The True Adventures of Hector Kingsley

By Kindal Debenham

To Whom it May Concern,
As several accounts of my actions have appeared in other, less scrupulous journals, I have taken it upon myself to publish a personal account of the events they have endeavored to describe. You will find enclosed the true story of my investigations regarding the attempt on the life of Lord Pevensley, as well as my efforts on the behalf of the Everston Academy of Ethereal Sciences. I have entitled it, appropriately, The True Adventures of Hector Kingsley.
You will note that my account differs from several popular versions in many respects. For example, I am not, as some have alleged, a werewolf, vampire, gear driven automaton or other type of Changeling or Distillation powered device. I am an investigator, a detective in the service of the truth, and while I am sure that many might find my actions and methods unreasonable or objectionable, I have not been, as some have said, in the service of some dark conspiracy to usurp the established order of things. I certainly have not masterminded these crimes for my own benefit—quite the opposite in fact. What work I have done, I have done for the good of my patrons and clients, as well as for the safety of those I hold dear.
I trust that you will read this account in the spirit of objectivity and fairness. May we both be engaged satisfactorily in the discovery of the truth, or may we face the eternal consequences for turning away from such a mystery.

Sincerely,
Hector Kingsley
Investigator

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kindal Debenham
• Release date: Feb 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465956859

Kindal Debenham

Telling stories has been a part of Kindal Debenham’s life ever since he first put down a book, looked around and asked himself ‘But what happened next?’ That question led him to write his own stories to find the answer he was looking for, and from then on he was hooked. Writing became a passion that followed him through school and led him to the writing group where he met his incredible wife-to-be, Emily. Somehow, she continues to tolerate him, and they recently had their first baby girl, born in March 2011. Writing has brought him this far, and he hopes it will continue to accompany him for the rest of his life. He’s still trying to find the answer to what happens next, and he is grateful to all those who are supporting him in his journey. Thanks for your support, and he hopes you enjoy the story!

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The True Adventures of Hector Kingsley

By Kindal Debenham

The True Adventures of Hector Kingsley

by Kindal Debenham

© Copyright 2012

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Cover art Robert Ennis

To learn about upcoming titles follow us at www.wanderingleafpublishing.com

Dedication

To my loving wife, for whom this book was written. You’ve always been an inspiration to me, and this time you definitely outdid yourself.

Acknowledgements

Once again, I find myself thanking all of the people who contributed to the creation of this book. First among all those who have helped to make this work possible is Tristi Pinkston, my copy editor. She worked really hard to catch all of my typos in circumstances that I cannot fail to call heroic, and I am glad to have had her on my side. Another who deserves particular mention is Robert Ennis, the artist and designer behind the cover art. He worked hard to find the perfect image to represent this story, and he succeeded with flying colors. This book would not have been the same without either of your efforts. Thank you both for everything.

My writing group once again deserves my thanks. They read over many different drafts of this book, and it is thanks to their efforts that this book was refined into the shape it has taken today. Many of them also volunteered their time and effort to be alpha and beta readers, again increasing the quality of the words you read here. Ailsa Lilywhite, Megan Hutchins, Benjamin Hardin, Kayleena Richins, and Joe Vasicek, you all have been a wonderful help, and I am glad to be able to count on your support. Wise people count their riches by their friends, and by that measure I am truly wealthy.

Also, no list of supporters would be complete without the mention of my family. My mother and father have been wonderful, and my brother and sisters have never hesitated to help me out. I could never have done this thing without you.

And as always, the greatest of my fans and the most precious support has always come from my wife. She and my daughter have stood by me through long nights, tough decisions, and innumerable sacrifices. Both have been inspirations to me. Thank you, you’ve made all the work worth it.

Chapter One: A Pleasant Conversation

I wonder sometimes what shape the world would have found for itself if they had never discovered the Distillation.

I’m sure the face of the world would have changed in many ways, mostly for the better. The Austrio-Hungarian Pact might never have declared war on the Neo-Imperial Italians, for example, and the Barbary League would never have had such success in their raids against the Kingdom of Spain and her European allies. The Great Plagues and the Changes might have been banished from the world of possibilities, and the great city of London might yet have remained unscarred by disease, war, and upheaval.

