not all they could be.
Hideous yellow fog steamed out of the vents of the dome that covered the devastated area in Whitechapel, just a few streets to the north. Proposals had been made to seal the dome more tightly, to keep in the noxious vapors, but some scientists worried the gases from the alchemical fires inside would build up enough pressure to cause a more air-tight structure to explode. Yellow smoke was considered preferable to a rain of poisoned dome-fragments.
Finding the address proved difficult, as most of the houses hereabouts didn’t have numbers, but he was in luck: one house did , and it was the house he sought, the address spelled out in brass and affixed to the front door. Pimm’s destination was a tall and narrow structure of old stones and timbers with a steeply peaked roof, pressed in on by long low warehouses on either side. Something about the house seemed vaguely Germanic, or perhaps it just looked like something that belonged in a fairy tale—the residence of a witch, or a more-than-usually genteel ogre.
Pimm rapped on the door with the head of his cane. After a few moments, a dolorous voice on the other side said, “Well?”
“Is this Mr. Adams? My name is Pembroke Halliday. A… mutual acquaintance suggested I speak with you.”
“Ah, yes. Please, enter.” The door swung open soundlessly, and Pimm removed his hat before stepping into the gloomy entryway. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he blinked, because this appeared to be an impossibly vast space—how could the house be bigger on the inside than the outside?
After another moment, he understood. The interior walls had been torn down, except for the supporting pillars, opening the house up on either side to merge seamlessly with the warehouses that flanked the structure. What appeared to be three properties from the street was in fact a single voluminous space. Shrouded shapes—scientific equipment? old furniture?—hulked at irregular intervals, and filthy rooftop windows let in a thin trickle of attenuated light. The floors were made of great unvarnished slabs of quarried stone, covered here and there with carpets that seemed woefully small in all this space, and lent little warmth.
Mr. Adams was even stranger than his home. Though he stood hunched over, the man was still taller than anyone Pimm had seen outside of a carnival, towering over Pimm by at least a foot and a half. He wore dark robes of the sort a scholar might affect for a ceremonial occasion, but stained and threadbare, along with dark leather gloves. Strangest of all, a smooth white mask covered his face, giving him a terrifyingly blank affect—but his eyes were alive and watchful. “You are the detective?” His voice was raspy, as if Mr. Adams had damaged his throat. Perhaps he’d been in a fire—burned skin would explain the mask, and inhalation of smoke the rasp.
Pimm made a point of treating everyone, from tradesman to villain to beggar, with the same geniality, so he merely chuckled. “Oh, heavens no. I have some interest in criminology, that’s all, and I offered our mutual friend my assistance.”
Mr. Adams didn’t move. “I have heard of you. You worked with Scotland Yard on the Constance Trent case, did you not?”
Pimm nodded. “An ugly business. The death of a child…” He shook his head. “Nothing was ever proven, of course, which makes it all the worse. The murderer is still free.”
“We all suffer for our sins,” Mr. Adams said. “If not in the immediate aftermath, than in the fullness of time.”
“Yes, quite.” Pimm cleared his throat. “Our mutual friend—”
“You may call him by name.” Was Adams amused? With that rasp, it was so hard to tell. “We are both inclined toward confidentiality, I am sure, and thus need keep no secrets between us.”
“Mr. Value, then. He says you can show me the bodies of these unfortunate women?”
“One of them, at least. Follow me.” He led Pimm deeper into the house, through
Hideous yellow fog steamed out of the vents of the dome that covered the devastated area in Whitechapel, just a few streets to the north. Proposals had been made to seal the dome more tightly, to keep in the noxious vapors, but some scientists worried the gases from the alchemical fires inside would build up enough pressure to cause a more air-tight structure to explode. Yellow smoke was considered preferable to a rain of poisoned dome-fragments.
Finding the address proved difficult, as most of the houses hereabouts didn’t have numbers, but he was in luck: one house did , and it was the house he sought, the address spelled out in brass and affixed to the front door. Pimm’s destination was a tall and narrow structure of old stones and timbers with a steeply peaked roof, pressed in on by long low warehouses on either side. Something about the house seemed vaguely Germanic, or perhaps it just looked like something that belonged in a fairy tale—the residence of a witch, or a more-than-usually genteel ogre.
Pimm rapped on the door with the head of his cane. After a few moments, a dolorous voice on the other side said, “Well?”
“Is this Mr. Adams? My name is Pembroke Halliday. A… mutual acquaintance suggested I speak with you.”
“Ah, yes. Please, enter.” The door swung open soundlessly, and Pimm removed his hat before stepping into the gloomy entryway. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he blinked, because this appeared to be an impossibly vast space—how could the house be bigger on the inside than the outside?
After another moment, he understood. The interior walls had been torn down, except for the supporting pillars, opening the house up on either side to merge seamlessly with the warehouses that flanked the structure. What appeared to be three properties from the street was in fact a single voluminous space. Shrouded shapes—scientific equipment? old furniture?—hulked at irregular intervals, and filthy rooftop windows let in a thin trickle of attenuated light. The floors were made of great unvarnished slabs of quarried stone, covered here and there with carpets that seemed woefully small in all this space, and lent little warmth.
Mr. Adams was even stranger than his home. Though he stood hunched over, the man was still taller than anyone Pimm had seen outside of a carnival, towering over Pimm by at least a foot and a half. He wore dark robes of the sort a scholar might affect for a ceremonial occasion, but stained and threadbare, along with dark leather gloves. Strangest of all, a smooth white mask covered his face, giving him a terrifyingly blank affect—but his eyes were alive and watchful. “You are the detective?” His voice was raspy, as if Mr. Adams had damaged his throat. Perhaps he’d been in a fire—burned skin would explain the mask, and inhalation of smoke the rasp.
Pimm made a point of treating everyone, from tradesman to villain to beggar, with the same geniality, so he merely chuckled. “Oh, heavens no. I have some interest in criminology, that’s all, and I offered our mutual friend my assistance.”
Mr. Adams didn’t move. “I have heard of you. You worked with Scotland Yard on the Constance Trent case, did you not?”
Pimm nodded. “An ugly business. The death of a child…” He shook his head. “Nothing was ever proven, of course, which makes it all the worse. The murderer is still free.”
“We all suffer for our sins,” Mr. Adams said. “If not in the immediate aftermath, than in the fullness of time.”
“Yes, quite.” Pimm cleared his throat. “Our mutual friend—”
“You may call him by name.” Was Adams amused? With that rasp, it was so hard to tell. “We are both inclined toward confidentiality, I am sure, and thus need keep no secrets between us.”
“Mr. Value, then. He says you can show me the bodies of these unfortunate women?”
“One of them, at least. Follow me.” He led Pimm deeper into the house, through
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