The Curious Case of Clara Chase
Chapter One
I'd only been on Asher for two days when I found myself sitting outside St Bartholomew's Hospital with responsibility for a fourteen-year-old girl.
It wasn't quite what I'd expected when I'd taken the case.
Then again, I'd learned a long time ago that expectations were generally the first things to go wrong.
We'd come to St Bartholomew's because our investigation had led us there. That was about as far as we'd got. We didn't know what we were looking for, only that whatever we were looking for appeared to have something to do with the hospital. Grace, Tom, Marlowe and I had been working on the problem together, while Nathaniel and Clara had arrived separately and met us there.
Nathaniel had shown us around the hospital, which was doing its best to function while the Navy used it for military casualties. It was a busy place, and there were enough uniforms and stretchers moving through the corridors to make me feel as though I'd wandered into somebody else's war.
I hadn't expected Nathaniel to be called away.
A messenger found him while we were still talking, and after a brief conversation Nathaniel came over to me. He looked towards Clara before speaking.
"Arthur, would you mind staying with Clara while I deal with this?"
"Of course."
He seemed relieved.
There wasn't much more to it. He went over to Clara and explained that he had to leave for a while. She listened carefully, nodded and gave him a small smile. She didn't look frightened, and she certainly didn't make a fuss. She simply accepted that her father had something he needed to deal with.
When Nathaniel turned away, Clara looked at me.
"Mr Wrathchild?"
I smiled.
"Arthur will do."
She hesitated for a moment before nodding.
"Very well, Arthur."
It was a small thing, but I remember it. She was polite without being timid, and there was already something about her manner that told me she wasn't quite the ordinary fourteen-year-old girl I'd expected.
Nathaniel disappeared back into the hospital with the messenger, leaving Clara and me standing there.
I glanced towards the doors, then back at her.
"Well, I suppose we'd better get out of everyone's way."
She followed me without complaint.
My car was parked a short distance away, and I opened the passenger door for her before walking around to the driver's side. She climbed in, settled herself comfortably and waited while I started the engine.
I pulled away from the hospital without having the slightest idea where I was going.
That was the first problem.
The second was that I'd been asked to keep Clara company, which was a considerably less specific instruction than "take her somewhere".
For a while I drove without saying anything. London passed around us in the usual mixture of traffic, uniforms and wartime inconvenience. Clara watched the streets through the window, apparently content to let me decide where we were going.
Eventually I glanced across at her.
"So, what would you like to do?"
She looked at me.
"What?"
"I've been asked to keep you company while your father is busy. I thought we might as well do something with the time."
She considered the question.
"I don't know."
I waited for her to add something.
She didn't.
I wasn't exactly an expert in what a fourteen-year-old girl liked to do in wartime Britain, but I had a rough idea. The pictures were an obvious possibility. Shopping for a new dress, assuming we could find one and she had the coupons for it. The zoo might have been worth a visit. There were probably a dozen other things that a girl her age would have considered far more interesting than sitting in the passenger seat of a stranger's car.
Clara seemed to have nothing in particular in mind.
I didn't rush her.
I'd only known the girl for two days, but I'd already noticed that she was bright. Very bright, in fact. She watched people carefully, listened when adults were talking and seemed to understand rather more than she let on. There was a maturity about her that was difficult to miss.
But she was still fourteen.
Nearly fifteen, although I hadn't yet learned quite how important that distinction was.
Her circumstances had put more restrictions on her life than most girls her age had to deal with. That didn't mean her father had made every decision for her. From what I'd seen, Nathaniel did his best to give her as normal a life as he could whenever circumstances allowed it.
This just wasn't a particularly normal set of circumstances.
I looked across at her again.
"Nothing comes to mind?"
She shook her head.
"Not really."
I nodded and kept driving.
After a little while she looked at me.
"What would you do?"
I laughed.
"That's a dangerous question."
"Why?"
"Because my idea of a good afternoon probably isn't the same as yours."
"What would your idea be?"
I thought about it.
"A decent meal, a drink and somewhere I could sit without somebody asking me questions."
She smiled.
"I don't think that's very exciting."
"I didn't say it was."
That made her laugh quietly.
It was the first time I'd heard her laugh properly, and I remember thinking that it suited her better than the serious expression she'd worn most of the morning.
I turned onto another street and glanced across at her.
"All right. Your turn."
"My turn?"
"You're the one I'm supposed to be looking after. If we're going to spend the afternoon together, you might as well have some say in what we do."
She thought about that.
This time, when she looked out of the window, there was a little more interest in her expression.
"I'd like to see more of London."
"That's easy enough."
She looked back at me.
"Would it be all right?"
There was the politeness again.
I realised then that Clara wasn't asking because she needed permission to have an opinion. She was asking because she'd been handed over to someone she'd only known for two days and wanted to know what the rules were.
I smiled.
"I think we can manage that."
"Thank you, Arthur."
"You're welcome."
And that was how the afternoon began.
At the time, I thought we'd simply spend a few hours seeing London and then return to St Bartholomew's when Nathaniel was finished.
I was wrong about the afternoon.
I was also wrong about how much I was going to learn about Clara Chase before the day was over.
WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS: The Curious Case of Clara Chase.
Moderators: Podmore, arcanus, Otto
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 655
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 655
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS: The Curious Case of Clara Chase.
Chapter Two
London was an impressive city, even when you had to keep reminding yourself that somebody had spent a considerable amount of time trying to destroy it.
I decided that if I was going to keep Clara occupied for the afternoon, I might as well show her some of the sights. I knew enough of London from previous visits to other worldlines to recognise the obvious places, although I was beginning to suspect that knowing a city on one world didn't necessarily make you an expert on the next.
We started with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Clara seemed pleased with the choice and spent some time pointing out things I hadn't noticed, which was mildly embarrassing considering I was supposed to be the one showing her around.
From there we went towards St Paul's.
The dome was impressive enough, but it was the things around it that caught my attention. London had been bombed, and the damage wasn't something you could politely ignore. There were buildings with their fronts missing, exposing rooms that had once been private and ordinary. In one place a staircase climbed three floors before ending in open air. Somewhere else, a bedroom was still furnished despite the rest of the house being little more than rubble.
Clara became quieter as we drove through those streets.
I did too.