I suppose the discovery was inevitable, however. The Distillation is a part of the great cycle of life; it would always have been there, waiting for mankind to unearth it and put it to use. While I might wish that history had turned the course of nations to a saner, wiser path, it is futile to wish that such a find might have been buried forever beneath the sands of time.

The first record we have of the destructive material is in the account of one Nikolai Petrovich, an explorer of some renown within the Arctic Circle. His journeys had taken him into the wilds of Siberia, where it was rumored that the great Kahns of the Mongols had concealed some kind of treasure in the expanse of the frozen wasteland. It was there that he stumbled upon a cave, half buried in the snow and ice, and laid wondering eyes on the glowing crystals within.

He took with him some samples, which he shared with comrades at a meeting of explorers in Prussia some years afterwards. A scientist by the name of Vogler was in attendance, and he happened to note a peculiar attribute to the luminescent mineral. Namely, whenever it was placed near an object, that object would begin to do what was intrinsic in its design. A gear would turn, for that was what gears did. Pistons would pump, for that was what they did. Coals would glow without a fire, and adding machines would calculate in an almost independent manner. Experiments revealed aspect after aspect, and the mineral spread like wildfire as soon as a British alchemist determined that regular quartz, when exposed to the stuff, soon began to resonate with and duplicate the strange behavior.

Before long, the Distillation replaced smokestacks with clean factories, horses with frantically pumping engines, and even the force of gunpowder with electrical power and compressed air. The number of inventions multiplied exponentially until the very face of society—no, the world itself—was changed beyond knowing.

Of course, if the discovery of the Distillation was unavoidable, I wish that they had at least taken some care with it. For if it brought out such surprising qualities in seeds, metals and soil, it should have occurred to them what it might do to those in constant, close proximity. Proper care should have been taken then, as it is now, to avoid overlong exposure, even if only out of concern for what the unknown could do.

Alas, instead it became a fashion statement to wear chips of the Distillation as jewelry, or to inlay it in various objects and buildings as decoration. The glowing crystals were everywhere, with some richer families constructing statues or pillars of the mineral as statements of their own power. It was among those families that the Changes were first seen. A whimsical poet would speak a little too familiarly of flying. An avid hunter with a love of dogs would begin to exhibit some markedly canine habits. Someone’s skin, always tough against comments and jibes, would begin to be a bit too thick in a literal sense. They spread, for a time, unseen among mankind, until all at once the Changed were everywhere among us, and the world was, for the second time in a generation, irrevocably warped.

All of which was how I found myself caught in an alley, faced by a man in a dark coat and top hat, holding a Wolsey and Smith Etherpistol, while his partner the werewolf growled at my back.

It had not been a very delightful journey to that point, and though I do not discount my own responsibility for the situation, I could not help feeling a bit of bitterness towards the bend of history as I watched the man take another step closer. The pistol did not waver as he trained its blunt little barrel on the center of my chest. He smiled, revealing a mess of half rotted teeth and wooden replacements. Would you look at this one, Ben? He seems a mite put out!

The werewolf growled again, and I resisted the urge to glance back at him. Werewolves are tricky, even compared to most Changlings, as one can never quite be sure of how they will react. It’s the result of the melding between man and wolf, you see. Sometimes the man is in control, sometimes the dog, and sometimes both at once. So I focused instead on my adversary with the pistol, hoping he would be more reasonable. Could you blame me, sir? After all, you have placed me in quite a predicament.

The man burst into gales of laughter. "A predicament, he says! And ‘sir’. He sir’d me, he did! Shaking his head, the slender gunman gave me a leer. Fancy talk, but you’re no lord. Not one at all, are you, grubber?"

I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I found myself restraining the urge to clench my cane until my knuckles whitened. His manner of addressing me was starting to concern me, and for more reasons than his sly air of contempt. If he already knew that I wasn’t a member of the peerage, he likely knew more about me than your average footpad. If he knew that much, and still decided to hold me up, it meant that someone had decided to take an interest in me. Unfortunately for me, that interest was distinctly probable to be unfriendly.

