The Intrigue Of The Battered Box

Michael Cobley

1. Harsh Reality

They finally found his body in a muddy abandoned brick tunnel siding a mile west of Great Waverley Terminus. Seven slender men in innocuous city wear, they surrounded the sad, rain-sodden corpse, two of them crouching to search the ragged garments and a coarse canvas bag strapped to the waist. At length the examiners got to their feet, looked to their leader and shook their heads.

“Only the box,” one said. “Naught else.”

The leader, a tall cloaked man with storm-grey eyes, frowned as he contemplated the oaken lockbox that he held. It was roughly a foot long on each side, had brass strapping on its corners and edges, and bore many dints and scratches on every surface. It was also empty.

“So we still have to find the Relic,” he said bitterly. “We still have to stay here in this vast stone maze. So be it.”

He stared down at the dead man lying across the weed-choked, rusty rails, knowing that it had been love and a fatal desire which had brought their brother to this sorry end. That and his foolish theft of several irreplaceable instruments whose exotic and obvious value had attracted the wrong kind of attention. Luckily, all of them had been retrieved, apart from the Relic.

The leader gave the box to one of the examiners.

“Return this to the Outpost,” he said. “Report all that has transpired, and inform them of the task yet to be achieved. In the meantime, we shall endeavor to retrace all of our errant brother’s steps.”

The messenger nodded then bent to retrieve the canvas bag from the corpse, slipped the box inside and left, climbing back up the embankment to the main road. Under a grey, gusty sky he took a steam omnibus along Princes Street to Coronation Bridge where he alighted and hurried up onto the Imperial Mile.

But he never reached his destination. A horse-drawn carriage clattered up alongside him, its open door allowing cruel hands to drag him bodily inside. Moments later the carriage turned off the Mile and a lifeless body was tipped out into the gutter, its blood joining the swirling rainwater. And of the bag and the box it contained there was no sign.

2. A Singular Client

Many and multifarious have been those who have sought out the services of my good friend Sheldrake Ormiston, the empire’s foremost diagnostic investigator. But the client who called at the Candle Street chambers one dank Edinburgh evening in October 1881 surpassed them all with a presence and demeanour sufficiently impressive to rival that of Ormiston himself.

Announcing himself as Jason Tideswell, our visitor – a tall man in tweeds – accepted my friend’s invitation to sit in the red leather armchair near the fire. Once he was settled therein, and the appropriate introductions were made, he gazed across at Sheldrake Ormiston with stern grey eyes.

“Sir,” he began. “I have a private predicament to resolve, one in which I would prefer not to involve the police. Be assured that there are no gross misdemeanours in this – it is merely a matter of retrieving an item stolen from me only hours ago.”

Sheldrake Ormiston glanced at me momentarily, his dark eyes aglint with amusement as he reached for an old gunpowder pouch on the mantelpiece.

“Mr Tideswell,” he said as his long fingers filled a long-stemmed pipe with shredded leaf from the pouch. “What, pray tell, is the item in question?”

This time it was Tideswell’s turn to look in my direction but Ormiston forestalled him.

“You can be quite open before my friend here,” he said. ”Mr Ramsay is a former lieutenant in the 2nd Philadelphia Dragoons and has become my invaluable companion on many an intrigue and adventure. Please – continue.”

Tideswell frowned, then nodded. “Very well, Mr Ormiston. Know that the item was a brass-bound oaken box, a foot long on all sides, and of a somewhat well-used appearance. Inside is a wide variety of papers, documents, letters, photographs, handbills – the box was my father’s and came into my possession recently after his death overseas.

“When and where was the last time you saw this box, sir?” Ormiston said as smoky threads drifted from the bowl of his pipe.

Tideswell’s lips twitched with a faintly sardonic smile. “In the hands of a footpad who relieved me of it as I was crossing Coronation Bridge this morning at about ten o’clock. I gave chase but lost him in the crowds near the junction with the Imperial Mile.”

“Would you recognise this malefactor if you saw him again, Mr Tideswell?”

“I believe so, sir. I looked him full in the face throughout the entire incident.”

