The Reckless Skies (The Society for General Inquiry Book 1)

PART FIVE

PART FIVE

Jonathan Farrow watched the minute hand tick over on his silver pocket watch. The beginning of the lunch hour had come and gone. He leaned against once of the posts in the shade of the Ropewalk at the Albany, looking so much like a well-dressed loiterer. Given the choice between showing up at the Archimedes Club empty handed and not showing up at all, Farrow had reluctantly chosen the latter.

As if to counter his muddled mood, the sun decided to make an appearance that day. Farrow watched with unseeing eyes as golden light danced on the flowers lining the Ropewalk. A warm breeze made a valient effort to warm the shadows around him.

He had to believe that Clarence Duncan was an irresponsible coward, that he had decided on a whim to abandon his responsibilities and disappear off to places unknown. He had to believe this, because the alternative would have made for an even more unpleasant truth.

Pushing through the tiredness and confusion, Farrow switched on the engine of his mind, forcing the gears of his intellect to analyze all of the known data. Clarence was gone. Or, at the very least, no one had seen him since Farrow himself left the engineer’s workshop the previous night. The workshop, unfortunately, had been destroyed in a gas explosion. He had witnessed Mr. Harland Benedict himself visiting the scene of this so-called accident, the very same Mr. Harland Benedict, who, just a day prior, had commanded Farrow to investigate the very same workshop which now lie smoldering under the September sun.

Farrow would have bet his flying certification that Mr. Benedict had something to do with either the explosion or Clarence's disapperance. Or both.

And this was before even considering the significance of the link between Frederick Bishop and Andrew Tarringford as evidenced by the old photograph he had inherited from the latter. Farrow didn’t like the idea that his life had been thrown into utter turmoil because of the past actions of his dead mentor and an exiled mad scientist. The mysteries and unanswered questions made Farrow’s head spin.

Defeated, tired, and hungry, Farrow decided on the best course of action: a light snack followed by a nap. The pilot had never been one to waste perfectly good daylight hours sleeping, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He thought that if he could look at the situation with a full stomach and a rested mind, then perhaps he could find something he missed, find some clue that could lead him to discovering exactly what had transpired in Clarence's workshop after he left.

Passing under the shaded warmth of the Ropewalk, he went inside.

Farrow dropped his hat on the table in the little entrance hall of his set. He noticed something was amiss straight away. His nose twitched at the faint smell in the air, with its trace hint of soot, oil, and a little extra something that made it so much better. A narrow ray of light moved across the floor, as if someone had ruffled the curtains on a window.

Farrow’s Spitalfields-stained shoes couldn’t move him fast enough as he barreled into the darkness of the sitting room.

Clarence Duncan stood by the window, drawing back the heavy curtains with one finger as he peered outside. Upon the arrival of his friend, he released the curtain and stepped away from the window, a wide smile on his face. “Jon, there you are! I’ve been waiting for ages, it seems.”

Jonathan Farrow gaped. “You—you’re alive!” he said in an embarrassingly dramatic tone.

Clarence sucked on his teeth. “Ah. I see you’ve been to the workshop. Not to worry, I’m all in one piece.” He made a sweeping gesture from his head down to his toes, and it was then that Farrow noticed he wore his flying coat. Made of durable canvas, Clarence donned the long coat whenever he took to the air.