The driver tilted his cap back, leaning over the side just enough to look down at Hunter, “Ye seem in a bit of a rush. Where to?”

“Monkhouse Woolen Mill, do you know of it?” Anthony asked quickly.

The driver nodded, “Och, sure. Been there a time or two. It’s over on the North side, past the Queen Street Gardens.”

Hunter glanced at the two-seater carriage, then back at the main doors to the police building as Detective Oren MacTaggart rushed outside. Just behind the detective, a brass and leather servitor, shaped like a small cat-sized dragon bearing the stencil of the Edinburgh Police on its chest, soared from the doorway with a leather message cylinder strapped tight to its hind leg.

While the servitor soared up, shooting out into the night like an arrow, Dr. Thorias Llwellyn appeared in the door a half-step later.

“Go! We’ll meet you there!” The doctor called out.

“The servitor will be catchin’ Constable Martin well before we do. We’ll meet him outside the mill.” Oren said, climbing into the cab.

Hunter climbed in next to the detective, shut the door and leaned out the window. “Driver! Monkhouse Woolen Mill, be quick about it! Lives are at stake!”

The driver blinked in surprise, “never been told it were life or death before.” Sitting up straight, he squared his shoulders and pulled his cap down square on his head.

“Right then! Hold tight to ye breeches!” The driver called back as he snapped the reigns hard. The horse yelled, then bolted forward in a mad dash. The sound of hoof beats echoed rapidly off the cobblestones along the damp, dark roads, largely devoid of people.

With a rattle of hooves, the carriage raced through isolated streets thick with fog and lit at regular intervals by the feeble glow of gaslamps along the sidewalk. Captain Hunter and Detective MacTaggart clutched at the side of the cab while the vehicle bounced and jostled them over the rough cobblestone road. The two men rode in silence, each concerned with their own thoughts.

Hunter watched the darkened buildings go by. Among his worries for William, his mind chewed on the problem at hand. The factory was large, no question as to that. They would have little cover from the front gate to the factory itself. He remembered that area being wide open and exposed. There was no way to hide their approach, that he knew of. Hopefully there would be enough shadows between the gate and the mill itself that it would not matter.

Inside the factory, they would have to move quickly. Liam at least would know the factory much better than they did. Having such an intimate knowledge of the area would mean the very moment he could get away, he would. Most likely to stab in the back anyone unfortunate enough to stand in his way. It was all supposition, but it was the best Hunter could go on at the moment.

A bone-jarring ten minutes later, just one block down from the Monkhouse Woolen Mill, the driver pulled up on the reins. Sweating, the horse tossed his head, finally easing the carriage to a stop behind another brougham. On the sidewalk, Constable Martin waited with a younger constable and the coachman for the carriage.

Detective Martin threw open the door and jumped out. “Constable, ye got my note then?”

The constable dug a folded paper out of his coat pocket for emphasis, “Ah did. That servitor stopped us just before we started down there.”

Hunter climbed out as well, and hurried over to the constables. He shook hands with both Martin and his younger counterpart. The captain hesitated a moment, “Wait, you were from the White Hart, yes? Guarding Miss Olivander’s door?”

The young man blushed slightly, but stiffened his back. “Constable Seth Anderson, Captain. Just wishin’ for a bit of payback.”

Hunter gave the young man a warm smile. “Good lad, you’ll get your chance.”

Constable Anderson replied with a curt, professional nod, then looked around at the three men with him. “If Ah might be askin’, how do we go in?”

Detective MacTaggart pointed at the factory that loomed in the darkness down the road. “We’ve little time to be standin’ around. Once at the factory, we’ll do this by the book. We split into pairs to be able to cover both sides of the building. Constable Martin, you and Anderson be makin’ yer way around the front. The captain and Ah will be going around the back where the wagons are loaded. We’ll catch the lot between us like a vice. Remember to watch yourselves. We’ve killers here capable of anythin’.”

The four men raced though the darkness toward the factory. Ahead the gate stood like a set of iron teeth fifteen feet tall and easily ten feet wide. Bracing that was a set of old brick columns topped by a brick archway sporting the white lettered sign to the woolen mill.

Anthony expected the gate to be locked, shut tight to keep out the overly curious. Carefully, he eased forward until he could see the large padlock. He smiled. While the padlock rested in place on the gate, it had not been latched. It seems, he thought, someone plans to leave quickly.

He was about to motion to the others, but Constable Anderson spoke first. “A light!” He whispered excitedly to the others. “There, for a moment on the first floor before it winked out. We can just catch them there.”

The detective smirked, pushing his glasses up from the end of his nose. “Well then, we’ve caught the beast in her lair,” he whispered back.

MacTaggart glanced at the other three men. “Quick and quiet now. They still have three people at their mercy, and the last thing we’re wantin’ is to give them a chance to cause them harm. We still split into two groups. If we all run to the same place, once they see us, they’re likely to run. In a place that big, we might lose one or two running out the side we’re not on, if we’re not careful about it.”

Hunter reached up and gingerly swung the padlock wide, lifting it away from the gate. Setting it aside, he pushed very carefully, and the gate swung open just enough to allow a single person through at a time.

The captain stepped inside and darted out of sight into the deep shadows draped along the right side of the main cobblestone path. Detective MacTaggart went next, followed by Constable Martin, then Seth Anderson.

Quickly, the men paired up as planned. The two constables vanished around the front of the woolen mill while Hunter and MacTaggart moved around to the back, following the weather-worn cobblestone driveway.

Hunter reached the factory first. He ducked down, pressing his back to the outside wall. Detective MacTaggart joined him a moment later. The captain motioned to the window four feet to their left, then gestured to his own eyes. Detective MacTaggart nodded.

Anthony crept silently through the clumps of tall, damp grass growing along the base of the building. He kept low to the ground, so as to not be seen. Upon reaching the base of the window, he knelt down in the soft dirt, then eased up to look over the sill.

Through the dirt-smudged window pane, he made out three figures. One was dressed in a modest, well-to-do gown. He recognized her as Anita Monkhouse, dressed much in the same manner as she had been in the White Hart Tavern. Her mannerisms were likewise the same: haughty and self-important.

Second of the three was another woman, that much he could tell from her figure, but she was just too far away to make out clearly across the shadowy, cavernous warehouse that encompassed the entire back half of the woolen mill.

The last was the large hulking monstrosity of a CASS, lumbering among several dark shapes which he assumed were boxes. Hunter rubbed his eyes with a sigh.

“I’d forgotten Monkhouse had those monstrous things,” he muttered grimly.

“What is it?” MacTaggart hissed.

The captain looked over at the detective. “Luck’s with us. They’ve not left. I see two women, one is Mrs. Monkhouse. The other I cannot make out from here. I also see a CASS moving about. I would suspect that Liam is driving.”

MacTaggart frowned with concern. Hunter nodded in sympathy as if he read the detective’s mind. “Indeed. That CASS will be quite the problem.”

The detective sighed. “We confront the ladies first, and apprehend them quickly. Then we be dealin’ with the man and his machine. Let’s get at it.”

Easing along the wall once more, the men reached the corner of the building quickly. Beyond lay the wide open loading area, where two horse-drawn wagons stood, one partially loaded with what looked to be crates of broken machine parts. Captain Hunter exchanged a glance with the detective before both men left the safety of cover for wide open and exposed turnabout where the driveway ended at the loading dock.

When the two men walked into view, Mrs. Monkhouse had just placed a box of parts into the wagon. Next to her sat another stack of boxes packed similarly with small, thin herringbone gears. She saw the pair immediately, the very moment they appeared around the corner of the building.

“Liam!” She called out, but the man did not hear her right away over the noise of the CASS.

Liam Farrell, sitting inside the giant skeletal frame of the CASS, had lifted Lydia Olivander up and over a wagon. The young woman dangled limply in the machine’s metal claws like a doll, but her chest rose and fell peacefully as if she was in a deep sleep.

What took Hunter by surprise was the third person, the unknown woman from before, who was walking towards a wooden cart and carrying a dark brown medical bag. Not dressed in her usual manner, this time she wore a modest blue dress with a brown leather apron.

It was Mary, the barmaid from the White Hart Tavern.

On the cart lay William Falke and Sarah Givens. Ugly black bruises peppered with blood decorated William’s normally thin face as if he had been beaten repeatedly with a mallot. Mrs. Givens looked marginally better, with only a modest bruise on one cheekbone and another over her left eye. To Hunter’s relief, he believed they were still alive.

The moment Detective MacTaggart and Captain Hunter stepped into view, Anita picked up a large gear and hurled it at the back of the CASS.

“Liam!” She shouted in a panic, then glanced over at Detective MacTaggart and Captain Hunter. Captain Hunter gave her a faint smirk as if to say, ‘no hurry, we will wait’.

Two hansom cabs arrived at police headquarters, fast behind the police coach that held Conor and two of the constables. Captain Hunter stepped out of one of the cabs in time to watch Conor being led glumly inside the large complex. By the time Hunter, Dr. Llwellyn, Rodney and Moira could make it inside, Conor had been placed in a small room off the main area for questioning. Having no other recourse, the four were directed to a small table where they could wait for Detective MacTaggart and what they hoped would be good news.

A half-hour later, Detective Inspector Oren MacTaggart slowly walked out of the small, featureless interrogation room with its lone table and two chairs. He let the door close behind him on the grim-faced Conor O’Daily, and walked out into the larger area where three hallways ended at the main room of police headquarters. He glanced around at the two dozen constables, hard at work filling out paperwork and sorting notes from various other ongoing cases and events of the day, then sighed wearily.

“Ah’d have better luck squeezin’ water from a rock,” he muttered aloud to himself.

The detective removed his glasses and tried to rub the fatigue from his eyes. Failing at that, he sighed and slipped on his wire-rimmed spectacles. He held up his hand-sized, leather bound notebook, glanced at the sparse notes he had taken, flipped a page, then closed it all with a sigh.

“Any luck, Detective?” Hunter asked, sitting at a nearby table across from Dr. Thorias Llwellyn.

Moira, who had been teaching Rodney how to play a game of twenty one with a well worn deck of playing cards she had found on a nearby desk, looked up at Hunter’s question. “Did he tell ya where the others are?”

MacTaggart dropped his notebook into his coat pocket and joined the other two at the table. “Och, some luck, though not quite what we’d be hoping for. Of any we could be catching, Conor O’Daily, would be the right one to catch. Between running off with the Barnes lad and what he did to your man William, Ah’d say he’ll be spending a long time mending herring nets in prison, or be hanged.”

Thorias immediately caught the Detective’s hesitation, “however?”

MacTaggart took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, “However, while he’s a greedy bugger, he be no one’s fool. He admitted to nabbin’ the boy and the fight with Sirrah Falke, but givin’ up who was helpin’ him? Nary a word. Won’t even give up the family name of this Liam, either.”

“What?” Moira exclaimed in astonishment.

“But, wait now, that’s not right,” Rodney said, confused.

“Rubbish!” Hunter growled. “William described two men, Dr. Belker described two men. We were attacked by two men at Hiram’s boat. One of which we know must have been O’Daily. I have a hard time believing William, the best trained scout I’ve known in years, would be mistaken. You mean to say he didn’t budge one inch at even the mention of Liam’s name?”

“So you’re saying he’s less afraid of being put in the noose than betraying those he worked with?” Thorias asked incredulously. “Not even to clear his conscience? Perhaps even offer his accomplices up in exchange for leniency? Nothing?”

The detective raised a hand to stave off any more objections. “Ah know. It makes little sense to me also. He claims the second man was just a dock hand he hired to help. Never knew the man personally. It seems he’s more frightened by what his accomplices will do to him than what a court will.”

Dr. Llwellyn frowned thoughtfully, “He did claim ’she’ would murder him. I’m not so certain he meant it metaphorically.”

Suddenly, a commotion erupted on the other side of the room. Constable Silas Martin, accompanied by four others, burst through the wooden double doors. In between the collection of blue-coated officers was an angry Gilbert Monkhouse. In his free hand Constable Martin clutched tight to a pair of green leather-bound accounting journals marked ‘Monkhouse Woolen Mills’.

Gilbert’s impeccable appearance from his meeting with Hunter days before was gone. In its place was a disheveled, tousled, plump man whose face shook with a red-faced fury. His entire appearance spoke to being jarred from a quiet evening at home, from his wrinkled trousers, to his unbuttoned waistcoat that had been hastily thrown over his red and white striped nightshirt. He struggled furiously against the firm grip of the constables with little success. Eventually, they came to a stop a few paces away from Detective MacTaggart.

The mill owner glared daggers at the Detective Inspector. “Have you any idea who I am? Rousting me out of my own home like the filth of a common criminal! The outrage!”

Constable Martin held up the accounting journals for the detective to see. MacTaggart, ignoring the bluster from Monkhouse, took the journals, then indicated for Constable Martin to follow him.

The pair turned their backs on Gilbert Monkhouse and walked the few short distance between where they stood and Hunter’s crew. Behind them, the irate mill owner turned to rant and bluster at the nearby constables.

“Sorry for the disruption, Detective,” Constable Martin apologized, “when we asked him quite politely if he be comin’ along, he refused. We pressed the matter, tryin’ to indicate the urgency, but he snatched up a broom and started to swat meself and the lads, tryin’ to shoo us away. So, we didn’t think we needed to observe the proprieties at that point.”

The detective placed the accounting books on the table between Hunter and Thorias. “Any of the lads gone out to check the wagons?”

“Right before we went callin’ on the Monkhouse residence, Detective,” Constable Martin replied. “They all looked in order.”

Thorias picked up one of the accounting journals and began to flip through it slowly. He glanced over at Hunter, then Detective MacTaggart when a thought occurred to him, “Detective, if I may, it’s not what is on any of the wagons, but the wagons themselves.”

Hunter smiled with a thoughtful nod, “Of course. Surely Conor would’ve used a wagon to carry young Jimmy Barnes across town for the trade. Which begs the question, were any of the wagons missing?”

MacTaggart glanced over at Constable Martin. “Good thought, were any missing?”

The constable nodded, “Looked like it. We’d need to check the accounting records, to be sure.”

“Or we can ask the source,” The detective said with a glance over at the ranting Gilbert Monkhouse.

Gilbert, realizing that he was under scrutiny again, jerked his arm away from a constable, “I said unhand me!” The portly man wagged a finger in the Detective’s direction, “My barrister will hear of this!”

MacTaggart stood upright, stiffened his spine, and clasped his hands behind his back, looking over the rim of his glasses at the suspect. Waving at the constables to let the portly man free, he answered coolly, “sendin’ a message to your barrister might be a fine idea, Sirrah Monkhouse. There’s been a few missing people, and some just murdered people Ah’d like to be having a word with you about.”

Monkhouse jerked at his coat in a futile effort to repair his appearance. As the implication of the detective’s words settled in on Gilbert, his eyes widened momentarily before a furious heat erupted behind his eyes. “You dare accuse me of anything of the kind? You dare?” The woolen mill owner’s voice rose to a near-shriek. “I demand an apology!”

“Ah’d hoped ye might be a gentleman about this, but as ye seem bound to drag it out here, then so be it. We’ll be doin’ this the hard way,” MacTaggart replied evenly.

The detective took a deep breath, as if letting go of a heavy burden. “It seems two of your lads have been up to some deadly mischief. Killing people and selling their bodies, you see. A pair of regular ‘Resurrection Men’. We’ve an idea that you’ve got a hand in it, or at least they’ve been using your wagons to transport their goods. So, what say you? Do you know about any of this?”

“I say rubbish!” Monkhouse roared, reaching up to adjust his waistcoat, trying to regain a shred of dignity. “All equipment is accounted for. Each driver must account for his whereabouts each day once the wagons come and go. If what you say is true, then I’m astounded. But I’ve no part in it!”

“Ah see,” the detective said thoughtfully, “does anyone else know where your records are kept? Such as Conor O’Daily?”

“He does not. He’s no head for money, so it’d be a waste of my time. My wife does, however,” Monkhouse replied angrily. “She helps me keep the books. Better her than some overpriced accountant. Liam Farrell likewise assists on occasion, but Anita always checks the work. Just to make sure those two Irishmen aren’t up to anything.”

“Where is your wife, by the way, Sirrah?” Detective MacTaggart asked curiously.

“Not suffering the indignity of being here!” Gilbert shot back. “She’s on an errand, and will be terribly worried when I’m not found at home!”

MacTaggart arched an eyebrow at that. “About at this hour? A woman alone?”

“Alone? While she’s off on another of her ladies social club parties? Of course not!” Gilbert retorted irritably. “I sent Sirrah Farrell to escort her. It’s part of what I pay him for, being a bodyguard. Safer that way after all.”

