The Firebird Mystery by Darrell Pitt Page B

vessel and huddled together in the mist for a moment. Rain cast a sheen across their features.
    â€˜What an enormous warehouse,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘One of the largest I have seen on the waterfront.’ He turned to Jack. ‘My boy, have you ever handled a firearm?’
    Bazookas! Jack thought. A gun.
    He imagined himself mowing down countless attackers, while saving Scarlet’s life and being forced to take control of the Lion’s Mane . Later they would float over London and, taking Scarlet’s hand...
    â€˜Jack?’ Mr Doyle interrupted his reverie.
    â€˜No, sir.’ The dream faded. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’
    â€˜I think we may wait until you’ve taken a few lessons.’ Mr Doyle turned to Scarlet. ‘I will not offer you a weapon, Miss Bell. A lady does not carry firearms.’
    â€˜On the contrary, Mr Doyle.’ Scarlet reached into her purse and produced a small handgun. ‘I have taken to carrying a revolver I found in my father’s drawer.’
    â€˜My dear,’ Mr Doyle blustered. ‘I’ve never known a lady to be armed.’
    â€˜As I said before, Mr Doyle, I am a modern woman. You may even be shocked to learn I am in favour of women’s rights.’
    â€˜A suffragette ?’ Mr Doyle uttered the word with a gasp of horror.
    Jack was not sure what a suffragette was. He thought it might have been a type of religion—a cross between Roman Catholic and Church of England.
    â€˜I believe women must have equal rights,’ Scarlet said. ‘One day we will have the vote.’
    Mr Doyle took the prudent action that all men of wisdom throughout the ages have followed—he changed the subject. ‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘We will find a point of possible egress.’
    The warehouse was indeed vast. Its walls were lined with tall windows. The group walked around the building until they reached a small door, set into a large pair of doors at the front. Mr Doyle went to the smaller entry and produced a lock pick from his pocket similar to the one he had given Jack. He started manipulating the latch.
    â€˜Mr Doyle,’ Scarlet said. ‘What are you doing?’
    â€˜I’m breaking and entering,’ Mr Doyle said.
    â€˜So I have become a daring criminal,’ Scarlet enthused. ‘I shall have to give a dissertation at the next meeting of the Young Ladies Primrose Society.’
    Both Jack and Mr Doyle looked at her.
    She blushed. ‘Or I may record it in my memoirs for publication after my demise.’
    The lock clicked and the door swung open. Mr Doyle stuck his head through the gap and listened.
    â€˜I don’t believe anyone is here,’ he said. ‘But we had best proceed with caution.’
    They closed the door behind them. Jack could hear the rain pattering on the metal roof high above. The interior smelled of mould and rotting wood. A loose covering of mulch and hay lay over the stone floor. Breathing out, Jack formed a cloud of fog; it was freezing in the warehouse. Huge timber shelves ran along both sides of the room, stacked high with wooden boxes. The shelving ended near the ceiling and a line of windows. Jack felt like an ant as they walked down the centre aisle.
    Mr Doyle chose a side alley through the stacks and took a smallish box from the shelf. He produced a knife and applied it to the end. He had it open within a minute. Leafing through the interior, he pulled straw out onto the ground.
    â€˜Nothing,’ he said.
    â€˜You mean, nothing of importance?’ Scarlet asked.
    â€˜No, I mean there is nothing in this box. Apart from straw.’
    They all stared into the empty box.
    â€˜That doesn’t make any sense,’ Jack said.
    â€˜I can think of a possibility,’ Scarlet said. ‘There was a Brinkie Buckeridge novel where it turned out the stencilled writing on the packing boxes was actually a secret code. It indicated the location of a gang of