The Vanishing Villa: An Inspector Ambrose Story (Inspector Ambrose Mysteries Book 2), Page 2

  Percy, who had caught his breath and was now standing again, chimed in with an observation. “You say ‘stolen’ Mr ah… Francis?”

  Francis nodded, and glared at Percy. “Yes. I’m assuming you don’t have a better explanation for why my house isn’t standing here either.”

  Percy cleared his throat nervously and ignored the response as best as he could. “And what was the primary material the house was made out of?” he asked.

  Francis thrust a finger at a bush over to the side of the compound. “The house was made of Lightstone – there’s some in the bushes over there. It must have been thrown there when the thieves got away.”

  Ambrose decided it was best to hear Percy out before investigating the pile of rubble – Lightstone was extremely rare and highly sought after.

  “I see,” Percy continued, “It’s just that, if you don’t mind me saying, the whole scenario makes no sense.” He pointed to the ground in front of where the house had stood “There are no drag marks going along the path at all. Your house was made of Lightstone – which we know is named for its colour, not its weight. For someone to have carried your house away, it would have taken many men a number of hours. If a Mech did it, where are the markings from its metal body in the grass or on the bricks? Your whole property, except for where the house used to stand, is immaculate!” with that he threw his hands up in the air.

  Ambrose rubbed his chin; he was also completely bemused by the scene before them.

  Francis was clearly not impressed by Percy’s evaluation of the situation. “Well if it wasn’t stolen then what happened? Are you trying to tell me it just up and vanished?” he demanded.

  Percy simply nodded, and Ambrose decided that now was a good time to step in and reassure both parties. He cleared his throat.

  “Gentlemen, this is a very peculiar case. Francis, I understand why you are so upset. Your loss is both disastrous and troubling, and you have our deepest condolences,” Ambrose looked at Percy, “Listing down the known facts will probably help us, Detective Percy. What do we know so far?”

  Percy read out his observations from his notebook:

  - Mr Francis Finney’s house was in place when he left Traville a week ago.

  - Upon his return, the house was no longer there.

  - The front wall is completely intact, and no suspicious activity was reported.

  - The inside of the compound is untouched, except where the house once stood.

  Ambrose frowned. Everything indeed pointed to a vanishing villa.

  With many questions churning in his mind, Ambrose accompanied Percy and Francis to look at the remaining Lightstone. The large chunk of white stone seemed to glow strangely from within. Mined from deep under the Great Western Mountain Range, Lightstone had been highly sought after for centuries, and today it carried enormous value as it was costly to mine and transport.

  This particular piece of Lightstone carried some unusual engraving. A large elephant adorned most of the piece, with a trunk holding its tail. Francis explained his great passion for elephants to the detectives – apparently he had fallen in love with them whilst hunting in the Southern regions.

  “There’s no greater feeling than using a spear to take down a great beastly Elephant in the middle of the jungle!” Francis exclaimed.

  Ambrose did his best to resist commenting on the irony of Francis enjoying hurting something he loved so much, and instead focussed on canvassing the rest of the area. As they walked, Francis explained how the house had a line of elephants engraved around the outside of its pillars, and throughout the house. The subject had certainly cheered him up, and Ambrose nodded absent-mindedly as they walked along.

  As they moved, Ambrose payed particular attention to the dirt; it had been disturbed quite majorly, which got Ambrose thinking about how the house might have vanished. Could something have lifted the house into the sky? If so, why weren’t the foundations still in place? No, he could tell he was missing something – something important. In the background of Ambrose’s thoughts, the voice of Francis Finney droned on and on, talking about elephants and hunting and such.

  Ambrose had gotten quite sick of the constant noise after a while, and decided to ask a few more questions in order to channel Francis’ energy into something more constructive. He began by asking if anyone might have more knowledge of the crime. Francis perked up at the questions, and suggested (which a sideways glance at Percy) that there had been suspicious Mechs loitering around the area in recent months.

