Red Dog Conspiracy: A Noir Future Steampunk Crime Family Saga

Dr. Salmon dosed Tony with a purgative, yet it was many hours before he felt safe to leave us.

I couldn’t sleep. I might have killed Tony, and it haunted me.

The doctor stayed in a guest room, returning every few hours to listen to Tony’s heart. Tony woke with a terrible headache, dreadfully ill, and little memory of the night before.

“You must never drink alcohol when you take opium,” Dr. Salmon said. “I told you this before. And no extra doses. Do you hear me? If your wife hadn’t been awake, you’d be dead now.”

We sat in Tony’s room. Tony, bent over his tea table, leaned on one elbow. He nodded, his face pale and sweaty. But his breathing was normal, as were his eyes. I never wanted to see them look that way again.

Dr. Salmon got up and paced around the room, stretching his arms over his head. I held a damp washcloth, wiping Tony’s brow.

A soft knock came at the door, and Dr. Salmon opened it. Michaels came in with a tea tray, and Tony gestured for him to put it on the table.

Dr. Salmon put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “The liquids will help, sir. As much as you can drink for the next day or two.” He glanced at Michaels. “Get him a pitcher of water.”

“Yes, sir.” Michaels poured a cup of tea for each of us then left, while Dr. Salmon went out into the hallway.

Tony leaned back and sighed. “The last thing I remember is holding your hand at dinner.” He gave me a weak smile. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

I brushed his hair back from his face. “I’m just glad you’re better,” I sobbed.

“Ah, now,” he took my hand and kissed it, “all will be well.” He took his cup of tea with his other hand and drank it down. “See? I’m obeying orders. Being ill is thirsty work.” He smiled. “Let’s see the mail.”

I wiped my face, then took up the stack of Tony’s mail and sorted through them. “Here’s one from your father.”

Tony opened the letter and read through it, scratching his arm from time to time.

“Hmm. Your wayward reporter, what was his name … Peak?”

“Thrace Pike.”

“Oh, yes, Pike … well, Mr. Pike has been outed as a Bridger.”

“Dreadful!” Tony expected some reaction, so I gave it. I hoped the mob chased Mr. Pike home.

“We won’t be having trouble from him for a while.”

“Why is that?” I felt grateful that Tony said “a while.” Rivers are such a final place to end up.

“This morning, Mr. Pike asked to be taken on as a law apprentice at his grandfather’s firm and was accepted.”

“Really?” Mr. Pike was more resourceful than I thought. But if his grandfather wished to apprentice him, why did Mr. Pike become a reporter in the first place?

Tony began to sweat and looked pained; his stomach was hurting him again. Michaels and I helped him to his feet. “In any case, learning law should keep him out of our hair for a while.”

I wasn’t so sure that this was a hopeful development. Mr. Pike the reporter had to submit his work to an editor, who could quash the story. Mr. Pike the lawyer could become a major threat, and lawyers tended to be more difficult to get rid of.

* * *

Stephen never arrived at our next meeting. Although I strolled along the train station bag area for over an hour without seeing anything unusual, I had the feeling I was being watched. So I did what I always did when followed: I went to a bar.

The Pocket Pair, while disreputable, had an excellent staff, very good food and drink, and an owner more than willing to help a lady in distress, especially if the lady happened to be me.

Vígharður “Vig” Vikenti was a burly fellow, a bouncer until Roy’s men shot the original owner for being late on his protection money. Vig took over the bar, changed its name, got some “working girls“ in the back rooms, and became an upright, paying member of Spadros society.

Even twenty years later, a look of displeasure from Vig sent the toughest men backing off in fear. So while it appeared to be the sort of place to avoid, I enjoyed visiting.

Vig liked me, and not in a fatherly way. But he’d never been crass about it. He kept several girls in my size working the back rooms who were happy to trade dresses for a day or two and discreet enough not to blab.

I was sixteen and on my first case when Vig saved me from violation and assault, beating the man senseless with his bare fists. Since then, we had been “buddy friends,” and he always knew who I was no matter what I wore.

So when I came in the door, he yelled from behind the bar, “My buddy friend! Come let me give you a drink!” The man playing ragtime on the piano didn’t miss a beat. Then I realized our night footman sat playing!

I felt astonished. But I couldn’t stare at the man or he would surely wonder why, or look my way and perhaps recognize me. So I ignored the people eyeing me curiously — I was veiled and wearing mourning, after all — and walked through the smoke-filled oak-paneled room to the bar.

“You’re in trouble again,” Vig said, in a tone at least 100 deci-Bels decreased in volume. I nodded.