Ormiston suddenly uncoiled from his armchair. “Then I suggest that the three of us hasten forth to the City Infirmary – the afternoon edition of the Edinburgh Times reported on an unidentified body found just off the Imperial Mile shortly after ten o’clock, and a mere two streets away from your last sighting, Mr Tideswell!”

Tideswell and I came to our feet in unison and followed him eagerly out into the hall where the redoubtable Mrs Lawrence was waiting with our coats.

3. A Degree Of Certainty

Two met in the nave of Rosslyn Chapel by the golden light of oil lamps.

“So the Aquarial Brethren have called upon the Great Investigator,” said one, a portly, grey-haired man in dark green robes. “Just what is in this box, I wonder?”

The second man was taller and younger, his lean physique complemented by formal gentlemen’s blacks and long cape. One hand held a hat and gloves, the other a walking stick.

“The Brethren’s leader claims that it contains unimportant papers, bequeathed from his deceased father.”

The first gave a contemptuous snort. “Ormiston should see through that in an instant, but he’ll keep his counsel until he knows more.” He gazed thoughtfully over at the intricate form of the Apprentice Pillar. “Tell me, Lachlan, do we have any notion as to who purloined it?”

“Blackwood,” said the one called Lachlan. “One of our spotters happened to see the incident from across the road, and recognised the driver as one of his.”

“Dr Elijah Blackwood,” said the first man with loathing. “The bane of Edinburgh and the Empire! Is it some Manichean curse that the mightiest capital in the world must be the source of both the best and the worst that Mankind has to offer? Hopefully, your brother will pick up his spoor in this cryptic imbroglio, and if not we might see a way to nudge him in the right direction, eh?”

The younger man smiled. “I’ve never known Sheldrake to be nudged, but I’m sure something can be done should it be necessary. And in the meantime?”

“We keep an eye on all of Blackwood’s comings and goings, but with care. Our other agents will see what progress Mr Ormiston makes – it is entirely possible that he may deduce the truth about the Aquarial Brethren and their leader!”

“Which would be a fascinating confrontation to behold,” said Lachlan Ormiston.

4. Cold Storage

Our breath fumed in the marble chill of the infirmary morgue. The enigmatic Tideswell looked down at the pale body stretched out on the metal drawer and nodded.

“This is the man,” he said. “How did he die?”

“By the forceful impact of a heavy object to the back of the head.” The attending surgeon was the acclaimed Dr Bellwether who on more than one occasion has provided invaluable insights to Ormiston. “Death took place perhaps half an hour later and was doubtless very unpleasant for him.”

“Was there anything of note on his person, doctor?” Ormiston said.

Dr Bellwether smiled as he gazed at all three of us.

“Not a thing, my dear Ormiston,” he said. “His pockets were as empty as could be and beyond a couple of moles and a missing incisor there are no distinguishing marks.”

I watched the two face each other across the metal drawer and its passenger, suppressing the urge to smile at this friendly pitting of wiles.

“None at all, you say?” Ormiston reached down for the corpse’s hand, examining it this way and that. “Hmm, not a labourer, and no ink stains so not an office worker. What of his attire?”

“Quite odd,” Bellwether said. “Not one of his garments was a good or comfortable fit and all were mismatched, probably second-hand -”

“And thus no easy way determining their origin…”

“Nor their owner.” Bellwether chuckled as he pushed the laden drawer back into its place in the wall. “It seems that this may be a fruitless avenue for your investigations, sir.”

Ormiston’s smile was wintry. “Perhaps, doctor, perhaps.”

“Yet you have attracted the attention of an unsavoury pursuer. You recall that peculiar case involving the clockwork bears, and that family of brigands who complicated the matter?”

Ormiston nodded. “The McGurks,” he said with distaste. “More than just the father should be behind bars.”

The good doctor nodded. “Well, one of the sons is hounding you – I saw your approach from the upper gallery, and noticed the McGurk offspring shadowing you almost to the infirmary door.”

“My thanks, doctor,” Ormiston said. “We shall be especially vigilant. Ramsay – have you your service revolver?”

“Yes indeed, Ormiston!”

“Then let us venture forth. Mr Tideswell – you may elect to remain here until we have confronted this problem, if you prefer.”