“Cause he did such a bangin’ good job keepin’ you safe tonight,” Moira muttered low with a smirk. Monkhouse shot her an ugly look.

Hunter cleared his throat, “Would you or your wife know if these have been altered? Say by comparison to a duplicate copy?”

Gilbert snarled as if he finally noticed Hunter for the first time, “You! Why are you here? If anyone is to blame it would be you! This is all just so you can have your tryst with that little slip of a dollymop!”

Hunter’s look switched from calm to deadly cool in a second. MacTaggart noticed the shift and took a step to put himself partially between the two men. “Just answer the question. Do you keep copies?”

Gilbert’s hateful look turned back to the Detective, “I do. They’re in my office at the factory, hidden away in my desk.”

“Ah’ll get them, Detective,” Constable Martin said quickly. He turned to Monkhouse, “Are they locked away?”

“Of course,” Monkhouse replied curtly, folding his arms over his chest.

“Then Ah’ll need the key,” Constable Martin said firmly. “Or I’ll have to be bustin’ your desk open.”

Gilbert stared at the constable a moment, then fished a small key from his waistcoat. “Here, get them and let’s be done with this nonsense once and for all.”

Key in hand, the constable raced out the door for a carriage, with another constable in tow.

Hunter, whose temper had cooled slightly, reached out to pull the second accounting journal over to him. He idly leafed through the pages, taking note of the various entries there for wool, dye and other items.

“Sirrah Monkhouse, you see to your worker’s medical needs, yes?” Hunter asked carefully.

“Of course I do,” Monkhouse snapped. “I’m not some monster.”

“Indeed,” Hunter replied tactfully with an acidic undertone. “Who did you call upon? Was it a Dr. Benjamin Belker?”

“Most certainly not. Dr. Belker is far too expensive,” Gilbert replied with a haughty sniff. “The man charges far above his actual skills, in my opinion. No, I retain the services of a younger doctor who’s had trouble getting herself established. Better a fresh mind, keeps the workers on the go and my factory running like clockwork.”

Hunter frowned at the mill owner, “Just who is this young doctor? Does he have a name?”

“‘She’,” Thorias interrupted quickly. “Your physician is a woman? Is she a skilled surgeon?”

Monkhouse smirked and started to reply, but stopped himself while the wheels turned behind his eyes. “What the devil’s difference does it make?”

“A great deal,” Dr. Llwellyn replied, “as it may save at least three lives, perhaps more. Who is she?”

“It’s quite enough that the lot of you brutish louts are harassing me, but I will not stand for you harassing anyone around me with these murderous fantasies!” Monkhouse snapped back.

In the blink of an eye, Captain Hunter was on his feet and lunged at the man. Caught unawares, Gilbert barely had time to yelp a half-formed protest as Anthony grabbed him by the collar and bodily shoved the man, bulk and all, against a nearby counter.

Wood cracked on impact, mingling with the scream of terror from the woolen mill owner. Captain Hunter leaned in close with a look of pure rage in his eyes.

“My patience is fully exhausted with your cheap theatrics, Monkhouse!” The captain snarled. “Do you have any idea how close you are to prison? To the noose?” Hunter paused with a sneer, “No? Let me help you with that, my good man.”

Hunter adjusted his grip and shook the man slightly, just once to emphasize his point, “Your man, Conor, is bound in irons now. He was caught selling a young boy, thankfully not quite dead. He’s half-admitted to killing others. It’s a rather good assumption he’d need a wagon to transport the bodies.”

“What? Selling a what?” Monkhouse sputtered, “Nonsense!”

“We also know he has an accomplice,” Hunter said slow with dark acid dripping off each word. The mill owner’s face turned a shade paler. The captain smiled none too pleasantly, “there is some suspicion it is your other man, Liam. However, given one of the victims was in your employ at one time and if one of your wagons are missing, you could be considered the accomplice!”

Gilbert’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “What?” He shrieked. “No! I didn’t do that!”

“Then convince us otherwise!” Hunter roared in Gilbert’s shaking face. “Otherwise that noose might feel terribly tight on that thick neck of yours!”

“Hunter!” Detective MacTaggart barked.

Captain Hunter shot a hard glance to MacTaggart, then reluctantly let go of Gilbert Monkhouse. Braced awkwardly against the counter, the large man lost his balance and dropped to the floor, sobbing.

“Damn her,” he sobbed, his nerves obviously at their frayed end. “I told her this would ruin us. She just wouldn’t hear of it. Confound it, I told her!” His rotund body shook, wracked with sobs of despair.

“Pull yourself together, man!” The detective said firmly. “Speak plainly.”

“Or we’ll surely go get the rope ourselves,” Hunter snarled in a low tone.

“Hunter,” MacTaggart replied in a low, cautioning tone.

“Well, if ya don’t like rope, we could just tar and feather ‘im?” Moira suggested brightly. “I saw a butcher down the road, if they’re up, I could run get some goose feathers?”

Detective MacTaggart gave Moira a reproachful look over the top of his glasses.

“Or … not,” Moira said, sheepishly looking down towards the playing cards on the table.

Gilbert waved his hands as if to ward off any more threats. “Her name is Dr. Hereford. Dr. M. Hereford. I don’t know her first name. Anita put her on retainer. It was all Anita.”

Slowly, Gilbert managed to get control of his gasping sobs, “Shortly afterwards, Dr. Hereford became quite friendly with O’Daily. Who was I to argue? Dr. Hereford kept my workers healthy, if I looked the other way when a wagon was borrowed from time to time. It was always at night at the same time, fifteen till midnight. She even paid a little rent for them to make it legal.”

“Legal,” Moira snorted in disgust, flipping a playing card over in her hands. “They were killin’ people and sellin’ them like sides of mutton. Nothin’ legal or moral about any of that. Just horrid.”

The mill owner shook his head, “Anita took care of things, said it was best I not know. She said it would only upset my constitution, but I knew. I just knew … something wasn’t right. Those two Irishmen, I just knew something was wrong with them. But Anita said she’d handle that. She’d take care of it, and I just needed to take care of the business.”

The detective waved over a pair of constables, “Help Sirrah Monkhouse to his feet. He’ll be here with us awhile longer. Take him back to a cell, but keep him alone. Last we be wantin’ is for him to get hurt by one of our other ‘guests’ in the Tower.”

While the constables hauled Monkhouse away, Hunter turned quickly back to the accounting journals. Thorias already had them open and was searching the entries for the time Gilbert mentioned.

“Fifteen to midnight. Rather odd time,” the doctor commented. “However, there it is, regular as clockwork. A load of broken parts being taken for smelting. Seems they resell the parts back to foundries.”

“Quite inventive,” Hunter added. “The bodies could be on the wagon and the parts would provide the necessary disguise to anyone glancing inside the wagon. They head to the docks for delivery, which has its own smelter.”

“I don’t understand, why even write it down if yer wantin’ ta keep it all a secret?” Moira asked, confused.

“I understand, I think,” Rodney said while reading over Thorias’ shoulder. “Brilliant actually. It provides a reasonable excuse for repairs to wagons that should not quite have as much wear and tear on them as the ‘borrowed’ ones might,”

Hunter tapped the journal with a finger. “That’s how they’ll dispose of the others.”

“The foundry?” Detective MacTaggart asked.

Hunter nodded. “The very same. However, I don’t know how they’ll slip the bodies in. Any foundry will inspect the parts and find the bodies. They can’t just toss the bodies in the water, they’ll be seen. Perhaps something about the time is significant?”

Rodney shrugged, looking around at the others, “Well, it’s the last shift change at the foundry for the Leith Docks shipyard.”

“Of course! They’ll use the commotion of people coming and going to slip the bodies inside, or at least get themselves closer to the water.” Thorias said in astonishment.

Moira grabbed Rodney in a bear hug, “Brilliant!”

Rodney laughed nervously, then shrugged while he removed his glasses. With fumbling fingers he tried to clean some imaginary dirt from the lenses while his cheeks glowed a deep crimson.

Captain Hunter pulled his watch from an inner pocket and checked the time. “Indeed, given the time, they’ll be loading a wagon now.”

“Martin’s gone for the factory with another of the lads,” Detective MacTaggart said with thoughtful air.

“Yes, and he could be walking right into their hands, if they see him coming. We’ve got to warn him!” Hunter said, snapping his watch shut and rushing for the front door.

The shack itself was little more than a one room building, like a closet lacking the company of a house, that faced the dark waters of the Leith Docks. It was one of two dozen scattered along the waterfront, some decorated with netting, others just with bare, weather-worn shutters. This one had a shutter. Just one, painted black and only covering part of the small dirt-smudged window.

Looking around nervously, the doctor withdrew a small bundle from under his arm. Wrapped in yellowing, wood-ground butcher paper and secured with a simple cord, the package bulged from the money it contained. A note was neatly secured inside as well, but that was hardly noticeable by comparison.

Thorias walked across the small wooden porch to a squat barrel on the far side. He peered inside it, then carefully dropped the package within. Nervously looking around, Thorias’ turned to leave, but then glanced over to the shack’s front door.

“I wonder,” he muttered quietly to himself. “I know I’m supposed to play the part of the nervous doctor, but the more we know here the better we’ll be for it.”

Cautiously, he tried the latch. It was unlocked. Slowly, he pushed the door open.

The door swung wide with surprisingly little sound. Carefully, he peered inside. Not surprisingly, the interior was filled with an assorted mess of moderately well-kept fishing poles, old wooden buckets, a tarnished steam-powered fish scaler, and neatly bound netting that hung on wall pegs. Nothing seemed unusual for a fishing shack. Over all, the door hinges were the best maintained pieces of the entire location.

With great care, the doctor pulled the door closed, then retreated through the tall grass and river reeds to the ancient cobblestone road that ran beside the Leith Docks. There, Anthony Hunter was waiting beside a hansom cab, chatting with the cab driver. When Thorias approached, the conversation slowly wound to a graceful end.

Anthony stood up from where he had been leaning against the cab. “Is it done?”

Thorias nodded, “quite done. I took the liberty of a look, but the shack appears normal for one of its use and vintage. Except the hinges, which, somehow didn’t surprise me.”

The captain pulled open the cab door while the driver climbed onto the cab itself. “How so?” Hunter asked curiously.

“While they took great pains to make the shack seem just as it appears, a fishing shack, I suspect they actually might use it as a place to hide in emergencies. If I was a more conniving soul, I’d say someone might even lie in wait in the shack when the moment arrives to deliver the ‘goods’,” Thorias replied, climbing into the vehicle.

Hunter nodded in understanding, then followed the doctor into the cab. “I am a conniving soul, so I think I’ll arrive early tonight and bring a small wooden wedge with me from the Griffin’s stores.”

“To seal the door?” The doctor asked with a bemused smile while the cab lurched gently into motion.

“Tight as a drumskin,” replied Hunter with a similar smirk. “With luck, anyone wanting to hide inside will need to find a different hiding place. Like the tall grass outside, where we will all be able to see them. How urgent did you make the request?”

“Oh most urgent,” the doctor said, chuckling. “Since we know there is a doctor involved, I didn’t dare try to fake the diseases, however I did make my choice carefully. I mentioned experimenting on ‘volunteers’ for the effects of the pox and consumption. Depending on how they read it, and if they ask their medical patron for advice, the pox might get us either the young boy or young lady. Consumption, would likely get us William or the Givens woman.”

“Well played,” Hunter replied, smiling. “Now, all we need is nightfall, and for one of our two fish to take the bait.”

“What of the Detective? Is he ready?” Thorias asked.

“Nearly, last I heard,” the captain replied, glancing out of the window at the buildings while they trundled by. “He’s arranged for two of his men to pay a visit with him to the Monkhouse residence at ten tonight. Constable Martin will take four strong lads to search the factory at the same time.”

“Which will leave Monkhouse, his wife, and Liam little chance to hide,” the doctor said smiling.

Hunter grinned wolfishly, “Precisely.”

It was much later when Thorias stepped out of another hansom cab and looked across the shadowy docks at the cluster of fishing sheds. Glancing up at the sky, he drew in a deep breath of waterfront air to steady his nerves.

Gray streaks of cotton-like clouds were spread out in bands above him. They reached from Edinburgh proper and out towards the waterfront, stretching out like necrotic, clawed fingers grasping for the quarter moon that sat low in the star-filled sky.

“No need to stay, my good man,” Thorias told the driver, “I’ve a friend coming along in a moment.”

The disguised constable adjusted his coachman’s cap with a shrug. “If ye be certain,” he replied with an air of concern. “Its a bit dark here about, ‘guv. Like as not, a man could be findin’ a knife in his back.”

Thorias played his part of the charade, waving a hand in an attempt to ease the concern of the worried ‘coachman’, in case they were being watched, “Oh, I’ll be fine enough. What with it being a nice night and all.”

“Suit yeself then,” the coachman replied, snapping the reins once to encourage the horse forward. With a slow rattle of hooves, the hansom cab trundled away over the damp cobblestones into the dim moonlight.

Dr. Llwellyn turned his attention back to the sheds, walking slowly through familiar tall grass, now draped in damp, grease-gray shadows. Hunter had wanted him to take along a lantern, even a small hooded one, however, Thorias felt it would not have suited the moment, or the part of the ‘nervous doctor’ he was to play.

He was only ten yards from the shed when a large shadowy figure of what looked to be a man pulled itself apart from the ink-black shadows between the buildings. The figure struggled with something awkward, like a large bag or a rolled carpet.

“I say, hello there,” Thorias whispered a little too loudly.

The large figure jumped, then spun with surprising dexterity for someone so broad-shouldered. Immediately after the turn, the man flinched in pain, favoring his left leg as if it were hurt. He leaned against the shed a moment, where a weak glimmer of moonlight revealed Conor’s face, twisted in pain.

“Who’re you? What are you playin’ at?” Conor demanded irritably.

“Just walking,” Thorias replied with a shaky, nervous voice. “Looking for a package here about. You wouldn’t have seen it, would you? I need it for some … ah … medical studies?” He said far too suggestively.

Conor’s eyes widened a moment, understanding the implication. “Ciach Ort!” He sputtered in his thick Irish accent while looking around rapidly. “Yer early! What’re you doin’ here? Damn fool, if anyone see either of us makin’ this trade, we’re done for!”

Thorias jumped a little at the man’s sudden outburst. “Well, I’ve not done this before … I thought being slightly early or even punctual would be better than fashionably late … I don’t know any etiquette for buying bodies, you know!”

Conor waved his hands frantically, “Shut it! Shut it!” The Irishman rubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. “Keep quiet would ya? What, are you just that daft?”

“I’m nothing of the kind!” Thorias said, offended. “I can’t believe this. Do you treat all your customers like this?”

“Just get yeself over here!” Conor snapped irritably. “Lets get this done so we can be shut o’ each other, before we’re both caught.” The Irishman shook his head glumly. “I should’a done what Liam said and not sold any more,” Conor muttered darkly. “Shouldn’t have come alone.”

“Sorry?” the doctor asked.

“Nuthin’,” was the reply, “lets just get it done.”

Thorias hurried through the grass and over to the shed. Conor, meanwhile, limped to the front porch where a bundle of sailcloth lay, bound with stout cord.

The doctor paused at the corner, a step away from being within arm’s reach of the big man. In the half-light, Thorias could just make out a faint protrusion at the bottom of the shed’s door. True to his word, Hunter had wedged the door shut. Fortunately, Conor seemed not to notice.

“I’m terribly sorry, I’m just so nervous,” Dr. Llwellyn stammered in a hushed tone, wringing his hands. “I’ve not done this before.” He looked at Conor suspiciously, “Do you have the merchandise?”

“I do,” Conor growled, “and for the future, ye ought to watch what you’re doin’. You could get yourself clubbed about the head in a place like this if yer not careful.” He gestured to the bundle laying on the porch, “the lad’s right here, just as the note said you wanted.”

“Dead?” Thorias asked, audibly concerned. “I paid for alive. Can we check? They must be alive. My tests won’t render any valuable results, otherwise.”

Conor rolled his eyes, “don’t go tellin’ me what you want ‘im for. I don’t want to know.”

Dr. Llwellyn ignored the remark and continued, “it’s really quite fascinating! You see, the disease is better observed when the host is alive. With them being dead, I’d have to try and revive them and that never works out as one expects.”

“Dead, he says,” the Irishmen muttered impatiently. “No, he’s as alive as meself. Only he’s been softened a bit. Just used a little bit of ether to make him easier to carry along.”

The big Irishman knelt down, wincing in pain from his left leg, and struggled with the knots in the cord around the cloth. “Most want them already dead, y’know? Alive just complicates things, most times. Easier just suffocatin’ them. Better that way.”

