The Hunt

Captain Robertson awoke to find that he had overslept. The Duke’s impromptu visit meant that he had lost valuable hours of sleep. Valuable hours that would cost him dearly. He sluggishly sat up in bed to find that the hour hand was fast approaching eight. Cursing under his breath, Captain Robertson swiftly jumped out of bed and got himself dressed. It seemed he’d have to forgo his morning bath. Part of him wondered if the events of last night were real or if they were just a dream, but after spotting the sweat stains that lined his shirt collar, he was more than certain they weren’t the product of his imagination.
Captain Robertson exited the hotel to find a clean-shaven Mr Daim leaning against a cabriolet, reading Shakespeare.
“I must say these English poets of yours are quite talented.”
He resisted the urge to remind his charge that he was Scottish, not English, so he didn’t claim the Bard of Avon as one of his, opting instead for the far superior Bard of Ayrshire. But he had no time for trivialities. The Captain was keen to get down to business, “So where are we off to today then?”
“Wherever this points us,” Mr Daim pulled out an antique compass from the coat Captain Robertson lent him just over a week ago, “that is where we will be off to.”
The triumphant grin on Mr Daim was met with perplexity by the confounded Captain Robertson. To him, the old compass was just that: an old compass. So old, in fact, it seemed to have a broken axel for the needle no longer pointed north but south. But to Mr Daim, to whom the needle glowed a fluorescent violet, it was the key to tracking down their quarry.
“Let me guess, another one of your nifty tricks, I presume?”
“Indeed,” the grin growing even wider.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Lead the way, my mystical friend.”
The pair bundled into the cabriolet, and off they went, growling along the cobblestone roads.

Silence occupied the carriage for the duration of the drive. Mr Daim put this down to the events of the previous day. It was a long day after all, not to mention the incident with the Commissioner, which was sure to have weighed heavily on Captain Robertson, likely subjecting him to a restless night. Mr Daim had enough life experience to understand not to force conversation out of a tired man. Overall, He was rather impressed with how the Captain handled the whole situation. Previous companions would have forsaken him after such a reality-bending event. It was partly the reason why Mr Daim navigated the Earth alone. But he was glad to retain Captain Robertson’s company, especially in this strange and foreign land.
With the Captain predisposed in his own thoughts, Mr Daim took his attention to the world passing by outside the carriage window. London’s bazaars were half a world away from Lahore’s. Then again, London itself was half a world away from Lahore. Instead of open stalls lining the road in perfect chaos, each store was self-contained within four walls in perfect order. The chime of doorbells composed a pleasant symphony amongst the chatter and clatter of customers passing to and fro. Glass panes allowed Mr Daim to peer into each of these microcosms and catch sight of the goods within. Bakeries would feature an assortment of different loaves, the pleasant smell of baker’s yeast wafting through the air. Tailors would display the finest threads, many a gentleman passing through to achieve the pinnacle of sharpness. Barbers would have several men at a time reclining back upon leather seats, the faint snipping and snapping of falling hairs coating the floors in a thick jungle.
Every now and again, Mr Daim would consult with the old compass and issue orders to the cabbie to ensure they were still on course. This stage of an investigation was always the most arduous. Lesser men would have given up by now, but determination drove Mr Daim forward, and duty dragged Captain Robertson along. Many a time, Mr Daim had been led over many miles in pursuit of rogue jinn. He was even led across continents a few times, once starting a hunt in the Mongolian Steppe and ending it in the Atacama Desert, but with limited ways to track down a being that didn’t want to be found, this was the best method there was. Mr Daim was just thankful that Captain Robertson wasn’t the type to complain. The man had a lot of patience for someone whose lifespan only lasted several decades.
A group of intoxicated lascars bundled out a nearby tavern, one of them almost stumbling into the path of their cabriolet.
“Watch it!” shouted the cabbie.
“Tor pode ekta tiktiki dhukiye debo,” replied the stumbling lascar before spotting Mr Daim in the back as they drove past, “tumi ki dekhacho?”
Mr Daim didn’t need to know Bangla to know that unpleasantries were exchanged. Regardless seeing his fellow countrymen did instil a sense of comfort in him. It felt nice to know he wasn’t the only Indian currently on the British Isles.

Eventually, the sky began to darken, and the smog began to thicken. The cabbie, who up until this point had become progressively irritated with the constantly changing directions, kicked them out onto the street. He wasn’t getting paid enough for this nonsense, plus he had a family to get home to. And so, our pair were left wandering the streets of London while the cabbie returned home bracing himself for the inevitable abuse his missus threw his way. Soon after, the chill began to bite, and the night began to blind. The only light was the occasional sliver that slipped through the curtains of bedroom windows.
After a long walk, the pair found themselves outside a wine-bottling factory that had been abandoned after the working day, ready to be back in operation the following morning. They could just about make out the words Murdstone & Co arching over two doors tall enough and wide enough for an elephant and its mahout to pass through. Mr Daim had yet to see one during his stay. An iron lock lay shattered upon the ground, leaving one of the doors slightly ajar. Meanwhile, the compass pointed straight ahead, which could only mean one thing. Mr Daim locked eyes with Captain Robertson. The hunt was just about to begin.

To be continued…

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This is part of a larger series called Midnights In London