Chapter Two
The hatch of the airship opened a short while later. Tod once again held the hatch, though it seemed an unnecessary civility on his part, since the door clearly operated under its own power. As we stepped out I was staggered to see London’s lights glittering all around below me. I stood in an extraordinary mountaintop sculpture garden of bronze. Animals from every continent whirred and clicked through preset clockwork-driven motions and they were breathtakingly realistic. The entire building was etched with waterfalls in bronze, golden crystal and blue gaslight. It was decked from top to bottom with bronze clockwork animals lifting and lowering heads, clockwork trout leaping from streams made of blue-gaslit and golden crystal, and fountains and exquisitely detailed bronze trees, foliage and cliffs.
We proceeded to a glass cupola which enclosed a lift. Down we went into the penthouse of the hotel. I knew from descriptions that the Bronze Cascade Hotel was built in a circle around a bronze spiral staircase with padded golden leather handrails, which in turn wound around a crazed golden crystal and bronze lift like the one we rode in. A large, luxurious drawing room stood in the centre of the penthouse suites and into this room Twist and Tod led me. A small garden area stood in the centre of the drawing room. The lift was tucked away inside a glittering semi-circular waterfall, an amber crystal cupola with bronze fittings. This transparent-floored area allowed for gazing down at the rest of the hotel. The lift communicated with an entry hall below where regular guests could access the main elevator and staircase.
“No one’s here,” Twist mused, again resorting to that tablet and leaving me standing by the lift. “Lady Leader, what’s the news? I’ve delivered Prince Charming, but there’s no jungle man, no financiers, and most of all no Phoebe-Bird. Concert run over?”
“Doctor Twist, please make his highness comfortable.” The voice that seemed to speak as clearly as if it were next to me was that of the lovely gypsy-complexioned woman who had invited me to this otherworldly gathering. “We’ve had a mishap, but things are under control now, thanks to Mowgli and Bagheera, and we shall arrive very shortly. Alert the hotel maids that we shall need towels and dry clothing, and tell them to lay out the doctor’s medical bag, please.”
“Medical bag?” Twist echoed. “What’s happened? Who’s hurt? Never mind.” He tossed the tablet into a wingback chair and hurried to ring a bell. Up the lift came a half dozen hotel staff members clad in blue and bronze. Twist rapidly gave them instructions and they scattered to obey. I still stood by the lift entrance, having only moved a few inches to allow the staff to pass. Twist sent Tod down the lift with instructions to meet the incoming party and then puttered about, managing to make himself useful getting a Gladstone bag from one of the suites and setting it out on a sideboard. He popped his head into a second of the four suite doors and called a cheery, “Don’t be alarmed, nannies and kids, but it seems someone’s been hurt and good night kisses may be slightly delayed.” He shut the door before I could fathom what he meant by such a speech.
The lift rose and from it emerged the beautiful woman from my afternoon acquaintance. Phoebe Moore-Campbell was heavily swathed in a glittering satiny cloak I could only describe as midnight green with a deep metallic sheen. She led a figure closely wrapped in a blue velvet hooded cape that hung heavy with water around the tiny wearer. I could briefly see sodden white fox fur lining the costly garment and then the taller woman whisked away her charge to the suite from which Twist had retrieved the black bag.
Next up in the lift came two tall, blond-haired men, both hatless, both in greatcoats, accompanied by Tod carrying their hats under one arm. The coach driver/airship pilot and the slightly shorter one supported the taller, bearded man and they disappeared into a suite as well. As quickly as that, the room was left once again to Twist and myself. Tod rejoined us in another moment. Servants poked up the fire and added fuel to make it blaze up warm and bright.
“What happened?” Twist demanded of Tod.
“Don’t jist know yet, Doc,” Tod replied. “But yew better ‘op to it an’ switch off th’ tripwires on th’ roof, on accounta there’s one more pair incomin’ what ain’t ower fond o’ lifts nor yet o’ doors.”
Twist grabbed his tablet as a scraping sounded above our heads. I started violently but neither of my companions seemed in the least perturbed.
“How did they get out without setting it off?” Twist asked Tod.
“As I ‘ears it, they been out since dark, afore yew set it, prowlin’-like. Picture the ‘eadlines tomorra as yew meditates on ‘at, Doc.”