Once the knots were out of the way, Conor pulled the cloth aside. Wrapped neatly inside was the sleeping, drugged figure of Jimmy Barnes, the young boy also known as Jimmy Quick. No sooner had the cloth fallen away, the boy moaned slightly from feeling the damp waterfront air on his skin.

Thorias could see the marks of a fist-sized bruise on the side of the boy’s jawline. Jimmy was hurt, but he was alive.

The big Irishman waved a hand at the unconscious boy, before painfully getting to his feet. “There, alive and whole. An, for all this fuss, I think it’s only fair if you pay a little extra for the service here. A bit if a gratuity. I took me some great pains on this one.”

“Certainly,” Thorias growled, his eyes flickered dangerously in the half-moonlight.

Conor turned immediately at the change in the doctor’s voice, only to meet Thorias’ hard right fist head on. The doctor’s punch connected with a satisfying crunch against the side of the big man’s jaw. A similarly hard left followed that, hammering into Conor’s midsection, shoving the Irishman up on the balls of his feet.

“Now!” Thorias shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice cutting through the night air like a knife.

Conor staggered sideways, glancing around him, dazed and in a panic. He tried to run, but with his wind gone, the best he managed was a drunken stumble.

“No!” He stammered as realization dawned upon him, “No, I’ll hang! She’ll murder me! No!”

He turned to run, but his left leg knotted up tight and gave way underneath him. Conor fell headfirst onto the grass while all around, the glow of yellow lanterns lit the night. In the darkness, constables raced forward. On a nearby pier, Captain Hunter leaped out of hiding and headed toward the shouting.

On the front stoop of the shed, Thorias knelt down and pressed two fingers to Jimmy’s neck.

“You’re breathing with a strong pulse. You’re cut from stout cloth, lad, I’ll give you that,” Thorias sat back on his heels, satisfied at the quick prognosis of Jimmy’s survival, then glanced over at the Irishman in the grass.

Conor struggled like a wild animal while four constables hauled the killer to his feet. The big man managed to pull a hand free, punching one of the men in the nose, breaking it. The constable staggered back, grabbing at his face to staunch the flow of blood. Two more took his place and shoved Conor to the ground, twisting his arms behind him. The Irishman yelled in pain from discomfort but was unable to move.

Conor glared at the ground, then over at Thorias. “I’ll remember yer face, little man.”

Dr. Llwellyn smiled and tipped an imaginary hat to the brute. “I must say, you’re quite right, my good man. Best to look sharp at night while in a place like this. You really don’t know who might come along to club you on the side of the head!”

Inside his office Detective MacTaggart, suit rumpled and coat unbuttoned, paced like a man possessed. His hands were folded behind him, clutched tightly together, knuckles white with emotion. The detective’s brows were furrowed, his eyes flashing with an intense anger, although, this time it was not directed at his guests.

“Despite havin’ every lad Ah can spare out beatin’ the bush for these mongrels, they be a solid step ahead.” The detective stopped in mid-pace, staring furiously at a citation for bravery in the line of duty awarded to him the previous year. He glared at it, as if it were mocking him.

Detective MacTaggart spun on his heel as if insulted by very the sight of the award, and stalked slowly across his office. “Despite havin’ a good, solid lad at the door – a lad Ah’d been trainin’ meself,  Ah might add – they slip inside to make off with what may be their next victim. And that’s before ye get to the young boy, ye man William, or depositin’ the late Mrs. Carpenter, bless her shade.”

“What I don’t understand,” Rodney, standing not far from the door to the Detective’s office, folded his arms over his chest and idly considered the thin, herringbone gear in his hand, ”Was how they managed to get Miss Olivander away and leave the body?”

Moira leaned back in her chair and whispered to Rodney, ”I heard some constable’s talkin’, they found a door in the back standing open. It led right to a storeroom with a rickety old ladder. They said it woulda been simple to scamper up that, then go across the roof to both rooms. They even found where the ladder was stuck in the ground outside.” 

The young inventor raised his eyebrows, “now that is devious. Most often don’t look up, what with the buildings here being so tall.”

The detective stopped next to his desk, staring angrily down at an innocent folder that lay there, stuffed with papers. The ink from the servitor scribe was barely dry. MacTaggart picked up the folder and looked as if he might throw it across the room. “Now Ah be getting’ a report that a flower grower, a Sarah Givens, be gone missin’. Ah be well past tired of these bloody buggers bein’ just a step ahead!”

“I agree. I wholeheartedly agree,” Captain Hunter said in a hard, dangerous tone. His eyes smoldered while he stared out the only narrow window of the Detective’s office. The clouds had begun to gather overhead, slowly boiling in preparation for one of the usual Edinburgh storms. In the distance, Hunter watched a pair of ravens chase a clockwork servitor, this one a messenger owl, while it flew quickly on whatever errand sent it across Edinburgh.

Behind his back, Hunter clasped Jimmy Quick’s woolen cap securely in his right hand while his artificial clockwork left hand flexed in a tight fist. “So far we’ve been racing to catch up to them. There must be something we’ve overlooked. Something we can do.”

Dr. Thorias Llwellyn sat in a chair next to the Detective’s desk, his face drawn into a thoughtful frown. “Indeed, there must be. We’ve been over the trail of evidence for the past half-hour. We know from young Rodney here that Miss Newt stumbled across two suspicious characters carting off something in the dead of night. When she went to tell someone, again young Rodney, she was unable to do so before she vanished.”

Detective MacTaggart dropped the file back onto his desk with a heated sigh. “Ah be of some acquaintance with Hiram Jones, and Lydia Olivander. Hiram, rest his soul, went and had the misfortune to be findin’ a storage place for smugglers. Likewise he and Mrs. Carpenter had been courtin’.”

Moira sat up straight in her chair, causing the wood to squeak, “Which probably means he’d been around ta call on Mrs. Carpenter.” She shrugged, “just a guess mind ya. But that means he’d have met Maggie Campbell and Lydia, too.”

Rodney looked around at the others in the room, “but how does that connect to the kidnappings? Might the smugglers be a coincidence?”

Captain Hunter shook his head, “I sincerely doubt that. I’m convinced it was Conor and Liam after Hiram’s journal. We know by Dr. Belker’s admission, Conor and Liam were involved with the kidnappings, among other morbid dealings.” Anthony paused for a slow deep breath, then exhaled slowly while he reined in his temper.

“What about that Monkhouse bloke runnin’ that textile factory?” Moira asked curiously. “Didn’t they work for him? Why wouldn’t he know where they are or what they been up to?”

“Textile factory,” Rodney muttered to himself thoughtfully, “why does that ring chimes?”

“He might,” Detective MacTaggart said grimly, not hearing Rodney’s mumblings. “Ah’d better send a couple of lads around to be havin’ a chat with him. Maybe lay hands on his business records.”

“The man’s repulsive, but he didn’t seem capable of planning murder,” Hunter said sternly, “not murder on this breadth. Likely as not, those two might easily be preparing to vanish into the slums or even leave Edinburgh itself.”

“We’ll have the devil’s own time finding them, then,” Thorias lamented darkly, then glanced over at Detective MacTaggart. “Wait now … they’re obviously cleaning up loose ends behind them, save for most of you here and Benjamin. Detective, tell me again what Benjamin told you about how he purchased the bodies?”

“Between his ravings, he described a place just south of the Leith Docks. Near an old fishin’ boat tied up near a shack havin’ only one black shutter.” Detective MacTaggart replied tersely.

“Which was close enough to where Hiram located that hidden stash he wrote about. I can’t call that coincidence,” Hunter interjected. “We need to get at Conor or Liam. At least one of them. Separated, they might more easily confess.”

The Detective shook his head, “Ah can bring ‘em in, but the best we have is the fight yeself was in with them, and that’d be no more than a stiff fine. Anything more would require Dr. Belker, and what with him comin’ down with that case o’ madness, no court would allow anythin’ he’s said.” MacTaggart sighed wearily, “What we need is to catch either Conor or Liam out in the open.”

“Then lets give ‘em some bait,” Moira said suddenly with a bright grin. “This’ll sound bad, but hold the course with me. They gotta get rid of the bodies, right? Let’s go an get one from ‘em.”

All eyes in the room turned to look at Moira curiously. Hunter spoke up first, the wheels already turning behind his eyes. ”Moira, are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“If yer thinkin’, ‘put out some money to try and purchase a body from ‘em’, then sure.” She replied quickly.

The room immediately exploded in a torrent of shouts and arguments. It was Rodney who broke through the conflicting conversations by saying, “It’s madness, but I think I understand … it’s … brilliant. Would it even work? I think it just actually might.”

“Preposterous!” MacTaggart sputtered, pushing his glasses up from the end of his nose. “It’ll be encouragin’ them to kill again! Ah’m supposed ta stop the killin’, not go off and hire ‘em to kill more!”

“Not if we put out the money now,” Moira pleaded. “Don’t give ‘em time to do anything, leave a note sayin’ its a rush order. Just something. Say we’re willin’ ta pay double if’n they’re only banged about and not dead, or somethin’ like that. They’re really greedy, otherwise they wouldn’t have been doing any of this in the first place. So of course they’ll fall for it.”

Hunter watched Moira carefully, “This one’s tricky, Moira, neither Conor or Liam are entirely stupid. They could easily kill one of the victims before delivering them to us.” The captain looked out the window thoughtfully while the wheels in his mind turned, “We’d need someone who can play the part of a desperate medical researcher. However, we can’t use Dr. Belker, he’s too ill to rely upon.”

“I’ll do it,” Thorias said after a moment’s hesitation.

The room was heavy with a pregnant silence. The elven doctor shrugged after a moment with a helpless sigh. “Heaven and Hippocrates forgive me, but it has to be me. And I even suspect a reason why they need to be kept alive.”

“Go on,” Detective MacTaggart said curiously.

The doctor looked around the room, “most reasons a doctor, or a medical student, even, would stoop to buying a corpse is research. Even now, there are so very few available for study that despite the laws against it, the temptation is still there.”

Thorias shrugged. “If we … I … agree to pay double, even triple, for a partially conscious victim to use in a study involving infectious diseases that’s taking place away far from here, say in Spain, their greed might encourage them to cooperate. If they are planning on leaving, then the money would be useful, and it would rid them of a loose end.”

“If they are that greedy,” Hunter added.

“Ah don’t like it, not a single bloody bit, but … an Ah can’t believe Ah’m sayin’ this … it makes a kind of sense.” Detective MacTaggart sighed roughly while his conscience warred openly against itself. “It’ll be the end of me job, but Ah’m in. But only as long as we be takin’ some additional precautions.”

“Like what?” Rodney asked curiously. “If you put constables out, won’t they be seen?”

The detective smiled conspiratorially, “Och, with all the crates and shacks along there, there be plenty of places for the lads to lie in wait.”

“Us as well!” Rodney said with an encouraging smile.

Hunter’s frown deepened, “Also, if we’re not careful, this bloody business could easily deliver William, deliver any of them, back to us as a corpse?” 

Moira fidgeted in her chair like a schoolgirl eager for recess, “Cap’n, if we run about chasin’ our tail any more, I just know he’ll be dead in a ditch before another day goes by. At least with this we’ll have a chance!”

“Anthony,” Thorias said quietly when Hunter hesitated, ”I know she’s on your mind. All this with the factory, and that young lady, Miss Olivander. It’s brought it back. Old friend, we can’t do it alone. Moira’s idea really is spot-on, just think it though a moment.”

Hunter’s mood turned black while he leveled an angry, haunted stare at his old friend. “This isn’t about my dead sister!”

“I say, it rather is,” Thorias replied calmly, “but I remember her from the short year I met her. She was every bit a Hunter. Every inch. She didn’t shirk from her duty, and she’d tell you not to shirk from yours.”

Hunter was quiet a moment, then the hint of a familiar smile crossed his face. “She’d hit me on the shoulder while telling me so, too,” he said wistfully. He turned abruptly to face the group. “Right, so a double trap then,” he said cryptically.

Moira and Rodney gave each other a confused look, while the Detective scratched his head. Thorias simply sat back in his chair with a quiet smile and nodded.

MacTaggart glanced around the room, ”Ah only be remembering one trap here. Did Ah miss somethin’ along the way?”

The smile on Hunter’s face, became a full grin, ”You missed nothing, Detective. We go with Moira’s plan, but that nets us one fish. The moment we have him, we lose the other. Not acceptable. Detective MacTaggart, if you can spare the men, this deal will provide an excellent distraction. If you go for Monkhouse’s records too soon, naturally Conor and Liam will be too startled to try. Too late and they’ll be gone, and any real evidence long since destroyed. However, roust them at night …”

MacTaggart chuckled, “an ye catch ‘em with their britches down! Oh, Ah can find some lads for this. Any of the ones who walk about his factory and been sufferin’ under his snide comments would be more’n happy to lend a hand.”

“Timing will be essential,” Anthony said in a more serious tone, “we can’t be a moment off.” Suddenly, thoughts surfaced in the Captain’s mind. “And once we have them, we turn on Monkhouse. I’m convinced he knows what Conor and Liam are about. He knew too much about their activities with Miss Olivander and the abuse of other employees.”

“So where do we start?” Rodney asked excitedly.

“With me,” Thorias said firmly, “I’ll have to drop the money off with a note detailing my special order. Rightfully, it has to be me, I know what to write. Also, they’ve likely not seen me. By this point, they’ve seen all of you.”

“That will be givin’ me time to get some lads near the docks and hidden away near that factory,” Detective MacTaggart said.

“The Docks, it’s a waterfront. What if they come in by boat?” Rodney asked with a worried tone.

“I’ll take care of that,” Captain Hunter said matter-of-factly. “Remember, they have to come ashore to complete the transaction.” Anthony smirked, “Besides, those cretins tossed barrels at me before, I can do one better. I remember where Hiram keeps his fishing spears and his spare rope. They won’t make it far by boat.”

“So when do we do it?” Moira said excitedly, rubbing her hands together.

“Ten in the evening,” Captain Hunter suggested. “Dark enough to avoid prying eyes, and for it to be believable that our doctor is serious.”

Moira jumped up from her seat with a war whoop, “They won’t know what hit ‘em!”

“On the contrary,” Hunter replied, “if I have any say in the matter, they will most certainly know what hit them. And who. You can bank on that.”

The young man instinctively tried to reach up and wipe his eyes, only his hands remained where they were, behind his back. Slowly, the veil of fog lifted from his mind. Snatches of memory danced like ghosts at the edge of his perception. A fight in the cemetery, shouts of anger, flashes of white hot pain, then the rough feel of rope while he was being bound, all taunted him with a complete picture of what happened. 

Grunting, William struggled to right himself from a wooden floor, slick with some nameless mucus. After two tries, he managed to get his feet under him, brace against the wall and push up into a sitting position. He tugged experimentally at the rope bonds. They were still secure, however, his feet were unbound. That told him his captors were not worried about him walking away. 

Despite the fact he could not really see, the young man looked around in the pitch-black darkness and sniffed the air. The room still smelled of rotten cabbage, an overpowering odor that made William’s stomach turn. He slowly took shallow breaths until he became numb to the smell. He leaned heavily against the wall, flexing his fingers to try and bring some sense of life back. The walls were wooden and seemed familiar. ”Only one way ta know,” he muttered to himself, slowly sidestepping along the wall, feeling his way with half-numbed fingers. 

Eventually, he found what he was hoping for: the top edge of a loose set of boards tucked away in one corner. With the tips of his fingers, he could just feel the edge of a steel nail protruding from one of them. That meant they were keeping him in the same room. Earlier, he had been awake long enough to find this nail and loose boards before the Irishmen found him and knocked him out cold.

William stood stock still in the darkness, listening for any sound, any indication that he was about to be discovered like last time. The seconds ticked by slowly. Finally satisfied no one was about to enter, he squatted down on his heels, feeling behind him for where the nail was. Doggedly, he sawed at the rough hemp rope, occasionally pausing every few minutes to try and pull the severed rope in two.

On the fourth tug, the rope snapped with a dry, brittle shearing sound that, to William, seemed to echo throughout the room. Quickly, he pulled his hands around in front and massaged his wrists to encourage a better sense of feeling into them.

“Now, just where in the bloody hell am I?” William asked the pitch darkness. As feeling returned to his fingers, he reached out and carefully ran his hands along the walls. They were primarily wooden, with the occasional odd metal band nailed in place. He slowly explored one of the pieces of metal.

“What’d they put these in here for?” he whispered to himself. Unfortunately, he had no good answer. He reached down, then up. The metal straps seemed to run the height of the walls from the wooden floor to the ceiling, which he could not reach.

Eventually, with a dissatisfied grunt, he moved on. A minute later, his fingers encountered the frame of what could only be a door. Unfortunately it was closed, with no handle on his side. Stubbornly, he continued exploring, only to discover that not only was there no handle, the hinges were on the other side. He rapped his knuckles on the rough wood out of frustration. The door sounded quite thick.