There wasn't much to say about that sort of thing. I'd seen what war did to cities before, although usually from a different angle and, in some cases, on a different world entirely. It never became something you got used to seeing.
Eventually we made our way towards Horse Guards, and Clara began talking again. She had questions about some of the buildings we'd passed, and I answered the ones I could. When I couldn't, she seemed perfectly happy to tell me what she knew instead.
It was during that part of the afternoon that I made my first navigational mistake.
I'd seen the road before, or at least something close enough to it that my memory insisted it was the same road. I followed it with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea where he was going.
It took Clara a few minutes to notice.
"You know we're going the wrong way, don't you?"
"I was beginning to suspect it."
She looked across at me with a smile that was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress.
"You said you knew where you were going."
"I said nothing of the sort."
"You did."
"I said I knew the general direction."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," I admitted. "It isn't."
She laughed, and I found myself laughing with her. I eventually found the road I wanted, although Clara made a point of reminding me that we'd already passed the turning once.
I told her that navigation was considerably more complicated than it looked.
She suggested that perhaps I should buy a map.
I told her that I had one.
She asked why I hadn't used it.
I had no particularly good answer for that.
The second time I got lost, she was waiting for it.
By then she'd become comfortable enough to tease me about it, although she still did it with the sort of restraint that reminded me she was fourteen and I was an adult she'd only known for two days. There was no disrespect in it. She simply seemed to have decided that getting lost twice was enough evidence to make my navigation a legitimate subject for criticism.
I couldn't really argue with her.
Eventually she announced that she was hungry.
That seemed reasonable, so I started looking for somewhere we could stop. We ended up in Greenwich, where we found a small café and managed to get ourselves a table.
Tea and cake seemed like the appropriate answer to the afternoon.
The tea was considerably better than I'd expected.
I'd never understood why British people were so particular about the stuff until I'd spent enough time drinking it elsewhere. Whatever they did differently, they did it properly. I took a sip and decided that I could understand why the country had chosen to fight a world war rather than surrender its tea supply.
Clara noticed my expression.
"Is it good?"
"It's very good."
She smiled. "You sound surprised."
"I am. I've had tea in a lot of places. Most of it wasn't worth drinking."
"British tea is different."
"I've noticed."
We sat there for a while, and for the first time that day neither of us seemed to have anywhere else we needed to be.
The conversation wandered naturally. Clara told me about some of the places she'd visited with Nathaniel and the things she'd enjoyed doing when they had the opportunity. She talked about books, about London and about some of the things she'd seen during her father's investigations. I answered a few questions about myself without going into too much detail.
There were certain things about my life that weren't particularly suitable for a conversation with a fourteen-year-old girl, especially one whose father was already dealing with more strange things than either of us needed to add to the list.
I listened more than I talked.
That was something I'd learned to do over the years.
People tended to tell you a lot when you gave them the chance.
By the time we'd finished our tea and cake, I realised that the afternoon had turned out rather differently from what I'd expected.
I'd thought I was taking Clara out to keep her occupied while Nathaniel dealt with whatever had called him away.
Instead, we'd spent several hours looking at London, getting lost twice, laughing about it and discovering that British tea was considerably better than anything I'd been served in America.
It wasn't much.
But for an afternoon in wartime London, it was a pretty good start.
London was an impressive city, even when you had to keep reminding yourself that somebody had spent a considerable amount of time trying to destroy it.
I decided that if I was going to keep Clara occupied for the afternoon, I might as well show her some of the sights. I knew enough of London from previous visits to other worldlines to recognise the obvious places, although I was beginning to suspect that knowing a city on one world didn't necessarily make you an expert on the next.
We started with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Clara seemed pleased with the choice and spent some time pointing out things I hadn't noticed, which was mildly embarrassing considering I was supposed to be the one showing her around.
From there we went towards St Paul's.
The dome was impressive enough, but it was the things around it that caught my attention. London had been bombed, and the damage wasn't something you could politely ignore. There were buildings with their fronts missing, exposing rooms that had once been private and ordinary. In one place a staircase climbed three floors before ending in open air. Somewhere else, a bedroom was still furnished despite the rest of the house being little more than rubble.
Clara became quieter as we drove through those streets.
I did too.
There wasn't much to say about that sort of thing. I'd seen what war did to cities before, although usually from a different angle and, in some cases, on a different world entirely. It never became something you got used to seeing.
Eventually we made our way towards Horse Guards, and Clara began talking again. She had questions about some of the buildings we'd passed, and I answered the ones I could. When I couldn't, she seemed perfectly happy to tell me what she knew instead.
It was during that part of the afternoon that I made my first navigational mistake.
I'd seen the road before, or at least something close enough to it that my memory insisted it was the same road. I followed it with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea where he was going.
It took Clara a few minutes to notice.
"You know we're going the wrong way, don't you?"
"I was beginning to suspect it."
She looked across at me with a smile that was becoming increasingly difficult to suppress.
"You said you knew where you were going."
"I said nothing of the sort."
"You did."
"I said I knew the general direction."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," I admitted. "It isn't."
She laughed, and I found myself laughing with her. I eventually found the road I wanted, although Clara made a point of reminding me that we'd already passed the turning once.
I told her that navigation was considerably more complicated than it looked.
She suggested that perhaps I should buy a map.
I told her that I had one.
She asked why I hadn't used it.
I had no particularly good answer for that.
The second time I got lost, she was waiting for it.
By then she'd become comfortable enough to tease me about it, although she still did it with the sort of restraint that reminded me she was fourteen and I was an adult she'd only known for two days. There was no disrespect in it. She simply seemed to have decided that getting lost twice was enough evidence to make my navigation a legitimate subject for criticism.
I couldn't really argue with her.
Eventually she announced that she was hungry.
That seemed reasonable, so I started looking for somewhere we could stop. We ended up in Greenwich, where we found a small café and managed to get ourselves a table.
Tea and cake seemed like the appropriate answer to the afternoon.
The tea was considerably better than I'd expected.
I'd never understood why British people were so particular about the stuff until I'd spent enough time drinking it elsewhere. Whatever they did differently, they did it properly. I took a sip and decided that I could understand why the country had chosen to fight a world war rather than surrender its tea supply.
Clara noticed my expression.