You see, over the course of one’s chosen profession one tends to make a plethora of enemies—my own work was no exception to that rule. Investigators, even those with sterling reputations and unimpeachable notions of honor like my own tend to make more than an average aspiring banker or solicitor. For whenever there is a secret that someone is willing to pay to discover, there is always one person willing to pay to cover it up, if not more. For every cuckolded spouse, there is the adulterer; for every defrauded or burgled owner of property, there is a thief or liar; and for every family mourning an untimely and unnatural death, there is a killer. I suppose that even in a world with no Changlings it would be no different, though the werewolf at my back growled again and reminded me anew of how much easier the situation would be without the Distillation to worry about.

I considered the man in front of me more closely now. Since I was sure that he was not some petty thief here to mug me for my nearly empty purse, he now warranted a more thorough examination. His coat was fairly worn, though not so badly that I would assume he was a real thug from London’s underground. The pistol in his hand was well cared for; the gears had even been polished a bit so that they shone faintly in the dim alleyway. An assassin, then, though not a highly skilled one to be attending to his business in broad daylight. Perhaps a clean-up man for one of the less-influential lords in the city, and likely one who rarely needed to deal with mere investigators such as myself. My mind, galvanized to action by both the pistol ahead of me and the fangs behind, began a frantic sorting of my current and past cases to find the possible source. In the meantime, I continued to watch for more clues.

As I continued to study him, the man took another step closer. He kept the blunt barrel fixed on my chest, even as his partner prowled the alley behind me. A sneer lent his voice a coating of sarcasm as he spoke. Now, if my lord farmer would indulge me with your attention, we have a message for you. He gestured with one hand. You’re going to leave the city tomorrow, on an urgent trip you see. You’ll leave just a little too quickly to finish some of your affairs, but you have to visit the family you see. Maybe your schoolteacher mum comes down with the flu, or your da hits his foot with a hoe. Doesn’t matter what you say, but by tomorrow you’re gone. He leaned in, his free hand now wagging an oily finger at me. And you never, ever come back.

I gave him my best smile. Ah, you see, there we might have a problem.

The man’s eyes narrowed. A problem? Ben don’t like problems. The werewolf growled again, and his impatient shuffling ceased. Neither boded well for me. That grim sense of doom increased when the man placed a thumb on the cocking gear of the Etherpistol. He drew back the mechanism a trio of sharp clicks. The air pistol hissed a little as the compressed gas seeped into the firing chamber, only held back by the catch of the trigger. He continued. Problems tend to get messy.

Well, my good man, I don’t disagree with you in the slightest. Regrettably, I am in the middle of an investigation regarding a delicate matter which cannot be left unattended. As I had hoped, the gunman tensed slightly when I mentioned my current work, leaving me little doubt that his employer rested among my present work and not my past. It was a relief, since it left me with only two remaining possibilities.

The gunman responded in a somewhat terse tone. There ain’t a matter so delicate that it can’t wait a while. Family’s important you see. He tilted the pistol to aim at a higher point on my chest, just below the breastbone.

Indeed it is, good sir. But that is precisely the problem. He frowned, but before he could break in again with another threat, I bulled on. You see, there is a certain…lady acquaintance shall we say…who had paid me to look into the affairs of her husband. She suspected many things, among them that he was defrauding her of her inheritance, and that he was wooing women other than herself.

Impassive, the gunman shrugged. So what?

So, I promised the dear lady I would look into things for her. However, she is not the trusting sort; her plans are such that if I happen to conveniently disappear in the course of my investigations, she will instantly assume the guilt of her spouse and hire a certain acquaintance of mine to deal with him in a more permanent manner. I let those words sink in. The gunman seemed to mull them over in his greasy little mind before he cracked a smile.

Eh, it’s of no concern to me and old Ben here. ‘Sides, it’s not like the nibs is innocent, is he? He chuckled, and I felt an unexpected—and utterly unwanted—twinge of camaraderie with him for a moment. After all, my research into the matter did implicate the philandering lordling fairly well, and I had only a few more bits and pieces of the matter to square away before I presented the case in whole to Lady Dafferty for her consideration. At the same time, the gunman’s lack of worry told me that Lord Dafferty was likely not his employer.

Of course, that fact only led me to implicate the second of my two more bothersome investigations. Wait, my friend, for that complication to my business is only the beginning. There’s the matter of a young banker I was looking into—

Before I could finish the sentence, the short barrel of the air pistol drew level with my eyes. The amusement was gone from the gunman’s face, and his terribly rotten teeth clenched in a sneer. What about him?

