Automated Utopia :: Chapter Eight.
Title: Automated Utopia
Author: fenderlove
Rating: This chapter is rated PG-13 though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Pairings: Spike/Fred.
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Automated Utopia:: Chapter Eight.
Automated Utopia :: Chapter Eight.
Traversing the city via the sewer system was not the most glorious methods of travel, but it served its purpose of getting Angel and Wesley to the banks of the Thames nearest Scotland Yard without exposing them to direct sunlight. Entering the main building of the Met, Angel’s shoulders were smoking slightly as they pushed passed patrol officers in the crowded hallways. Without knocking, they stepped into Chief Inspector Appleyard’s office that he shared with Inspector Pleydell. Both Appleyard and Pleydell were in the process of having their morning tea and coffee. The fresh-faced patrol officer who had brought the tea tray instantly paled at the imposing figure standing in the threshold of the office and made a hasty exit, as though sensing an impending storm.
“You’ve got some nerve barging in here unannounced,” Appleyard blustered, his large boil of a head looking evermore like it was going to burst.
Angel turned around and slammed the office door with such force that several framed news clippings and light fixtures fell to the floor with a clash. Pleydell was instantly out of her chair with her hand on her sidearm while Appleyard alarmedly reached out for the cord to the blinds on a nearby window.
“Stop,” Angel spoke with a dangerous calmness.
Surprisingly, both inspectors did. Wesley stood firm behind his employer, impressed with Angel’s ability to control an audience.
“First of all, you will both shut up and listen to me.” Angel continued, “Secondly, you will give me full access to whatever information I need.” He waited a moment to let the words sink in before continuing, “Miss Burkle has been kidnapped. We have reason to believe that those who attacked the trustees as well as ourselves at the British Museum have taken her.”
“So,” Wesley ventured, steeling his regard, “if there is anything that you did not feel the need to share with us before…”
“We turned the investigation over to you,” Pleydell interjected, her sharp face very pinched and sour-looking. “We’re no longer involved in that case until you have some arrests for us to make.”
“For you to take credit for, you mean,” Wesley snapped, his fear for Fred and his animosity for the ill-treatment Angel Investigations received from the official police force came spilling out.
Angel coolly added, “Nor would it be the first time you've withheld information from us.”
Appleyard floundered for a moment, his walrus moustache twitching a bit, “We’ve got nothing to tell you that you don’t already know. If your office girl is missing, then you can file an official report. Now get out of my office before I have both of you thrown before Ol’ Bailey.”
Angel glanced at Wesley. There was profound disappoint on the former Watcher’s face along with some anger. They had no legal grounds to force Appleyard and Pleydell’s assistance. If Scotland Yard did not have the means to solve the case at British Museum themselves, then they could do nothing for Fred.
As they turned to leave, Wesley said pointedly to both inspectors, “If anything happens to Miss Burkle, and you two did nothing to help us, then I hope the guilt will eat away at your consciences.”
A wide berth was made for them as Angel and Wesley made a return trip through the halls. Their anger was palpable as both felt that something was being kept from them.
“Angel!” a female voice called out from behind them. Pleydell was hurriedly chasing after them. They paused for her to catch up. Even though she was wearing trousers like her male counterparts, her heeled shoes and the probable corset beneath her blouse were still impractical for her position. She was gasping for breath by the time she reached them, “It’s a small matter, but there is something a tad unusual about it- Sir Augustus has been sending wires every half-hour since the robbery, begging for immediate access to the remaining artifacts that we had to take as evidence.”
It was indeed a small matter, and Angel knew that there was a chance that the peculiar old curate was probably just being overprotective of museum property, but it was still something that he felt should be looked into. After procuring the address of Sir Augustus from Pleydell, Wesley and Angel headed back through the sewers of London to speak with the Curator of the British Museum in person.
*****
Spike and Lorne had focused their efforts a few blocks away at the Jolly Dogs’ Theatre. Though Beck had been quite put-out, she and most of the Slap Bang Club had been relegated to play baby-minders to little Norman.
Lorne was not at all comfortable with violence, which was why his own lounge Caritas had been a safe haven for those who wanted to patronize it. However, when the safety of one of his dearest friends was at risk, he bit back his revulsion as Spike forced a bartender’s arm behind his back with a sharp twist. Literally strong-arming the theatre’s employees was Spike’s only option as all traces of scent from the alleyway were long-gone by the time he regained consciousness earlier before dawn. Spike had inquired as to the disappearances of the demons from the area and, in particular, what had happened the night previous.
“Now, all of the other fellows here have been more than happy to cooperate with me after a little friendly motivation,” Spike growled, gripping the barkeep’s arm tightly, “How much motivation will it take for you to help me? One break or two?”
“Fuck off, ye cunt,” the man bellowed, obviously in pain.
“Three then? If you say so,” Spike wrenched one of the man’s fingers backwards with a sickening crack.
The bartender howled in pain, “Stop! Wait!”
Spike tilted his head and did indeed wait, letting go of the man’s arm, watching him cradle his broken finger in his other hand, “Well, sir, what have you got for me?”
“There’s been this bloke- priggish-lookin’ li’l boy, always nervous-like glancing’ around and such. Never drinks nuffin. ’e’s been in ‘ere when f’ings ‘ave gone missin’.”
“See? Was that so hard?” Spike smirked. He didn’t let it show on his face, but he was run-ragged with guilt and anxiousness. He backed away from the injured man and shoved his hands in his duster’s pockets.
Back in the alleyway, Lorne said, “Are you all right, Sugar-snap?”