“I have no qualms about such encounters, Mr Ormiston.”

“Good! – come then!”

5. Monuments Of The Imperial Mile

(excerpt from page 9)

No. XXIV – Bishop Paterson of Mallaig

Sixty-two years after the Second Restoration, Bishop Paterson was a pivotal figure in the development of the empire’s spiritual character. In 1808 he roused the fury of the highlands and the lowlands against the protestant pretensions of James VII, forcing the establishment of the Holy Northern Church. Later, in 1817, he organised a body of influential nobles and patricians to persuade King John III to abdicate in favour of his sister, the devout Anne who raised the Church to the pre-eminent position it occupies today.

No. XXV – Godwin MacGregor, Duke of Kintail

The Duke of Kintail was commander of His Imperial Majesty’s armies at the Battle of Philadelphia in 1829. His victory crushed the 2nd American uprising and paved the way for lasting peace and prosperity throughout the continent. Although this statue group shows him in a warlike pose on horseback, he was known for his philanthropy and clemency, especially during his tenure as Governor-General of Eastern America.

No. XXVI – Charles III

This large frieze across the front of the MacAulay Building shows the entrance of Charles Edward Stuart into London in 1745, heralding the 2nd Restoration. Amongst the many figures are the clan chieftains and their standards, Charles III’s advisers, and the burghers of London welcoming him at the open city gates. Although the capital was later moved to Edinburgh, London has continued to play a vital role as the empire grew in strength and stature.

6. Waiting In Stone

“Sheldrake Ormiston!”

The words were spoken with a level yet palpable hate in the shadowy, low-lit tower room. By the glow of a shuttered lamp, a pair of long, spidery hands fingered a brass-bound box, turning it this way and that before laying it to rest on a bare tabletop.

“Aye, its empty yir honour.”

“So I see, Bogston you fool, but since it clearly once held the skull we can now reunite them…” One of the hands produced a yellowing skull from the shadows and placed it in the open box. “And this is all! We failed to acquire those interesting instruments that Linsel saw her customer with – those mysterious men got to them before we could, but at least we were able to do for one of them…and got this box.” The cold precise voice broke into a dry laugh.

“It must be important, but,” said the one called Bogston. “Now they’ve gone tae…you know who…”

“Of course its important, but let us not worry about Sheldrake Ormiston – I have been waiting a long time for the chance to draw him into the web of a suitable demise. Even now he will be tugging on one of its outlying tendrils, one of those idiot McGurk boys who I sent to follow him. That should bring him within my orbit before long, whereupon he shall be dealt with.”

“Good – ah never liked him, or his pet sojer.”

“There still remains the mystery of the box and the skull, Bogston, and those strangers.” The long pale fingers removed the skull from the box, turning its brow to the lamp’s yellow glow and tapped the bone. “See, there are two small holes here and this patch of bone is lighter in hue – some kind of plate was fixed here, inscribed with a name….” The skull was placed carefully on the table. “In the meantime, get out and alert your hardiest toughs and let me know where Ormiston is; if Ormiston gets too close to the McGurk boy see he stays silent.”

“Aye, Dr Blackwood – be back soonest.”

As the tower room door clicked shut and footsteps receded down the spiral stairs, Elijah Blackwood sighed a long sigh.

“Sheldrake Ormiston – soon you will die.”

7. Twixt Cup And Lip

The moment he saw us the McGurk lad was off into the crowd like a startled hare.

“After him!” cried Ormiston.

And it was a merry chase he led us through the Edinburgh streets, along tower-lined roads and down cobbled wynds, finally emerging on Princes Street. When it became clear that he was heading for the cloisters and galleries of the immense Bruce monument, Ormiston said to myself and Tideswell;

“Keep after him, gentlemen! – I shall attempt to cut off his escape route!”

Then he was gone amongst the throngs of city folk while we continued the pursuit. Into the busy vaulted stone cloister we dashed, trying to keep the head and shoulders of our quarry in sight. Then he ducked into one of the tower stairwells and after him we went, climbing the worn steps three at a time. I felt sure that we had him cornered until I spotted beyond one of the open windows a narrow stone gantry, one of two that linked both pairs of towers. And sure enough, moments later we saw his gangling form loping across, coat-tails flapping.