He gestured to another man to take over the bar, then escorted me to a back room and closed the door. The delicious smells of his mother’s cooking wafted through the air. “Tell me what troubles you.”

I raised my veil. “I think someone is following me.”

He walked out, closed the door behind him, and came back several minutes later. “Man in brown across the street, standing with a smoke. Keeps watching the front. Looks like a cop. I’ll take care of it.” He examined me. “I got a new gypsy gal, just your size. She’s got some nice dresses. I’ll send her in.”

“Thank you, Vig.” I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “One day we’ll sit and drink together, I promise.”

“You always promise.” He winked. “You go home to your Manor. Vig will keep you safe.”

He left, and I mused about good friends and promises. A woman came in, a bit older, but with brown hair and a similar form, carrying a basket. Perhaps a bit shorter and heavier, but I could slouch. I switched dresses with her without learning her name. She grinned when she saw my boot-knife on the left and my revolver in its calf holster on my right, and smiled in earnest when I gave her the half-dollar.

“Your face.” She handed me a small looking-glass. “Use rouge or lip paint on it, then powder it, and it will look better.” She patted the lip paint over the marks of Roy’s hand, which were turning green, then applied another coat of powder.

It did look better.

“I’ll have your dress sent in a few days. Thank you.”

She nodded. “You were never here.”

I went out the back as a fight broke out near the front, spilling into the street. I chuckled as I strolled back to Madame Biltcliffe’s.

She in turn laughed when I entered her back door. “Today you are a gypsy?”

“Vig will send your dress.”

“Ah. Then you had trouble. You are safe?”

I smiled. “Yes, I am safe. And grateful for your concern.”

But I rushed home, fearful.

Neither Madame nor Tenni spoke of a message from Stephen, and someone followed me to Vig’s bar. I didn’t want to have anything to do with the police, nor to have the young man fall into their hands. I didn’t relax until I stepped inside my home and Pearson closed the door.

“Mum,” Pearson said, “a constable is here to see you.”

* * *

Constable Paix Hanger: a tired-looking man in a rumpled uniform, navy blue with brass buttons. He stood in my parlor as if he’d rather be anywhere but Spadros Manor. He seemed familiar.

I neither removed my hat nor lifted my veil. I had decided to wear a veil until my face healed, to keep unwanted questions at bay. “May I help you?”

“Yes, mum.” He stood with his hands behind his back, feet apart. “I am investigating a case of a missing child, and would like to ask some questions.”

I realized he was the constable at the tent meeting, who I went under the canopy to avoid. Part of me felt glad someone investigated David’s disappearance, yet another part felt afraid. Why was he here to see me? Did he recognize me that night?

“I am at a loss.” I sat, and gestured for him to sit. “Anything I can do to help, I am glad to.”

The constable perched on the edge of the sofa. He smelled like the fresh winter breeze. “Are you familiar with a woman by the name of Eunice Ogier?”

“Should I be?”

The man’s face never changed; in that, he reminded me of Tony. “I have in custody a boy who says this woman Eunice Ogier asked him about the missing boy by name. He also says this woman was there at the same time … ‘a rich woman,’ he says … gave food to the poor. The only group there on the day he mentioned was yours.

“He stated she gave him food as well. I thought she might have been one of your ladies. We would like to learn what she knows of the matter.”

I shook my head. “I know of no living woman by that name. I’m sorry.” I paused, then said, “Could she be a relative?”

The constable shook his head. “The boy’s mother is his only living family.” He rose. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, mum.”

I rose as well. “I wish you the best of success.”

“Thank you, mum.”

After he left, I removed my hat, went to my study, and sat at my desk. Why send someone here? To see how I would react? Was it a threat? Or were they stupid, to think I would have a kidnapper’s accomplice in with my maids?

It was their protocol, I finally decided. They knew I would tell them nothing. But they could now show that someone asked.

No one from the Pot would talk to a policeman, but Mrs. Spadros had to at least pretend to. Hopefully this would be the end of it.

I wrote a letter to an old friend, sure it would divert Constable Hanger for a good long while.

When I went up to dress for dinner, Amelia said, “Mr. Roy was here today.”

My stomach twisted in fear. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, mum. He asked to see Mr. Anthony, and they were in his study for a short time. Mr. Roy sounded quite displeased. When the girl went in later to clean, a table was upset and one of the vases lay broken.”

Roy must have learned of the attack. Horrible scenarios of torture appeared in my mind. I took a deep breath. “Is Mr. Anthony well?”

“He seemed well,” Amelia said, “but he left shortly after Mr. Roy did.”

The front door opened and closed downstairs, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Tony was at dinner, and didn’t appear further injured, yet said little. After dinner, he said he felt tired and went to his room.