Spike slumped against the brick wall of the theatre, safe in the shadows, “I can’t fail her… I can’t let Fred down, and right now, I’ve got nothing that could help her.”
“We’ve got an unknown priggish boy. It’s not much, but it’s something,” the green-skinned demon smiled softly. “I could make them all sing for me to make sure they’ve told us everything. Well, I’ll let you do the making.”
Spike nodded, “No stone unturned, yeah? If they refuse, I’ll make them sing soprano, permanently.”
*****
The Simmons’ Cab Company was one of only three horse-less hansom companies in all of London, and theirs were the only ones that were painted green. Gunn and Marv had been given the task of investigating the company to find any information about the getaway vehicle that Spike had spotted Fred being pulled into during the attack on the Strand.
There was no need for strong-arming Mr. Flatley, the manager in charge, as Marv’s unkempt, brutish appearance and fangy crooked teeth were enough to garner a certain amount of cooperation. Gunn asked the manager if he had information about any drivers picking up fares near the Jolly Dogs’ the previous night or if any cabs had been stolen.
“You’re not the only one who’s come ‘round here asking about that. That lady-peeler came down here asking just that,” Mr. Flatley responded, trying to put as much distance between Marv and himself as possible.
“Lady-peeler?” Gunn repeated incredulously.
“Yeah, said she was a detective or summat and was asking a lot of questions about missing persons being spotted in one of my cabs, and I told ‘er, “No, ma’am, not in my cabs” though she still was skulking around after that,” Mr. Flatley explained.
“She wasn’t wrong, sir. Just yesterday a dear friend of mine was taken into what witnesses are certain was one of your cabs. Are you positive no fares were being picked up down there?” Gunn replied firmly, placing his steam cannon pistol on the counter as a gentle threat.
Staring frightened at the pistol, the manager gulped and stammered, “N-no, there were no drivers down in the theatre district, b-but… I did rent out a cab for several nights over the past few weeks, privately.”
“Do you have the name of the person who rented it?” Gunn grew more excited that he was finally on the right trail.
“No, she paid cash. It was an amount large enough to let me know that it was meant to not be followed with questions,” Mr. Flatley stated, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. “She was a tall lady, the mousy sort. She always had a boy with her that fidgeted something fierce. She took the same cab last night and brought it back early this morning like she always does. Left it a right mess too.”
Gunn requested to be shown to the cab that the woman had used. Hoping to rid himself of the imposing gentlemen as soon as possible, Mr. Flatley readily agreed and did so, leaving them to their own devices. Opening the passenger compartment, Gunn’s senses were instantly assaulted by a rather fishy odor, and he covered his mouth and nose with his jacket sleeve.
“Betta George has definitely been here,” Marv said, sniffing about the cab. “Lotta fear too soaked up in such a small space.”
Gunn noted a large amount dust coating the floor of the compartment. Running his hand over the surface, he felt the particles within the dust between his fingers. Marv watched him curiously and then imitated his movements. The werewolf had always been an avid reader of penny dreadful crime stories, but the forensic methods of an actual detective was proving to be slightly less thrilling but far more interesting.
“Seems like there’s mostly sawdust,” Gunn stated, opening up his jacket and removing several butcher paper sachets. Tossing a few to Marv, he said, “Gather up what you can. We can give it to Fred…” Gunn paused, a pang of fear clenched his heart. Though things between Fred and himself had not worked out romantically, he had and always would hold feelings of dearest friendship for her. He coughed to hide the catch in his throat and continued, “Normally, we would give this to Fred to examine, but it will be up to us to determine if it has any more secrets to yield.”
Both men scooped up the granules of sawdust along with tiny bits of shredded newspaper and curled bits of straw into the sachets. They then moved to the driver’s compartment where there was more dirt.
Gunn moved his hand over his smooth-shorn head, “I was hoping for a little more than sweepings.”
“What’s this?” Marv pulled a miniscule scrap of newsprint from between the seat and the door next to the steering column. He passed the paper to Gunn, who unfolded it to reveal the numbers 4 and 7 followed by an unreadable character.
“This,” Gunn smiled, “is more like what I was hoping for.”
*****
Fred was suffering from an intense migraine after trying her hand at translating the books before her. She had methodically attempted to discern words from the mixture of Ancient and Modern Greek from the largest book. She had lost herself in scribbling what she supposed was the phonetics of what she was reading. While some words like “utopia” and one that appeared to be “dystopia” stood out in their familiarity, other words were lost to her. When direct translation proved impossible, Fred moved to counting syllables of the words on the page. Working with numbers became far more comfortable. She tapped her fingers on the desk as she sounded out each word, searching for patterns or anything of significant repetition.
Looking at the two smaller books with much scrutiny, Fred began tallying the reoccurrence of the unknown characters. If the books were related as obviously her captors thought they were, then Fred decided to make an intelligent assumption- the syllable repeated with the most frequency in the largest book could be the same in smaller volumes. After feeling confident with the evidentiary support, Fred worked tirelessly, matching syllables to the characters. When she ran out of paper, she began writing on the wooden table.
George was snoring softly, rolled inside of the thin blanket on the cot. The sound of the door being unlocked, however, caused him to wake, trapped in the blanket when he tried to float to a safer distance. A mask figure entered wearing a cloak and carrying a tray of food. This person was not the same as before, shorter and of a stockier build. Behind the mesh mask covering the person’s face heavy breathing could be heard. The figure’s hands shook so violently that the tray rattled.
“I’ve brought you something to eat,” the voice was deeper in pitch than the person who had been to Fred’s cell before, but it was still distorted strangely. The figure’ manner of speaking was rather abrupt as well, less excitable than the other.