Yet we were gaining on him so onwards we pressed, venturing onto the narrow, wind-swept bridge, hurrying across with the monument’s gothic spires looming all about us. And we had scarcely reached the other side when a terrible shriek came from below as the figure of the McGurk boy fell in a flail of limbs from one of the tower windows. Tideswell and I stared at each other in horror and descended the tower as swiftly as we dared, thinking to catch whoever had flung McGurk to his death. But apart from a drunk and two old women, we encountered no-one until we reached the bottom and saw three policemen hurrying over, led by none other than Inspector Strang of Scotland Yard.

“Yir there, jist like he promised!” he began.

“Who promised, Inspector?” I said.

“Yon Mr Sheldrake Ormiston, o’ course! Said also tae tell ye both tae hurry up tae the castle, wi’oot delay!”

8. Sidestep Thoughts

In one of the Outpost’s small chambers, with two of the Aquarial Brethren guarding the door, the inventor sat before the row of dead scrying plates and wondered where a different sidestep would have taken him.

Perhaps to a Scotland where Viking kings ruled still with bloody hands, or maybe one where Mongol overlords held brutal sway? Or where a skull in a box would not have such importance?

He shook his head. It was mere poor luck that his previous sidestep had placed the relic in the hands of the Aquarial Brethren just when they were at their most desperate. History had turned against them with slow inexorable implacability, an unstoppable punishment for their forebears support of a lost cause….

And now the actions of one foolish man was drawing unwanted attention their way here, and the consequences could only be disastrous. For in this derelict version of the Outpost, the power source was a broken wreck and even though the Brethren’s enginists were working on it without cease he anticipated little success. The options open to him were limited, most immediately by the two men guarding him and his apparatus.

Bored by inactivity he turned to see if he could provoke something like discourse from  his captors, and was astonished to see a slender, dark-clad figure crouched over two unconscious, prone forms.

“I take it that you are the inventor of the device,” the stranger said as he straightened. In one hand he held an odd pistol with a cluster of narrow barrels, while the other gripped a grey sack weighed down by a round object.

“I am,” he replied, mouth suddenly dry. “Have you come to kill me?”

“Nay, sir,” the other said. “You will have only protection from myself, I swear it, although there may still be danger if you come with me. What do you say?”

The inventor thought a moment, then shrugged, stood and followed him from the room.

9. Revenge Is Bitter

Elijah Blackwood, doctor of biology and the man dubbed the Loki of Crime, stood over the body of the dead guard and stared at the broken-open chest. The oaken box was in another chest in another room, but now the skull was gone.

“Wis it tha’ Ormiston, yir honour, wis it?” His trusty henchman was clenching his considerable fists with barely restrained rage. “Jist say it wis an’ we’ll have him an’ his pet sojer!”

“Rest easy, Bogston – this is not the work of the Great Investigator. Dead bodies are too untidy for his filing cabinet mind. No, I fear that we have been visited by the interesting strangers who brought us the artefacts to begin with.” Blackwood locked gazed with the burly Bogston who flinched under that cold regard. “We know whose company their leader is in, so let us swat two pests with one blow, shall we?”

10. Battlement Ballet

I found Ormiston up on the main rampart of Edinburgh Castle, one foot resting on a wall crenellation as he stared out at the great dark mass of the city.

“Ah, my dear Ramsay,” he said. “But where is our singular client, the mysterious Mr Tideswell?”

“I wish I knew, Ormiston,” I said. “Confound the man! – we had just entered the castle gates, passing the constables who said where to find you, when he paused to retie his bootlace in a shadowy door. A moment later I realised that he had absconded utterly and was nowhere to be seen. Thus I dashed up here to meet you.”

“I’d expected as much,” Ormiston said. “Our Mr Tideswell has much to conceal, not all of which is yet clear to me. However, the convolutions of this day have revealed one thing of vital importance, namely the location of the lair of my foulest foe!”