“Well, I’m not gettin’ out that way,” he grumbled. With a heavy sigh, he extended his hands to the wall and continued his painstaking search in the heavy darkness.

Finally, he found what he wanted - a set of boards that seemed to be either swollen or otherwise an ill-fit for the wall. He felt around the discernable edge. The boards, three wide planks in total, extended out just far enough that he could get a purchase with his fingers. Slowly, he tugged. Inch by inch, the boards pulled away from where they had been hastily nailed in place until they came free of the wall.

Twice while working, William had to stop when he heard voices nearby. He could not hear what they were saying, but he recognized the tone and pitch. They belonged to the two men that had attacked him at Greyfriars. Both times the voices receded quickly into silence. Fortunately, they had no apparent interest in checking on his well-being this time.

Removing the boards exposed a hole, easily three feet wide and two feet tall, that reeked of coal dust. William grinned. If this was a coal chute, and where he stood was an old coal bin, the chute ought to take him up and out. At the very least, he would be out of the room. Though why there were rotten cabbages in an old coal bin, he just could not understand. 

With a shrug, he got down on his hands and knees in the thin layer of slime coating the floor and crawled up the coal chute. A moment later, William tumbled out the other end, face stained black and eyes burning from coal dust.

He half-collapsed out of the entrance to the chute, having the last-minute presence of mind to thrust out a hand and catch the small coal-stained door before it could slam shut in the silent room. Carefully, he eased the door back into its resting place, then looked around.

Open crates, some as large as five feet on a side, were haphazardly clustered about the room. Illuminated in the dusty, stale air by weak shafts of light leaking through the boards far above, their contents sat silently forgotten. From steam engine pistons, turbine fan blades, stout wool and cotton thread to industrial strength needles, all manner of unusual materials were collecting dust. In general, they shared one common trait - most were in need of repair.

The young man looked up. The wood was old, but not rotten. Here and there, sections of pipe ran in groups of two or three along the ceiling, eventually vanishing upward through rough-cut holes in the aged wood above William’s head. Distantly, machinery was clattering along its repetitive way, but what kind, he had no idea.

He put a hand over his mouth and coughed at the dust assailing his nose. The young man assumed, based on the pipes and crates, he was in a basement of some kind. Where, he had no idea. However, if it was a basement, William knew it had to have at least one or more way out, especially with such large crates laying about. Slowly, carefully, he navigated the maze of boxes until ahead he saw the dim outline of stairs leading up.

“Finally,” he muttered to himself, racing past the last few crates towards freedom.

“Sure we can’t be sellin’ just one more?” Conor’s Irish accented voice whined through the gloom.

William immediately ducked down, scurrying into a dark space beneath the stairs. He closed his eyes a moment, silently repressing a frustrated sigh.

“I swear, I gotta be cursed,” the young man muttered to himself in the darkness.

“Use yer head,” Liam snapped back to his accomplice, “we don’t dare.”

The pair of killers lumbered out of the darkness into view from William’s new hiding place. Liam labored at pulling a long, wooden wheelbarrow behind him. Conor had no cart, but carried Lydia Olivander in his arms, where she dangled like an oversized rag doll. In the cart two figures were slumped over in a pile, however William could not make out who they were. 

Liam set the wheelbarrow down on its stubby front legs. He flexed his fingers, rubbing them as if they ached from the work, and scowled at his partner, “them peelers are sniffin’ around far too close for me comfort. I doubt that they’ll notice the old lady or the kid, but ye never know. And ye rightly know we can’t go and sell off that Olivander girl. I was right there, just like ye were, when the sawbones told us she had plans for her.”

Conor stared at Lydia’s limp form with a sour, regretful look, then rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Fine, fine.”

Beneath the stairs, William squinted to make out who was on the wheelbarrow. It was useless. The silhouettes of the two figures gave nothing away as to their actual identities. Frustrated, William eased out from beneath the stairs, crawling through long shadows until he stopped behind a stack of crates four feet away from the resurrection men.

He glanced up warily at the tarnished steel gears precariously balanced above him. Satisfied that they were not about to fall on him, he slowly leaned down and peeked around the rough-hewn crates for the two Irishmen and their burdens.

William strained to make out any details, but the shadows were just too dark. Then, just before the young tracker was going to try and move again, Liam picked up the wheelbarrow by the handles and slowly wheeled it forward a step. In a shaft of dim light, William could see the two figures, a young boy whom he did not recognize and an older woman. It was the woman that made William’s heart thud in his chest.

It was Mrs. Givens, the flower grower whom he had spoken with just the other day. William shivered from a rush of nerves and cold sweat.

Liam set the wheelbarrow down to rub his sore hands again. “At least that bloody cap’n’s out of the way. By now he ought to be gone, or at least getting ready ta shove off.”

Conor chuckled evilly, “oh, I’d be sayin’ so!”

Liam gave his partner a nasty look, “What did ya do?”

“What?” Conor asked in surprise. “I didn’t do nothing, ‘cept leave the note with the body of the boarding house woman ta scare off that Cap’n.”

“Ya bloody damn fool!” Liam exploded. He balled his hands into fists, nearly striking Conor, but stopped himself with obvious effort. “Ya were only supposed ta be doin’ that if he didn’t leave Edinburgh!” The Irishman ran a hand though his greasy hair, “bugger me dead, he’ll never leave now.” 

“But he wasn’t leavin’!” Conor protested.

“Ye didn’t know that any more’n I did, cause there wasn’t time for the plan to be workin’!” Liam sighed heavily, “all right, well, get the girl to the workshop. I’ll drop these off at the larder with rotten cabbage to cover the smell of dead bodies if either of ‘em kick off before we can do ‘em in later. We need ta speak to the doctor and see what she’s got planned for these three we’ve caught. Though, she’ll likely kill us now, thank ye very much!” 

Conor looked away, red with embarrassment. “Ya, all right, all right.” He shifted Lydia’s weight, which prompted her to grunt slightly as they both vanished into the darkness.

Meanwhile, Liam, muttering angrily under his breath, hefted the wheelbarrow by the handles and quickly hauled it through the shadowy gloom.

William watched the pair leave in opposite directions. He glanced after Conor, then Liam. He could not fight both at once, but separately … perhaps so.

Searching about, he crept out of his hiding place and quickly located a three foot length of wood. Once satisfied with his grip, he turned after Liam who was the closer of the two. William eased quietly up behind the big Irishman.

Liam, from a combination of preoccupation with his own anger and the dull throbbing of machinery overhead, never heard William approach. He never even heard the whistle of the wood, but definitely felt the moment of pain when it struck. The man’s knees buckled under him and he collapsed to the floor, dazed and nearly unconscious.

William quickly set his wooden club aside and checked Mrs. Givens, then the young man in the rough, patched clothing. They were breathing as if deeply asleep. “Some drug o’ some kind, I suppose. You’ll be fine here for a few minutes, but that big bugger, I gotta put him somewhere.”

He looked around and spied a rotten door nearby. Running over, William threw open the latch and yanked hard. The hinges squeaked once as the door swung wide. It was a storage pantry partially filled with old wooden planks. William knew it would not hold Liam for long once he had regained his senses, however it just had to hold him long enough. The young man grabbed the Irishmen by his heels, huffing and puffing while he dragged him into the pantry.

Once he had deposited Liam inside, William shut and bolted the door. Quickly, he ran back to the wheelbarrow. He grabbed the handles and, all too slowly, wheeled it out of sight behind some crates. He studied his handiwork while wiping the nervous sweat from his hands.

“You two’ll keep fine here. Now, I just gotta find the other one,” William said quietly, walking away from the wheelbarrow to recover his wooden club.

“Hey! What’re ya doin’ loose!” A deep Irish voice growled from the darkness .

William spun on his heels, grabbing his club in a swift motion. Behind him, Conor – lacking any sign of Lydia now – grabbed a brass tube of equal length to William’s plank and rushed forward. The two closed the gap between them like a pair of ancient swordsmen, William, his wooden club held low, and Conor brandishing his pipe high over his left shoulder. Conor swung, William ducked, sidestepping to the man’s left. The Irishman’s pipe whistled overhead as William rammed the end of his club forward and up.

Conor grunted as the air exploded out of him in a rush. Staggering forward, he grabbed the edge of a crate and steadied himself before turning around. William was on him in a flash, swinging the shaft of wood down against Conor’s right thigh – the exact spot William remembered kicking the Irishman in the leg before.

Hissing and swearing in pain, Conor collapsed as his leg buckled. William swung again, but this time Conor managed to get his pipe up in time to block the blow. The dry wood finally shattered from all the abuse, breaking into several pieces and ending its usefulness. William immediately tossed a hand-sized chunk of his destroyed club at Conor’s face then bolted away, heading back the way he came.

“I gotta find Miss Olivander and get us all outta here,” William said with a gasp, “or get out and get the constables! Right now, I’d take either.”

He raced on through the basement, searching frantically for any sign of stairs or a door. Anything that would lead him to Lydia or a way out. In his headlong run through the darkness, straps and bolts of cloth battered into him, slowing his progress and his search.

Finally, in the bleak, shadowy gloom he saw the outline of light shaped like a door. Racing over, he ran his hands along the wooden surface, locating the handle. He turned it, jerking the door open in haste. The room inside, and its contents, stopped him cold.

The room beyond was small, perhaps only five feet on a side and ten feet across, at best. Cabinets and shelves, heavy with countless jars, large glass batteries and a few books made the room seem compact and terrifyingly close. However, it was the middle of the room that chilled his blood.

A lone table comprised of nothing more than rusted metal legs and a bloody wooden top dominated the room. Leather straps dangled from the table like tendrils from a sleeping squid. Atop the dirty, stained surface lay the still form of Lydia Olivander.

William slowly walked in, his mind rushing to cope with the horror before him. All around him, diagrams hung from shelves and cabinet doors. Designs and drawings detailed autopsies and mechanical devices of all kinds. Jars filled with light and dark oily fluids decorated the shelves, sagging their thin wood from the weight. Just to his right, a series of mason jars each held a heart suspended in some yellowish liquid. One of the hearts was attached to a set of wires and a small, crowfoot glass battery equally as large as the mason jar. 

Next to the hearts, a long jar was set apart. It held the same yellowish fluid, but inside floated a round brass ball with a set of cables that dangled out the back. William took a step closer. Suddenly, the brass cover split open revealing a clockwork eye! He jerked back, stumbling sideways in his haste. A cold chill ran along his spine when the eye watched him, and blinked.

William looked quickly away, then jumped in fright.  A smaller table that was out of sight of the door supported a dismembered clockwork dog, only partially covered in fur. Cables and springs hung loose like severed tendons, giving the body a surreal and grotesque appearance. The young man grabbed the edge of a counter, taking a long deep breath to steady his ragged nerves. He glanced over at Lydia. Much to his relief she was breathing softly as if asleep.

“Get away from her!” Conor roared, lunging into the room.

William spun in surprise, immediately ducking as Conor swung his pipe at the young man’s head. The two danced about the table, Conor swinging one way, then the other while William dodged, keeping the brute just out of arm’s reach.

Desperately, William reached out, blindly selecting a random jar from a shelf. Without a second thought, he hurled it at the Irishman’s head, bolting for the open door.

Conor batted the jar aside with a snarl only to have it shatter, depositing its bluish fluid all over his right arm. He lunged for William, latching onto his shirt collar. William twisted in the big man’s grasp, swinging frantically for Conor’s bad leg. Only this time, Conor was prepared.

“Not again!” Conor snapped, slamming a hard fist across William’s mouth before the young man could land his own blow. William’s head jerked abruptly to one side and his body twitched. His mind fought like a wild animal against the unstoppable darkness while his body flailed about weakly trying to defend itself. Conor struck the young man repeatedly until William sagged to the floor.

William grabbed the leg of the table on which Lydia rested, struggling to rise as he could dimly see Conor preparing to hit him again. Suddenly, a beefy hand grabbed Conor’s arm, blocking the attempt.

“That’ll be enough o’ that!” Liam snarled. “Remember, he’s gotta stay alive till Hunter’s outta the way. Even then, he belongs ta her.”

At last William’s strength gave way. He sighed once, and with a half-frustrated sob, glanced up at Lydia’s sleeping form, “Bloody hell, I’m sorry,” he mumbled through swelling lips, “I tried … I really tried.”

Then, the soothing bliss of unconsciousness claimed him.

“Certainly,” Mrs. Monkhouse replied, walking gracefully to where Hunter pointed. Her general demeanor suggested an air of importance, perhaps even self-importance. She smiled politely enough, almost pleasantly, but with the glint in her eyes, she could not quite conceal the icy look of distaste for her surroundings. 

Hesitating a step as the manners and etiquette from his younger days came back to him, Anthony walked over and pulled out a chair for Mrs. Monkhouse.

She paused, regarding the chair with a mild contempt, then eventually lowered herself into it with a very soft and resigned sigh. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. Her polite yet stiff smile returned, almost pleasant but not quite. 

Anthony reciprocated her smile with a similar one of his own before walking around the table to the opposite side. After dropping his coat into a free chair next to him, he nodded to the barmaid. 

“Changin’ dance partners, Cap’n?” Mary said saucily as she walked up.

When Hunter shot a sour look her way, Mary cleared her throat, “Oh, uhm, right. A couple of stouts for ye both, then?” 

“Tea,” Mrs. Monkhouse said flatly in her mild Scottish accent. She never so much as glanced at Mary.

“A stout and some tea, then,” Mary replied, slightly flustered. Before any more could be said, she hastily retreated from the table.

Hunter looked at Mrs. Monkhouse, then idly tapped the table a moment with a gloved, clockwork finger. He could hear the muffled click of gears as they turned in response to the movement. “So, Mrs. Monkhouse,” he asked, “just what did you need to speak to me about?”

Anita Monkhouse sat forward a bit in her chair, straightened her spine, and said, “Ah’ve come to speak with you about a personal matter. It involves my husband. Ah do believe you two have spoken?”

The captain’s features darkened slightly: the memory of the unpleasant man was still fresh. He answered, “Yes, we most certainly have. Once.”

“Yes, well, it’s that conversation Ah’m here to speak with you about. How shall Ah put this delicately?” Mrs. Monkhouse thought a moment, a small frown furrowing her brow. “That discussion troubled my husband greatly. He’s a man of great passion, you see.”

A dozen words leaped to Hunter’s mind to describe his opinion on where Gilbert Monkhouse’s passions actually lay. None, though, were suitable to repeat in a lady’s presence. He instead responded diplomatically.

“Hmm, indeed?”  

Mrs. Monkhouse implored, “Captain, please don’t judge my husband too harshly. He has worked slavishly to build what he has now.”

“On the broken backs of honest men and women, that is,” Hunter replied, almost a bit too sharply. Mrs. Monkhouse sat back slightly, a look of surprise on her face. 

The captain took a deep breath to regain control of his temper. “Mrs. Monkhouse, while I am certain your husband has worked very hard to build his textile business, I have personal issues with some of his, shall we say, methods towards his workers. In regards to the conversation he and I shared, it centered around one particular worker, or now former worker.”

Mrs. Monkhouse blinked but quickly regained her previous composure. “Oh, the Olivander girl,” she interjected quickly. “Yes, he was … hmm … distraught over the whole matter, Ah assure you.”

“He referred to them in much the same manner a farmer would recount tales of his cattle, Madam,” Anthony said icily. “Miss Olivander included.”

“Well, yes, his choice of words often isn’t what it should be. However, that isn’t precisely what Ah’ve come to talk with you about,” Mrs. Monkhouse said earnestly. “Please pardon me, but Ah did ask after you and was much pleasantly surprised to find that you are well-respected and quite dependable in what you do, what with your business of shipping cargo, that is.” 

She interlaced her gloved hands on the table. “Ah thought perhaps we could engage in business. You see, we have begun to ship regularly to London, Berlin, and the Americas. Ah understand this will seem rather strange, me speaking for my husband in matters of business, but the man does all he can. He leaves some of the business arrangements, such as trade and transport, to my care,”

“I see,” Hunter replied cautiously. “That sounds to be a most lucrative trade route, if one was a party to it.”

Mrs. Monkhouse smiled. “So you see the possibilities ahead, then? Just capital. Ah’ve taken the liberty of arranging the papers; we could later today to meet to sign and ’seal the deal,’ as my husband would say. Then you could begin shipping for us as early as tomorrow. Of course, that’s after you apologize for the episode in the factory, being that it was just a misunderstanding and all.” She finished with a light chuckle. “Just to keep good relations between business partners, of course!”