Tony hadn’t done this in some time. I went to my room and after Amelia helped me undress, lay in bed.

So much had happened to him; I wasn’t surprised that he felt disturbed. I felt glad to sleep alone for once. But I caused a good deal of his troubles, and I wanted to help.

Ma told me once, “When a man is most in turmoil, then he needs a woman.”

So I rose, turned out the lights, and took a deep breath. I had never gone to his room before; he had always come to mine. Gathering my courage, I went through our shared closets, carefully opening the door.

Tony lay in bed, eyes open.

I made a slight noise, and Tony peered in my direction. “Who’s there?”

I knelt by the side of his bed, brushing his hair back from his face. “I missed you.”

He shook his head, just a little. “Not now, Jacqui, I’m tired. Please … no, just go to bed.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

He wouldn’t look at me.

Feeling humiliated, I hurried away before he saw my tears.

* * *

Peedro Sluff grabbed my left arm with his left hand and yanked me in front of him. I shrieked at his touch: at his smell, I came close to retching. “This is my daughter,” he said, and shoved me forward.

I stared back at Peedro. This was my father?

Roy Spadros let out a cold, cruel laugh, as if claiming utter victory over someone he hated more than anything in the world. “You’re sure about that, are you?”

I felt frightened, confused. Fear flashed through Peedro’s brown eyes, which turned into determination. “If she goes, I go with her.”

I woke in darkness, heart pounding. The room was quiet and empty; I felt relieved that I hadn’t screamed.

I put on my robe and peeked out of my room. Our night footman paced towards Tony’s door with a candle in his hand. He listened at the door, then walked back, a golden glow beside him. He smiled when he saw me. “May I help you, mum?”

I stepped into the hallway. “I wanted to thank you for your help when Mr. Spadros was so ill.”

“Of course, mum, it’s why I’m here.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Blitz Spadros, mum. Mr. Anthony and I are cousins.” While he didn’t resemble Tony in any other way, they shared the same smile. “Glad to help. I don’t need much sleep, so I might as well do something useful.” He chuckled, then gestured with his head. “I better go check on him. Have a good evening.”

He had a holstered pistol on his right hip. I watched as he walked back to Tony’s door and listened to him breathe.

As I drifted to sleep, I felt grateful we had such loyal men.

* * *

The news that morning had a column on a missing boy, with mention of a “woman of interest.” The description only said this woman had brown hair.

That trail was cold; Stephen spoke to the police. I had no intention of contacting the young man again.

Someone followed me from the train station. That meant they had a better description than what they published. I wore a veil, true. But they had the policeman’s description. Plus a whole room of people saw the proprietor greet me. Which meant the police questioned — or tried to question — Vig and the girls.

I laughed. Vig probably threw them out with his own hands.

Amelia gave me a curious glance but said nothing.

At breakfast, Tony said nothing about his encounter with his father or his words to me the night before. He left for a short time after morning meeting.

So I wrote the dinner party invitations. After I gave the invitations to Pearson, I sat at my desk, thinking.

Air’s little brother dead, his youngest brother missing.

Grief threatened to crush me every time I let myself think of this. But if I were to have any chance of helping David, I knew I must force myself to.

A false note on Madame Biltcliffe’s stationery. A Red Dog card in my pocket at the Ball. The card on my doorstep.

The card on my doorstep was the true mystery. Who could step onto our street in front of the Kerr coachmen, without being challenged? Not a slum boy or a hired waiter.

But then I remembered: the constables found Herbert Bryce in the Diamond quadrant.

I clasped my hands to my face in horror.

Jack Diamond.

If that madman had harmed those boys, he would regret the day I proved it.

But then I felt afraid for my safety. A low-class scoundrel would be unlikely to touch me, even on a case. But if Jack Diamond thought I was doing my own investigation and gained the presence of mind to take advantage of it, I was in terrible danger. One word to Tony, or worse yet, Roy, and …

I wasn’t sure I would survive. Jack could wreak his vengeance on me without ever being a suspect.

That was the card’s meaning: not a taunt, but a threat. Jack showed he could reach me anywhere, even Spadros Manor.

How dare he threaten me?

I pounded my fist on the desk. To the Shredder with you, Jack Diamond! Burn in the Fire!

Jonathan’s pressed flowers fell, wafting to the floor.

This had gone on long enough. I would find David Bryce and free him, or die trying.

But how?

My only real clues were the Red Dogs and the Diamond quadrant. I didn’t know how to contact one, and going to the other left me open to Jack’s men, who would have orders to apprehend me should I appear.

There seemed little choice in the matter. I would have to go to the person I least wanted to see and ask for help.