Fred attempted to be as pleasant as possible, clearing a space on the table for the tray. She smiled, hoping to garner favour with her progress, “I think it will only be a few more hours now.” She held up one of her papers covered in scribbling.
“Good,” came the curt reply, and the figure was gone, the door locked once more.
Betta George floated close to the tray of food, his stomach gurgling. There was a hunk of bread, some cheese, cold meats, and a small teapot.
Fred poured herself a cup of tea and said, “Help yourself. You’re likely more famished than I am.”
Lifting up the bread with his fin, George needed no further encouraging and gobbled it up. “Thank you, Miss! I haven’t eaten anything for days!”
“It’s Fred, if you please,” she said, trying to eat one of the crumbs of cheese, but it was gummy and not very appetizing. Leaning her head back, she thought to herself that she had to find a way to escape. Fred looked towards the door and then to the sticky bit of cheese in her hand.
“You’re plotting something,” George spoke with apprehension in his voice. “Spike gets that very same look when he’s plotting something, and I’m not sure how long you’ve been acquainted with Spike but… his planning skills give me the fear.”
Fred laughed, her eyes happy and alive for the first time since she had been taken prisoner, “I do believe I have come up with our mode of escape.”
*****
Angel and Wesley had mucked through the sewers and back alleys to return to the British Museum to speak with Sir Augustus. Wesley had been desperate to ask the old curator how he could claim to be such an expert about ancient artifacts when he had been willing to put possible fraudulent objects on display. As a former Watcher Academy scholar, the very idea of such arrogant purveyance of misinformation was wholly repugnant to him.
Knowing that Sir Augustus was an excitable and easily startled individual, Angel took the step of knocking on the curate’s office door. However, the knocks went unnoticed. Shuffling noises could be heard from within while Sir Augustus muttered incessantly.
“Where is it?! Breedlove, have you seen the… Breedlove! Dammit, Phyllydia! … Oh, that’s right, you’ve taken the day off…”
Angel knocked on the door once more but received no other answer than more loud ramblings. Wesley motioned for Angel to try the door. Pushing it open was more difficult than Angel bargained for as it appeared that Sir Augustus had barricaded himself in by putting stacks of books and papers in front of the door.
“Pardon the intrusion, Sir Augustus,” Angel spoke, wedging himself throw the narrow opening he was able to shoulder through, followed by Wesley.
The Chief Curator of the British Museum was scrounging through small crates and drawers, pulling at his frazzled white hair, taking no notice of the men standing in the middle of his office. The room was in an incredible state of disarray, boxes and overflowing specimen cabinets everywhere. Paper on every available surface from floor to ceiling.
“Is that you, Phyllydia? Tell Silas to bring in the tea,” Sir Augustus said, throwing books from a shelf over his desk to the floor as though he was searching for something.
Wesley gave a small cough, “Sir, we are the detectives who spoke to you the other night about the robbery-”
Sir Augustus whipped around, adjusting his spectacles, “Oh! Oh, you definitely are! Have you found my artifacts? Those inspectors from the Met are just dreadful about responding to me!” He hurriedly shuffled from behind his desk.
“Not exactly, sir,” Angel replied, “We have some more questions to ask you about what was taken.”
Crestfallen, the elderly man slumped into one of his armchairs, papers spilling to the floor as he did, “Very well.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“If you would, could you tell us a little more about how the artifacts came to the Museum, their history?” Angel was trying to keep his temper in check. Normally, a friend taken hostage did not instill the greatest patience in him.
“Well, Dr. Daniel Northead was a wealthy country scholar. He was of a formerly noble family that had seen a negative turn of fortune, you know the story. Two years ago, he wanted to do a bit of travel and study abroad. The Museum agreed to fund his expedition to Cyprus.”
“That was awfully generous of the Museum to bestow such a gift on a simple country doctor,” Wesley’s eyed narrowed.
“Nonsense,” Sir Augustus scoffed, “Even the most relaxed expeditions can be dangerous, so we are always happy to have a distinguished gentleman willing to make a journey. Not to mention, there was the matter of our agreement.”
“An agreement?” Angel inquired.
“Yes, his bequeathing of the artifacts to the Museum was not mere generosity on his part. He agreed to leave his collection to us upon his death. Granted, it happened a little sooner than expected, hence the hasty renovation for his gallery.”
“Dr. Northead was a young man, then? In good health?” Wesley asked.
“Certainly! Wouldn’t want a sick man on an expedition! He probably picked up an illness abroad. It happens on occasion. I remember on a trip to Tanzania I picked up a particularly bad case of malaria…”
“Did anyone inquire into purchasing the artifacts from the Museum? Any of his family?”
“His will specifically stipulated that his artifacts not be separated lest they be returned to his family, though it did not appear that he had any left. I believe that it was just his way of making sure he had a sizeable gallery. Posthumous glory and all that,” Sir Augustus picked at a bit of lint on his cardigan.
“And as Chief Curate you were the one who authenticated each piece,” Wesley stated.
The old man was up in a flash, moving to one of his enormous bookshelves. He picked up a framed tintype and said with an aloof tone, “This is when I was given a banquet in my honour by the Queen after a success dig in Cairo. That was the best almond pudding I ever had…”
“Sir Augustus, you did authenticate the artifacts after Dr. Northead returned from Cyprus, didn’t you?” Wesley's tone was more appalled than angry.
“Young man, I have authenticated more objects than you could count, and in the past decade, my official duties as Chief Curator have kept me quite busy,” Sir Augustus shook his head. “Since there were other trustees at the ruins in Palaepaphos to attest to authentication on-site, I deferred such unnecessary judgments to Dr. Breedlove. She’s is quite capable, an expert in Classical Greek and Mediterranean art and culture.”