“Mrs. Monkhouse, I’m sorry, but I’m currently already engaged in looking for … ” Hunter suddenly sat bolt upright in his chair, his face dark and terrible as a thunderstorm striking shore. “Wait. I don’t believe I heard you right, Madam. Apologize? I am to … apologize?”

Mrs. Monkhouse, taken aback at the captain’s reaction, blinked. ”Why, of course,” she said. “Gilbert was horribly hurt and insulted by your attitude, especially over the subject.”

“The ’subject’ is a young girl, a living being,” Anthony corrected with a dangerous snarl in his voice. “One that was horribly abused, I might add.”

“Captain! Please, calm yourself!” Mrs. Monkhouse said in alarm, “I understand the nature of sailors and their dalliances, especially with this Olivander girl being rather comely for one of her station, I suppose. If you prefer to see that her needs are met until your next proper visit to her as part of our business dealing, we can arrange that. However, try and understand the level of grievance a man of my husband’s station has suffered from your insult. An apology would be only proper.”

“Insult? Proper? His ’station?’” Hunter growled as he slammed his artificial hand down upon the table with a sharp bang.

Nearby, Moira jumped at the sound, instinctively looking around for its source. Thorias and Rodney, no longer engrossed in conversation over the valve and gear, turned around as well. Rodney looked rattled, while Thorias was a deadly calm, turning slowly in his chair to lay his eyes upon the table where his old friend was speaking with Mrs. Anita Monkhouse. All around the tavern, conversations faded away and silenced.

With pronounced effort, Hunter withdrew his clockwork fist from the small crater left in the table top. The wood cracked audibly in angry protest at the abuse. ”Madam, your husband is a fat frog who enjoys sitting upon a ’station’ supported by the sweat and labor of hard working men, women, and children. The latter, I would add, are put in constant danger by the ill-conceived choice of jobs they are required to do. As for my insulting him, Madam, I am now certain I did not properly finish the job. You, however, have insulted me, and by proxy, Miss Olivander, through your insinuation of impropriety!”

From across the tavern at the bar, Mary rushed over with a small tray. On it sat the unlikely trio of tea, teapot, and a pint of dark stout. The barmaid came to a quick stop and placed the stout in front of the captain. 

“Here, Cap’n, a good cool stout, so ye can calm ye nerves,” Mary said rapidly, her Scottish accent growing thick with her rising anxiety. She carefully set the remainder of the tray down by Mrs. Monkhouse, “Here ye go, one tea for the lady. Sorry ’bout the wait and all. Had to be finding the teapot.” 

The barmaid glanced from the seething look of Captain Hunter, eyes bright with outrage, to Mrs. Monkhouse and her look of shock and stiff-backed stubbornness. Slowly, Mary stepped away from the table, “Well, then, ye two have a nice chat, eh? Just give a shout if ye need any more.”

Captain Hunter grabbed the stout, but instead of taking a drink, slammed the glass back down upon the table. “And furthermore, as for shipping his textiles, allow me to formally suggest, Mrs. Monkhouse, an alternative solution that your husband may take with packaging and transportation!”

At that moment, the door to the White Hart Tavern burst open. A young man, no more than fourteen at best, rushed inside. He was dressed in gray trousers with a rough-sewn patch at the knee, dirty leather work boots, and a threadbare waistcoat and shirt. He doffed his wool cap to reveal a shaggy mop of black hair and looked around the room. His face lit up in a bright smile the moment he saw Anthony.

“Cap’n Hunter!” the young man exclaimed, racing over. He scrounged through the pockets of his waistcoat. “Got a message for ye, Cap’n.” Finally, he withdrew the crumpled, stained paper from the bottom of a pocket and held it out.

The captain, struggling to contain his boiling temper, gave the young boy a thin-lipped smile. “Thank you, Jimmy.”

“Captain,” Mrs. Monkhouse began carefully, “Ah do believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somewhere. My purpose was to conduct a business arrangement with you, as you come so highly recommended. Forget all that unpleasantness with my husband. We can soothe ruffled feathers another time; this is business. Let’s return to the details of the contract, shall we?”

Anthony, blatantly ignoring the woman, unfolded the note, read it, then looked at Jimmy Quick curiously, “I’m not sure I follow this. ‘Room service for you, Captain?’ Lad, who gave you this?”

Jimmy shrugged, “Don’t know his name, Cap’n. Big bloke. Big at the shoulders, he be, with busy black hair and a bent nose. Reminded me of a bulldog with an Irish accent. Oh! Limped he did, too, favorin’ his left leg. One of a pair Ah be seein’ here at the tavern quite a bit. Always dressed like Irish fishermen, but Ah don’t think they are. Don’t smell much like fish ta me. Looked more accustom to a bit of thuggery than fishin.’”

Hunter was on his feet in an instant. “Bloody hell, it was Conor! Lad, stay put, you’re likely in grave danger for just helping that man.”

“What?” the lad blurted out, eyes wide in shock. As if shot from a cannon, the captain had already raced across the room for the stairs.

Captain Hunter burst into the second floor hallway, startling the constable seated in a chair at the far end. The constable in his freshly pressed uniform, a young man no older than twenty years, was alarmed by the captain’s sudden appearance. He sat next to the room in which Detective MacTaggart had arranged for Lydia Olivander to be kept for her protection. Anthony paused at the door to his own room while he waved a hand to the constable in a quick greeting. On recognizing the captain, the young officer relaxed his posture, though his eyes remained tense and alert for any other surprises.

“Constable, has a large man with a blunt nose and sporting a limp come though the hallway within your watch?” Hunter asked quickly.

The constable gave the captain a quizzical look. “No, Sirrah. No one like that. Just the tavern owner within the past hour, the barmaid several times, and a few of the guests.”

“Has anyone come to see Miss Olivander?” Hunter then asked.

“Not a one. As per the detective’s orders, Ah take in a bit for the Miss to be nibblin’ on. Ah won’t be lettin’ even the barmaid within a few paces of the door,” the constable replied firmly.

“Good man,” Hunter said while he pushed a key into his door lock. When the unlatched door swung wide open, Anthony leaned heavily against the door frame and rubbed his eyes with a deep, depressed sigh. His room was a wreck, his belongings scattered wildly about. However, that was all secondary.

There, in the middle of the room, was Vivian Carpenter, dead. 

She was tied to the chair, her body slumped ever so slightly to one side, eyes wide and staring in horror, her face lax in its death mask. The captain noticed a small scrap of paper pinned to her sleeve with a steel hat pin. He walked over and detached the paper. While he read the message, his face became a mask of cold fury.

“Anthony, what is it?” Thorias asked as he skid to a stop at the door to Hunter’s room. ”Oh my,” he said in a low voice.

A gasp of shock behind Thorias was followed by Moira’s voice, “Mrs. Carpenter …”

Thorias stepped into the room to examine the body while Hunter read the note aloud to himself and anyone within hearing. “‘Stay out of matters that don’t concern you!’ Nothing else on the paper.”

“Lydia!” Moira said abruptly. Then, before anyone could say a word, she bolted down the hallway. The constable immediately stood and put out a hand to stop her.

“Sorry, Miss, the Detective be quite clear on it,” he said firmly. “Only a handful are allowed to be visitin’.”

“Look, there’s a dead body down there,” Moira said, pointing back to Captain Hunter’s room. 

“What?” the constable said in alarm. “Just now?”

“Weren’t ya payin’ attention? Yes! She is … was … Mrs. Carpenter,” Moira explained. ”Mrs. Carpenter was Lydia’s friend. I’m just wantin’ to check on Lydia. Just to make sure nothing’s happened.”

“She’s there, Miss. Ah brought a tray in for her a wee bit ago. She ought ta be restin’ now,” the constable replied firmly. 

Moira fixed a stern frown at the constable. “We outta at least check, y’know!”

Flustered with the turn of events and the obstinate woman standing before him in the hallway, the young constable fumbled for his keys. “The Detective’ll be havin’ my hide for lettin’ you in like this. But it’d be only right to do.”

A few yards down the hallway at Captain Hunter’s room, Thorias looked up from where he knelt beside Mrs. Carpenter’s body. “Strangled. More accurately, suffocated in that ‘burking’ manner I told you about before.”

Hunter, who still stood next to the body, nodded as Brian and Anita Monkhouse appeared on the landing, followed by some of the more curious patrons from the common room below.

Mrs. Monkhouse gasped in shock at the sight of the body. She held out a hand to steady herself against a nearby wall. Brian turned pale, then red with rage. “What be goin’ on here?” he exclaimed..

“A murder, and a warning,” Hunter replied sharply as he left the room. The captain pushed through the crowd towards the top of the stairs. “Jimmy!” he shouted. “I need to know precisely where you were given your message.”

There was no answer from below. Hunter raced back down the stairs, but where Jimmy had stood, only Hunter’s overturned pint of stout lay. Mary was on her knees scrubbing the floor.

“Mary!” Hunter barked. “Where’s the boy?”

“Oh, him?” she said sourly. “Took a swipe of your stout, Cap’n. Ah told him to leave it be! But no, the lad had to go and be stubborn about it!” she groused bitterly. “Turned him green, it did. He said he was feelin’ ill, so raced out the back.”

Without another word, Hunter tore across the room for the back of the tavern. He opened the door so forcefully that it slammed against the wall with a bang while he rushed outside. 

The narrow street that ran behind the White Hart Tavern was empty save for three overgrown, forgotten wooden boxes stacked by the left side of the door. Black birds called out from their perch in the nearby trees that dotted the far side of the road. Jimmy, however, was nowhere to be seen. Hunter took another step out. He looked at the ground, the road, and behind the boxes.

Finally, Hunter spotted Jimmy’s woolen cap next to the road. Beside it were the partial imprints of hooves where a horse had stood for more than a few minutes. Turning the hat over, the captain found a small spot of fresh blood on the inside near the back.

After a moment of morbid silence, all Hunter could say was, “Damnit, boy.”

Moira raced out of the back door of the tavern. ”Cap’n!” she shouted. “Cap’n! It’s Lydia! We just checked. She’s not in her room! Her window’s been cut open, and she’s gone!”

Laughter echoed off the warm, polished dark wooden walls from a myriad of conversations. Knots of patrons, grouped across the common room of the pub, were well into their afternoon revelry and relaxation. The owner, Brian, stood behind the bar chatting with two teamsters. The topic of conversation was the same that was on everyone’s lips: the spectacle of the doctor who was arrested by the police outside Greyfriars’ Kirk. 

At the bar, Captain Anthony Hunter tossed his coat over an arm, then cleared his throat to get the tavern owner’s attention. A moment later, the barmaid appeared at the captain’s side, wiping her hands on the dull white cotton apron she wore over her modest green dress.

“No use of doin’ that, he’ll be wigglin’ his jaw for awhile,” She said with a impish grin. 

Brian gave the woman a stern glare, “Ah not be deaf, Mary. Ah can hear ye just fine!”

Mary, the barmaid, flipped her hair around and returned the stern look with one of her own. “Och, that be a likely story! An here ye leave the man standin’ thirsty!”

At the far end of the bar, in a large production, Brian rolled his eyes and returned to his conversation. Mary grinned at her temporary triumph, and swung her ample attentions back towards the captain. 

“Now, what can Ah be doin’ fer you?” She asked with a grin.

Hunter raised an eyebrow, “Two stouts, if you please, and two ales.”

“Comin’ up,” she answered cheerily. Mary took a step, then paused, “Beggin’ ye pardon, but ye were the one from the other night who stood up fer that begger girl? A cap’n as Ah heard ye called?”

Hunter’s mood darkened slightly, “I daresay she’s no beggar.”

Mary instinctively took a step back in surprise and raised a delicate hand to ward off further comment. “Oh, hold off now. No offense meant, just describing how it appeared. Anyway, Ah didn’t see that young lad with ye, Cap’n, will he be comin’ in?”

For the span of two minutes, Hunter wrestled with his own internal frustrations over the topic. It was not the barmaid’s fault for touching on a sore subject. He sighed and managed a thin, tight-lipped smile. “He’ll not be in. He’s missing, though myself and my crew have a few ideas on how to locate him. Just need a few moments to get our thoughts straight.”

Mary’s cheerful look took on a much more somber one at Hunter’s news, “Oh … well … Ah wish ye good luck in trackin’ him down. But … if ye’ll pardon me again … the only ones that have been found, weren’t exactly … healthy.” She hesitated, as if uncertain of what to say, next. ”Or so Ah’ve heard,” she shrugged, obviously uncomfortable at the unexpectedly sour turn the conversation had taken. “Maybe he’ll be the first to be found in better shape?”

“I certainly trust he will,” Hunter replied. “He mentioned that a young lady who works here told him about the cemetery, where he subsequently vanished. Would that young lady happen to have been yourself?”

“It ’twas me, Cap’n. Probably shouldn’t been passin’ hearsay I suppose. It was just somethin’ Ah heard in passin’ while at work one day,” She replied in a more somber tone. ”Sorry, for the trouble it caused. Ah didn’t mean fer it to turn out like this. Just tryin’ to help settle things out.” 

“If you don’t mind a question then, who did you hear that information from?” Hunter asked pointedly.

Mary shrugged, “A couple of fishermen. Irish ones Ah be thinkin’, based on their accents. They come here every so often. Though, not nearly as regular as ye been lately.” She gave the captain a friendly grin.

At his stony look, she cleared her throat and turned away, “Ah’ll get ye pints, Cap’n. Be just a moment.” 

Anthony watched her hurry off along the bar, then sighed. He knew better. The barmaid was not the one deserving of his anger, it was those behind the kidnappings. He spun on his heel, stalking across the room to a stained chestnut table in the far front corner next to the large bay window. Anthony pulled out a chair, dropped his coat onto the back of it, and sat down heavily. He stared out the dusty window at the long stretch of the Grassmarket and its patrons outside, tracing the odd wood grain pattern with his artificial, clockwork left hand.

“Benjamin,” Thorias said in sad amazement to no one in particular. Thorias, along with Moira and Rodney, shared the table with Captain Hunter.

The doctor withdrew a tiny brass valve – now completely cleaned from its time spent in a dead body – from the pocket of his waistcoat. He toyed with the small device that was no larger than the end of a child’s thumb. ”I just cannot get past the idea that Benjamin was behind this. I’d been searching for just how he could have missed this in his examinations,” Thorias sighed slowly, “I suppose now I have my answer. He could’ve said … something to me. I would’ve helped him well before it came to any of this.”

Rodney glanced around the table at the long faces, then leaned forward slightly with his fingers interlaced in front of him , “If I might, Doctor? I know I come late to this, but as I understand it from what Moira and Captain Hunter have explained to me, Dr. Belker isn’t entirely behind this. From his own admission, he was blackmailed into being an accomplice.”

Thorias considered that a moment, “True, but he could have asked for my help that day I visited him.”

“It strikes me, old friend, that under the circumstances, he did,” Hunter commented casually. “He gave us the way in to view the bodies in the mortuary at night. I’d suspect he knew you’d discover what you did.”

He sat forward as the barmaid appeared with the drinks and set them on the table.

“Thank you, my dear,” the captain said with a thin, polite smile.

“Don’ mention it.” Mary said with a polite smile.

Moira looked over at the barmaid, “Say now, Will mentioned a barmaid tellin’ him about the cemetery. That happen to be you?”

Mary glanced at Hunter, obviously a little uncomfortable over the question. “Och, it was. Like Ah told ye Cap’n, Ah shouldn’t been passin’ hearsay, but Ah was just tryin’ to help.”

“Oh,” Moira replied abruptly. “Then ya know Will’s vanished after goin’ there?”

“Ye Cap’n said as much,” Mary replied with a remorseful look. “It’s not at all how Ah be thinkin’ that would’ve turned out. Ah’d hoped it woulda’ brought an end to all the commotion.”

There was an uncomfortable silence that settled in at that moment. Moira, caught between her temper and reason, was at a loss for words. On one hand, the barmaid’s poor information was what had sent William off to the cemetery. However, from what little she knew of it, Will and Constable Martin simply stepped into something far worse than they expected. 

“It’s as all right as this kinda thing can be,” Moira finally replied. “Will had a constable along, they went in careful, I’m sure of it. We just gotta get him back. Who’d ya hear it from, anyway?”

“Couple of Irish fishermen, least they dressed and sounded like it,” Mary shrugged.

“Did ya get any names?” Moira asked thoughtfully.

“No, can’t be sayin’ Ah did,” the barmaid answered. Mary looked over her shoulder at the other customers, then back to the group. “Ah hate to be runnin’ off, but Ah got others here to take care of.”

Moira gave her a thin smile, “Sure, I understand.”

Mary nodded silently, then turned away from the group to clear a nearby table.