"Is it good?"
"It's very good."
She smiled. "You sound surprised."
"I am. I've had tea in a lot of places. Most of it wasn't worth drinking."
"British tea is different."
"I've noticed."
We sat there for a while, and for the first time that day neither of us seemed to have anywhere else we needed to be.
The conversation wandered naturally. Clara told me about some of the places she'd visited with Nathaniel and the things she'd enjoyed doing when they had the opportunity. She talked about books, about London and about some of the things she'd seen during her father's investigations. I answered a few questions about myself without going into too much detail.
There were certain things about my life that weren't particularly suitable for a conversation with a fourteen-year-old girl, especially one whose father was already dealing with more strange things than either of us needed to add to the list.
I listened more than I talked.
That was something I'd learned to do over the years.
People tended to tell you a lot when you gave them the chance.
By the time we'd finished our tea and cake, I realised that the afternoon had turned out rather differently from what I'd expected.
I'd thought I was taking Clara out to keep her occupied while Nathaniel dealt with whatever had called him away.
Instead, we'd spent several hours looking at London, getting lost twice, laughing about it and discovering that British tea was considerably better than anything I'd been served in America.
It wasn't much.
But for an afternoon in wartime London, it was a pretty good start.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 655
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS: The Curious Case of Clara Chase.
Chapter Three
We stayed in the café for a while after we'd finished the cake. I was enjoying the tea, and Clara seemed happy enough to sit quietly and watch the people outside. She had been unusually contemplative for the last few minutes, turning her cup slowly between her hands while apparently giving something a good deal of thought.
Eventually she looked up at me.
"Arthur, are you from another world?"
I very nearly spat my tea across the table.
I managed to swallow it, although it wasn't particularly dignified, and put the cup down before I made an even bigger mess of myself. The question had caught me completely off guard, and not because it was particularly strange. By then, Clara knew that there were other worlds. She'd seen enough of Infinity's technology and had been taken to New York under cover of darkness, so she already knew that the world was considerably stranger than most people in 1943 believed.
What caught me was that she'd asked me **here**.
I glanced around the café. It wasn't crowded, but there were still other people around us, and I'd already learned enough about Infinity to know just how seriously they took keeping their secrets.
Clara was watching me closely.
She hadn't asked the question casually, either. There was no mischievous grin or hint that she was trying to catch me out. She simply wanted an answer, and I had the distinct impression that she already had a pretty good idea what that answer was going to be.
I considered lying.
It wouldn't have been difficult. I could have laughed it off, told her she'd misunderstood something or simply said that she was mistaken. The problem was that Clara was a very bright young lady, and I had no doubt she'd know I was lying.
Besides, she'd asked me directly.
"Yes," I said.
Her eyes widened slightly, although she didn't look particularly surprised.
"Really?"
I nodded and took another sip of my tea, mostly because I needed a moment to decide what I was going to say next.
"Really."
She looked as though she was about to start asking questions, so I stopped her before she could.
"Not here."
She looked around the café.
"Why not?"
"Because this is a public place."
She glanced around again. There were only a handful of customers, most of them minding their own business, but that didn't change my answer.
"Even if nobody is listening?"
"Especially then. People who aren't listening are usually the ones who hear things."
She considered that and seemed to accept it.
I finished my tea and reached for my coat. "If you want to talk about it, I'll tell you what I can. But we'll find somewhere private first."
Clara sat quietly for a moment before she suggested her father's house. She had a key, she explained, and it wasn't very far away.
That sounded considerably better than discussing other worlds in the middle of a café, so I settled the bill and we headed back outside.
Once we were in the car, Clara gave me directions. I followed them, which was considerably easier than trying to navigate London from memory.
I'd already managed to get lost twice that afternoon. I didn't particularly want to make it three.
As we drove, Clara was quiet again. I suspected she was trying to work out what she was going to ask me when we arrived.
I couldn't blame her.
If I'd been fourteen and somebody had casually confirmed that he'd come from another world, I'd probably have had a few questions myself.
We stayed in the café for a while after we'd finished the cake. I was enjoying the tea, and Clara seemed happy enough to sit quietly and watch the people outside. She had been unusually contemplative for the last few minutes, turning her cup slowly between her hands while apparently giving something a good deal of thought.
Eventually she looked up at me.
"Arthur, are you from another world?"
I very nearly spat my tea across the table.
I managed to swallow it, although it wasn't particularly dignified, and put the cup down before I made an even bigger mess of myself. The question had caught me completely off guard, and not because it was particularly strange. By then, Clara knew that there were other worlds. She'd seen enough of Infinity's technology and had been taken to New York under cover of darkness, so she already knew that the world was considerably stranger than most people in 1943 believed.
What caught me was that she'd asked me **here**.
I glanced around the café. It wasn't crowded, but there were still other people around us, and I'd already learned enough about Infinity to know just how seriously they took keeping their secrets.
Clara was watching me closely.
She hadn't asked the question casually, either. There was no mischievous grin or hint that she was trying to catch me out. She simply wanted an answer, and I had the distinct impression that she already had a pretty good idea what that answer was going to be.
I considered lying.
It wouldn't have been difficult. I could have laughed it off, told her she'd misunderstood something or simply said that she was mistaken. The problem was that Clara was a very bright young lady, and I had no doubt she'd know I was lying.
Besides, she'd asked me directly.
"Yes," I said.
Her eyes widened slightly, although she didn't look particularly surprised.
"Really?"
I nodded and took another sip of my tea, mostly because I needed a moment to decide what I was going to say next.
"Really."
She looked as though she was about to start asking questions, so I stopped her before she could.
"Not here."
She looked around the café.
"Why not?"
"Because this is a public place."
She glanced around again. There were only a handful of customers, most of them minding their own business, but that didn't change my answer.
"Even if nobody is listening?"
"Especially then. People who aren't listening are usually the ones who hear things."
She considered that and seemed to accept it.
I finished my tea and reached for my coat. "If you want to talk about it, I'll tell you what I can. But we'll find somewhere private first."
Clara sat quietly for a moment before she suggested her father's house. She had a key, she explained, and it wasn't very far away.
That sounded considerably better than discussing other worlds in the middle of a café, so I settled the bill and we headed back outside.