Wesley took that opportunity to confront the curate, “If she is as you say, could you explain to me how someone so knowledgeable could possible mistake a hodgepodge of Ancient and Modern Greek for Arcado-Cypriot? Or misidentify pottery that cannot be more than a hundred years old for the genuine article?”
Sir Augustus looked stunned. He shook his head vigorously, patting at his jacket’s pockets, “That’s not possible. I w-would never allow such a thing to happen…” His voice trailed off nervously. Then, he lifted up a small statue from his desk and asserted, “I don’t need anyone to do a thorough evaluation for me. Just by looking I could tell you the specific polis this Kore came from, the very year it was made!”
Wesley was fairly certain that the Kore was one of the little soapstone reproductions from the Museum’s souvenir shoppe. It was very apparent that while Sir Augustus might have once been an authority of antiquities, his mind had become too addled in his advancing age to carry on anything besides charity and administrative work.
As they left Sir Augustus to his ramblings, they both felt that they would be better suited discussing these discrepancies with Dr. Breedlove herself. Angel checked his pocket watch, noting it was time to rendezvous back at Fairfax Street.
*****
As evening approached, everyone had gathered around the circular dining room table to conference about what information they had accumulated during the past two days. Firstly, a nervous young man had been spotted in the Jolly Dogs’ Theatre on the night Fred disappeared as well as on evenings that several demons had last been seen. Secondly, it was possible that the same young man with the fidgety disposition had been in the company of a lanky woman who had rented the Simmons’ Cab that had held Betta George and had been used in Fred’s kidnapping. Lastly, the non-descript looking’ “homunculi” that had attacked the curates at the British Museum had also been present as an offensive force that had beaten Spike in the alleyway by the theatre, leading them to infer that the events were related. Thieving of facsimile artifacts, demon kidnappings, and the capture of Miss Winifred Burkle: what did it all mean?
“Sir Augustus appeared very distraught when he learned that Dr. Breedlove had not properly authenticated the artifacts,” Wesley spoke, taking notes from everyone.
“More like he did not want to believe it,” Angel stated. “It’s an impossibility that someone with her credentials would make such a mistake.”
“In any case, I think we should pay her a visit,” Wesley began.
Spike growled softly and then gave a swift kick to the table, rattling china teacups against their saucers. Anna, who had been helping Lorne with the service, nearly dropped the teapot she was holding in surprise. Spike gave an apologetic wave and said “I feel like we’re doing nothing. I want to be out there, doing something, anything.”
“And what do you propose we do, hm?” Welsey asked tersely. “We need to take a look at the facts before we go gallivanting off headlong into a situation we know nothing about.”
Spike’s jaw ticked in frustration, “I know that! I just wish the facts could actually tell us what the bloody hell is going on!”
Angel reiterated, “We’ve got to go through our findings and make a logical…”
“Sod the logic! When’s logic ever done a bloody thing to explain anything that happens to any of us! Fred’s out there, and who knows what’s happening to her!”
Wesley slammed his hand down on the table, “We all care about her, you idiot man-child! Do you think this little show proves that your attraction to her is something other than prurience-?”
“Don’t even think to presume you know anything about how I feel, you pathetic tosser! Just because you never had the stones to tell her that you fancied her-” Spike was up on his feet just as Wesley gave the impression that he was about to come across the table.
Before either man could come to blows, Angel yanked Spike back into his chair while warding Wesley off with a very no-nonsense glare, “Gentlemen, you can settle this later. Gunn, I believe you were about to share what else you and St. John found at the cab company.”
“Heh, St. John? ‘Cause of his hair shirt, right? That’s pretty funny,” Marv chuckled, picking his nails with one of the butter knives. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
Gunn rolled his eyes exasperatedly, “Well, there are a few more things.” He handed the small packets of particulates taken from the cab to Wesley along with the torn piece of paper, “I hope that it can tell us where they’ve been or where they’re going.”
Wesley began examining the paper, “Interesting.” He pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, “It could be the start of a combination or an address.”
“… or left by a previous cabbie,” Spike muttered darkly, but was silenced from continuing further by a stern look from Angel’s direction.
“I will need to examine this along with these bits of sediment to determine their value,” Wesley gathered up his notes and the small paper packets.
“Right, Gunn and I will go visit with Dr. Breedlove,” Angel stood up, putting on his jacket. As Spike started towards the door, Angel stopped, “No, you’re staying here.”
“The hell I am!” Spike looked stricken.
Angel grabbed the younger vampire by the scruff of the neck and pulled him into the hall, “Listen to me, if you want to help Fred, then you will help Wesley process this evidence as quickly and effectively as possible.”
Spike’s angry expression suddenly dissipated, and he nodded, feeling like a child being dressed-down by a teacher. He would do anything if it meant getting Fred back, but he had to remind himself that sometimes the smallest of clues could lead to her recovery. With a silent plea to whatever kind-spirited deities that might exist in the expanse of the universe to keep his Winifred safe until some evidence could be isolated to lead to the orchestration of her rescue, Spike followed the former Watcher into his study to sift through what Gunn had collected at the Simmons’ Cab Company.
To be continued...
Previous Chapters :: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six :: Seven.
x-posted @ nekid_spike and darker_spike.
Author: fenderlove
Rating: This chapter is rated PG-13 though the overall story is rated R.