  “What kind of Mechs?” Ambrose enquired. In this neighbourhood, most Mechs would likely be house servants and the like, so for one to be walking around without a purpose was strange indeed. It felt like a lead.

  Francis leaned in close and dropped his voice.

  “Dwarf Mechs,” he said.

  Ambrose was surprised – this was quite a turn of events. “I thought they stopped producing Dwarf Mechs over a century ago?” he said, looking at Percy, who gave him an affirmative nod.

  Francis was beginning to get agitated again. “You’re not suggesting that I’m lying are you?” he said in a tone that seemed to suggest consequences if Ambrose was.

  “No, no – quite the opposite,” said Ambrose, “I think you may have just provided us with an excellent lead for our investigations. How many Dwarf Mechs were there?”

  Francis thought for a moment. “Well, I never saw more than a few at once, but they all looked similar. They would turn up at night, muckin’ about in the street. I told them to clear out a few times, and they’d go scuttling off down towards the slums.”

  Ambrose frowned. The slums were always a good place to find information, but by the time they were finished with Francis and the crime scene, it wouldn’t be worth making the trip down the hill. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

  “When did you last see these Mechs?” Ambrose asked Francis.

  “Saw ‘em just as we were leaving for our trip – I swear them were looking at my place, trying to get a glimpse inside,” Francis shook his head in disgust.

  Percy scribbled a few more notes and the detectives continued scouring the property. No new leads presented themselves as the sun arced low in the sky.

  The morning wore on, with Francis continuing to talk about elephants and Mechs. Ambrose and Percy finished up their inspection of the area around lunchtime, and decided to make further enquiries with the neighbours. Francis headed off on other errands, and the detectives agreed to meet up with him again that night at a local pub.

  The search for answers from the neighbours proved tricky, as no one was home. Despite multiple door knocks and even a bit of yelling, both properties beside Francis’ house stayed silent – which was odd, considering most people had staff attending to their houses around the clock in this neighbourhood. Dispirited by the lack of information, the detectives headed back down to Central Station to file a report on their progress so far. Ambrose was sure Francis was still holding some information back about the frustrating case, and he hoped to get more details from him later that night over dinner.

  The Gilded Garter was a strange place indeed. Located on the corner of two of the most well-to-do streets in all of Traville, it stood three stories tall, with its gaslights shining in the cold winter air, a warm beacon against the chill of the night. It was strange to find a noisy pub in the middle of an affluent suburb, but such was the historic nature of The Gilded Garter that no one would ever dare to tear it down. The cliental was primarily made up of local residents including men who were trying to avoid seeing their wives, and wives who were angrily searching for their husbands.

  Percy and Ambrose spotted Francis waiting for them as they approached the pub, and greeted him as the sound of loud music, laughter and conversation spilled out from the Gilded Garter and onto the street. Ambrose led them in through the front door, and the smell of hot roast meals, smoking-pipes, and ale hit them immediately. The room was packed tonight, but Ambrose spotted a vacant booth in the far corner of the l
arge room and they worked their way through the crowd to it.

  No sooner had they sat down than a serving lady appeared. She looked less than impressed as she took their orders, slamming a few coasters down on the table and muttering “There’ll be a bit of a wait tonight.” Ambrose noted that her mood improved considerably at the next booth she served. In fact, anytime someone looked over at their booth they seemed to scowl a little. Some people even stared, turning away eventually with a shake of their heads.

  Ambrose turned to Francis and said, “Either these folk really don’t like the authorities, or you’re not welcome here.”

  Francis scowled around the room, meeting the occasional gaze with a glare. “I always do my best to be a good citizen, and what do I get? Hardly any of these bleeding rich blighters give me the time of day,” he looked back at Ambrose as he continued his complaint. “I’ve lived here as long as any one of these folks, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they treat me! Right from the day I arrived in this neighbourhood they’ve considered me as an outsider, and why? Just because I don’t come from money! I worked hard to get to where I am today, and I’m proud of that,” he looked sullenly around the room once more. “They can all rot, every last one of them.”