Once we were in the car, Clara gave me directions. I followed them, which was considerably easier than trying to navigate London from memory.
I'd already managed to get lost twice that afternoon. I didn't particularly want to make it three.
As we drove, Clara was quiet again. I suspected she was trying to work out what she was going to ask me when we arrived.
I couldn't blame her.
If I'd been fourteen and somebody had casually confirmed that he'd come from another world, I'd probably have had a few questions myself.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 655
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS: The Curious Case of Clara Chase.
Chapter Four
Clara gave me directions towards her father's house, and I followed them while keeping an eye on the traffic around us. We'd been driving for several minutes when something caught my attention in the mirror. It was a blue saloon with a broken headlight and a long scrape down its wing, and there was something about it that bothered me.
My memory has always been pretty good, particularly when it comes to faces, places and little details that other people tend to overlook. I had seen that car before, although it took me a moment to remember where. Then it came to me. I'd noticed it near the hospital, and again while Clara and I had been driving around London. I was fairly certain it had also been nearby when we'd stopped for tea.
I checked the mirror again, trying not to make it obvious that I was watching.
Clara noticed anyway.
"Are you looking at that car behind us, the blue one with the broken headlight and the scrape down its wing?"
I glanced at her. She was looking through the rear window, apparently watching the same car I'd been keeping track of.
"Yes," I said. "That one."
"I've seen it before."
"So have I."
She thought about it for a moment and then said that she'd noticed it near the hospital and had seen it again while we'd been driving around earlier. I found myself looking at her rather than the road for a second.
I'd already worked out that Clara was bright, but this was something else. She had been sitting beside me all afternoon, taking in everything around her, and she'd remembered the same insignificant detail that I'd picked out.
I smiled.
"You've got good eyes."
She seemed pleased by that, although she tried not to show it.
I looked back at the mirror. The blue car was still there, keeping a comfortable distance behind us. There was nothing unusual about that in itself. London was busy, and we were hardly travelling in a straight line through an empty countryside. It was perfectly possible that we'd simply happened to take the same roads.
I decided to give coincidence a little more time to prove itself.
I took the next turning, one that still made sense for the route to Nathaniel's house, and watched the mirror. The blue saloon followed us.
I took another turning a few minutes later, this time one that wasn't really necessary.
The car followed again.
That was beginning to look less like coincidence.
I didn't say anything to Clara. There was no point alarming her until I was certain, and if the driver was following us deliberately, I didn't particularly want to advertise the fact that we'd noticed.
Instead, I increased our speed.
I wasn't interested in driving like a lunatic. Apart from the fact that it would have attracted attention, there was a fourteen-year-old girl sitting beside me and a perfectly good reason not to turn a possible tail into a traffic accident. I simply made use of the gaps in the traffic and allowed the car to gather speed whenever I had the opportunity.
For a while the blue saloon disappeared behind a bus.
I thought perhaps we'd lost it.
Then it appeared again.
Clara noticed it at almost the same time I did.
"They're still there."
"I know."
She looked at me, and I could see that she was trying to decide whether she should be worried. After a moment she asked if I thought they were following us, and I told her that it was certainly beginning to look that way.
She glanced through the rear window again before settling back into her seat.
"What are you going to do?"
"I haven't decided yet."
That was mostly true. I knew I didn't want to take her directly to her father's house with somebody following us, but beyond that I hadn't made up my mind. There was no sense in making things worse simply because I felt the need to do something.
I took another turning and then another, deliberately moving away from the route Clara had given me. The blue car followed each time, and by then I was satisfied that we had a tail.
I glanced across at Clara and found her watching me with an amused expression.
"You're getting lost again."
I couldn't help smiling.
"I'm not lost."
She pointed out that we were no longer heading towards her father's house, which was difficult to argue with. I told her I had a fairly good idea where we were, although the look she gave me suggested she had heard that particular claim before.
I accelerated again, taking advantage of another break in the traffic, and the blue saloon stayed with us. Whoever was driving it seemed to have no intention of giving up, so I began looking for somewhere quieter.
The main roads weren't going to help me. There was too much traffic, too many people and too many opportunities for somebody to disappear without me knowing whether they'd actually lost interest or had simply found another route.
Eventually I spotted a narrow alley between two rows of buildings. It wasn't much to look at, but it was quiet, and that was what I needed.
I turned into it and slowed down, the noise of the city fading as the buildings closed in around us. I drove a little farther before pulling the car over and switching off the engine.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
I looked into the rear-view mirror.
The alley behind us was empty.
I waited.
Clara gave me directions towards her father's house, and I followed them while keeping an eye on the traffic around us. We'd been driving for several minutes when something caught my attention in the mirror. It was a blue saloon with a broken headlight and a long scrape down its wing, and there was something about it that bothered me.
My memory has always been pretty good, particularly when it comes to faces, places and little details that other people tend to overlook. I had seen that car before, although it took me a moment to remember where. Then it came to me. I'd noticed it near the hospital, and again while Clara and I had been driving around London. I was fairly certain it had also been nearby when we'd stopped for tea.
I checked the mirror again, trying not to make it obvious that I was watching.
Clara noticed anyway.
"Are you looking at that car behind us, the blue one with the broken headlight and the scrape down its wing?"
I glanced at her. She was looking through the rear window, apparently watching the same car I'd been keeping track of.
"Yes," I said. "That one."
"I've seen it before."
"So have I."
She thought about it for a moment and then said that she'd noticed it near the hospital and had seen it again while we'd been driving around earlier. I found myself looking at her rather than the road for a second.
I'd already worked out that Clara was bright, but this was something else. She had been sitting beside me all afternoon, taking in everything around her, and she'd remembered the same insignificant detail that I'd picked out.
I smiled.
"You've got good eyes."
She seemed pleased by that, although she tried not to show it.
I looked back at the mirror. The blue car was still there, keeping a comfortable distance behind us. There was nothing unusual about that in itself. London was busy, and we were hardly travelling in a straight line through an empty countryside. It was perfectly possible that we'd simply happened to take the same roads.
I decided to give coincidence a little more time to prove itself.
I took the next turning, one that still made sense for the route to Nathaniel's house, and watched the mirror. The blue saloon followed us.
I took another turning a few minutes later, this time one that wasn't really necessary.