“Good lord, Ormiston! – You can’t mean…”

But my words were cut short by a shot that rang out from the inner darkness of the castle. Instantly, Ormiston straightened and pointed up to where the bulk of the ancient castle abutted against the more recent towered silhouette of the Holy Cathedral of St Margaret. Figures were running along upper cloisters, past the glow of torches, while shouts came from the quadrangles below.

“Come on, Ramsay,” Ormiston cried, leading the way. “Something deadly is afoot!”

11. Retribution Is Cold

Tideswell led the best and strongest of the Brethren up many stairs, both secret and known, up onto the high ramparts of the castle. There was anger in every eye and fist and Tideswell was the razor-keen spearhead of their onrushing resolve. The discovery of the raid and the inventor’s abduction had galvanised him into immediate action, especially since he had come into possession of the location of their worst enemy, the vile Blackwood. When a disguised runner had whispered the place-name to him during the earlier pursuit he had almost laughed out loud, such was his amazement. But then he recalled the old adage of hiding something in full view, so held back while Ormiston and Ramsay had entered the castle grounds before going his separate way.

It was not until he and the Aquarial Brethren reached the iron gantries linking the castle to the cathedral that the firing began. But Tideswell had planned for such a confrontation and had brought along some of the rescued artefacts. He grinned as he thought of the surprise that Blackwood’s thugs were about to get.

12. Divine Decay

Cornered on the flat parapet of the cathedral roof, Elijah Blackwood peered down at the seven spires behind whose bases the Aquarial Brethren were hiding, their hideously effective weapons trained on the low wall behind which he crouched. Nearly all of his henchmen here were either dead – from lightning bolts, clouds of poisoned needles, or beams of terrible heat – or horribly wounded like Bogston who lay halfway down the cathedral roof, moaning.

He glanced over his shoulder at the main bell tower and the window sitting open just a few yards away. It was a tempting exit but if he made a dash for it he would immediately become an admirable target and not long afterwards admirably dead. He raised his combustion gun, selected his last smoke round and took aim at the base of the rightmost spire. If he could raise a good veil of smoke, it might be enough to conceal a retreat to the bell tower and the way out….

“Do not pull the trigger, doctor,” said someone behind him. “Your very life depends upon it!”

Blackwood looked round and cursed – standing before the bell tower window it was Ormiston and his lapdog, Ramsay, who was pointing a revolver straight at his face!

13. Terminus Opus

I kept my revolver trained on Blackwood – whilst remaining aware of the dubious Mr Tideswell – and listened carefully as Ormiston held forth.
“There was much about Mr Tideswell’s story which did not ring true,” said Ormiston. “In fact, so much that I was not sure from which angle to approach it, or how seriously. But when we laid eyes on the body at the city infirmary I knew that this was a serious matter indeed – the dead man and Tideswell had a similar cast to the skin, and very similar nails, which indicates a similar diet.”

We stood in different corners of the cathedral roof, myself and Ormiston in one,  Blackwood in another and Tideswell diagonally opposite from ourselves, three parties armed and mistrusting each other.

“You are quite right,” Tideswell said. “He was one of our compatriots, murdered by this villain, this thief.” He glared darkly at Blackwood.

“For the box you came to see us about, yes?” Ormiston smiled. “The box now sitting in Dr Blackwood’s lair, which I’ve examined closely enough to deduce that its contents were not paper but bones of some kind, perhaps a sacred relic.”

“A valuable one,” muttered Blackwood.

Ormiston rounded on him. “I believe it to be a skull, doctor – do you know whose it was?”

“If I knew that,” Blackwood snarled, “I could put a value on it!”

“So it is still in your possession, somewhere,” Ormiston said. “Such a shame that you failed to discover the small compartment in that box.” And he produced the brass plate which we had uncovered prior to emerging from the bell tower.

All eyes were on Ormiston as held the brass plate out to catch the light from a lamp carried by one of Tideswell’s men, and spoke.

“It reads, ‘Artorius Rex’, which I take to mean King Arthur.”

“The once and future king!” I exclaimed. “Some terrorist factions would pay dearly to have that in their hands.”