  The evening wore on slowly, and things did not improve. Despite the warm atmosphere in the Gilded Garter, the food was cold and slow to arrive, the drinks only half-filled, and every so often someone would walk past Francis and dig their elbow into him or spill their drink near his feet. A half-sincere apology would always follow, and the culprit would walk off sniggering. Francis seemed to take most of it in his stride, never rising to meet a challenge, but Ambrose noted that he scowled a little more each time someone made a gesture that suggested he wasn’t welcome.

  After a time, Ambrose went to order another round of drinks. As he was waiting for his order at the bar, a well-dressed gentleman in a dark blue suit and cream cravat tapped him on the shoulder.

  “I say, are you detectives friends with that rude creature?”the man said, pointing with a cane vaguely in the direction of Francis. Ambrose had never cared for people who treated others based on their class in society, but he swallowed his own thoughts to engage with the gentleman.

  “No sir, not so much friends as acquaintances. Mr Finney is assisting with a case we’re investigating today, and has come here with us for some evening refreshments. Do you know Him?” Ambrose asked.

  The man snorted in reply to the question. “Know him? My dear chap, I was his neighbour for these past seven years! Never in all my life have a met a man so rude and obnoxious, yet so convinced that the reason people don’t like him is only because of his background,” the man turned his nose up ever so slightly. “While it’s true that someone like him can never truly be a part of the upper class of Traville, it is not his lack of grace and manners that got him such a poor reputation – he is severely disliked because he has individually upset almost every resident in the First Ward.”

  The man pointed to a bearded gentleman in the corner of the room. “Mr Reagis hired Francie to help restore his mansion. Finney charged him double what he had originally said he would, and had his builders use cheap materials to finish the job.”

  The man pointed to an elegantly dressed woman. “Mrs Grace asked him to look after her dog for a week. When she returned, the poor creature was half-starved to death, and she had to put it down.”

  He pointed to another. “Business deal fell through.”

  And another. “Was yelled at for looking at Finney strangely.”

  And another. “Talked to his wife too often.”

  The man finished and locked eyes with Ambrose. “If I were you, I’d be cautious around that man. He’s can’t be trusted.”

  With that, the well-dressed man left the bar and walked out into the night. Ambrose collected his drinks and returned to the booth.

  Francis eyed Ambrose as he sat down. “I saw that fool Connor talking to you. What did he have to say?” he said to Ambrose, with an accusing look in his eye.

  Ambrose didn’t feel much like getting involved with the situation, but he figured it was worth humouring their guest. “He mentioned that he lived next to you until recently – he didn’t seem to have a very high opinion of you. Tell me, why did he move out?” Ambrose quizzed.

  “Because I paid him to.” Francis replied, taking a swig of ale.

  Ambrose wasn’t entirely surprised – a man as wealthy as Francis Finney was likely to do whatever he pleased, and usually did.

  “And he moved out, just like that?” Ambrose asked.

  “He certainly did. They all act as if they’re better than everyone else in this town, but they’ve all got their price!” Francis said, his voice rising as his anger began to boil up again. “They’ve all got their price,” he repeated bitterly to himself.

  The rest of the night passed without incident, until Francis had drunk more than his share of Ale. Conversation had been polite, with Ambrose gathering details of any suspicious people around the neighbourhood, questioning where Francis had been, and requesting other details that Percy could dutifully note down.

  Suddenly, Francis leapt up from his chair. He flew across the room in a rage, and jumped over a table to land on a portly man with a double chin, who was enjoying a brandy with some colleagues. Everything happened so fast that it took a minute for the man’s friends to pick Francis off him, as he attempted to slap him around the head.

  “YOU SET ME UP!” Francis was screaming, “YOU AND EVERY ONE OF YOUR FRIENDS! I’LL DIG WHERE I WANT TO DIG, AND TAKE WHAT I WANT TO TAKE!” He struggled free of the grasp of the men who had grabbed him and turned to face the rest of the room, which had fallen silent.