The car followed again.
That was beginning to look less like coincidence.
I didn't say anything to Clara. There was no point alarming her until I was certain, and if the driver was following us deliberately, I didn't particularly want to advertise the fact that we'd noticed.
Instead, I increased our speed.
I wasn't interested in driving like a lunatic. Apart from the fact that it would have attracted attention, there was a fourteen-year-old girl sitting beside me and a perfectly good reason not to turn a possible tail into a traffic accident. I simply made use of the gaps in the traffic and allowed the car to gather speed whenever I had the opportunity.
For a while the blue saloon disappeared behind a bus.
I thought perhaps we'd lost it.
Then it appeared again.
Clara noticed it at almost the same time I did.
"They're still there."
"I know."
She looked at me, and I could see that she was trying to decide whether she should be worried. After a moment she asked if I thought they were following us, and I told her that it was certainly beginning to look that way.
She glanced through the rear window again before settling back into her seat.
"What are you going to do?"
"I haven't decided yet."
That was mostly true. I knew I didn't want to take her directly to her father's house with somebody following us, but beyond that I hadn't made up my mind. There was no sense in making things worse simply because I felt the need to do something.
I took another turning and then another, deliberately moving away from the route Clara had given me. The blue car followed each time, and by then I was satisfied that we had a tail.
I glanced across at Clara and found her watching me with an amused expression.
"You're getting lost again."
I couldn't help smiling.
"I'm not lost."
She pointed out that we were no longer heading towards her father's house, which was difficult to argue with. I told her I had a fairly good idea where we were, although the look she gave me suggested she had heard that particular claim before.
I accelerated again, taking advantage of another break in the traffic, and the blue saloon stayed with us. Whoever was driving it seemed to have no intention of giving up, so I began looking for somewhere quieter.
The main roads weren't going to help me. There was too much traffic, too many people and too many opportunities for somebody to disappear without me knowing whether they'd actually lost interest or had simply found another route.
Eventually I spotted a narrow alley between two rows of buildings. It wasn't much to look at, but it was quiet, and that was what I needed.
I turned into it and slowed down, the noise of the city fading as the buildings closed in around us. I drove a little farther before pulling the car over and switching off the engine.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
I looked into the rear-view mirror.
The alley behind us was empty.
I waited.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 655
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS: The Curious Case of Clara Chase.
Chapter Five
We hadn't been sitting in that alley for more than a minute when the blue saloon appeared at the entrance.
I remember feeling a certain satisfaction at that point. We'd finally managed to prove that the car had been following us, although proving something and knowing what to do about it were two very different things.
The saloon rolled slowly into the alley and stopped a short distance behind us. I looked across at Clara and told her to stay in the car while I got out to have a word with our new friends.
The two men inside didn't look like the sort of people who had taken a wrong turn while looking for the nearest railway station. They were both big, rough-looking fellows, and neither had the appearance of somebody I'd particularly want to meet in a dark alley. I opened my door and stepped out, keeping my hands where they could see them.
The driver's door opened and the first man climbed out.
The passenger followed.
The driver was carrying a club, a short and ugly piece of wood that looked as though it had seen some use. His companion produced a handgun and held it low, although not quite low enough to make me feel comfortable about it.
They told me they wanted the girl.
I remember looking back towards my car and then at the two men. There wasn't much doubt who they meant.
I decided that, for the moment, the sensible thing was to give them what they expected. Or at least give them the impression that I was going to.
I raised my hands and took a step backwards, putting on my best impression of a man who had suddenly realised that he was badly outnumbered and even more badly armed. It wasn't particularly difficult. Most men looking at me saw somebody in his fifties, and I was happy to let them continue thinking that.
The fellow with the club came towards me.
That was his mistake.
I'd spent a good part of my life learning that the first few seconds of a fight were usually more important than the last few minutes. The man with the gun was the dangerous one, but he was hanging back, relying on his friend to deal with me. That gave me exactly what I needed.
When the man with the club came within reach, I dropped my hands.
I drove my fist into his stomach.
I didn't hit him particularly hard by ordinary standards. I didn't need to.
The force I'd been holding in reserve discharged through my hand at the instant of impact, and the effect was rather more impressive than the punch itself. The man left the ground as though somebody had kicked him with a mule and flew backwards several feet before landing heavily against the side of the alley.
The look on his face was worth remembering.
His companion reacted quickly.
I moved quicker.
He brought the gun up and I was already moving towards him. I slapped his wrist aside just as he fired, and the shot cracked through the alley, deafening in the confined space. The bullet went somewhere behind me and I didn't stop to find out where.
He swung the gun towards me again.
I caught his arm and drove my shoulder into his chest.
He staggered backwards, but he was stronger than his friend and managed to stay on his feet. He swung at me with his free hand, catching me across the jaw hard enough to make my teeth rattle.
I answered with a punch of my own.
The force burst out through my fist and sent him stumbling backwards.
He hit the wall.
I followed him.
That was when the fight became properly scrappy.
He grabbed hold of my jacket and tried to pull me off balance. I drove an elbow into his ribs and he responded by smashing his forehead into mine. My vision flashed white for a second, and I remember thinking that I'd forgotten just how unpleasant fighting could be when people stopped behaving sensibly.
We went down together.
He managed to get on top of me, and for a moment I was looking straight up at the barrel of his gun. I caught his wrist with both hands and twisted as hard as I could. He swore, the gun went off somewhere above my shoulder and his grip loosened enough for me to wrench it away.
I threw the weapon across the alley.
He punched me again.
I punched him back.
Neither of us seemed particularly interested in giving the other man the satisfaction of winning.
Eventually I managed to get my knee between us and shoved him away. I rolled to my feet, grabbed the front of his coat and hauled him upright before driving my fist into his chest.
This time I let the force go properly.
He flew backwards.
There was a rather satisfying thump as he landed on the cobbles several feet away and stayed there.
I turned towards the other man.
He'd recovered enough to get back onto his feet, although not enough to look particularly steady. He still had the club in his hand and apparently hadn't learned anything from what had happened to his friend.
He came at me again.
I stepped aside, caught his arm and used his own momentum to send him crashing into the side of the car. The club clattered onto the ground, and I finished the matter with a punch that sent him sprawling beside his companion.