Summary: This fanfiction is set in a Victorian SteamPunk Alternate Universe in which inventions such as Charles Babbage's Difference Engine and the harnessing of steam-power have launched a technological revolution far earlier in history. The time is 1885, and Angel Investigations is working for Scotland Yard. A new case involving a missing artifact from the British Museum and a demonic cult sends the wayward detectives on a whirlwind adventure to reclaim the object before all is lost.
Pairings: Spike/Fred.
(Click for full-sized banner.)
Automated Utopia:: Chapter Eight.
Automated Utopia :: Chapter Eight.
Traversing the city via the sewer system was not the most glorious methods of travel, but it served its purpose of getting Angel and Wesley to the banks of the Thames nearest Scotland Yard without exposing them to direct sunlight. Entering the main building of the Met, Angel’s shoulders were smoking slightly as they pushed passed patrol officers in the crowded hallways. Without knocking, they stepped into Chief Inspector Appleyard’s office that he shared with Inspector Pleydell. Both Appleyard and Pleydell were in the process of having their morning tea and coffee. The fresh-faced patrol officer who had brought the tea tray instantly paled at the imposing figure standing in the threshold of the office and made a hasty exit, as though sensing an impending storm.
“You’ve got some nerve barging in here unannounced,” Appleyard blustered, his large boil of a head looking evermore like it was going to burst.
Angel turned around and slammed the office door with such force that several framed news clippings and light fixtures fell to the floor with a clash. Pleydell was instantly out of her chair with her hand on her sidearm while Appleyard alarmedly reached out for the cord to the blinds on a nearby window.
“Stop,” Angel spoke with a dangerous calmness.
Surprisingly, both inspectors did. Wesley stood firm behind his employer, impressed with Angel’s ability to control an audience.
“First of all, you will both shut up and listen to me.” Angel continued, “Secondly, you will give me full access to whatever information I need.” He waited a moment to let the words sink in before continuing, “Miss Burkle has been kidnapped. We have reason to believe that those who attacked the trustees as well as ourselves at the British Museum have taken her.”
“So,” Wesley ventured, steeling his regard, “if there is anything that you did not feel the need to share with us before…”
“We turned the investigation over to you,” Pleydell interjected, her sharp face very pinched and sour-looking. “We’re no longer involved in that case until you have some arrests for us to make.”
“For you to take credit for, you mean,” Wesley snapped, his fear for Fred and his animosity for the ill-treatment Angel Investigations received from the official police force came spilling out.
Angel coolly added, “Nor would it be the first time you've withheld information from us.”
Appleyard floundered for a moment, his walrus moustache twitching a bit, “We’ve got nothing to tell you that you don’t already know. If your office girl is missing, then you can file an official report. Now get out of my office before I have both of you thrown before Ol’ Bailey.”
Angel glanced at Wesley. There was profound disappoint on the former Watcher’s face along with some anger. They had no legal grounds to force Appleyard and Pleydell’s assistance. If Scotland Yard did not have the means to solve the case at British Museum themselves, then they could do nothing for Fred.
As they turned to leave, Wesley said pointedly to both inspectors, “If anything happens to Miss Burkle, and you two did nothing to help us, then I hope the guilt will eat away at your consciences.”
A wide berth was made for them as Angel and Wesley made a return trip through the halls. Their anger was palpable as both felt that something was being kept from them.
“Angel!” a female voice called out from behind them. Pleydell was hurriedly chasing after them. They paused for her to catch up. Even though she was wearing trousers like her male counterparts, her heeled shoes and the probable corset beneath her blouse were still impractical for her position. She was gasping for breath by the time she reached them, “It’s a small matter, but there is something a tad unusual about it- Sir Augustus has been sending wires every half-hour since the robbery, begging for immediate access to the remaining artifacts that we had to take as evidence.”
It was indeed a small matter, and Angel knew that there was a chance that the peculiar old curate was probably just being overprotective of museum property, but it was still something that he felt should be looked into. After procuring the address of Sir Augustus from Pleydell, Wesley and Angel headed back through the sewers of London to speak with the Curator of the British Museum in person.
*****
Spike and Lorne had focused their efforts a few blocks away at the Jolly Dogs’ Theatre. Though Beck had been quite put-out, she and most of the Slap Bang Club had been relegated to play baby-minders to little Norman.
Lorne was not at all comfortable with violence, which was why his own lounge Caritas had been a safe haven for those who wanted to patronize it. However, when the safety of one of his dearest friends was at risk, he bit back his revulsion as Spike forced a bartender’s arm behind his back with a sharp twist. Literally strong-arming the theatre’s employees was Spike’s only option as all traces of scent from the alleyway were long-gone by the time he regained consciousness earlier before dawn. Spike had inquired as to the disappearances of the demons from the area and, in particular, what had happened the night previous.
“Now, all of the other fellows here have been more than happy to cooperate with me after a little friendly motivation,” Spike growled, gripping the barkeep’s arm tightly, “How much motivation will it take for you to help me? One break or two?”
“Fuck off, ye cunt,” the man bellowed, obviously in pain.
“Three then? If you say so,” Spike wrenched one of the man’s fingers backwards with a sickening crack.
The bartender howled in pain, “Stop! Wait!”
Spike tilted his head and did indeed wait, letting go of the man’s arm, watching him cradle his broken finger in his other hand, “Well, sir, what have you got for me?”
“There’s been this bloke- priggish-lookin’ li’l boy, always nervous-like glancing’ around and such. Never drinks nuffin. ’e’s been in ‘ere when f’ings ‘ave gone missin’.”
“See? Was that so hard?” Spike smirked. He didn’t let it show on his face, but he was run-ragged with guilt and anxiousness. He backed away from the injured man and shoved his hands in his duster’s pockets.