  “I DON’T NEED YOU!” Francis screamed, beating his chest with his right hand, “I’M FRANCIS FINNEY, AND I BOW TO NO ONE!” with that, he turned on his heel and stormed out the door, leaving the room in a stunned silence.

  Ambrose and Percy quietly gathered their things, and moved apologetically towards the door. Ambrose reminded himself why he guarded his emotions so closely – what a scene they had just witnessed, all because Francis couldn’t control himself.

  Outside, Francis Finney sat silently in the gutter, huffing and puffing from the exertion of jumping on the man inside. Percy gently put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you alright?” Percy enquired.

  Francis had clearly just released all his emotional energy in that burst. He stood up and dusted himself off.

  “Yeah, yeah. I just needed to remind that pompous fool who I am,” he remarked.

  “Who was he?” Ambrose asked. He needed to know more.

  Francis spat into the gutter. “Martin Moret, the owner of Moret’s Excavations,” he replied.

  “And what has Mr Moret done to warrant you throwing yourself on him? You know we could arrest you for that,” Ambrose continued, “In fact, you’re lucky I don’t take you down to the station and have you thrown in a cell overnight. Now what on earth is the matter?”

  Francis finally let go of his bravado. “My business isn’t doing so well,” he admitted.

  “My company started doing archaeological excavations recently. That fool Moret took exception to it, and has been constantly trying to steal my customers. I even had a lead on the location of the Great Central Temple of Light…,” he trailed off and looked up at the detectives. Ambrose was sure he saw a tear in Francis’ eye for the briefest of moments, before he came out of his sad state and snapped at the detectives again.

  “And that’s why he got what he deserved,” he said, “I’ve had enough for one evening, detectives. I’m going to find a place to lay my head for the night.”

  “Do you need some help getting home?” Percy enquired, clearly forgetting that Francis didn’t have a home.

  “Don’t you worry about me, boy.” Francis said to Percy. “I was raised up from the gutter! I have ways to survive!” he turned and walked down the hill.

  “I’ll get a hotel room
for the night,” he said.

  “They’ll let me in! They always let me in.”

  Francis disappeared into the darkness, staggering off to find a place to sleep that was far away from the judgement he felt from his neighbours. Ambrose and Percy found themselves standing alone on the footpath outside the pub, as a light drizzle began to fall. The sound of conversation and glasses being cleaned drifted out from the pub as the night began to grow colder.

  “What do you make of Francis Finney, Percy?” Ambrose asked his partner.

  Percy was watching the street where Francis had just passed from view. “It’s a sad thing to see a man who doesn’t fit in,” he said philosophically. “My mother always told me that you can’t control what happens to you, but you can always choose how you react,” he looked up at Ambrose. “Some people choose to change, some people choose to escape. Mr Finney… he chooses to get angry.”

  Ambrose nodded. “My dear Percy,” he said, “I do believe that’s the best observation I’ve heard all night.”

  Ambrose turned to look at his partner. “Francis’ anger has given any number of people a motive to cause him harm. This case certainly isn’t getting any easier.”

  With a murmur and a nod, Ambrose and Percy traipsed off into the lonely night, down towards their homes, where the fireplaces would be warm and the beds ready for sleep.

  Just as the detectives were leaving the First Ward, the sound of footsteps rang out in the street behind them, and a voice called out through the rain.

  “I say, detectives, do you have a moment?” a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat caught up to them.

  “We’re actually quite interested in getting out of the rain to be honest,” said Ambrose as he kept walking, feeling keen to avoid catching a cold.

  “I understand,” the man replied, “But allow me to introduce myself; I’m James Pierson, of the Underwood Insurance Company.” He stuck out a hand to the detectives as they continued walking. “I was in the Gilded Garter just now, and couldn’t help but notice your association with Mr Francis Finney. I don’t suppose you have a moment for a quick chat?”