I stood there for a moment, breathing rather harder than I'd have liked.
Both men were down.
I checked the gun first and kicked it out of reach. Then I looked at the two of them again to make sure neither was about to get up.
That was when I noticed the knife.
It was sticking out of my leg.
I'd been so occupied with the two men that I hadn't felt it properly. The blade had gone into the upper part of my thigh, uncomfortably close to somewhere I would very much prefer knives not to go.
I looked at it.
Then I looked at the two men lying on the ground.
"Well, that's annoying."
I grabbed the knife and pulled it free, immediately regretting that decision when the pain arrived properly.
I winced, pressed a hand against the wound and limped back towards the car.
Clara was still inside.
I opened the driver's door, lowered myself into the seat and took a moment before starting the engine.
I wasn't sure whether I'd be explaining the fight to Clara or the knife first.
Either way, I suspected the afternoon was about to become considerably more complicated.
We hadn't been sitting in that alley for more than a minute when the blue saloon appeared at the entrance.
I remember feeling a certain satisfaction at that point. We'd finally managed to prove that the car had been following us, although proving something and knowing what to do about it were two very different things.
The saloon rolled slowly into the alley and stopped a short distance behind us. I looked across at Clara and told her to stay in the car while I got out to have a word with our new friends.
The two men inside didn't look like the sort of people who had taken a wrong turn while looking for the nearest railway station. They were both big, rough-looking fellows, and neither had the appearance of somebody I'd particularly want to meet in a dark alley. I opened my door and stepped out, keeping my hands where they could see them.
The driver's door opened and the first man climbed out.
The passenger followed.
The driver was carrying a club, a short and ugly piece of wood that looked as though it had seen some use. His companion produced a handgun and held it low, although not quite low enough to make me feel comfortable about it.
They told me they wanted the girl.
I remember looking back towards my car and then at the two men. There wasn't much doubt who they meant.
I decided that, for the moment, the sensible thing was to give them what they expected. Or at least give them the impression that I was going to.
I raised my hands and took a step backwards, putting on my best impression of a man who had suddenly realised that he was badly outnumbered and even more badly armed. It wasn't particularly difficult. Most men looking at me saw somebody in his fifties, and I was happy to let them continue thinking that.
The fellow with the club came towards me.
That was his mistake.
I'd spent a good part of my life learning that the first few seconds of a fight were usually more important than the last few minutes. The man with the gun was the dangerous one, but he was hanging back, relying on his friend to deal with me. That gave me exactly what I needed.
When the man with the club came within reach, I dropped my hands.
I drove my fist into his stomach.
I didn't hit him particularly hard by ordinary standards. I didn't need to.
The force I'd been holding in reserve discharged through my hand at the instant of impact, and the effect was rather more impressive than the punch itself. The man left the ground as though somebody had kicked him with a mule and flew backwards several feet before landing heavily against the side of the alley.
The look on his face was worth remembering.
His companion reacted quickly.
I moved quicker.
He brought the gun up and I was already moving towards him. I slapped his wrist aside just as he fired, and the shot cracked through the alley, deafening in the confined space. The bullet went somewhere behind me and I didn't stop to find out where.
He swung the gun towards me again.
I caught his arm and drove my shoulder into his chest.
He staggered backwards, but he was stronger than his friend and managed to stay on his feet. He swung at me with his free hand, catching me across the jaw hard enough to make my teeth rattle.
I answered with a punch of my own.
The force burst out through my fist and sent him stumbling backwards.
He hit the wall.
I followed him.
That was when the fight became properly scrappy.
He grabbed hold of my jacket and tried to pull me off balance. I drove an elbow into his ribs and he responded by smashing his forehead into mine. My vision flashed white for a second, and I remember thinking that I'd forgotten just how unpleasant fighting could be when people stopped behaving sensibly.
We went down together.
He managed to get on top of me, and for a moment I was looking straight up at the barrel of his gun. I caught his wrist with both hands and twisted as hard as I could. He swore, the gun went off somewhere above my shoulder and his grip loosened enough for me to wrench it away.
I threw the weapon across the alley.
He punched me again.
I punched him back.
Neither of us seemed particularly interested in giving the other man the satisfaction of winning.
Eventually I managed to get my knee between us and shoved him away. I rolled to my feet, grabbed the front of his coat and hauled him upright before driving my fist into his chest.
This time I let the force go properly.
He flew backwards.
There was a rather satisfying thump as he landed on the cobbles several feet away and stayed there.
I turned towards the other man.
He'd recovered enough to get back onto his feet, although not enough to look particularly steady. He still had the club in his hand and apparently hadn't learned anything from what had happened to his friend.
He came at me again.
I stepped aside, caught his arm and used his own momentum to send him crashing into the side of the car. The club clattered onto the ground, and I finished the matter with a punch that sent him sprawling beside his companion.
I stood there for a moment, breathing rather harder than I'd have liked.
Both men were down.
I checked the gun first and kicked it out of reach. Then I looked at the two of them again to make sure neither was about to get up.
That was when I noticed the knife.
It was sticking out of my leg.
I'd been so occupied with the two men that I hadn't felt it properly. The blade had gone into the upper part of my thigh, uncomfortably close to somewhere I would very much prefer knives not to go.
I looked at it.
Then I looked at the two men lying on the ground.
"Well, that's annoying."
I grabbed the knife and pulled it free, immediately regretting that decision when the pain arrived properly.
I winced, pressed a hand against the wound and limped back towards the car.
Clara was still inside.
I opened the driver's door, lowered myself into the seat and took a moment before starting the engine.
I wasn't sure whether I'd be explaining the fight to Clara or the knife first.
Either way, I suspected the afternoon was about to become considerably more complicated.
-
Keeper
- Magi
- Posts: 655
- Joined: Wed Mar 24, 2010 7:41 am
Re: WRATHCHILD INVESTIGATIONS: The Curious Case of Clara Chase.
The Curious Case of Clara Chase
Chapter Six
The first sound I heard after getting back into the car was the sharp blast of police whistles somewhere behind us.
That was enough to make the decision for me.
I started the engine, pulled out of the alley and headed in the direction Clara had given me for her father's house. I wasn't particularly worried about the two gentlemen we'd left behind. They were both still breathing, and I was reasonably confident neither of them had suffered anything that wouldn't mend with a little time and a good night's sleep.
