ask you to relent with that data.”

Mr. Temperance looks as if he is slightly deflated somehow by the disappointment of my having been anything less than honest with him.

“Have, … have you kept something hidden from me, Ma’am?”

The pained paladin pleads in a small and tremulous voice, wracked by unexpected confusion.

I look from one to the other but I know there is no refuge to protect me. I am defenseless. As much as it hurts me to do so, and at the risk of losing the love of my own little Ichabod Temperance, I am forced to come to grips with total confession.