Raising my eyebrows in surprise, I shrugged. Only a case of bookkeeping errors. You see, the lad’s managers have noticed a few wide discrepancies in the ledgers, and his notes were consistently associated with amounts of money that can no longer be found within the vaults. One of the managers employed me to find out if the young man has become involved in something untoward. If I leave the job uncompleted, the poor lad may be brought to trial over the issue and thrown in jail over something for which he is blameless.

The gunman was silent a moment. A sad story, that one. He paused, the pistol still pointed unwaveringly at my head. Perhaps we could provide some timely assistance, then. What have you got on him?

Though the interest he showed in the case had already confirmed my suspicions, the offer sealed them up without a doubt. The Tubman case was fairly new to be generating this kind of adversarial pressure, but what little I had uncovered had already told me that the case was far more than some junior clerk stealing from his masters. "Well, the lad is innocent, for one. He did not have access to the money vaults, nor had he been working on the days the accounts were altered. I have the record of his hours in my coat pocket, as well as the hours of the bankers who would have had access. I was only just now headed home to study them and find out the real culprit."

The only copy? The glint of a feral, ugly kind of cleverness lit the gunman’s eyes. He took yet another step forward. It would be a shame to send you off without delivering them, then. Hand them over, so we can complete the task for you.

Taking my left hand off my cane, I reached inside the fold of my coat. Here then, if that will make you—

"Ah, ah, ah! The gunman took two more steps, bringing the barrel of the gun within an arm’s reach of my nose. The werewolf growled again, and the scrape of its claws on the cobblestones revealed that it had closed to within reach as well. I thought I could feel the warmth of its breath on my neck. No fast moves, now. I’ve heard of your tricks, and I want nothing of the sort here, you understand?"

I nodded slightly, listening to the harsh breathing behind me. My eyes were locked on the pistol barrel. All I needed was for him to advance just one more step, and the situation would be well in hand. I do, sir.

Good. The gunman stepped forward, and I let myself relax a little as he leaned in. With his free hand, the gunman reached toward the opening of my coat, where I had directed my own fingers before his threatening gesture had rendered me immobile. I waited patiently, trying as best I could to judge where the werewolf was behind me. The timing for the trick I was about to utilize would be close, but even as the gunman slipped his fingers inside my coat lapel, I was confident that it would work.

The instant his fingers were inside the cloth, I snatched at his elbow and twisted. He let out a yelp of surprise as he found himself pulled off balance, and the little snub-nosed barrel of the pistol was yanked out of line with my body as he stumbled, his hand still caught inside my coat. The man fired, only a moment too late, and the belligerent puff of compressed air hurled its lethal projectile into the side of the alleyway. It kicked up a spattering of brick and mortar, which rained down on the three of us.

Even as the pistol went off, I heard the werewolf snarl. A glance back over my shoulder showed the Changling crouching low, ready to pounce on me and end the brief struggle with his partner. The same twisting motion that had thrown his partner off balance, however, had brought the end of my cane in line with its slavering canine features, though it was obviously far too short to use in bludgeoning the werewolf. At least, it was too short for the moment.

I pressed a concealed button in the grip of the cane, and the old walking stick came alive with a whir of Distillation-driven gears. The bottom half of the staff shot away, leaving a length of sharpened steel behind. The force the artificer had used to propel the sheath seemed excessive to me at most times, but now I truly appreciated his genius as the heavy, detached portion of my cane slammed home in the center of the werewolf’s forehead. Its snarl cut off and its eyes crossed before the Changeling fell over backwards.

The gunman swore loudly and started a brief struggle to free his arm, or at least to bring the pistol back around. I had no intention of conceding either advantage to him, and so I reversed the direction of my pivot, bringing my cane around as I did so. The gunman’s balance failed him entirely as the disorienting pull became a sudden shove, and his second shot went skyward as I kicked his feet out from under him. The pistol left his hand as I bore him to the ground and slammed him into the cobblestones with enough force to make his head bounce.

He started to struggle again, obviously reaching for the pistol which lay just out of his reach. Then he froze as the edge of my once-hidden weapon made its presence felt against his neck. A short blade about half again the length of my forearm, it was every bit as lethal as its slim form suggested. I did not envy the poor thug as he discovered his danger, but his comfort and peace of mind were rather secondary to my other concerns at the moment.

