Read Online Horatio Lyle by Catherine Webb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Webb
Ads: Link
discover a fruit of this variety?’
She thought about the question, put on a sage expression and nodded fervently. ‘ Yes .’
There was a long silence. ‘Teresa . . . ’ began Lyle.
‘Yes, Mister Lyle?’
‘Teresa, remind me why I employ you.’
‘I got charm , Mister Lyle.’
Silence. ‘Good grief,’ muttered Lyle finally. ‘I’m examining fruit remnants in central London with a thief and - no offence, lad - a bigwig, having just been to the Bank of England and the Palace in short succession, if not that order, on the one day of the week when I really felt ready to tackle copper anodes and a nitrate solution.’ He thought about this. ‘How did that happen?’
The arrival of an answer was forestalled by the arrival of a policeman, running up from Blackfriars Bridge.
In a white-marbled mansion on the edge of town, surrounded by red-leaved trees in green-grassed grounds, a man with white gloves over long hands and a voice like black leather says, ‘The situation is being dealt with.’
‘Where, then, is the Fuyun Plate?’ The speaker is a woman, and when she breathes, the air shimmers with delight at its motion in her vicinity.
‘We have nearly located the associate - Bray. Mr Dew has been very effective.’
‘I am informed that Lord Lincoln,’ a name spat in the same voice that might describe a particularly long, slimy, orange-grey slug, ‘has engaged the services of a detective to locate the Fuyun Plate.’
‘A human detective?’ The voice like black leather has an inherent sneer, ugly and cruel.
‘Horatio Lyle.’
Silence. Then, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Son of Harry Lyle. The son is very like the father, they say, but more so. He breathes the iron, it’s in his blood , his heart. He was born out of hot coals and dirty smoke. Do you believe Mr Dew can be so effective against such an . . . abomination ?’
‘My lady, the matter is in hand.’
‘My lord, please see that it is.’
Thomas Edward Elwick was confused. He had been confused enough when informed that the strange man with the stranger girl as his assistant was the son of Harry Lyle, the man who had welded more strange and wondrous tricks out of a bit of iron than anyone on the planet. He’d become more confused when he ’d found himself trying to explain to Lyle why his family was trusted with artefacts by Her Majesty and how it was more about prestige than money , really. Now he was most confused of all by the sudden and unexpected arrival of a breathless constable who was shouting, ‘Where’s the Inspector? There ’s a body down at the bridge! In mysterious circumstances!’
Lyle had been inexplicably annoyed by the statement ‘in mysterious circumstances’. He’d spent a good five minutes trying in vain to explain to the unfortunate constable how precision was important, especially if you got such words as ‘kill’ and ‘mill’ confused in a society of capital punishment and sent the wrong people to the wrong places, but had given up when it became apparent that no one cared.
Now Thomas was finding himself being carried along by a crowd, whose inexorable passage was taking him down the tight winding streets of Blackfriars, towards the river through a maze of slippery docks, warehouses and factories belching soot across every rooftop. He wondered whether it hadn’t been a mistake after all to try and help.
But if I don’t follow now, he thought, I’ll never know what happens.
He saw faces black with grit staring at his fine clothes as the crowd of policemen, and general onlookers eager for a spectacle, swept on down towards the bridge. He could hear the rattling of trains, hear steam being let off in huge billows, spewing down from the local yards in a thick, hot, damp fog that burnt his eyes. With the figure of Lyle for guidance, he kept going along the uneven, muddy, salty ways.
And suddenly the crowd slowed and thickened, until he was crushed between Teresa, who ignored him, and a constable
She thought about the question, put on a sage expression and nodded fervently. ‘ Yes .’
There was a long silence. ‘Teresa . . . ’ began Lyle.
‘Yes, Mister Lyle?’
‘Teresa, remind me why I employ you.’
‘I got charm , Mister Lyle.’
Silence. ‘Good grief,’ muttered Lyle finally. ‘I’m examining fruit remnants in central London with a thief and - no offence, lad - a bigwig, having just been to the Bank of England and the Palace in short succession, if not that order, on the one day of the week when I really felt ready to tackle copper anodes and a nitrate solution.’ He thought about this. ‘How did that happen?’
The arrival of an answer was forestalled by the arrival of a policeman, running up from Blackfriars Bridge.
In a white-marbled mansion on the edge of town, surrounded by red-leaved trees in green-grassed grounds, a man with white gloves over long hands and a voice like black leather says, ‘The situation is being dealt with.’
‘Where, then, is the Fuyun Plate?’ The speaker is a woman, and when she breathes, the air shimmers with delight at its motion in her vicinity.
‘We have nearly located the associate - Bray. Mr Dew has been very effective.’
‘I am informed that Lord Lincoln,’ a name spat in the same voice that might describe a particularly long, slimy, orange-grey slug, ‘has engaged the services of a detective to locate the Fuyun Plate.’
‘A human detective?’ The voice like black leather has an inherent sneer, ugly and cruel.
‘Horatio Lyle.’
Silence. Then, ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Son of Harry Lyle. The son is very like the father, they say, but more so. He breathes the iron, it’s in his blood , his heart. He was born out of hot coals and dirty smoke. Do you believe Mr Dew can be so effective against such an . . . abomination ?’
‘My lady, the matter is in hand.’
‘My lord, please see that it is.’
Thomas Edward Elwick was confused. He had been confused enough when informed that the strange man with the stranger girl as his assistant was the son of Harry Lyle, the man who had welded more strange and wondrous tricks out of a bit of iron than anyone on the planet. He’d become more confused when he ’d found himself trying to explain to Lyle why his family was trusted with artefacts by Her Majesty and how it was more about prestige than money , really. Now he was most confused of all by the sudden and unexpected arrival of a breathless constable who was shouting, ‘Where’s the Inspector? There ’s a body down at the bridge! In mysterious circumstances!’
Lyle had been inexplicably annoyed by the statement ‘in mysterious circumstances’. He’d spent a good five minutes trying in vain to explain to the unfortunate constable how precision was important, especially if you got such words as ‘kill’ and ‘mill’ confused in a society of capital punishment and sent the wrong people to the wrong places, but had given up when it became apparent that no one cared.
Now Thomas was finding himself being carried along by a crowd, whose inexorable passage was taking him down the tight winding streets of Blackfriars, towards the river through a maze of slippery docks, warehouses and factories belching soot across every rooftop. He wondered whether it hadn’t been a mistake after all to try and help.
But if I don’t follow now, he thought, I’ll never know what happens.
He saw faces black with grit staring at his fine clothes as the crowd of policemen, and general onlookers eager for a spectacle, swept on down towards the bridge. He could hear the rattling of trains, hear steam being let off in huge billows, spewing down from the local yards in a thick, hot, damp fog that burnt his eyes. With the figure of Lyle for guidance, he kept going along the uneven, muddy, salty ways.
And suddenly the crowd slowed and thickened, until he was crushed between Teresa, who ignored him, and a constable
Similar Books
