The Case of the Black Diamond Bride Part VII

An hour later found me ensconced in my laboratory, a plate of half eaten sandwiches and empty tea cups at one elbow and my jotted notes at the other. Shirt-sleeves role up and clear of any staining liquids that I had been using, collar undone, and a disgruntled expression complete my worn ad weary look. The results of the test were not promising, though hardly useless.

The ink was a high quality Indian ink, for sale at a select few shops in London. It was, however, the most popular version of said ink. The paper was exactly what I had taken it for, and could be purchased at almost any stationary story in the city. There were no fingerprints on the paper except for my own and those I judge to belong to Lady Radcliff. The writing itself was blocky and indicated a right handed author, most likely a man. The surety of the script indicated he had been well trained in his penmanship, but had enough years to develop individual quirks that were generally beaten out of a student in primary school.

Some in my profession, at least of the alchemical one, would have scoffed at using the sacred alchemic laboratory for such mundane concerns as crimes and the processing of clues. However, I found that I was most at home here, and could not afford the extra space for a separate lab even if I had wanted. Still, I was careful to shield my will and thoughts, lest it cause one of my more delicate workings to go awry.

Feeling the need to stretch my legs, I walked over to one of the cabinets and opened it. Inside were a wild variety of vials, jars, and other glass containers of multiple colors, each containing a different potion, elixir, or tincture. Alchemic work took time, and those required care and attention ever so often. The cabinet had seven shelves, each one labeled with a weekday, in accordance to the fact that every plant, animal, mineral, and metal was ruled by a planetary body which governed a day of the week. Lemon Balm, for example, was tied to Jupiter, which rules Thursday. To properly use it one needed to work with that plant in the first hour of daylight on a Thursday.

I drew one of the containers and calmed my mind. The process of creating tinctures and potions required that every so often by mixing the herb, in the case of a tincture, or the salt ashes, in a potion, by the light shaking of the mixture. I focused on what I wanted the mixture to accomplish. A potion to clear the mind, another to soothe aches and pains, one to draw out the essences of poison and a second that would cause a minor explosion like a grenade. Each one I place my will into and stirred up the energies, binding them together and making them far stronger than a mere chemical reaction. I took my time, letting each have my undivided attention as I sensed where it was in the process and where I wanted it to go. Some had been there less than a week, tinctures still soaking the essences of a plant into the pure alcohol of red grapes. Others had been in there close to a year, growing ever darker and more potent, till a single drop would accomplish more than a hundred time that which could be done with a mere chemical process.

It took almost an hour to work my way through a single planet’s potions, but by the time I had finished I felt both drained and relieved. It was amazing, how little rituals succeeded in calming the nerves and ordering the mind. I closed and locked the cabinet, glancing over at the next one and considered working on the next group of my workings, but decided against it. There was other work to be done, and a rather harsh deadline at the end.

Instead I left my laboratory and went downstairs, carrying the dishes with me as I would not violate the rule of an alchemist being the only one allowed in his laboratory. After handing the dishes off to Miss Connor, I went into the room next to my library where I kept my Difference Engine. Starting it up, I quickly accessed the TeleNet and sent off a few queries. The first to a professor of Eastern Religions at London University concerning the ritual Lady Radcliff had described.
The second to a contact I had in the police to see if one Rodrigo de la Mancha was in London. The last was to see if I had any messages that had arrived while my DE was turned off.

The DE returned that I had three messages on hold, which were then displayed by the small projector that had connected to the machine. Two were mere advertisements, one for a paten medicine from America promising better health, and the second one from the local booksellers offering me a discount on my next purchase. I instructed the first to be removed and printed off the second on a short strip of tickertape.
The last message was from a charming American alchemist I had taken to corresponding with by the name of Miranda Wolfe. She informed me of the success of her latest experiment involving a tincture made of honey, willow bark, and wolfs bane. She also passed on a rumor involving the latest American president and an anonymous English noblewoman, though she failed to give me a reason for its importance.

I sent back a reply, lightly tapping the delicate ivory keys of the keyboard, congratulating Miranda on her success. I also asked to confirm she would be arriving in England for the Alchemists Conference in three weeks. The message went off in a clatter of gears. When it was done I shut down the Difference Engine. I would go around the police station myself, along with a gift for my contact’s troubles, since such information was best kept between professionals and not upon the TeleNet. I doubted the professor’s information would be all that vital and could wait for the next time I accessed my messages.

Miss Connor was waiting for me when I came back into the library. Her garments were slightly wet, indicating she’d been out in the rain, and the unhappy expression on her young face indicated that either the weather was to blame or whatever had driven her into it. The envelope she was clutching in her small hands was even wetter than she was, but the ink on it remained legible enough to tell me came from the law offices that she was want to sometimes employ.

“Is there a problem, Miss Connor?” I asked.

Her face turned even more rebellious, if possible. “Bloody hell there is!” she snapped, “My Aunt has decided that I am too young to run my own house by myself and that it is disgraceful for me to be living unmarried with a bachelor under my roof!”

I felt my normally pale skin grow a few shades lighter. Megan’s Aunt was a short, stout, angry catholic woman who had been married once, born nine children, put eight in the ground, and disowned the last for taking up with a young man of questionable virtue and unquestionable lack of finances. Her husband had been driven tot eh bottle, then the grave, no doubt by her harping, high toned voice. I had met her but one, and that was enough to tell me that she was more devout than any of the Southern Baptist from the Americas that my adventurous cousin had told me about. She would most likely come after me for being a devil worshiper at best.