The police were another matter.
I had no desire to explain why I'd been involved in a fight with two armed men in a London alley, particularly when one of them had been carrying a gun and I had a fourteen-year-old girl sitting beside me. There were probably explanations for it that would have sounded perfectly reasonable, but I wasn't convinced the local constabulary would have been especially interested in hearing them.
I was more concerned about the blood.
I'd known I'd been stabbed, obviously, but during the fight there had been rather more important things to worry about. Once the adrenaline began to wear off, the wound made itself considerably harder to ignore. I could feel the warm wetness spreading through my trousers and soaking into the seat.
Clara noticed it before I said anything.
She looked down at my leg and then at me, and there was a calmness in her expression that I found rather impressive considering the amount of blood involved.
"You're bleeding rather badly."
"I noticed."
She didn't seem convinced. She leaned forward to get a better look, then asked me to pull over.
I told her that wasn't necessary and that I knew where I was going. She reminded me that I had spent part of the afternoon getting lost, and that if I passed out while driving we'd probably have rather more serious problems than getting lost.
She had a point, and I was sensible enough to recognise it.
I kept driving, although I slowed down enough that she could see what she was dealing with. She reached across and pressed her hand against the wound.
I nearly swore.
The location of the knife wound made her choice of treatment somewhat awkward. I muttered something under my breath about the inappropriateness of the situation, which Clara either didn't hear or chose to ignore.
She told me to stop fussing.
There was no embarrassment in her voice, no awkwardness and certainly no suggestion of anything other than practical concern. Her father had taught her first aid, she explained, and she knew what she was doing. She wasn't interested in where the wound happened to be located. She was interested in stopping me from bleeding.
There was nothing more to it, than that. Even so, I still wasn't entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but I wasn't about to make a perfectly sensible act into something it wasn't. Clara was doing exactly what she'd been taught to do, and I respected her for keeping her head when I was becoming increasingly aware that I had lost a fair amount of blood.
The good news was that I knew I was going to heal.
That wasn't something I particularly wanted to explain to Clara while she was trying to keep me alive, but it did mean I wasn't frightened by the wound. Given a few hours, my body would repair the damage. The blood I'd already lost was another matter, and that was beginning to catch up with me.
I assured Clara that I was fine.
She pointed out that I was looking rather pale.
I told her that was probably the London weather.
She didn't laugh.
I told her I was joking.
She still didn't laugh.
I decided that perhaps I wasn't as funny as I thought I was.
She continued to keep pressure on the wound while I concentrated on the road. Every now and then she asked whether I felt dizzy, and each time I told her that I was all right. Eventually I had to admit that the edges of my vision were beginning to blur, which made the lie considerably harder to maintain.
Clara seemed to notice.
She didn't panic. She simply told me that we needed to get to the house quickly.
I agreed with her.
By the time we reached Nathaniel's house I was feeling distinctly less enthusiastic about walking anywhere. Clara was out of the car almost before I'd managed to bring it to a complete stop, and she came around to my side to help me.
I told her I could manage.
She told me to stop being stupid.
I think that was the first time she'd spoken to me quite that bluntly.
I rather liked it.
Between us we managed to get me through the door, although Clara did most of the work. Once inside, she went into what I can only describe as nurse mode. She found what she needed, got me somewhere I could sit down and started dealing with the wound properly.
I tried to help.
She told me not to.
I tried again.
She told me, with considerably more authority this time, that if I wanted her to fix the bloody thing I could stop getting in her way.
I decided that she had earned the right to swear at me.
She worked calmly, asking me questions about the wound and checking that I was still conscious and aware of what was going on. I answered as best I could, although by then my answers were becoming increasingly difficult to organise.
I knew what was happening.
My body was already repairing itself, but it couldn't put the blood back into my veins simply because I'd decided I was going to be all right. The weakness was catching up with me, and there wasn't much I could do about it.
I remember Clara saying something about getting help.
I remember telling her that I didn't need it.
Then I remember the room becoming very dark.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the sofa.
For a few seconds I had no idea where I was. I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember how I'd got there. My leg hurt, but the pain had changed. It was dull now rather than sharp, which told me that the healing process was already well under way.
I moved slightly and immediately wished I hadn't.
Then I looked down.
My leg was bandaged.
That was good.
I was alive.
That was also good.
Then I noticed that I wasn't wearing any trousers.
That was considerably less good.
I stared down at myself for several seconds, trying to work out exactly how we'd reached this particular situation.
"How the hell did that happen?"
I heard movement somewhere nearby.
Clara appeared in the doorway.
She stopped when she saw I was awake and gave me a relieved smile. There was something almost comical about how quickly she tried to hide it and return to the serious expression she'd been wearing while looking after me.
I asked her what had happened to my trousers.
She explained that they'd been covered in blood and that she'd needed to get to the wound properly. I decided that was a reasonable explanation, although I still wasn't entirely sure I wanted to know the details of how she'd managed it while I was unconscious.
Then I remembered something else.
I'd passed out.
I looked at her.
She admitted that when she'd realised she couldn't move me properly by herself, she'd called for help.
That was when another figure appeared in the doorway.
Nurse Meaner.
I looked from her to Clara and then back again.
It became clear that Clara had made the sensible decision. Whatever else she might have thought she could handle, she had recognised the point where she needed an adult who could actually move a fully grown man who had collapsed on the floor.
I was rather glad she'd done it.
Nurse Meaner took a look at me, then at the bandage, and seemed satisfied that I was going to survive the experience.
I shifted back against the sofa and looked down at my leg again. The wound was already feeling better, although there was still a considerable amount of healing left to do.
Clara had done a good job.
More importantly, she'd kept her head when things had become unpleasant. She'd been frightened enough to know that something was wrong, but not so frightened that she'd stopped thinking.
For a fourteen-year-old girl who had already been through considerably more than most people her age, I thought that said a lot about her.
I looked at her and smiled.
"Thank you."
She smiled back.
"You're welcome."
I was beginning to think that I might have underestimated Clara Chase.
Chapter Six
The first sound I heard after getting back into the car was the sharp blast of police whistles somewhere behind us.
That was enough to make the decision for me.