Back in the alleyway, Lorne said, “Are you all right, Sugar-snap?”
Spike slumped against the brick wall of the theatre, safe in the shadows, “I can’t fail her… I can’t let Fred down, and right now, I’ve got nothing that could help her.”
“We’ve got an unknown priggish boy. It’s not much, but it’s something,” the green-skinned demon smiled softly. “I could make them all sing for me to make sure they’ve told us everything. Well, I’ll let you do the making.”
Spike nodded, “No stone unturned, yeah? If they refuse, I’ll make them sing soprano, permanently.”
*****
The Simmons’ Cab Company was one of only three horse-less hansom companies in all of London, and theirs were the only ones that were painted green. Gunn and Marv had been given the task of investigating the company to find any information about the getaway vehicle that Spike had spotted Fred being pulled into during the attack on the Strand.
There was no need for strong-arming Mr. Flatley, the manager in charge, as Marv’s unkempt, brutish appearance and fangy crooked teeth were enough to garner a certain amount of cooperation. Gunn asked the manager if he had information about any drivers picking up fares near the Jolly Dogs’ the previous night or if any cabs had been stolen.
“You’re not the only one who’s come ‘round here asking about that. That lady-peeler came down here asking just that,” Mr. Flatley responded, trying to put as much distance between Marv and himself as possible.
“Lady-peeler?” Gunn repeated incredulously.
“Yeah, said she was a detective or summat and was asking a lot of questions about missing persons being spotted in one of my cabs, and I told ‘er, “No, ma’am, not in my cabs” though she still was skulking around after that,” Mr. Flatley explained.
“She wasn’t wrong, sir. Just yesterday a dear friend of mine was taken into what witnesses are certain was one of your cabs. Are you positive no fares were being picked up down there?” Gunn replied firmly, placing his steam cannon pistol on the counter as a gentle threat.
Staring frightened at the pistol, the manager gulped and stammered, “N-no, there were no drivers down in the theatre district, b-but… I did rent out a cab for several nights over the past few weeks, privately.”
“Do you have the name of the person who rented it?” Gunn grew more excited that he was finally on the right trail.
“No, she paid cash. It was an amount large enough to let me know that it was meant to not be followed with questions,” Mr. Flatley stated, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. “She was a tall lady, the mousy sort. She always had a boy with her that fidgeted something fierce. She took the same cab last night and brought it back early this morning like she always does. Left it a right mess too.”
Gunn requested to be shown to the cab that the woman had used. Hoping to rid himself of the imposing gentlemen as soon as possible, Mr. Flatley readily agreed and did so, leaving them to their own devices. Opening the passenger compartment, Gunn’s senses were instantly assaulted by a rather fishy odor, and he covered his mouth and nose with his jacket sleeve.
“Betta George has definitely been here,” Marv said, sniffing about the cab. “Lotta fear too soaked up in such a small space.”
Gunn noted a large amount dust coating the floor of the compartment. Running his hand over the surface, he felt the particles within the dust between his fingers. Marv watched him curiously and then imitated his movements. The werewolf had always been an avid reader of penny dreadful crime stories, but the forensic methods of an actual detective was proving to be slightly less thrilling but far more interesting.
“Seems like there’s mostly sawdust,” Gunn stated, opening up his jacket and removing several butcher paper sachets. Tossing a few to Marv, he said, “Gather up what you can. We can give it to Fred…” Gunn paused, a pang of fear clenched his heart. Though things between Fred and himself had not worked out romantically, he had and always would hold feelings of dearest friendship for her. He coughed to hide the catch in his throat and continued, “Normally, we would give this to Fred to examine, but it will be up to us to determine if it has any more secrets to yield.”
Both men scooped up the granules of sawdust along with tiny bits of shredded newspaper and curled bits of straw into the sachets. They then moved to the driver’s compartment where there was more dirt.
Gunn moved his hand over his smooth-shorn head, “I was hoping for a little more than sweepings.”
“What’s this?” Marv pulled a miniscule scrap of newsprint from between the seat and the door next to the steering column. He passed the paper to Gunn, who unfolded it to reveal the numbers 4 and 7 followed by an unreadable character.
“This,” Gunn smiled, “is more like what I was hoping for.”
*****
Fred was suffering from an intense migraine after trying her hand at translating the books before her. She had methodically attempted to discern words from the mixture of Ancient and Modern Greek from the largest book. She had lost herself in scribbling what she supposed was the phonetics of what she was reading. While some words like “utopia” and one that appeared to be “dystopia” stood out in their familiarity, other words were lost to her. When direct translation proved impossible, Fred moved to counting syllables of the words on the page. Working with numbers became far more comfortable. She tapped her fingers on the desk as she sounded out each word, searching for patterns or anything of significant repetition.
Looking at the two smaller books with much scrutiny, Fred began tallying the reoccurrence of the unknown characters. If the books were related as obviously her captors thought they were, then Fred decided to make an intelligent assumption- the syllable repeated with the most frequency in the largest book could be the same in smaller volumes. After feeling confident with the evidentiary support, Fred worked tirelessly, matching syllables to the characters. When she ran out of paper, she began writing on the wooden table.
George was snoring softly, rolled inside of the thin blanket on the cot. The sound of the door being unlocked, however, caused him to wake, trapped in the blanket when he tried to float to a safer distance. A mask figure entered wearing a cloak and carrying a tray of food. This person was not the same as before, shorter and of a stockier build. Behind the mesh mask covering the person’s face heavy breathing could be heard. The figure’s hands shook so violently that the tray rattled.