Moira took a sip of her ale, then nodded slowly. “Since Dr. Belker couldn’t be tellin’ you right out, helpin’ you sneak around was the next best way of tellin’ you.” She glanced around the table. “I guess he figured that he was bein’ watched wherever he was.”

“Well, that being the case, he did give us this tidbit of data to go on,” Thorias held out the small brass valve for the others to see. “But a clue is a clue, I suppose.”

Rodney reached out with a hand for it, the paused, “May I?”

“Certainly,” Thorias replied. “I’ve completed what investigations I can into the device.”

Rodney gingerly picked up the valve and studied it intensely. “It’s a pressure safety valve,” he said after only a moment’s study.

The doctor chuckled, “Precisely, lad, and it only took me the better part of a day to fully realize what you’ve uncovered in a few seconds. However, the next trick would be determining what it’s a pressure safety valve for, given it was found in the chest of an unfortunate victim?”

“I … well … it’s based on a boiler safety valve … ” Rodney said after a moment, then lapsed into a confused silence while he studied the valve for any clue as to its intended purpose.

“My conclusion also,” Thorias admitted with a small wave of a hand towards Rodney’s puzzled expression.

Moira looked confused, “I don’ understand?”

Thorias took a drink of his stout, then set the pint down on the table. “While that bit of brass Rodney’s holding is indeed a very tiny pressure safety valve, I haven’t the first, faint clue as to what it, or any others like it, would be doing implanted inside anyone. What pressure would they regulate? I can’t think of what would generate quite that much pressure naturally in a body.”

Suddenly, Moira set her drink down on the table and searched her pockets. Finally, she located a small, folded piece of stained linen. She unwrapped it and placed the small gear on the table in front of Rodney. The metal of the gear glinted cleanly in the light from the window. He set down the tiny pressure valve and looked at Moira curiously.

“Other than being one of the thinnest herrin’bone gears I’ve ever seen, I was wonderin’ if ya knew of a good use for it?” Moira folded her arms across her chest, watching Rodney consider, then look down at the gear with an intense expression in his eyes.

Finally, Rodney picked up the gear and studied it. “Being a herringbone tooth design, typically I’d assume it’s for use aboard a ship or a larger steam engine. However, it’s very thin in comparison to the ones I’m used to seeing. Something this size,” he hesitated, turning the gear that was as large around as a person’s fist over in his hands, “might just barely fit an opti-telegraphic. It would definitely be useful in an automata servitor. Although, it would be quite an unusual servitor.”

“How do you mean?” Hunter asked curiously.

Rodney shrugged and set the gear down on the table. “Well the size, for one thing. It’d have to be large, larger than the message owls, or even the servitors used for scribing copies of manuscripts.”

Hunter reviewed a memory in his head, specifically what Hiram had written in his journal about the contents of a hidden crate. “Would you say, similar in size to perhaps a dog? Like an Irish setter?”

The young man considered the idea a moment, then nodded, “Indeed. About that size, yes.”

Moira glanced over at Captain Hunter, “Ya’ve got somethin’ in mind, Cap’n, what is it?”

“I’ve little doubt that Detective MacTaggart will get more information from Dr. Belker, however, I’m less convinced it will be at all useful in tracking down William’s whereabouts,” Hunter replied. “I asked about the dog, as Hiram mentioned a dog with an artificial, metal leg.”

“The gear would be the correct size to fit in a mechanical leg, but it would have to be a leg for a person or a rather stout dog,” Rodney interjected.

It was Hunter’s turn to nod, “Precisely what I wondered. You see, the gear was one of a handful found alongside Miss Newt’s cart at the cattle market. In his journal, Hiram wrote about a hidden cache he found at the south end of Leith Docks, where he found along with some glass bottles the dog I just mentioned. Someone was blackmailing him to keep him quiet about the cache and one of the dead victims he found, while at the same time forcing him to watch over that hidden cache location.”

“So, Miss Newt might have had some contact with the same people that blackmailed Hiram?” Thorias asked aloud to confirm his suspicions. 

“Not just that,” Moira said quickly, “Tell ‘em what ya told me, Rodney. About that night and what Allison saw.”

As all eyes looked to Rodney, the young inventor turned a shade of bright pink from the direct attention. Glancing around at the others, he cleared his throat with a shy smile, “Well, as I was telling Miss Wycliffe earlier, Allison and I were conducting tests of a new type of opti-telegraphic. One that can send, receive, and to a lesser extent store, imagery. To make a long story brief, Allison was using one late in the evening when she observed two figures carrying a large bundle – a carpet she said – out in the dead of night. She said she was going to show me using our modified device, but … I accidentally broke mine. I’ve no idea if she took the image or not.”

Thorias shook his head in disbelief as suddenly several disparate pieces began to settle into place. “If the figures carrying the carpet were also the same people who purchased the gears from Miss Newt, as well as being the same ones who were blackmailing Hiram – that would explain Miss Newt’s kidnapping.”

“Also it explains why Hiram was so agitated when I asked after Miss Newt,” Hunter added thoughtfully. “She sold those specialized gears, and Hiram knew it. He would’ve recognized them right off, and likely theorized as we did over the body of the dog.” At a sudden revelation, Hunter sat back, the wood of his chair squeaking in protest. “Fire and damnation, that’s it! If we take it for certain that Miss Newt both sold the gears to the very same people that blackmailed Hiram, then wound up witnessing the same individuals carrying off a carpet with what may have been a body or more items for the hidden cache, that would explain more than just her kidnapping. Far more. Poor girl is merely the catalyst.”

At the confused looks around the table, Hunter continued, “They steal the girl and take her opti, however, they don’t know who she might have been talking to over it. An opti has no means to expose the last person contacted. Therefore, to find out whom that might have been, naturally, they would go to someone that Miss Newt may have spoken with.”

Moira’s eyes widened in surprise, “People she bought and sold parts to and … oh hell … her friends and people she knew.”

“Quite,” The captain replied. “Likely associates would be Hiram, and we know of her friends … Miss Olivander and Rodney here. Fortunately, Miss Olivander is upstairs, being watched by a constable. However, through Miss Olivander would follow an association with Mrs. Carpenter. Mrs. Carpenter was attacked once in the Grassmarket, which William put an end to, then later at her boarding house, which Hiram tried to prevent but lost his life in the process. Now, Miss Olivander was likewise attacked, which we interrupted right as soon as it began. Those two were the Irishmen, Conor and Liam, who both match – roughly – what Dr. Belker babbled on about at the cemetery.” Hunter paused for a moment to make sure everyone was still following his train of thought. No one interrupted, or appeared confused, so the captain pushed on.

“I’m convinced Conor and Liam were the two that attacked Detective MacTaggart and myself at Hiram’s boat, just as I’m convinced they may have been the ones who attacked Mrs. Carpenter.” The captain admitted. 

“By heaven, they’re ‘resurrection men’,” Thorias said in utter amazement. “Its the West Port murders all over again, just for that damnable bloody business of selling corpses.” He then frowned at a new thought, “Ah, but wait, there’s more, isn’t there? They are not just working for themselves, they’ve an employer.”

“Yes, another doctor according to Dr. Belker,” Hunter confirmed. “That would be their actual employer. Someone who also would be quite focused on locating who Miss Newt had spoken with about what she saw.” 

Rodney, who had long since drawn the conclusion that his life was very much in jeopardy, had turned a faint pale. “They can just sell whom they kill to make them quietly go away.”

“Quite possible,” Hunter admitted. “If their employer doesn’t use them for that ghastly project.”

Moira, who had been sitting mostly still through the entire explanation, finally spoke up, frustration evident in her voice, “I understand it all, and while I’m wantin’ to go hunt down them two Irishmen and drag ‘em by their heels to the constables myself, how does knowin’ all this get us any closer to findin’ William?”

“By giving us an idea of how far they are likely to travel in pursuit of their grisly duties,” Hunter replied. “We know Conor and Liam are gathering victims for their employer. Of late, they are cleaning up a threat to the entire operation that began with Miss Newt innocently testing the new opti on which she and Rodney here were working. Now, they seem to be preying on the inhabitants of West Port and Grassmarket. Yet bodies, for the most part, have been found near the Leith Docks or near Grassmarket.”

Thorias frowned in thought, “Anyone carrying a body, even at night, would be quite conspicuous. They dare not take anything like that very far. Even if by wagon, they’d risk a chance of being seen when the wagon’s unloaded.”

“Exactly my thought as well,” Hunter agreed.

“So if they’ve not been caught doin’ this so far, they’re takin’ them to and from someplace close to both here and Leith?” Moira asked.

“It would make the most sense,” the doctor replied. “It would have to be far north of here.” He hesitated with a glance to Hunter, “or someplace where regular shipments could come and go with little suspicion. A business lax enough that a wagon could be borrowed without anyone raising a fuss.”

“Any of the wagons could have been borrowed from the factories north of the Queen Street Gardens,” Hunter said, half to himself and half to the group. “Which explains why Conor and Liam work for Gilbert Monkhouse. They would have completely unrestricted access to any wagon there.” The captain glanced around at the others sitting at the table. “It’s very likely Will is being held among those factories. Quite likely with the others, as well. If that irritating man, Monkhouse, keeps any sort of accurate records as to the coming and going of his equipment, we might could discern a pattern.”

“If he lets us see it,” Moira said grimly. “Last time, ya didn’t exactly part on good terms.”

Brian, the tavern owner, cleared his throat as he approached the table. The broad-shouldered man looked quite put out at having to be there. ”Cap’n Hunter? There be a lady – an Anita Monkhouse – that wishes to be havin’ a word or two. Ah told her she could be walkin’ over herself, but,” the man hesitated, then continued, “the lady by the door wished herself to be introduced.” He said with much overemphasis on ‘lady’ and ‘introduced’. It was apparent to all that Brian’s patience had just been sorely tried by the newcomer. 

Anthony turned in his seat to look over his shoulder at the front door of the tavern. In the doorway stood a lady dressed in a fine white blouse, a wine colored skirt with matching vest, gloves and a wide hat that didn’t quite conceal her long locks of dark blonde hair. She looked around the tavern with no small amount of distaste, as though she were uncomfortable to even breathe the air.

Moira leaned over to look around both Brian and Captain Hunter. “Looks like a fussy sort. Wonder what she wants?”

“She looks uncomfortable,” Rodney commented.

Moira gave Rodney a look, “Ever try and wear a corset along with the rest of that? Bound all up like a wrapped goose from market, you’d look unhappy too.” 

“Ah, a socialite,” Thorias said disdainfully after a brief glance towards the door. “Anthony, if you need an assist, don’t fear to run up a signal flag. We won’t be far away.”

With a sigh, Anthony slid back from the table and stood up. He brushed out the worst of the wrinkles from his shirt, adjusted his sleeves, then tossed his long coat over one arm. “Thank you, Sirrah, I’ll deal with whatever she’s about.”

With a near-wordless grumble, Brian turned away and walked back to the pub’s bar, muttering. ”She coulda walked ten feet over to that table her own self, but no, there had ta be ‘introductions’. Took her longer to be walkin’ over to ask me, then march herself back to the door.”

Hunter ignored the man’s grousing and walked over to the lady at the front door, “Begging your pardon, Madam, you must be Mrs. Monkhouse? I’m Captain Anthony Hunter.”

Mrs. Monkhouse daintily held out a gloved hand. “Why, Captain Hunter, yes, Ah’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” She replied with only the barest hint of a Scottish accent. “Ah do believe we’ve rather much to discuss.”

“Ye got him?” Constable Martin asked, letting go his hold on the doctor.

“Ah do. Fetch a police wagon if ye would, Constable. Ah’d hate ta lose hold o’ this one,” the detective replied while he shifted his hands on the doctor’s arm to have a better grip.

“Quick as a Ah can be, Detective!” With that, Constable Martin adjusted his helmet for a more secure fit, spun on his heel and raced off down the street.

“You don’t understand,” Dr. Belker wheezed aloud between deep gasps of air.

“We understand quite enough for the moment,” Captain Hunter said sternly. “You are, at least by association, involved in the abduction of one of my crew.”

“And we want ‘im back!” Moira snarled.

Rodney looked from Captain Hunter to Moira, then to Detective MacTaggart. He cleared his throat, “Hm, please?”

Moira, standing next to Rodney, jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. “We’re not askin’ him out ta tea, y’know.”

The young inventor gave her a pained look, blushing from embarrassment, “Well … there’s no reason to be impolite.”

Meanwhile, Dr. Belker, seemingly unaware, sobbed despairingly, “I can’t! None of you understand! It’s not my fault. I had no choice! I have no control over any of this!”

“Ah be doubtin’ that,” Detective MacTaggart replied grimly. “Although, we’ll be findin’ out quite soon enough just how much at fault ye be.” He then hesitated a moment before he continued, “Though, if ye are willin’ ta tell us who ye accomplices are, this could be goin’ easier.”

Hunter glanced up and down the street a moment beyond the knots of gawkers that had gathered, curious if the carriage was nearby. He saw plenty of horse-drawn carriages, but none with the familiar black box-like shape unique to the constabulary.

When it steadfastly refused to appear, he leveled a hard gaze onto Dr. Belker. “As your carriage has yet to arrive, please enlighten us, Doctor. I, for one, am riveted with curiosity to know the details.”

Dr. Belker twisted in the Detective’s tight grip to look at Anthony. “My family, it’s my family! They threatened myself and my family. You must believe me! I never thought it would all come to this. It was only two, and it was to validate a mainspring for artificial limbs! Harmless work! I never knew it would come to this! They blackmailed me … ” Overcome with a mix of exhaustion and emotion, he sagged in Detective MacTaggart’s grip, sobbing gently.

“Talk straight, damn ye,” the detective growled, his patience thin due to the beating he had received earlier in the day. “Who are ‘they’? Just what did ye do, man?”

Dr. Belker shook his head sadly. “I don’t know who they all are. By the Queen’s mercy, if I did I would surely confess it.”

He took a deep breath to steady his voice then continued, “I bought two bodies some time back.”

“The law’s clear on the matter of buyin’ corpses, Doctor,” MacTaggart said sternly.

Dr. Belker nodded glumly, “I know, Detective. I needed to validate the fine adjustments to the new prosthetics I was working with. They were to support and strengthen a snapped spine, like dock workers who’d been caught in a CASS accident.” The doctor stared fitfully at the ground, “Yet I am not going to just experiment on the living. That would be monstrous.”

“An’ buyin’ corpses is the saintly thing ta do?” Moira snapped.

The doctor ignored her barb and pressed on, “I heard a rumor – gossip among colleagues – that one merely need to leave money at a certain location with a note or a card containing the address where the bodies should be delivered.”

He paused again, taking another slow breath to steady the quiver in his voice, then continued, “I did so, heaven forgive me. Two bodies were delivered as agreed. I finished my tests and buried the corpses myself, around Greyfriars near the Coventers’ graves. I can show you where, I still clearly remember it. I thought that the end of it, but then the Irishmen started visiting me at odd hours.”

“Irishmen? What about these Irishmen?” Hunter asked curiously. “Do you have their names? Did they visit more than once?”

“One goes by ‘Liam’, the other ‘Conor’,” Dr. Belker replied woefully, “They visited dutifully, once a week. Always with a new request from their ‘doctor’, who I think kept them on retainer. First, it was a few medical supplies, then a few spare rolls of bandages – nothing that would be missed. Later it was medicine, then suddenly came bodies that I was ordered to hide.” The doctor shook his head as if the memory were painful. “I knew, I could tell, that they had been … ” His words trailed off.

“Murdered?” Moira offered, her voice icy and brittle with anger.

Dr. Belker nodded glumly. “It was hard to tell, but that first young lady … the faint bruises on her neck. There was no mistaking that they were hand prints. I nearly missed them at first, but once I did see them … they leered out at me, daring me to keep others from knowing about them.”

A thought nagged furiously at Captain Hunter’s mind, “Why did you help us, then? Why give us the logbook, if it puts your family in peril?”

“I can’t go on anymore,” the doctor said sadly. “I can’t, I see them in my sleep. Their eyes … accusing me … always accusing me.” He looked over at Moira, then at Hunter. “I thought, perhaps, with Thorias here, he would help. That my family would be helped before those beasts got to them.”

“Beasts?” Rodney whispered curiously to Moira.

“The Irishmen,” she whispered back curtly. She then addressed the doctor, the edge of a snarl apparent in her voice. “Who keeps sendin’ them louts to ya?”

Dr. Belker shook his head, “I don’t know. It’s a doctor, that’s all I know. Someone skilled. That much I could tell by the way they were … dealt with.” He closed his eyes as if to purge the memory. “Examine the bodies for yourselves, and you will see it square off!” He opened his eyes, looked at Moira, then Rodney and Hunter. “Help my family! They’ll come for them now. Please, I beg you! My children are little, my wife doesn’t know.”