Twist muttered under his breath. A moment later the two blond men emerged in quilted robes and the bearded one was tucked into a wingback chair before the cheery fire.
“Here, my little mistress, I heated the towel, and there’s a good fire to dry your dear little feet.” The beautiful dark-haired woman applied a thick white towel to the dripping golden curls of her diminutive companion. The tiny woman smiled and drew the comforting royal blue wrapper closer around her shoulders. Their hostess handed off a pile of sodden garments to a maid, who disappeared down the lift as Madame Moore-Campbell bustled the other lady around the garden to the fireside.
“Come and sit by Doctor Mac and please don’t catch a chill.” The lady fussed over her light-haired charge like a mother ewe with a newborn lamb, clad in an emerald dressing gown and her hair was already in her night braid.
“No, heaven forbid,” growled the bearded man. Madame Phoebe tucked the little blond into a cozy dark red brocaded armchair across the brick hearth from its twin, where the bearded man sat. “I’m not taking the blame for another case of ‘Pewmonia,’ Miss Phoebe, even if it was Mrs. Rose’s idea to hoof it to the hotel.”
Oliver Twist started to push me forward so that our hostess might become aware of my presence when a stream of children suddenly began to issue forth from the room where Twist had called out his cryptic announcement regarding kisses. I resigned myself to being a “fly on the wall,” especially since Twist and Tod were also invisible to the assembled conversants, clearly made up of intimate friends and, based on the resemblance among the blond people, probably some close relatives. Twist steered me to a divan partly concealed by greenery and joined me in observing the rest of the tableau.
A somewhat older girl, halting and hesitant, with long dark hair hanging into her thin little face, stole out leading a little boy and girl. White flannel nightgowns decked with pink roses didn’t hide the girls’ bare feet pattering on the crimson-flowered carpet. The boy wore cadet blue pajamas with feet and his pale hair stood up like dry cornshocks. The little blond lady enveloped them all in hugs and kisses, seeing the fear in their eyes for the bearded man who was clearly their father. “Doctor Mac” looked very grim as he unbound the handkerchief from his hand. I was shocked to see a bleeding gash in his palm.
“Are you all right, Mac?” The strawberry-blond gentleman opened the medical bag and brought it close, pulling out carbolic and cloths to place on the side table. His robe matched Mrs. Moore-Campbell’s, identifying him in my mind as her husband of whom she had spoken, and his mule-style brown slippers kept slipping off as he tried to hurry the supplies across the room. “You look white as a sheet.”
The one called Doctor Mac looked distractedly up at Mr. Campbell, stretching his neck out of the depths of the black quilted bed jacket he wore, and caught a glimpse of his equally-white-faced family. He quickly cleaned and bound his hand, clearly an expert in such matters and deserving of the title of doctor. “My darling wife applied the proper aid on the spot and I doubt if I’ll even have a scar on my precious composing hand.”
He then proceeded to scoop up his children, arrange them all on his long lap, and kiss away their round-eyed terror, painting a comical face on his bandage with mercurochrome and making his thumb serve as a jaw for the improvised puppet.
“It’s just a nick,” the puppet proclaimed in a scratchy voice.
“Phoebe, you must stop acting like my ma
id.” The little golden-haired lady pushed Mrs. Moore-Campbell away from her feet. “Those days are long past. You are Mrs. Archibald Campbell now, a society lady, and Miss Phoebe Moore, a world-famous performer.”
Something nagged at the back of my mind, a memory of an encounter before my day had given way to the bizarre events of the past few hours, but I had no time to pull out the recollection. Two more children, dark-haired like Mrs. Moore-Campbell but with dark blue eyes, both in yellow nightclothes decked with ducklings, fussed with pillows and tried to prop up Doctor Mac’s injured hand until the puppet growled, “Give me some peace, if you please,” and made all five children giggle away their nervousness.
“When I’m with you, Mrs. Rose, I’m just your girl Phoebe, and I’ll never change,” declared Mrs. Moore-Campbell.
“Never try to stop Phoebe from being a nurse, Rosie-Posie,” Mr. Campbell smiled. “It can’t be done. So, Mac, are you ready to be interviewed by the police about your evening’s excitement?”
