Excerpt

Chapter 1 — Friday

An ill wind blew through the cobbled streets of Hammersmyth. It guttered the gas lamps, whispering a warning to those with wit enough to hear it. It was not safe to be abroad that night. Something bad was going to happen. Somebody was going to die.

In a poorly lit street on the edge of town, two men – one big as a bull, the other skinny as a rat – stood before a large wrought iron gate. They were examining the old iron chain and brand new steel padlock that had been bought to replace the night watchman, dismissed just two weeks previous in a misguided attempt to save money.

"I reckon I can pick that," said the Skinny Man.

"We don't need to—"

"Here, watch." The Skinny Man knelt by the lock, jammed a bent piece of wire into the keyhole, and started fiddling about. The big guy beside him sighed. That was the problem with looking like the unholy union between a shire horse and an angry gorilla, no one ever listened to you.

"Look, just let me have a go will you."

"Just a sec, I almost got—" Ping! "Damn it!"

"What?"

"The wire broke."

"Right. Get out of the way."

"Why? What do you think you can—"

The Big Guy inserted a crowbar through the loops of the chain. With a quick twist, he snapped it like a dry twig. "New lock, old chain," he said, stepping back.

The Skinny Man glared at him. Barging his way through the factory gates, he stormed off into the darkness.

The Big Guy took his time stowing his crowbar. He didn't like his current associate very much. He was a nasty piece of work and no mistake. He always had a knife on him in case he ever needed it, and he always seemed to need it. They'd only been working together a couple of weeks and already he'd had to step in to stop him from cutting someone who didn't deserve it. It was just a matter of time before the two of them had Words, and then things would get really messy – for the Big Guy, at least. Getting rid of a dead body was a right pain. It took all night, and it always got on your shoes.

As the two men crossed the cobbled courtyard they saw the silhouette of a huge airship in the field beyond the factory, distinctive in the way it blotted out the stars in the sky.

"Well would you look at that," said the Skinny Man. "Maybe we could—"

"No."

"No what? What did I say? Did I say anything?"

"I know what you were gonna say, and I said no. We're not here for that."

"And what if I am, eh? What then?"

"Then you gets to explain yourself to the boss, that's what."

Inside the factory the darkness was tangible. What little moonlight that came in through its high windows did nothing to illuminate the factory floor. Lighting a lamp each the two men went in opposite directions, doing a full circuit of the factory floor before coming together again, empty-handed, by the giant building's big main double doors.

"See anything?" said Skinny.

"Nope. Nothing."

"Right. Then we'll just have to look again then, won't we? You go that way this time, and I'll go the other."

"What about the workshop?"

"What workshop?"

"The one next door."

The Skinny Man's lamp danced with rage. He charged up toe-to-toe with the Big Guy, although not nose-to-nose as he had hoped. Even at full stretch he still barely came up to the big man's chest. "Why didn't you mention that before?!" he growled, flecks of enraged spit flying all over the place.

The Big Guy wiped something unpleasant out the corner of his eye. "I said so now, din' I?" he replied, watching the other man's hands in case they made a move he didn't like.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Then slowly, deliberately, the Skinny Man lowered his heels to the floor. Keeping his eye on the Big Guy as he backed out of reach, he turned and stormed out of the building, his lamp swinging wildly with each furious step.

The Big Guy took a moment. Maybe this is it, he thought. Maybe tonight's the night. He felt the back of his belt where he'd stashed the crowbar, before following his associate out the factory.

He found his homicidal friend in the workshop next door, admiring a strange, four-wheeled contraption.

"That's her, I reckon. Has to be. Ain't she a beaut?"

The Big Guy nodded. "Y'know what, I ain't usually one fer new-fangled tecnollergy, but that there is one nice lookin' bit of kit."

"She sure is. Hey, did you hear what the boss plans to do wiv 'er?"

"No. And I don't want to neither." The big man tried to sound final about that, but his skinny accomplice couldn't contain himself.

"Suffice to say, someone's gonna be real surprised when they see that comin' down the street towards 'em. The shock could even kill 'em, you might say." He giggled like a little boy who'd just seen a flash of someone's knickers.

The Big Guy watched him out the side of his eye. "You need to stop listenin' at keyholes, mate. You're gonna get in trouble," he warned, but his associate simply swatted away his concerns. "Anyway, come on, let's get her going. I'll drive."

"I'll drive!" the Skinny Man hissed. "I'm the coachman around here."

Considering the device, and its utter lack of horses, the Big Guy couldn't see how that was a factor. But he couldn't be bothered to argue about it either.

"As you wish," he said wearily.

***

In a study worthy of a gentleman of means, in front of a small fire that crackled and popped with comforting regularity, the owner of the freshly-burgled airship factory sat with a cat balanced on one knee and a ledger of accounts balanced on the other. His brow furrowed, he ran his finger down a column of numbers, mumbling to himself as he totted them up in his head. When he reached the bottom of the page he pursed his lips, shaking his head.

"No. It's no good. I still don't see it."

The cat, a grey tortoiseshell tabby with yellowy-green eyes, turned to look up at its master. "What's that then?" it said.

The factory owner tapped the ledger. "These numbers. There's something not right about them. I mean they look right, and indeed they do balance out, but I've seen enough dodgy accounting to know when someone is trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Someone's playing silly buggers, I can feel it. I just don't see how. Whoever it is, they're very good at it."

"Yeah?" said the cat. "So what are you thinking? Is it Peter, do you reckon? Do you think he's up to something?"

The factory owner shook his head. "No, I do not think that is the case."

"But it could be though, eh? It could be Peter. I mean, he's always been a bit..." The cat pulled a 'you know what I mean' kind of face.

"Yes, thank you," said the man, glowering at the accusing kitty. "Your opinion of my youngest son is duly noted."

With a shrug, the cat turned away and began cleaning itself. "So, what's the plan? What're you gonna do?"

"I've asked Henry to look into it, to see what he can find," the factory owner said, putting the ledger to one side. "Hopefully he will succeed where I have not."

The cat frowned up at its master. "Henry? Are you sure? I mean he's a nice lad and all that, but let's be honest, he wouldn't know a balance sheet from a bottle of rum. How's he going to find out anything?"

"I have no idea. I'm hoping he will come up with a way to get to the bottom of things that isn't all invoices and ledgers and accounts payable. My son is a smart lad, in his own way. I'm sure he'll think of something."

The cat wasn't convinced, but he knew better than to argue. Once his master's mind was made up, a dozen determined pit-ponies couldn't make it change direction.

Settling in to enjoy the fire, the cat let his mind wander to bigger, more important, more cat-related issues; like snoozing, and napping, and what he was going to do to that curly-tailed little monster, Mr Nibbles, the cheese thief... when he finally got his paws on him that is.