At the top of the hill, the black police Brougham carriage jostled into view, its polished brass electric arc lanterns shining brightly alongside the top edge of the carriage roof. A blue leather and brass servitor, shaped like a clockwork owl, clung tight to one of the brass rails next to the coachman. Beside both clockwork servitor and coachman on the raised driver’s bench sat Constable Martin, his face set with a grim, determined look.

At the sound of the horses, Dr. Belker struggled madly, so much that Detective MacTaggart had to shake the man into submission.

“Enough o’ that now! Stop it!” The detective roared. “I’ll send the lads ’round to keep ye family safe. Ye’ve me word on it!”

However, Belker did not seem to hear the detective. His breath rasped in his throat, coming quick as if he was suffocating.

“What have I done? What have I done? My family! They’ll be killed!” The doctor raved, slipping into hysterics, and quite nearly ripping free from Detective MacTaggart’s grip. “I have to save them! Yes, yes … I’ll spirit them away!”

Hunter raced forward to assist the detective. With the combined strength of both men, they managed to hold Dr. Belker still. The doctor’s eyes grew wild with panic.

“Doctor, calm yourself!” Anthony said, struggling against the man’s antics. The captain glanced down the road at the carriage, then back to Dr. Belker. “Dr. Belker, listen to me! What is this ‘doctor’ doing with the people that are taken? Why are they being operated on?”

Anthony shook the man in an attempt to get his attention. “Doctor! Where have they taken William? Is it where Mrs. Carpenter is? Is it where the others were taken? Doctor Belker!”

Benjamin Belker shook his head frantically, pulling one way, then the other at the vice-like grip that both Detective MacTaggart and Captain Hunter tried to maintain on him. His wild eyes glared at Hunter, “No! I won’t tell you! No! I won’t be a party to this! You’ll die as well, you all will if you go there! No more killings! No more!”

Belker glanced around in a mad panic. “I won’t … I won’t help the doctor anymore. I won’t! He’s making something, I know he is, something vile! I won’t help him! I won’t!” His last words were nearly a shriek of panic.

“Moira! No!” Hunter turned in time to grab Moira by the collar, just before her outstretched hands could lock onto Dr. Belker. Rodney also latched onto one of Moira’s arms from the opposite side, and with the captain’s help was able to keep her at bay from her hysterical victim.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Moira lunged again for Belker with a explosive fury, “Where’s Will, ya ravin’ loon! Give him back!”

The momentary distraction was all Belker needed. Once Hunter shifted his grasp to stop Moira, Dr. Belker lunged at the captain, burying an elbow into Hunter’s mid-section, knocking the wind from him. While the captain staggered back, gasping for air, Belker let out a wordless cry and lashed out at Detective MacTaggart, who barely had time to deflect the man’s hands before the manic doctor could claw the detective inspector’s face.

MacTaggart stumbled backwards only a step, however that was enough for Dr. Belker. In the space of a heartbeat, the hysterical doctor raced off in a dead run. The detective lunged for the doctor, but his hands swept through the air a second too slow.

Benjamin leaped from the sidewalk into the busy street and directly into the path of a brown wooden wagon, heavily laden with stained oak barrels of whiskey!

“No!” The detective shouted in alarm. At the same moment, Constable Martin elbowed the coachman, and pointed at the fleeing madman.

“Over there, lad! Now!” He ordered the driver sharply. The coach bounced and swayed back and forth as the constable scrambled up from beside the coachman and onto the top of the coach itself.

As the teamster driving the wagon yanked back on the reins, his pair of short-haired, chestnut horses reared up, eyes wide, screaming in a panic. Behind them the wagon groaned from the sudden stop, the giant whiskey barrels straining at their rope restraints. The horses kicked madly, startled by the small, fast moving man that suddenly appeared without warning in front of their eyes.

The horses’ hooves hammered down, crashing to the cobblestones beneath them just a second after Constable Martin – who had flung himself from the back of the police carriage – slammed into the fleeing form of Dr. Benjamin Belker. The constable and the hysterical doctor crashed to the pavement amid shouts of alarm from onlookers who raced out of the way.

Finally, the two tumbling men came to a rough stop. Lying prone on the sidewalk was the unconscious Dr. Belker, shirt torn and stained with brackish mire from the side of the road. Next to the doctor, Constable Martin sat, wearily panting for air, equally stained, shoulders slumped from exertion. He glanced down at the tears in his uniform coat.

“The missus’ll be havin’ me hide for this,” he muttered glumly.

Across the road, Detective MacTaggart straightened his glasses, then his jacket. He started to run across the street, but Constable Martin waved to the detective, indicating that he did not need the help.

Moira, denied her chance to wring information – possibly quite literally – from the misguided surgeon, snarled and stormed off in a rage with an apologetic Rodney in tow. Hunter watched her stalk a few short paces, her face as dark as a storm cloud.

“Hot temper on that one,” the detective said carefully, brushing at a dark spot of what he hoped was only soot on his coat sleeve.

“True,” Hunter agreed with a deep, long sigh, “Very true. But she’s the most innovative blacksmith and clockwork engineer I’ve ever met. Her temper’s a small price to pay, in my mind.”

Across the street, the battered Constable Martin stood slowly, as if plagued by a thousand aches and pains, before hauling Dr. Belker to his feet. With determined effort, he dragged the doctor towards the waiting police carriage.

Hunter gestured towards the battered form of Dr. Belker, “If he’s lost to hysterics, there may be nothing left he can tell us.”

“Give me a wee bit more time with the addled man,” MacTaggart said thoughtfully. “Once Ah get the lads to move his family someplace safe, he’s likely ta be more cooperative.”

The captain glanced over at Moira, who was in mid-rant to Rodney. The young inventor politely nodded rapidly at whatever she was saying. Hunter watched them for a long moment, considering the scene. Moira’s temperament often got the better of her, but usually her heart was in the right place. He knew that once they had her back at the White Hart Tavern, she could freely vent, thereby calming herself down without risking police involvement. Anthony sighed heavily.

He did not want to assume that the Conor and Liam which Dr. Belker had mentioned were the same two Irishmen that Hunter had sour dealings with at the boarding house, then again at the factory. Conor and Liam, while decidedly Irish names, were also quite common. However, something in the back of his mind suggested they were one and the same. Given what Dr. Belker described, that would mean Conor and Liam were ‘resurrection men’ – or people who robbed graves for the sole purpose of selling the corpses.

Only these two had apparently become unwilling to wait for anyone to join the ranks of the recently deceased on their own. Hunter wondered if their employer, Gilbert Monkhouse, knew of the nocturnal activities of his men. An important connection formed in Anthony’s mind, but danced elusively outside his mental grasp. There was something there, some very important connection between what Hiram had found at the docks, what Thorias had found about the bodies, and the two brutes, Conor and Liam. He just could not bring it to light.

Hunter nodded in agreement to the detective’s comment. “Quite reasonable. In any case, I’ll need the time for Moira to regain her wits about her. She takes the matter of her shipmates’ health rather personally.”

“Och, that Ah’ve noticed. Will ye be aboard ye ship?” the detective asked. “Or over at the White Hart?”

“The White Hart Tavern,” Hunter replied. “Which is fortunately not far from here.”

The detective offered Hunter a firm, and grateful, handshake, “Ah’ll be by then, after a bit. Hopefully with more.”

“Indeed,” Hunter replied solemnly. “I dearly hope so. Mind you, Detective, I’m not eager to find any more ruined corpses, especially ones of my crew. There’ll be hell to pay if that happens.”

“If so, Captain, then ye’ll not be alone,” the detective said darkly. “Ah’ll be right beside ye, payin’ me own dues as well.”

The hansom cab sped past other carriages at a breakneck pace, swerving to narrowly avoid two scullery maids that had the poor misfortune to try and cross the road at that moment. The girls screamed in terror, while the coachman managed a quick, sheepish grin of apology as the vehicle sped by.

“Oy, sorry there!” He shouted out to them, “Police emergency!”

The girls, having raced back to the safety of the sidewalk, clung to each other and shot ugly, heated glares at the driver and his passengers as they tore past.

Speeding on, the driver tugged at the reins to manage a gentle turn, then pulled back to slow the horse to a pace that was less bone-jarring. In another few yards, he drew back on the reins. The horse whinnied loud in aggravation at the sharp tug on the bit, but complied, eager for a few moments of rest. The hansom finally bounced and jostled itself to a shaky stop, its coiled steel springs creaking in protest over the abuse.

The coachman tied off the reins and quickly stepped down, but his passengers had already opened the doors and leaped out. The captain stepped down first, with Detective MacTaggart only a moment behind him on the other side.

Captain Hunter spun on his heel to squarely face the driver, while the detective raced around the cab and toward the ancient stone archway that framed the entrance to a set of dirt brown, slate stone steps leading up to Greyfriars Kirk and the graveyard beyond.

“How much?” Hunter asked quickly. “Larry, was it?”

The young coachman doffed his hat and wiped his brow. “Aye, ‘guv. Well, fer being such a rush, forty pence -” He began, before Hunter cut him off.

“Yes, yes, for care and feeding of the horse, I understand,” Anthony said abruptly, thrusting four coins at the man. “Here, four shillings. Two for the fare and some towards the horse. Good day to you then!”

Astounded, the driver took the coins, but when he looked up from the money to thank his former passenger, the Captain had already followed the detective up the stone stairs in a mad dash. The coachman ran a hand through his tangled dark hair in surprise at his good fortune, then finally placed the bowler back on his head with a satisfied smile. Just then, a broad-shouldered man limped out of shadow-draped doorway, barely a few yards away.

“Hey! Ye takin’ fares?” Conor asked grumpily, favoring his badly bruised leg.

“Sure, just got meself free,” The coachman said, dropping the coins in his pocket. “How many?”

“It’ll be three,” Conor replied. “Meself, a woman and a drunk bloke.”

“It’ll be a tight fit, and Ah can’t be in much of a rush. Ah need ta pace me horse.” The driver explained. “Had a bit of a jaunt getting’ here, ye see.”

The big Irishman grinned, a motion that actually resembled something of a sneer. “No worries, ‘guv. Me friend just got himself hammered, so it’d be better if he slept his way through the whole thing.” Conor waved to someone else in the doorway, then turned back to the driver. “Cab’s don’t seem ta stop much along here. Hailin’ one of ya nearly be right bloody murder.”

Several feet away, beyond the archway, Captain Hunter and Detective Inspector MacTaggart burst off the stairs and into the graveyard. The cemetery, as best as either man could see, was buzzing with activity. Constables, some twelve in total, had spread out to scour the grounds, obviously in search of something.

Constable Martin, looked a bit worse for wear with his normally tidy blue coat torn at the shoulder and decorated with a healthy peppering of dirt stains. He stood on the steps of the parish chapel, speaking with a gray-haired, sour-faced parish priest who appeared none too happy at the police visitation.

On the constable’s other side stood a thin man in a dirt-stained white shirt, a wrinkled charcoal coat, and trousers. The man looked tired, disheveled and generally worn out. In his hands he clutched an old leather journal that was very familiar to both Hunter and MacTaggart.

The detective pushed his wire-framed glasses up from the end of his nose. “Och, that be Dr. Belker! What the devil got after him?”

“Also, how does he have Hiram’s logbook? And where is young William?” Hunter asked sternly, glancing around while the two men walked briskly across the gravel path to where Dr. Belker, Constable Martin and the priest were located.

When they arrived, the parish priest gave Constable Martin one final sour look, then turned away to enter the chapel, shutting the door behind him. The constable sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily.

“It not be my fault ye had two blokes runnin’ about in the graveyard puttin’ the bash on anyone comin’ by,” the constable muttered to himself in weary irritation.

“Constable,” the detective said in greeting, “ye look like ye been drug a fair piece by a wild horse. An Dr. Belker, Ah be surprised to see ye here about.”

At the detective’s voice, the constable jumped slightly. Dr. Belker, who likewise had not been paying attention, looked as equally surprised. It was Constable Martin who replied first, “Detective, beggin’ ye pardon. Ah didn’t see ye arrive.”

“Quite all right, Constable. Now, what happened here?” MacTaggart asked.

“It all started innocent enough, Detective. William and meself searched the graveyard for anythin’ that might give light to Miss Newt’s vanishin’ or who took her,” the constable explained. “All based on the rumor young William heard about them two fishermen seein’ Miss Newt here about.”

Constable Martin then took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh. “Ah take the blame for all this, really. We separated a wee bit, but Ah didn’t think to keep the lad in me sights at all times. Ah hoped he woulda’ called out for help if he needed it.”

He gestured to the small wooded patch at the north side of the graveyard. “Ah was up about the trees there when the shouts started. It sounded like they came from along the old wall just there.” The constable then pointed over at the ancient wall that rose from the grass to the west of the graveyard.

“So you gave chase?” Hunter offered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Constable Martin nodded. “That Ah did. When Ah didn’t see young William scalin’ the wall, it seemed right and natural he’d gone through that open archway at the end of the wall. So Ah ran down there. Ah’d made it just there and saw two big, broad-shouldered buggers runnin’ back north along the wall! Ah lifted me helmet to wipe the sweat from me eyes before I be callin’ out, when somethin’ hit me in the side of the head.”

He shrugged with a mix of embarrassment and helplessness, “When Ah got me wits about me, Ah found someone had hit me with a burial urn, and both William and those two mug-hunters had quit the entire place. It was luck that Ah’d come across Dr. Belker here while stumblin’ about like some drunkard. He dressed the bump on me head square away.”

At the mention of his name, Dr. Belker managed an embarrassed, if not strangely nervous, smile. “Yes, Yes, quite. Of all the luck, I happened to be taking my afternoon walk a touch early when these ruffians came tumbling out of the church yard here and nearly bowled me into the street proper! Among all their rudeness to nearly tumble me from my feet, they dropped this.”

He held out the dirt and water-stained journal. “So naturally, I took custody of it right away, thinking that obviously it must be stolen.”

Captain Hunter took the journal with a nod and leafed through its contents. Detective Inspector MacTaggart adjusted his glasses and withdrew a pencil and a small notebook from his coat pocket. He immediately began to scribble notes.

The doctor gestured towards Constable Martin. “About that time, I saw the good constable stumbling about and I rushed to help. I used a bit of my own shirt to clean his wound, fortunately it’s nothing severe. The constable was quite fortunate in that regard. Head wounds can be rather dangerous, you know.”

“In all that, Doctor,” the detective asked, “did ye happen to get a good look at ‘em? Did they say anythin’?”

Dr. Belker shook his head sadly, “Sorry to say, Detective, I was so tossed about, that I got not one good look. They were two big, broad-shouldered brutes in quite a hurry. They might have said something, but in the rush I couldn’t tell you what.”

Anthony closed the journal with a snap. “It’s Hiram’s journal. Though the dirt stains are new.” The captain gave the doctor a piercing look, “These two men that smashed into you, did they happen to have a third? A young man, green eyes, thin stature, brownish hair that looks as if its been at odds with a brush lately? Usually wearing an old brown vest and tattered shoulder bag made from an old stained sailcloth, no matter what else he’s wearing that day.”

The doctor thought for a moment, “Perhaps … yes, could be. It was all such a crash, I had little time to notice. Forgive me, but I was worried about being caught beneath a cab at the time.”

“Och, good that ye weren’t,” The detective said tapping his pencil in idle thought on his notebook.

“Quite,” The doctor agreed. “At least I was about to lend a medical hand to the constable here.”

Detective MacTaggart looked over at Captain Hunter, then at Constable Martin. “Given they be runnin’ into the street where they bungled inta Dr. Belker here, there might be one or more that remember seein’ em? Even might give a word as to which way they made off to?” He looked at the constable again, who looked a little the worse for wear. “Are ye up for it, Constable?”

“They took the lad on me watch. Ah’d be up for it with both me legs broke,” He replied firmly.

“Will that be all for me, then?” Dr. Belker asked wearily, his shoulders just starting to relax.

Detective MacTaggart shook the doctor’s hand, “More’n enough, and me thanks for what ye did for the constable here.”

Dr. Belker managed a small, slightly nervous smile, “Think nothing of it. It’s my profession after all, not to mention just lending what little help I can when I’m allowed.”

While the doctor descended the stone stairs to the gravel path, Captain Hunter watched him carefully. Something about the man’s manner resonated poorly to Hunter, but how, he could not say.

“Dr. Belker?” Hunter called.

Dr. Belker hesitated a step, shoulders tensing, then turned. “Yes?” He asked curiously.

“Dr. Benjamin Belker, I presume?” The captain asked.

The doctor looked confused at the question, “Why … yes. Why do you ask?”