I had relied greatly on Megan Connor’s tolerance and understanding of my strange ways during my time as her tenant. Should her aunt arrive to take control I could count only upon a shear lack of that understanding and tolerance. My options were few, and mostly desperate. I would have to find a way to hold off the aged harpy.

“When will she be arriving?” I asked, breaking Megan from her continued ranting.

“Three days,” she replied, crumpling the letter in her hands, “With promises to legally take control of this house! She’s already got a barrister doing the paperwork!”

Three days for Megan’s Aunt. Two days for Lord Radcliff. At least if I failed and the latter got me, I wouldn’t have to worry about the former.

The Case of the Black Diamond Bride Part I

This story, like so many others, begins with heartbreak. It was in the fifth year of my immigration from Oslo to London and my second working as a private detective, that I was introduced to Lady Emma Radcliff. I’m still unsure if I should regret it.
It was raining that morning. It seemed like it was always raining in England, to the point where I had considered trading in my new automobile for a boat, were it not for the fact that the streets were flooded only three days out of seven. Well, perhaps that is an exaggeration, but in comparison with my native land, this much water was a pain.

I was sitting my library, a small room, but the shelves ran from floor to ceiling and were covered in books and odd artifacts I had collected in my short life. A book on Newton’s alchemy theory was open before, but my attention was outside the room, watching the black thunder clouds rumble like chariot wheels. Steam from the cup of tea beside me drifted lazily upwards, leaving a hint of peppermint in the air behind it.

“Master Larson, there is a woman here to see you,” said a soft voice from the door way. I turned to find my housekeeper and landlady, Megan Conner, looking at me expectantly. She was a small woman, a few years older than I was who had inherited the place from her mother and found she needed more money than she had to keep the place, with bright ginger hair hidden under a bonnet of green.

“Thank you, Miss Connor, could you show her in please?” I replied, in what I have been told was a pleasing tenor.

She nodded and showed Lady Radcliff into the library, announcing her title and name for me. I stood as the young woman made her way over too me. She was slender, with light brown hair that was pulled into the latest hairstyle and wearing a violet dress that would please the Queen with its elegance and modesty. Her face betrayed a nervous energy matched by the ringing of her hands.

“I am honored by your visit, My Lady,” I said as we each took a chair, “What is it I can do for you?”

Lady Radcliff sat frozen, her eyes darting around the room, flashing from books on
alchemy and magic to the latest scientific texts and fiction. “I’ve heard rumors about you, Mister Larson,” She said after a long moment, “That you can work with the utmost delicacy.”

I simply nodded, pushing my glasses back up my nose. “So they say,” I replied, “Though I can’t say who says it.”

A slight smile tugged her lips and she let out a breath. “They also say that you know things,” she hesitated for a moment before continuing, “Thing that should not be, that exist beyond the keen of other men.”

I bowed my head again. “They say that too.”

“Is it true, Mister Larson,” she asked, “Or is it just an act?”

I stared into her eyes, only the barrier of clear glass between us. There was a slight tugging sensation, as if I was being drawn into her, but she looked away before it could grow stronger. Casually I rolled back the sleeve of my right arm and held out my hand. Her eyes followed my hand as I rolled it around, revealing nothing to be there, before I stopped with my palm facing upwards. Lights danced over my palm, first white, then yellow, orange, and red as a small flame appeared an inch above my skin.

A flick of my wrist and the flame was gone, though its ghost danced in her softly blue eyes. “Truth is what we make it, Lady Radcliff,” I said, “I’ll leave you to be the judge of what is true.”

She was silent for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked away, rain pattered against the windows, and the world moved as it always did. Finally, she spoke, her words hurried.

“I am being blackmailed. Three days ago a letter appeared on my pillow case with a note saying if I did not come up with three thousand pounds in two weeks a past indiscretion of mine would be made known to my husband. I cannot let that happen, but it is impossible for me to obtain that sum without my husband knowing of it, he keeps tight control of all our finances. They took a ring of mine, a very precious one set with a black diamond and said that should I fail to obtain the money they will use it against me.”

I nodded slowly. It was easy to come up with several possible indiscretions the Lady Radcliff could have committed, though I found the sum asked to be a bit odd. Three thousand pounds was no small sum, but Lord Radcliff was acknowledged as one of the wealthiest men in England and it was a paltry amount to his sums. Even the most dimwitted thief from the outback was sure to know this. Which either meant the blackmailer was stupid, unlikely as they were capable of gaining access to the Lady’s bedchamber, or they were very well informed.

“Will you take my case, Mister Larson?” she asked.

“My fee is five pounds a day, two day minimum,” I said, “If you willing to pay that, I’ll take the case.”

Lady Radcliff nodded and pulled fifteen pounds from her purse and set it on the table. This was outside normal behavior, but I understood the message. I bowed my head and stood with her.

“I shall be by your place within the day, if that is acceptable, My Lady,” I said. She nodded her head and left, passing my housekeeper, who followed to show her out. I took the money off the table and slipped it into my pocket.

How did that bastard Holmes put it? Ah, right. The game was afoot.