“I’ve brought you something to eat,” the voice was deeper in pitch than the person who had been to Fred’s cell before, but it was still distorted strangely. The figure’ manner of speaking was rather abrupt as well, less excitable than the other.
Fred attempted to be as pleasant as possible, clearing a space on the table for the tray. She smiled, hoping to garner favour with her progress, “I think it will only be a few more hours now.” She held up one of her papers covered in scribbling.
“Good,” came the curt reply, and the figure was gone, the door locked once more.
Betta George floated close to the tray of food, his stomach gurgling. There was a hunk of bread, some cheese, cold meats, and a small teapot.
Fred poured herself a cup of tea and said, “Help yourself. You’re likely more famished than I am.”
Lifting up the bread with his fin, George needed no further encouraging and gobbled it up. “Thank you, Miss! I haven’t eaten anything for days!”
“It’s Fred, if you please,” she said, trying to eat one of the crumbs of cheese, but it was gummy and not very appetizing. Leaning her head back, she thought to herself that she had to find a way to escape. Fred looked towards the door and then to the sticky bit of cheese in her hand.
“You’re plotting something,” George spoke with apprehension in his voice. “Spike gets that very same look when he’s plotting something, and I’m not sure how long you’ve been acquainted with Spike but… his planning skills give me the fear.”
Fred laughed, her eyes happy and alive for the first time since she had been taken prisoner, “I do believe I have come up with our mode of escape.”
*****
Angel and Wesley had mucked through the sewers and back alleys to return to the British Museum to speak with Sir Augustus. Wesley had been desperate to ask the old curator how he could claim to be such an expert about ancient artifacts when he had been willing to put possible fraudulent objects on display. As a former Watcher Academy scholar, the very idea of such arrogant purveyance of misinformation was wholly repugnant to him.
Knowing that Sir Augustus was an excitable and easily startled individual, Angel took the step of knocking on the curate’s office door. However, the knocks went unnoticed. Shuffling noises could be heard from within while Sir Augustus muttered incessantly.
“Where is it?! Breedlove, have you seen the… Breedlove! Dammit, Phyllydia! … Oh, that’s right, you’ve taken the day off…”
Angel knocked on the door once more but received no other answer than more loud ramblings. Wesley motioned for Angel to try the door. Pushing it open was more difficult than Angel bargained for as it appeared that Sir Augustus had barricaded himself in by putting stacks of books and papers in front of the door.
“Pardon the intrusion, Sir Augustus,” Angel spoke, wedging himself throw the narrow opening he was able to shoulder through, followed by Wesley.
The Chief Curator of the British Museum was scrounging through small crates and drawers, pulling at his frazzled white hair, taking no notice of the men standing in the middle of his office. The room was in an incredible state of disarray, boxes and overflowing specimen cabinets everywhere. Paper on every available surface from floor to ceiling.
“Is that you, Phyllydia? Tell Silas to bring in the tea,” Sir Augustus said, throwing books from a shelf over his desk to the floor as though he was searching for something.
Wesley gave a small cough, “Sir, we are the detectives who spoke to you the other night about the robbery-”
Sir Augustus whipped around, adjusting his spectacles, “Oh! Oh, you definitely are! Have you found my artifacts? Those inspectors from the Met are just dreadful about responding to me!” He hurriedly shuffled from behind his desk.
“Not exactly, sir,” Angel replied, “We have some more questions to ask you about what was taken.”
Crestfallen, the elderly man slumped into one of his armchairs, papers spilling to the floor as he did, “Very well.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“If you would, could you tell us a little more about how the artifacts came to the Museum, their history?” Angel was trying to keep his temper in check. Normally, a friend taken hostage did not instill the greatest patience in him.
“Well, Dr. Daniel Northead was a wealthy country scholar. He was of a formerly noble family that had seen a negative turn of fortune, you know the story. Two years ago, he wanted to do a bit of travel and study abroad. The Museum agreed to fund his expedition to Cyprus.”
“That was awfully generous of the Museum to bestow such a gift on a simple country doctor,” Wesley’s eyed narrowed.
“Nonsense,” Sir Augustus scoffed, “Even the most relaxed expeditions can be dangerous, so we are always happy to have a distinguished gentleman willing to make a journey. Not to mention, there was the matter of our agreement.”
“An agreement?” Angel inquired.
“Yes, his bequeathing of the artifacts to the Museum was not mere generosity on his part. He agreed to leave his collection to us upon his death. Granted, it happened a little sooner than expected, hence the hasty renovation for his gallery.”
“Dr. Northead was a young man, then? In good health?” Wesley asked.
“Certainly! Wouldn’t want a sick man on an expedition! He probably picked up an illness abroad. It happens on occasion. I remember on a trip to Tanzania I picked up a particularly bad case of malaria…”
“Did anyone inquire into purchasing the artifacts from the Museum? Any of his family?”
“His will specifically stipulated that his artifacts not be separated lest they be returned to his family, though it did not appear that he had any left. I believe that it was just his way of making sure he had a sizeable gallery. Posthumous glory and all that,” Sir Augustus picked at a bit of lint on his cardigan.
“And as Chief Curate you were the one who authenticated each piece,” Wesley stated.
The old man was up in a flash, moving to one of his enormous bookshelves. He picked up a framed tintype and said with an aloof tone, “This is when I was given a banquet in my honour by the Queen after a success dig in Cairo. That was the best almond pudding I ever had…”
“Sir Augustus, you did authenticate the artifacts after Dr. Northead returned from Cyprus, didn’t you?” Wesley's tone was more appalled than angry.