“The value of the skull seems undeniable, my dear Ramsay, given the effort expended to recover it,” Ormiston said. “But its identity is far from certain because this nameplate is not the original.” He turned to the mysterious Tideswell. “Is it, sir?”

Tideswell smiled faintly. “Your reputation is well-deserved, Mr Ormiston. What gave it away?”

“The plate looks as weathered as the box’s brass bindings, but the edges are too straight, too well-made. Which begs the question – where is the original, and what name does it bear?”

Tideswell gave a slow, unconcerned shrug. “That will have to remain a mystery in your eyes, sir.”

“But not for long,” came a voice out of the lower shadows as footsteps climbed the sloping roof towards us. “I believe I can clear up a few enigmas here…”

I was taken aback by the look of astonishment on Ormiston’s face as he beheld the newcomer, a slender man in black coat and cape who smiled at my friend.

“Sheldrake,” he said.

Ormiston laughed quietly. “So the Order has taken a hand in this, eh? Ramsay, may I introduce you to my brother, Lachlan, a knight-commander in the Ordo Templar?”

14. A Leap Into Unknown Providence

From a shadowy ledge halfway up the cathedral roof, the inventor listened as his erstwhile rescuer laid bare the framework of truth.

“…for you see, the nameplate was hidden within the skull itself,” Lachlan Ormiston was saying. “Concealed in a slot behind the nose….” There was a pause as he removed it from the skull and handed it to his brother who said;

“It reads, ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie, 1720 – 1788’.”

There was a dumbfounded silence for a moment.

“But Charles III died in 1767,” said Ramsay. “He’s buried at Holyrood.”

“And he was only known as Bonnie Prince Charlie during the 45 Rebellion,” said Blackwood, a hungry note in his voice. “So how could this be his skull, and how….”

Suddenly shots crashed out from the other side of the roof. There were shouts and returning fire, but the inventor decided that he had overstayed his welcome and quickly descended to the castle ramparts. He remembered the way back down into the secret passages below and the stone chambers of the Outpost, and knew that he had to be as stealthy as possible.

All he had to do was get to his apparatus, rewire the small internal voltaic phials, and he would be able to take another sidestep away from this world. Sadly, it would be his last since the apparatus would not be able to make the crossing without the stabilisers which the phials energised. But he reasoned that a leap into the unknown was better than a surrender to known perils.

15. Coda In Tenebris

We stood at the chamber door, contemplating the smoking wreckage within.

“So they forced him to bring them to our world,” said Ormiston’s brother, Lachlan. “They were really fleeing the long term consequences of their forebears support for the Young Pretender and the 45 Rebellion, which failed in their world. Many of their secretive communities were uncovered and broken, with only this outpost remaining against high odds.” He sighed. “But it seems that eventually they were on the point of discovery when the inventor appeared in their midst.”

“Where will they go?” asked Ormiston.

“The Order has decided to help them translocate to the Scandinavian provinces,” Lachlan said. “There may be other surviving outposts there.”

“Going in search of Atlantis,” I said in wonderment. “Just astonishing.”

“I will be considerably more amazed,” Ormiston said, “when we finally get the fiendish Blackwood in shackles and behind bars. The man is more slippery than a parliament full of eels!” He gave his brother a sharp nod. “My thanks, Lachlan, for your intriguing intervention. Please convey my regards to the Grand Master.”

“I shall be pleased to do so, Sheldrake.”

“Right, Ramsay, let’s away – there’s work to be done!”

Michael Cobley always has a Plan B.

He has had eight novels published, the Shadowkings trilogy (Simon & Schuster), the Humanity’s Fire space opera trilogy (Orbit UK/US), and another two novels set in the HFire universe.

Most recently, he edited the ‘Night, Rain & Neon’ anthology for Newcon Press in 2022, and had a well-regarded cyberpunk story in Parsec #8.

Even though he has crossed the Rubicon of Maturity (ie, just turned 64), he still harbours crazy ambitions along the lines of writing something that’ll end up being either gamified or filmed. (He’ll even settle for a TV mini-series!).

Published in Nova Scotia – New Scottish speculative fiction, edited by Neil Williamson and Andrew J Wilson, 2005. Currently out of print.