Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (25 page)

No, the man
before me, for I was sure it was a man from the bulk of the back
and the shape of the tailcoat and trousers, walked with an erect,
correct posture. I could also see a bowler hat sitting atop his
head.

Yet that did
not change the sense that raged through me. I recognised the
technology. The man had devices about his person, or, quite
possibly, grafted all the way into his body and muscle and
bones.

Oh dear.

No, no, no, I
thought quickly, clutching a hand to my throat, and pressing the
fingers as hard as I could against my pale and cold skin.

Butler.

While I was,
by far, the most suitable of the doctor's creations, I was not the
only one who went relatively unnoticed while the majority of their
body had been changed and altered by Esquire’s devices. There were
others like me, though none who looked precisely the same. For you
could not see a device on me. From head to toe, if I were not
obscured by clothing, there were no marks or shifting and whirling
dials and machines and cogs and wheels to indicate what was on the
inside.

Well Butler
was similar though not the same. His face and neck were normal—that
of a man's. Though he had a prominent and sharp nose, and he was
bald, he certainly did not look like a creation of a mad scientist.
Yet his apparently normal head and neck belied what lay
underneath.

Whenever you
saw Butler he was always dressed in sturdy pads, thick socks, dark
black leather shoes, a shirt, a vest, a tailcoat, and gloves.

It did not
matter what the weather was. It could be raining, and his clothes
could be soaked, but he would never take off his jacket to let it
dry. He would never remove his shoes to air them out. And under no
circumstances would he take off his gloves. White and thick, whilst
they did belong to the usual garb of a butler, these were no
ordinary gloves, for he was no ordinary butler.

They hid his
hands. And the rest of his clothes hid his arms, his torso, his
legs, his feet. For all were not human, all were not flesh.

Butler was one
of the doctor’s most intriguing creations. A man whose body had
almost entirely been replaced by devices and machines.

Butler was
strong. Immeasurably powerful. Yet he lacked the speed and elegance
and grace I achieved. Also, should anyone ever prise back those
gloves of his, or heaven forbid, take off his shoes and socks, they
would see what was underneath. There would be no hiding. For that
reason, as far as I was aware, Butler did not venture out much, for
importantly, Butler's keeper did not allow him.

Lord
Ridley.

As the primary
financer of the doctor, the lord was always the benefactor of the
doctor’s most incredible creations.

Yet my eyes
did not deceive me. The figure walking across the street was indeed
Butler.

For a moment I
stood there and I didn't do a thing.

I did not run
forward, did not try to warn him off, and I certainly did not
attempt to engage him in battle, or lure him into the shadows on
top of the rooftops.

For this was serious. The
suitables
I could take on. Perhaps on
a bad day, they may injure me slightly, if there were enough of
them, but I was usually guaranteed a solid victory. As long as I
got there quickly, I could interrupt their plans.

Butler was
completely different.

I wouldn't
exactly say he was my match. The doctor, after all, had drummed it
into my mind that I was the most perfect of his creations. Yet
Butler had something I did not. Lord Ridley, and the man's
resources. He also, as hard as it was to admit, had masculinity on
his side in general. For a woman to attack a man on the street was
unthinkable; for a man to attack a woman, though of course not
respectable, would not be looked upon in the same way.

His strength
was believable, mine was not.

Could I afford
to attack him or make him aware of my presence in any way? Or could
it be the worst thing I would ever do? I was still reeling from my
meeting with Michael Stanford, and ever since Lord Ridley had ever
so kindly told the citizens of London of my existence, I had to be
so very careful to keep my identity secret.

So I just
stood there, stood there on the pavement, staring over at him.
There was a lamp directly in front of me, and I took the smallest
of steps, reaching a hand out and placing it tightly over the cool
metal for support. My fingers locking around its circular shape, I
felt as my eyes drew wider and wider under its dim light.

Beyond that
pool of illumination were shadows until the eye reached the next
lamp dotted around the street. It did not matter though. Shadows or
light, I could still see Butler, and I could still conclude
perfectly where he was headed.

Right to the
Fairmont house. Right up the steps. With hardly a pause as he
straightened his bowler hat, he knocked on the door.

My heart
still, my breath drew thin.

I watched. I
waited. If I could not will my limbs into moving, if I could not
afford to do anything, then the least I could do was observe. I
could find out what Butler was up to, and I could rule out one
horrendous possibility.

Was he there
for a frontal assault? Was Butler going to walk in through the
Fairmonts’ front door, up to the third floor, pluck up Jennifer,
and take her kicking and screaming back to the doctor?

It seemed far
too fantastic a possibility to believe.

Perhaps Butler
was merely here on the lord's business. After all, it had been Lord
Ridley's version of Jennifer's kidnap that had become public. The
Lord also proclaimed to know the Fairmonts. Could this be innocent?
Could I be overreacting? Could the proximity of Butler, one of my
most fiendish enemies, be sending my mind into a whirlwind of fear
and assumptions?

I stood there,
my hand pressed into that lamp for support, my eyes riveted so
wide, waiting with such perfectly stilled breath, it were if I
would never breathe again.

All of my
attention was focused on Butler. I waited for someone to open the
door, I waited for him to disappear inside.

I waited and I
waited.

Until somebody
said my name.

My real
name.

‘
Twincy,’ I heard the barely audible whisper from somewhere
over my left ear.

I turned.

To see a
man.

To see Michael
F. Stanford.

Standing right
behind me.

He was just
under the light of the lamp, and I could see that he was dressed in
a far finer suit than he usually wore, yet his expression did not
match the quality of his clothes.

It was
confused. Halfway between anger and almost joyous recognition, I
did not know what to make of it, and I fancied he did not know
either.