I started the engine, pulled out of the alley and headed in the direction Clara had given me for her father's house. I wasn't particularly worried about the two gentlemen we'd left behind. They were both still breathing, and I was reasonably confident neither of them had suffered anything that wouldn't mend with a little time and a good night's sleep.
The police were another matter.
I had no desire to explain why I'd been involved in a fight with two armed men in a London alley, particularly when one of them had been carrying a gun and I had a fourteen-year-old girl sitting beside me. There were probably explanations for it that would have sounded perfectly reasonable, but I wasn't convinced the local constabulary would have been especially interested in hearing them.
I was more concerned about the blood.
I'd known I'd been stabbed, obviously, but during the fight there had been rather more important things to worry about. Once the adrenaline began to wear off, the wound made itself considerably harder to ignore. I could feel the warm wetness spreading through my trousers and soaking into the seat.
Clara noticed it before I said anything.
She looked down at my leg and then at me, and there was a calmness in her expression that I found rather impressive considering the amount of blood involved.
"You're bleeding rather badly."
"I noticed."
She didn't seem convinced. She leaned forward to get a better look, then asked me to pull over.
I told her that wasn't necessary and that I knew where I was going. She reminded me that I had spent part of the afternoon getting lost, and that if I passed out while driving we'd probably have rather more serious problems than getting lost.
She had a point, and I was sensible enough to recognise it.
I kept driving, although I slowed down enough that she could see what she was dealing with. She reached across and pressed her hand against the wound.
I nearly swore.
The location of the knife wound made her choice of treatment somewhat awkward. I muttered something under my breath about the inappropriateness of the situation, which Clara either didn't hear or chose to ignore.
She told me to stop fussing.
There was no embarrassment in her voice, no awkwardness and certainly no suggestion of anything other than practical concern. Her father had taught her first aid, she explained, and she knew what she was doing. She wasn't interested in where the wound happened to be located. She was interested in stopping me from bleeding.
There was nothing more to it, than that. Even so, I still wasn't entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but I wasn't about to make a perfectly sensible act into something it wasn't. Clara was doing exactly what she'd been taught to do, and I respected her for keeping her head when I was becoming increasingly aware that I had lost a fair amount of blood.
The good news was that I knew I was going to heal.
That wasn't something I particularly wanted to explain to Clara while she was trying to keep me alive, but it did mean I wasn't frightened by the wound. Given a few hours, my body would repair the damage. The blood I'd already lost was another matter, and that was beginning to catch up with me.
I assured Clara that I was fine.
She pointed out that I was looking rather pale.
I told her that was probably the London weather.
She didn't laugh.
I told her I was joking.
She still didn't laugh.
I decided that perhaps I wasn't as funny as I thought I was.
She continued to keep pressure on the wound while I concentrated on the road. Every now and then she asked whether I felt dizzy, and each time I told her that I was all right. Eventually I had to admit that the edges of my vision were beginning to blur, which made the lie considerably harder to maintain.
Clara seemed to notice.
She didn't panic. She simply told me that we needed to get to the house quickly.
I agreed with her.
By the time we reached Nathaniel's house I was feeling distinctly less enthusiastic about walking anywhere. Clara was out of the car almost before I'd managed to bring it to a complete stop, and she came around to my side to help me.
I told her I could manage.
She told me to stop being stupid.
I think that was the first time she'd spoken to me quite that bluntly.
I rather liked it.
Between us we managed to get me through the door, although Clara did most of the work. Once inside, she went into what I can only describe as nurse mode. She found what she needed, got me somewhere I could sit down and started dealing with the wound properly.
I tried to help.
She told me not to.
I tried again.
She told me, with considerably more authority this time, that if I wanted her to fix the bloody thing I could stop getting in her way.
I decided that she had earned the right to swear at me.
She worked calmly, asking me questions about the wound and checking that I was still conscious and aware of what was going on. I answered as best I could, although by then my answers were becoming increasingly difficult to organise.
I knew what was happening.
My body was already repairing itself, but it couldn't put the blood back into my veins simply because I'd decided I was going to be all right. The weakness was catching up with me, and there wasn't much I could do about it.
I remember Clara saying something about getting help.
I remember telling her that I didn't need it.
Then I remember the room becoming very dark.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the sofa.
For a few seconds I had no idea where I was. I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember how I'd got there. My leg hurt, but the pain had changed. It was dull now rather than sharp, which told me that the healing process was already well under way.
I moved slightly and immediately wished I hadn't.
Then I looked down.
My leg was bandaged.
That was good.
I was alive.
That was also good.
Then I noticed that I wasn't wearing any trousers.
That was considerably less good.
I stared down at myself for several seconds, trying to work out exactly how we'd reached this particular situation.
"How the hell did that happen?"
I heard movement somewhere nearby.
Clara appeared in the doorway.
She stopped when she saw I was awake and gave me a relieved smile. There was something almost comical about how quickly she tried to hide it and return to the serious expression she'd been wearing while looking after me.
I asked her what had happened to my trousers.
She explained that they'd been covered in blood and that she'd needed to get to the wound properly. I decided that was a reasonable explanation, although I still wasn't entirely sure I wanted to know the details of how she'd managed it while I was unconscious.
Then I remembered something else.
I'd passed out.
I looked at her.
She admitted that when she'd realised she couldn't move me properly by herself, she'd called for help.
That was when another figure appeared in the doorway.
Nurse Meaner.
I looked from her to Clara and then back again.
It became clear that Clara had made the sensible decision. Whatever else she might have thought she could handle, she had recognised the point where she needed an adult who could actually move a fully grown man who had collapsed on the floor.
I was rather glad she'd done it.
Nurse Meaner took a look at me, then at the bandage, and seemed satisfied that I was going to survive the experience.
I shifted back against the sofa and looked down at my leg again. The wound was already feeling better, although there was still a considerable amount of healing left to do.
Clara had done a good job.
More importantly, she'd kept her head when things had become unpleasant. She'd been frightened enough to know that something was wrong, but not so frightened that she'd stopped thinking.
For a fourteen-year-old girl who had already been through considerably more than most people her age, I thought that said a lot about her.
I looked at her and smiled.
"Thank you."
She smiled back.
"You're welcome."
I was beginning to think that I might have underestimated Clara Chase.