What Went Wrong With Mrs Milliard's Mech? Read online

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  It was early in the morning, and the streets of Traville were quiet. Ambrose pulled his umbrella up above his head, and began the short walk down the road to the local tea shop, where he would meet his partner to start the day. He looked around him and considered the scene. Traville was a sprawling mass of humanity and machinery, coloured in a million shades of grey and black. There was the dark grey of the cobblestones that lined the street, and the light grey of the gas-lamps. The black hats of busy businessmen and the pitch black horses that plodded along the streets, carrying firewood and supplies. The dullness of the city seemed to overtake even the people, as soot and mud covered the faces of workers from the downtown slums. The sun rarely seemed to shine on the capital of the Empire, but when it did, the city seemed to shrink back, unsure of what to do when brightness pierced the dark. Only down in the slums at the base of the hill would you find colour – a brightly painted wall sparkling with blue and green and shades of white, or a splash of rouge glimpsed down a dark alleyway. In Ambrose’s street however, all was dark, dreary and quiet. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour, and he had work to do. Trudging along the footpath through the puddles of rainwater, he considered how much he hated being late, and hoped that the rest of the day would be more ordered than the start had been.

  Within a few minutes, Ambrose arrived at the tea shop. He stepped inside, out of the cold, rain and gloom, and into the warmth and bustle of Tilly’s Tea Emporium. The Emporium consisted of a large square room with extraordinarily high ceilings, lit by a giant chandelier that hung low in the middle of the area. A counter was situated in the right hand corner, and booths stretched out around the edge of the room from there, surrounding the tables that dotted the centre of the Emporium. This was the meeting place for many of the city’s elite – a constant mill of bankers, politicians, society ladies and occasionally, a ruthless conman or helpful informant. A dull hum would always emerge from the booths and tables alike, occasionally pierced by the ring of the bell positioned about the door, which would elicit the inquisitive looks of a few faces that would turn to see who had just arrived. Yes, the Emporium was a wonderful place for both spies and high society people alike, and it was also the place where Ambrose and his partner started every workday with a cup of herbal tea, to clear the mind and sharpen the senses.

  Ambrose paused just inside the door and scanned the room to find his partner. He looked around at the general mill of people, and though he could make out the occasional red coat, he couldn’t see the man he was looking for. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one who was running late this morning, and he would have to talk to – suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the clanging of the doorbell, and in an instant he found himself sprawled on the floor as someone barrelled into his back. “Oh I’m so sorry!” stammered his assailant “I was in such a hurry and I didn’t – oh! Inspector!” Ambrose recognised the voice, and simply gave a resigned sigh as he picked himself up off the floor and dusted himself off as best he could. Before him stood a great rotund man, dressed in a red coat, sweating profusely and completely drenched. It was his partner, Detective Percy. Ambrose fixed him with a steely gaze. “Good morning, Detective Percy. Your lateness is as habitual as a kleptomaniac’s arrest record, and equally unamusing. On the other hand, I only just arrived here, so for this morning, all is forgiven.” Ambrose dropped his façade of displeasure and smiled a small smile. Despite the infuriating nature of his partner’s constant lateness, his dependability and devotion more than made up for his many character flaws. Seeing his partner smile a little, Percy relaxed, as he clearly had feared that today was the day he had finally pushed his senior partner over the edge.

  If there was ever a contrast to Inspector Ambrose, it was his partner of three years, Detective Percy Portland. No one in the Civilian Protection Force was ever able to understand how he remained a detective, for his fitness would never have allowed him to pass a physical challenge if one ever arose. Percy was, quite simply, obese. His roly-poly belly filled out his red coat so much that one would think it could burst at any moment. His face, perennially red from exertion, was covered in freckles, and his brown hair was always unkempt and greasy, hanging down around his ears in great clumps. If looks alone were the measure of a man, then Percy would be caught short by quite a long way. But as Ambrose had discovered, beneath the laughable exterior lay a man of unshakeable convictions – endlessly positive and attentive, and with a deep sense of faith in The Order. This faith in the established system of beliefs that governed the C. P. F. helped to cut through the scepticism that Ambrose found himself dwelling in, and though it could at times be tiring (“Faith in The Order helps us keep order.” Percy would often quip), it was a reminder of how deep the rotund young man’s convictions ran.

  The partners made their way to the counter and picked up their usual order: two herbal teas, extra hot. Tilly’s Tea Emporium was equally famous for its outstanding tea as it was for its convenience as a meeting place, and no visit was complete without trying the herbal varieties. Ambrose and Percy made their way to the nearest booth, and began the morning in earnest, with Percy bringing news of the day’s assignment from the Head Office. Ambrose sipped his tea and watched as his partner pulled out his ever-present notebook from his pocket. Ambrose couldn’t remember a day when he hadn’t witnessed Percy filling up the pages of his books with notes and thoughts about cases they had uncovered. Each morning he would add the title of the day’s case, and they would proceed accordingly – very little escaped the young man as he enthusiastically scribbled away. Ambrose smiled to himself. It was always good to know good people. “So, what’s it going to be today?” he asked.

  Percy shook his head. “A terrible thing today I’m afraid, Inspector.”

  “What do you mean? Has someone been beating up children in the slums again?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s a problem of a different magnitude to that. It’s Mrs Milliard.”

  “Oh! From the pie shop down in district four?”

  “Yes, that’s the one – seems she’s run into a bit of industrial espionage of some sort, and we’re all going to be the worse for it.” said Percy, shaking his head as he took a sip of his tea.

  Ambrose nodded. He knew that the only thing that matched Percy’s love of The Order was his love of all things to do with food. In fact, he was quite a competent chef himself, but mostly his passion for edible things was limited to consumption. With this in mind, something was clearly happening to Mrs Milliard’s supply of delicious pies – pies for which no one knew the recipe, except her head baker. “So something’s happening with the pies, I imagine?” enquired Ambrose.

  “That’s correct, the pies are no longer coming out right. Raw, horrible things have been produced by the kitchen for the past few days. Mrs Milliard called in to the Central Station yesterday afternoon. Given the nature of the case, we’ve been requested to complete a thorough investigation. Our expertise will be most useful in the kitchen, of course – human staff are only involved in serving the pies, not their production.” Percy lifted his eyes from the notebook and fixed his gaze on his partner. “The preparation of the pies, including baking, pastry making, and the very recipes themselves, are tasks performed by a Mech.”

  Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s news. I always assumed that they had a human baker back there. Fascinating.” The secrecy surrounding Mrs Milliard’s pies was so great that no one except a few trusted staff members knew how the pies were made. For her to release even the tiniest amount of information about her methods showed her desperation.

  “Is she expecting us soon?”

  “Indeed, first thing. Mrs Milliard won’t be able to open the shop until she gets to the bottom of this.”

  Ambrose drank down the last drop of his tea and carefully placed his empty cup on the table. “No time to waste then; let’s go and see if we can’t find out what’s got this Mech going off the rails.”