Yet that did
not change one simple fact. He was a detective, he was after me,
and he had just said my name.

I snapped my
head around to stare back at the Fairmont house.

Butler was
gone.

Simply
gone.

Michael had
held my attention for barely several seconds, yet that was all it
had taken for Butler to disappear. While he certainly was not
faster than me, he was far, far quicker than your average
human.

He would have
heard my name.

He would know
I was here.

And though I
could still feel the presence of his devices, it was now a
confused, muddled sensation, and I could not pinpoint his location
directly.

He could be
anywhere. He could be in the house, he could be climbing up the
side of the wall to get back into Jennifer's bedroom window, or he
could be right behind me, readying for the attack.

Somebody
locked a hand on my shoulder, and that somebody was Michael.

He pulled me
towards him, though it wasn't a harsh move, and it was clear he
merely wanted to get my attention.

‘
What are you doing here?’ he hissed.

How had he
recognised me?

I was in a new
dress, in a bonnet, my hair whipped into a tight bun, and I had not
faced him. Yet he had still successfully identified me. Was there
more to the mysterious detective than I had yet suspected? Or had
it been a lucky guess? Had he seen a lady in particularly fine
clothes leaning on a lamppost, looking immeasurably forlorn over at
Jennifer Fairmont's house, and had he simply taken a lucky
guess?

Did it
matter?

Because right
now he had me in his grasp, quite literally.

As I turned
around to face him, I realised we were close, close enough that I
could stare up into his eyes unhindered, and that he could stare
down into mine. With my hair pulled back into a tight, neat bun,
there was no fringe to hide behind, no locks to push in front of my
cheeks and eyes. He could see my features without distraction, and
I could see his. Unless you classed that ridiculous moustache of
his distraction.

Again I noted
how confused his expression was. ‘What are you doing here?’

I didn't
answer; how could I?

There was no
point in playing games any more. He knew who I was. Twincy Quinn,
the legendary kidnapper of London's children. That creature who
managed to make her way over the rooftops. He had seen me but this
morning, and he had directly witnessed what I could do.

There was no
hiding, and there was certainly no way I could explain my story to
this man. Not only would he not believe me, but he would take any
statement I gave as evidence of my guilt.

I knew people
like this Detective Stanford, and I knew how they thought and
operated. In his mind I was nothing but a woman and a criminal;
what I did and what I said were irrelevant. I was guilty without
trial, without reason, without fact, and without evidence, for I
was a woman of no means and no class.

I shifted
back, breaking his grip on my shoulder easily, not caring that my
shoulder banged hard into the lamppost. It was such a quick move,
in fact, that the lamppost gave a suitable rattle, and the light
above shook, its illumination dancing and flickering.

‘
Have you come back for her?’ He narrowed his eyes at me, and
at first though his expression was cold and full of hatred, I
fancied he could not hold that expression for long. Again his lips
crumpled up as his brow crumpled down, and any glimpse of certainty
in his eyes faded quickly.

I had to do
something. I couldn't just stand there staring with pressed-open
lips and wide, shaking eyes at the detective. Not only would he
raise the alarm once he got bored with my doe-eyed act, but Butler
could be anywhere doing anything.

‘
Speak to me, please,’ he suddenly begged.

Though his
words were not sharp, and if anything, appeared uncertain, they had
a strange effect on me. They stilled me even further than my fear
did.

What was he
saying, and why? Was it a trap? Was he pretending kindness so it
didn't appear strange to accost a woman on the street?

For the first
time I found him looking over my shoulder at the house behind me.
‘What are you doing here?’

I turned over
my shoulder again, hoping and praying that Butler was back. If I
saw Butler, I could confirm that he was not behind me, and that he
did not have the child.

He wasn't
there.

When I turned
back to Michael, I noted as the man stared diligently into my eyes.
He felt like a thief, trying to steal away as much information on
my mood and thoughts and motivation as he could, reaching right
into my eyes, and grabbing it from my mind.

I shunted
backwards, letting my head drop forward as my bonnet concealed my
face.

‘
Don't,’ he began.

He didn't get
the chance to finish, for I finally realised what I had to do.

It was the
only thing I could do, perhaps something I should have done from
the very beginning, from the very moment I had clapped eyes on
Butler, let alone when Michael had grabbed me.

I turned and I
ran. I felt as Michael clutched forward, his fingers brushing close
to my jacket, yet not capable of getting enough purchase to stop
me.

Not bothering
to pick up my skirts, I sprinted forward.

I did not yet
throw myself into a full run, or at least a run at my optimal
speed. While the situation was a desperate one, there were still
other pedestrians around, and I could not afford to show my true
abilities in front of the public. It would create a manhunt. One of
the reasons I managed to do my task and to succeed in my personal
mission relatively unhindered was that London, by and large, did
not believe creatures like me could exist. As soon as they did,
they would look for me in the skies, stare out and hunt for me in
the streets.

And they would
find me. Capture me. And the lord and doctor would descend to take
me away again.

My skirts
flared out, bouncing up and down with every step.

Though I could
hear my heels clicking out over the cobbles, I heard the thump of
Michael’s footfall even louder. Like the brogue of his accent, it
appeared to shake through me. So low that the sound travelled far
and wide.

I had to get
away from him, yet at the same time I had to be extremely careful
to ascertain that Butler was nowhere near. I had to split my
attention between the two, and it was a horrible, confusing task.
For the more I ran, and the more the fear of the situation caught
up with me, the less able to hold onto the sensation of Doctor
Esquire's devices I became capable of. It was muddled by my quick
breaths, my beating heart, and my frantic mind.

I was filled
with one fear. At any moment I could round an alleyway, only to
have Butler appear, lash out at me, and plaster me against the wall
with one of his vicious punches.