“Not me,” Doctor Mac retorted. “Not until I’m sure I haven’t gone crazy and seen what shouldn’t be lurking about in a London alley.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Mrs. Moore-Campbell glanced at her husband.
“He saw the same thing I saw,” the lady called Rose said quietly. “A small, half-naked man in a tiger skin with black hair streaming down to his waist, along with a creature I’ve never seen outside a zoo or an Indian jungle.”
“It was a black leopard,” Doctor Mac added. “The two of them got between us and that pickpocket’s knife or we’d probably both have been killed.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Campbell. “Well, I wouldn’t mention that to the constable if I were you. He has his pickpocket in custody and he just needs a simple statement that you were the victim and you tripped the boy up with your cane. No reason to bring up any half-naked men or jungle cats.”
A stranger entered the room from the fourth suite as Mr. Campbell finished, moved like a shadow along the red-and-gold-flocked wallpaper, and stationed himself near the fireplace. He was dressed in a dark, quiet costume that looked like shimmering black silk pajamas. His feet were bare. More silk was bound in a sort of turban around his head, framing sleek dark skin, glittering dark eyes and high cheekbones.
A slightly fairer-skinned boy in a bright orange nightshirt affair that exposed his spindly legs darted out of what was clearly the nursery suite but was scooped up and shepherded away by an exotic little lady in dark green brocaded robes who bowed her way out, chattering music at the child in her native tongue and smiling timidly at the roomful of people. She even noticed Twist and I and dipped her head, but no one else took note of our presence, their attention captivated by the small, dark-clad man.
“This is – uh – this is Mowgli, whom we met during that concert series in India,” Mr. Campbell explained.
Doctor Mac rose and approached the small stranger, who looked up without any expression into the American giant’s narrowed blue eyes.
“He might be a bit shy around strangers,” Mrs. Moore-Campbell warned.
The small man rose on his toes before Doctor Mac. From the folds of his tunic he produced a globe-headed, rosewood walking stick with a flip of his muscular wrist. Grasping it in both hands he gave it a twist, exposed an inch or two of thin, sharp blade, then slipped it back into place.
“I had a toy like this once.” Mowgli presented the sword-cane to Doctor Mac. “It was the king’s ankus, an elephant goad made of gold and ivory and encrusted with jewels. Six men killed each other for it in one day after I pulled it out of a treasure pit in an old city. I threw it back into the pit, but still men kill for things they cannot eat.”
“Thank you for returning it,” Doctor Mac said. “It really isn’t very valuable and I absolutely was not out to kill anyone. That’s just a reminder of a verse I learned as a boy, ‘Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature ...’And it’s also helpful for when I forget another verse, the one that says I should turn the other cheek.” He grinned at the broad, dazzling white smile that broke the small stranger’s inscrutable expression. “The pickpocket that cut my glove open was after my grandfather’s watch, and he got it, too.”
“Both verses are very good things to be reminded of,” nodded the small man. “Were it not for such Scriptures as that first, I would still be prowling the jungles of India thinking myself half a wolf and liking to hear a fat German tell me I am a forest god.” Mowgli took a handsome silver pocket watch from his clothing and held it out to Doctor Mac. His wife gasped.
“These scars are very interesting.” Doctor Mac took the stranger’s hand. “They appear to be bites from some large animal.”
“We played rough, my brothers and I. You should try harder to remember that second verse, or put a little oil on the slide of your sword sheath next time.” A pleasant chime sounded from below the garden somewhere.
“Mac, you had better come and see the constable,” Mr. Campbell reminded him. “I’ll come with you, if you like. And by the way, we want the lad released into our custody if at all possible.”
Mr. Campbell summoned the mob-capped, sleepy nursemaids attending to the children. They were herded away to bed with protests of “Not being the least bit sleepy,” and wanting to “play some more with the great black kitty and the dear Indian boy.”
“What is this all about, chief?” I heard Doctor Mac say as he stepped into the cupola with Mr. Campbell. “That was our half-naked rescuer, as plain as day. Isn’t he attending the interview with the officer?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Mac,” Mr. Campbell’s voice faded as the lift descended out of sight.