Free Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper by David Barnett

at most. But you have to agree there’s a mystery here, Aloysius.”
    They contemplated in silence for a moment, then Bent said quietly, “There’s something I was going to mention, Gideon. We’ve been back from America … what, three months? And I notice Maria still has her own room.”
    “What of it?”
    “Well, I thought … look, you two are hardly the most orthodox couple in Mayfair. I just can’t see why you aren’t … you know. Sharing a room.”
    Gideon looked down at the photograph and Bent asked softly, “Have you … you know?”
    “I don’t see that it’s any of your business, Aloysius!”
    Bent shrugged. “Thought you might like a bit of advice, you know.”
    Gideon laughed. “From you?”
    Bent thumbed his nose at Gideon. “Don’t get like that. I wasn’t always the sack of horseshit you see in front of you. I was quite a catch when I was a younger man. Just let myself go a bit, that’s all.” He paused and said more gently, “Look, Gideon, I know it must be hard for you, losing your old man like you did. I just want you to know that if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
    Gideon felt oddly touched. Then Bent said, “You do know how to do it, don’t you? Get the barge into the dock, and all that? Make the beast with two backs? Rumpy-pumpy? Give the dog a bone?”
    The doorbell sounded, and Mrs. Cadwallader called, “I’ll get it—I’m in the hall.”
    Bent stood up. “Think on it, anyway. It’s time you two stopped being so coy, if you’re going to make a go of it. I think I’ll go and draw a bath.”
    Gideon stared at him. “A bath? You, Aloysius?”
    He winked. “It is nearly Christmas, after all.”
    “Mr. Bent!” roared Mrs. Cadwallader.
    Bent and Gideon exchanged glances. “Uh oh.”
    “Mr. Newby of the Grosvenor Square Residents’ Committee is at the door, inquiring if we know anything about the theft of flowers from the communal gardens…”
    “I need the outhouse,” said Bent. “Toss him a couple of coins for the flowers, eh, Gideon?”
    Gideon laughed and nodded as Bent stole out of the kitchen as silently and swiftly as he could. He watched the journalist go. Perhaps he was right. Gideon had thought of little else since Maria moved into Grosvenor Square, and he had spent tortured nights lying in his bed, knowing she was just down the hall. He would ask her tonight, he decided. He would say that he wished for them to share a room. To be together, properly together. Gideon glanced at the clock. He couldn’t wait for Maria to come home.
    *   *   *
    After escorting Maria to a steam-cab and paying her fare to Grosvenor Square, Doctor Clement Augustus hailed one himself and told the driver to take him to Whitehall, where after passing through the interminable gatekeepers he finally found himself in the office of Mr. Walsingham just as darkness fell over snow-bound London.
    “Thank you for coming, Doctor,” said Walsingham as Augustus sloughed off his overcoat and shook the snow from its shoulders. “Did you have a fruitful week?”
    Augustus laid several thick binders on the desk between them. “Here are the reports by myself and the staff at Rough Tor,” he said. “They should make for interesting reading.”
    Walsingham sat back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “A précis, if you please.”
    Augustus ran a hand through his shock of white hair and sighed. “We have run Maria and Apep through a battery of tests. In summary, together they have reached speeds in excess of one hundred miles an hour. I suspect Maria could probably push the dragon faster, but we would need a more remote location with a wider test area to find out.”
    “And the fireballs?”
    Augustus shook his head. “The dragon can seemingly fire an infinite amount of them. We have no idea how the energy is generated. The fireballs seem to have a consistent adiabatic temperature—that is, they don’t lose their heat until they hit a target and explode—of 1,949