“I’ll give Thorias your best,” Hunter offered. “I’m Anthony Hunter, Thorias is the doctor aboard my ship. He’s mentioned you more than once.”

A ripple of nerves washed over Belker’s demeanor for a moment, but he quickly recovered himself. “Oh? Quite lovely! Please do tell him that I send my best, and that he and I must get together for a chat. Very soon, indeed!”

Hunter’s steady gaze narrowed slightly, “Certainly.”

With a wave, the doctor turned back towards the graveyard exit, “Godspeed in your hunt, then! That young man’s welt will likely need some attendance. Though I’m sure Thorias will have it well in hand.”

The moment the words left the doctor’s mouth, the air grew still. For a full second, Dr. Belker’s eyes went wide with shock, and he broke out in a cold sweat. He faltered a step, realizing his dreadful mistake. With pronounced effort, he stiffened his back, forcing himself to maintain a steady, calm gait to what now seemed an abusively long walk to freedom.

“Quite,” Hunter said, his voice a sharp snap in the air. The captain tucked the book under his arm smartly and descended one step. Next to him, Detective MacTaggart slowly closed his notebook and put away his pencil.

“Just one more moment of your time, doctor,” Hunter asked icily. “If you weren’t certain of William being along, how did you know he was injured? What more did you see?”

Dr. Belker looked over at Captain Hunter and the two policemen, the color draining from his face. He started to reply, but the words emerged as a faint croak from his parched throat. Instantly, he bolted for the gate.

“Stop him!” Detective MacTaggart shouted as he, Constable Martin and Captain Hunter raced down the steps to give chase.

In a stroke of luck, Moira emerged in the entrance to the graveyard from the street below. She looked around in surprise at the thin, disheveled man running in a headlong panic towards her direction. Behind him, Captain Hunter and the two constables were not far behind.

“Moira! Stop him! They’ve taken William, and he’s a part of it!” Hunter called out.

Belker abruptly turned to his right, nearly twisting his ankle, and raced off across the graveyard in abject terror. A light wind picked up with a faint moan among the graves while a flock of startled crows took to the air from the surrounding trees.

Behind him, Moira’s features darkened into a frown, her hands instinctively dropping to her waist. She swore violently when she realized she still did not wear her customary brace of pistols. With a savage war whoop, she set her sights on the fleeing doctor, and tore after him in a blur, like an angry lioness running down her doomed prey.

Gasping for breath and fighting back terrified sobs, Dr. Belker raced across the grass, scaled a marble monument, and leaped over to the stone wall that fenced the edge of the cemetery. He jumped down to the other side with a grunt upon impact.

Moira scrambled after the doctor while Captain Hunter and the two policemen charged out the main entrance and raced between pedestrians, desperate to reach that spot of the wall before the their quarry could have too much of a head start to disappear in the crowds.

Moments later, the three men stopped at the opening to the very narrow alley in which Belker had vanished. At the far end, Moira sat perched atop the ancient, granite block wall to the graveyard with a huge grin spread across her face. She swung her legs idly and gestured into the alley.

There, Dr. Benjamin Belker lay flat on his back, gasping for air and clutching his stomach, his face pale and drawn. Standing beside him stood Rodney, feet squarely apart with a stout section of wood that looked like the half-rotten, broken handle to a shovel.

“Cap’n, I’d like ta present Rodney Barnes. He’s the one I’d been tellin’ about.” Moira said brightly. “Rodney, that’s me Cap’n. Cap’n Hunter. An those are two of the peelers – ” she immediately caught herself on the word, shook her head, and corrected herself, “uhm … I mean constables, we’re workin’ with.”

Rodney met the newcomers with a chaotic mix of trepidation, excitement and shyness. He looked at Captain Hunter, then the police, down at Dr. Belker, and finally to the more than modest length of gray wooden handle in his hands. He let go of the wood as if it had burned him, then immediately adjusted his wire-framed glasses out of instinctive habit.

“I didn’t, well, I did, but that is to say, this isn’t what you might think,” the young man stammered on in a continuous stream of words, while he nervously toyed with the end of coat sleeve. “Moira said we had to catch him, and the shovel handle was all I could find at hand. I didn’t hit him all that hard really, he sort of ran into it. Though, I actually did try and swing. You see, I’ve really never done this sort of thing, so I believe my aim was off.” Rodney paused for as much of a breath as his nerves would allow, “Is he supposed to turn pale like that?”

Constable Martin gave Rodney a friendly wink and a nod of approval while he stepped over to haul the gasping doctor roughly to his feet.

“None to worry, lad,” Detective MacTaggart said with the hint of a smile, ignoring Moira’s ‘peeler’ comment. “Ye did just fine.”

The detective caught hold of the doctor’s lapel as he and the constable dragged the man from the alley. “Seems we need to be havin’ a wee heart-to-heart chat, Doctor. Ah do believe there’s more ye’d like to tell us.”

William listened to the gravel crunch beneath both his and Constable Martin’s boots while they walked up the gently sloping path from the ancient slate stone stairs. Ahead the tan and gray parish church stood out in silent relief against the cloud-peppered, mid-afternoon sky. 

“So, Miss Newt be seen just … somewhere in here?” Constable Martin asked, looking around at the wide stretch of the graveyard. “Foolish for a young lass ta be pokin’ about here, if’n ye ask me. What with the vagrants breakin’ into tombs for a place ta sleep, an the angry shades wanderin’ the dark, any manner of harm could be comin’ to a body.”

William looked around at the surrounding arrangement of silent, weathered headstones that jutted up through the grass. “Ghosts?” He asked nervously.

The constable raised an eyebrow at the young man, then let his eyes wander the graveyard. “Aye, ghosts. Most along the south edge and o’er near the Black Tomb. Just need ta stay careful and we’ll be fine.”

Young Mr. Falke took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Right.”

Constable Martin looked over at William, “Greyfriars Kirkyard be quite the place ta hide, lad. Just what were ye told about this place and Miss Newt?”

William shrugged. “Just that a couple o’ men saw a young lady in here, and described Miss Newt.” He gave the constable a weak smile, “I know it’s kinda thin ta go by.”

The constable chuckled. “Lad, we need ta be checkin’ any trail left behind. Even the thin ones. Let’s be gettin’ ta work, eh?”

As if in silent agreement, they each took one of the many winding paths that lead between grave markers and tombs. Constable Martin struck out north, where the cemetery wound up among the thickest portion of trees. William chose a parallel path that wound to the northwest of the graveyard, towards the ancient wall that formed the boundary between lone, parish chapel, its cluster of nearby monuments, and a long series of mortsafe vaults – iron and stone devices designed to house a dead body and keep it safe from grave robbers.

Time trickled along, like water dripping from an old fountain while the two men slowly canvased their portions of the graveyard with no results. William turned his search toward the mildewed, ancient stone wall that framed the western edge of the cemetery. At first, he checked every grave site and headstone for anything out of the ordinary, but nothing came of that, especially since he was not quite sure what to be looking for. Finally, William fell back on a skill he had – tracking. If something about the graves was unusual, he would likely not recognize it. However, he knew he was looking for a young woman, alone, walking through the graveyard. It was at least a place and a way to start. 

He crept along, eyes bent to the ground for the better part of a half-hour until he reached an ancient archway with the rusted hinges for an absent gate still embedded in the stone. It was  barely a reminder of the massive ironwork gate that used to block the main graveyard from this much older section. The young man started to enter, but remembered Constable Martin’s warning about vengeful spirits which supposedly wandered portions of the cemetery. He hesitated and looked around. 

Off to the north, he saw a hint of movement: a man in a blue coat. That had to be the constable, he suspected. He waved and the figure in the distance paused, then waved back. Other than birds, a highly curious squirrel and the occasional clockwork owl that soared overhead, nothing else moved. Satisfied no specters lay in wait, he crouched down to examine the rough path that ran through the archway. 

The dirt was clouded with a collection of footprints. Some were possibly women, based on the type of shoe and the size and shape of the footprint itself. However, most seemed far older than what he was led to believe from the story at the tavern. 

“How many times do I have to repeat myself? I never spoke with him!” A man’s voice exclaimed. 

William froze in his tracks and hunched lower in the archway. The voice was excited, upset and only a few feet away from where he crouched at that moment! Slowly, William leaned back on his heels to peer out towards Constable Martin. The constable was moving about the trees facing in the opposite direction. The young man repressed a sigh and settled back into his original position. He had no way to get the constable’s attention without giving himself away, as well. Best he could do was listen and wait.

“Quiet down!” Hissed another man in an Irish accent. 

“Both of ye, hush it!” Said a third voice in a harsh whisper, also with an Irish accent. 

William nearly jumped in shock. He knew those voices! It was the two men that had attacked Mrs. Carpenter. His mind spun in circles as he hesitated a moment, unsure whether to stay or creep back to get Constable Martin. William opted for the former and stayed where he was. 

Gravel crunched and thick grass rustled while one of the speakers edged up close to the opening of the archway. William froze, every muscle tense. He heard the footsteps stop just inches away. Suddenly, to his relief, the footsteps turned and retreated from where William was tenuously hidden. 

“Nobody about,” one of the irishmen whispered. “So, yer doin’ nothin’ wrong is it? Rubbish an’ rot! Listen Belker, there’s too much goin’ on now. Too many stirrin’ the pot, askin’ too many questions. Ye job was ta keep the constables in the dark on all this. Just check the bodies for ‘em and hand over just enough ta keep ‘em quiet. An what happens? A pair of ‘em show up to poke about on Hiram’s boat while we’re there lookin’ for this bloody logbook! That Detective Inspector MacTaggart and that bloody hell of a nuisance, Cap’n Hunter!”

“Ya, the one with a damn hard fist,” muttered the other Irishman.

“Shut it!” Snapped the first. “Now, take this damnable logbook and do away with it. The doctor don’ want any ties back, understand? Then we’ll make account for the bodies.”

William frowned before his eyes went wide. In his mind the pieces clicked firmly into place. They knew the captain and Detective MacTaggart were at Hiram’s boat, more than that, they knew them both by name! William inched forward to balance himself with a hand on the gravel path so as to peer around the corner of the archway. The moment he did, his breath caught in his throat. There, in the shadow of the wall, stood the two men that had attacked Miss Olivander at the boarding house! Between those two stood the thin man, the doctor that had arrived to examine Maggie Campbell’s body in the close just after the attack!

Suddenly, in a moment of bad luck, the gravel beneath William’s hands gave way. Unable to catch himself on the rough archway, loose stones skittered out with a crunch that sounded deafening to his ears. He looked over. The conversation had abruptly stopped, and the two large, broad-shouldered men – one of which was named Conor if he remembered what the captain had mentioned in passing – had just handed a worn, leather bound journal to Dr. Belker: a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, dressed in charcoal cotton trousers, white shirt and a matching charcoal coat.

The three men stared at William for what seemed an eternity. William stared back in kind, wide-eyed. Finally, the two larger men shifted position to face him.

“I got the worst luck,” William muttered to himself, slowly pulling his feet up under him so he could stand. His eyes settled on the leather journal that the thin man clutched to his chest. “Now, if I can only get to that book.” 

Carefully, William got to his feet with one hand on the old stones of the archway. He licked his lips. “What would the Cap’n do?” He asked himself. “Gotta think like the Cap’n.”

The Irishman to William’s right pulled a knife from his pocket and gave the young man a nasty sneer. “Well, seems ye be in the wrong place at the wrong time, boyo. Told ya once, we met again, it’ll be the devil ta pay. Well, devil’s come callin’.” He glanced at his companion, “Grab ‘im Conor, seems we got ourselves someone in need of killin’.”

Conor chuckled. It was an ugly, harsh sound that echoed dully against the burial vaults and the surrounding rock walls. Slowly, the big Irishman stepped forward, flexing his meaty hands. That was when William noticed Conor favoring his left leg. William grinned, which caused the brute to pause.

“Why not?” William said aloud, almost casually. Before either of the men could reach him, he quickly yanked free a handful of dirt, dust and moss from the ancient wall and tossed it into Conor’s face. 

“Bloody bastard!” Conor yelled, recoiling from the rough grit and raising his hands to protect his eyes. Immediately, William kicked at the man, but instead of hitting the man’s knee, he instead slammed the heel of his work shoes right into the big Irishman’s thigh. 

“Damn, me leg!” Conor screamed in agony and collapsed like a wet rag. “Why are people always kickin’ me in the same leg? Liam! Get ‘im! Belker! What’re ye waitin’ fer? Boxin’ Day? Run!”

Suddenly, everyone moved at once. As fast as a snake, Liam sliced the gleaming knife blade at William’s face and neck, in the hopes to cut the young man before he could go too much farther. William, however, was just a hair faster as he ducked under the blade, then slammed a tight fist against the side of Liam’s knee. Behind them all, Dr. Belker let out a screech of terror and bolted north, in a frantic scamper among the tight row of mortsafe vaults and monuments. 

Liam howled in pain, reaching down for William, who had already scrambled past. Beyond the man’s reach, William pulled back a fist to hammer Liam again, but noticed Belker and the leather book racing away through the graveyard.

“Bloody hell!” William swore aloud and raced after the thin man, who was fast disappearing through the tombstones, coat-tails flapping in the air.  

Belker raced a few yards north, then scrambled up a monument as sure footed as a squirrel then over an ancient inner wall of the cemetery that divided two of its older sections. William rolled his eyes and leaped after him. Being used to climbing rigging aboard the Griffin, scaling the stone wall was no trouble. At the top of the wall, the young man paused with a grin. He knew where he was, the north end! Constable Martin was here! His elation quickly turned to dismay as he heard the constable call out from the archway to the south! Much too far away to help at all.

William groaned, “Damn it all, a’course he’d run to all the screaming.” Suddenly, a brick slammed into the rock wall next to William’s hand with almost no room to spare. He jerked his hand back on reflex and looked behind him. Only a half-yard back, Liam and Conor ran along as best they could with their wounds, both harboring a dark, smoldering look of murder in their eyes. 

“Oh, not now!” William complained at seeing the Irishmen so close behind, and threw himself over the wall. He landed in the grass, pitched forward in a clumsy roll and got to his feet. Looking around and between the headstones and trees, he spotted his quarry heading for the northern-most wall of the cemetery! With a burst of desperate speed, William launched himself in Belker’s direction. 

Racing, heart pounding, William dodged one monument, sidestepped a next, then threw himself at the thin man. The pair collided in a confused and panic-ridden heap. Belker rolled, slamming into the oak tree, the leather book still in his hands. William skidded sideways to collide into the foot of the marble monument. The tan and white marble column shuddered, and the stark white marble angel, stained gray at her wings and eyes as if she had recently cried over some mysterious loss, shook ever so slightly. Finally both came to rest almost in the original positions they had began in. Slowly, Belker tried to get to his feet first despite his injuries.

“Run again, and I’ll slam ya into a tree again!” William growled while he pulled himself up to his knees. “Yer goin’ nowhere with that book!”

Panic-ridden, Belker swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple working furiously in his throat. He ran a hand though his thinning light brown hair. “Now, now … see here,” he began, holding out one thin hand defensively while he clutched the book to his chest with the other. “I actually can explain this. All of this.”

Through sheer force of willpower, William ignored his screaming injuries and stood, the hot light of anger reflected in his eyes. “I’ll say ya will. I hear Cap’n Hunter and the Detective want that book, so we’re gonna take it to them. An you’ll explain to them.” Abruptly, when he heard the faint rustle of grass from the far side of the monument behind him, a realization shot across his mind like a bolt of lightning. 

Two men claimed to have seen Miss Newt walking about the Greyfriars grounds here the other night. How could they? With all these monuments, trees and walls, that at night … anyone would have a hard time seeing anything! William spun around in a blur, just before his world shattered in an explosion of light and pain. He crumpled in a dazed, bloody, bruised puddle on the ground. A moment later, the shattered pieces of a burial urn dropped to the ground beside him.

As his eyes crossed and as he fought a losing battle against unconsciousness, he heard the most remarkable sound: A woman’s voice.

“Bloody fool! Have ye no spine?” She hissed like an angry snake at Belker. “Now run off. When those two bloody oafs get here, we’ll take care o’ this one. The doctor’ll be in touch with ye, Dr. Belker.” 

William struggled to turn his head and look at the speaker, but it was like swimming in pure molasses. He saw a definite feminine form dressed in white and black, but his vision was too filled with tears and pain to make anything more clear than her voice and her long locks of dark hair.

The battered young man tried to speak, but his words were a slurred mess. He felt the woman kneel down next to him and pat him softly on his cheek. “Shush now, Ah need ye as healthy as ye can be. After all, ye’ll be no good to me dead.” She smiled, “Well, not as yet.”