Captain Robertson awoke to find he had overslept. The Duke’s impromptu visit last night meant he had lost valuable hours of sleep. He sluggishly sat up in bed, the clock’s hour hand fast approaching eight.
Cursing under his breath, Captain Robertson swiftly jumped out of bed and dressed himself. It seemed he’d have to forgo his morning bath. He wondered if yesterday’s events were real or just a dream, but after spotting the sweat stains lining his shirt collar, he was confident 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 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. Captain Robertson 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 over a week ago, “…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 an old compass. So old, in fact, that it seemed to have a broken axel for the needle no longer pointed north but east. To Mr Daim, however, 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 triumphant grin growing ever wider.
“Well, what are we waiting for? Lead the way, my mystical friend.”
The pair bundled into the cabriolet and went off, 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 Commissioner Henderson, which was sure to have weighed heavily on Captain Robertson, likely subjecting him to a restless night. Mr Daim had enough life experience to know not to force conversation out of a tired man.
Overall, he was rather impressed with how Captain Robertson handled the 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 Captain Robertson preoccupied with his 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 various 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 men reclined 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.
Mr Daim had traversed 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. Still, with limited ways to track down a being who didn’t want to be found, this was the best method there was. Mr Daim was just thankful 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 of a nearby tavern, one of them almost stumbling into the path of the cabriolet.
“Watch it!” shouted the cabbie.
“Āmi tōmāra pāchāẏa ṭikaṭiki ṭhēlē dēba!” replied the stumbling lascar before spotting Mr Daim in the back as they drove past, “Tōmākē kē dēkhachē?”
Mr Daim didn’t need to know Bangla to know unpleasantries were exchanged. Regardless, seeing his fellow countrymen instilled 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 started 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; 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 slipping through the curtains of bedroom windows.
After a long walk, the pair found themselves outside a wine-bottling factory which had been abandoned after the working day, ready to be back in operation the following morning. They could just about make out the faded signage, Murdstone & Co., arching over two doors large 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 on the ground, leaving one of the doors slightly ajar. Meanwhile, the compass pointed straight ahead. Mr Daim locked eyes with Captain Robertson. This could only mean one thing: the hunt was about to begin.
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London