“Young man, I have authenticated more objects than you could count, and in the past decade, my official duties as Chief Curator have kept me quite busy,” Sir Augustus shook his head. “Since there were other trustees at the ruins in Palaepaphos to attest to authentication on-site, I deferred such unnecessary judgments to Dr. Breedlove. She’s is quite capable, an expert in Classical Greek and Mediterranean art and culture.”
Wesley took that opportunity to confront the curate, “If she is as you say, could you explain to me how someone so knowledgeable could possible mistake a hodgepodge of Ancient and Modern Greek for Arcado-Cypriot? Or misidentify pottery that cannot be more than a hundred years old for the genuine article?”
Sir Augustus looked stunned. He shook his head vigorously, patting at his jacket’s pockets, “That’s not possible. I w-would never allow such a thing to happen…” His voice trailed off nervously. Then, he lifted up a small statue from his desk and asserted, “I don’t need anyone to do a thorough evaluation for me. Just by looking I could tell you the specific polis this Kore came from, the very year it was made!”
Wesley was fairly certain that the Kore was one of the little soapstone reproductions from the Museum’s souvenir shoppe. It was very apparent that while Sir Augustus might have once been an authority of antiquities, his mind had become too addled in his advancing age to carry on anything besides charity and administrative work.
As they left Sir Augustus to his ramblings, they both felt that they would be better suited discussing these discrepancies with Dr. Breedlove herself. Angel checked his pocket watch, noting it was time to rendezvous back at Fairfax Street.
*****
As evening approached, everyone had gathered around the circular dining room table to conference about what information they had accumulated during the past two days. Firstly, a nervous young man had been spotted in the Jolly Dogs’ Theatre on the night Fred disappeared as well as on evenings that several demons had last been seen. Secondly, it was possible that the same young man with the fidgety disposition had been in the company of a lanky woman who had rented the Simmons’ Cab that had held Betta George and had been used in Fred’s kidnapping. Lastly, the non-descript looking’ “homunculi” that had attacked the curates at the British Museum had also been present as an offensive force that had beaten Spike in the alleyway by the theatre, leading them to infer that the events were related. Thieving of facsimile artifacts, demon kidnappings, and the capture of Miss Winifred Burkle: what did it all mean?
“Sir Augustus appeared very distraught when he learned that Dr. Breedlove had not properly authenticated the artifacts,” Wesley spoke, taking notes from everyone.
“More like he did not want to believe it,” Angel stated. “It’s an impossibility that someone with her credentials would make such a mistake.”
“In any case, I think we should pay her a visit,” Wesley began.
Spike growled softly and then gave a swift kick to the table, rattling china teacups against their saucers. Anna, who had been helping Lorne with the service, nearly dropped the teapot she was holding in surprise. Spike gave an apologetic wave and said “I feel like we’re doing nothing. I want to be out there, doing something, anything.”
“And what do you propose we do, hm?” Welsey asked tersely. “We need to take a look at the facts before we go gallivanting off headlong into a situation we know nothing about.”
Spike’s jaw ticked in frustration, “I know that! I just wish the facts could actually tell us what the bloody hell is going on!”
Angel reiterated, “We’ve got to go through our findings and make a logical…”
“Sod the logic! When’s logic ever done a bloody thing to explain anything that happens to any of us! Fred’s out there, and who knows what’s happening to her!”
Wesley slammed his hand down on the table, “We all care about her, you idiot man-child! Do you think this little show proves that your attraction to her is something other than prurience-?”
“Don’t even think to presume you know anything about how I feel, you pathetic tosser! Just because you never had the stones to tell her that you fancied her-” Spike was up on his feet just as Wesley gave the impression that he was about to come across the table.
Before either man could come to blows, Angel yanked Spike back into his chair while warding Wesley off with a very no-nonsense glare, “Gentlemen, you can settle this later. Gunn, I believe you were about to share what else you and St. John found at the cab company.”
“Heh, St. John? ‘Cause of his hair shirt, right? That’s pretty funny,” Marv chuckled, picking his nails with one of the butter knives. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
Gunn rolled his eyes exasperatedly, “Well, there are a few more things.” He handed the small packets of particulates taken from the cab to Wesley along with the torn piece of paper, “I hope that it can tell us where they’ve been or where they’re going.”
Wesley began examining the paper, “Interesting.” He pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, “It could be the start of a combination or an address.”
“… or left by a previous cabbie,” Spike muttered darkly, but was silenced from continuing further by a stern look from Angel’s direction.
“I will need to examine this along with these bits of sediment to determine their value,” Wesley gathered up his notes and the small paper packets.
“Right, Gunn and I will go visit with Dr. Breedlove,” Angel stood up, putting on his jacket. As Spike started towards the door, Angel stopped, “No, you’re staying here.”
“The hell I am!” Spike looked stricken.
Angel grabbed the younger vampire by the scruff of the neck and pulled him into the hall, “Listen to me, if you want to help Fred, then you will help Wesley process this evidence as quickly and effectively as possible.”
Spike’s angry expression suddenly dissipated, and he nodded, feeling like a child being dressed-down by a teacher. He would do anything if it meant getting Fred back, but he had to remind himself that sometimes the smallest of clues could lead to her recovery. With a silent plea to whatever kind-spirited deities that might exist in the expanse of the universe to keep his Winifred safe until some evidence could be isolated to lead to the orchestration of her rescue, Spike followed the former Watcher into his study to sift through what Gunn had collected at the Simmons’ Cab Company.
To be continued...
Previous Chapters :: One :: Two :: Three :: Four :: Five :: Six :: Seven.
x-posted @ nekid_spike and darker_spike.