Satisfied that the gunman was no longer an issue—and with a length of good steel ready to guarantee he would not be one for long if he tried—I let go of his arm and reached for the fallen pistol. I managed to obtain my goal as the werewolf was just regaining its feet. It started forward until I pulled the trigger and sent a shot skipping off a cobblestone near one foot. The mutt let out a startled whimper and hopped backwards, obviously unwilling to brave a second shot when the next bullet might land a bit closer to home. I placed a thumb on the priming gear and drew it back another click, and the werewolf ran, tail tucked between its legs and only occasionally glancing backwards at his captured companion.

And they say they’re a man’s best friend. I shook my head and clucked my tongue. Then, feeling a cold, yet satisfied smile twist my lips, I turned back to my captive gunman. Now then, my dear sir, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. My name is Hector Kingsley, Investigator. I leaned in close, and the hired gun tried to shrink back into the stones beneath him. What is yours?

A short while later—after a long and fruitful conversation with one Alexander Thorpe—I walked along Daversham Street to return to my place of residence. While the gunman had not known everything about his employer’s antics, the facts he did know lined up nicely with my own suppositions. I had every confidence that Mr. Tubman was soon to be released from the chains of suspicion under which he now labored. One of the more senior managers, a Mr. Pastee, would not be as pleased with my results, but I believe there is something to be said for only trying to satisfy a part of the people around you, rather than everyone.

I paused for a moment at the intersection with Hershing Street, which allowed one of the horseless carriages most Londoners seemed to favor to grind past. The oversized wheels rumbled over the cobblestones, and I checked to make sure another did not follow in its wake before I crossed the lane. Arriving at the opposite corner, I went up the short flight of steps to the small tenement I had leased from an honest, if not overly generous, landlord the day I arrived in the city. It was not a spacious abode, and most of my clientele would have probably termed it shabby, but it did have the benefit of being comfortable and convenient to the nearby thoroughfares.

On reaching the door, I fished my keys out from one of the interior pockets of my coat. I had just raised them to the first of my three locks when I heard an all-too-familiar whistle behind me. I froze, unwilling to look, but knowing the contact was going to be unavoidable. The delay was brief, for I knew full well that if I procrastinated too long, she would only whistle again and increase the problem.

I turned and found her striding across the lane. She wore her red hair short, as always. It spiked up in tufts around her goggles, especially since she had them pushed up high on her head. She wore buckskin breeches and a blouse and vest that would have scandalized any Englishwoman had she not covered it all with a long, nondescript coat. Of course, it was not for the consideration of propriety that she wore it, and anyone seeing the mischief in those devilish green eyes would have no doubt she brought trouble with her.

A carriage ground to a screeching halt as she crossed, the driver cursing at her with dreadfully descriptive talent, but she silenced him with a glance and a raised eyebrow before continuing on her way. She was not intimidating of stature, but most Londoners did not quite know how to react to someone openly carrying a repeating carbine in the streets. It was no ordinary rifle, either, but a specialized Walter and Teskof Airpowder Carbine, something any cavalry officer would love to own, especially with the customized tweaks she had lovingly built into it. Technically, the weapon was not allowed under the current arms laws of London, but no man in uniform who had noticed the way she cradled the weapon would have dared try to confiscate it. Any who succeeded would likely be surprised at just how many other weapons she had managed to conceal in that dull gray coat of hers, in any case.

She looked me over with a frank study as she approached, and her grin was somewhat irritating when her gaze met mine. So, get into some trouble Hector?

Nothing of any real concern, Ms. Anderson. I kept my tone level. Responding to her jibes in kind had led nowhere in the past, and I wasn’t about to waste an afternoon bandying words with some indolent bounty hunter.

That’s Ms. Patricia Anderson the Glorious to you, Hector. Or the Lady Mustang of Paverly Square. Patricia, or Mustang, to her fellow hunters in trade, rolled her eyes, as if to show her opinion of formal address in general, and I felt a fresh wave of annoyance wash over me. The cursed Yankees never had grown civilized enough to gain a healthy respect for such things. Of course, the fact that she continued to insist on using that ridiculous nickname only worsened things. I realized that bounty hunters tended to take monikers denoting strength or speed, but what point was there in calling a young woman after a horse?

I resolved, with little hesitation, to cut the interview short. In a tone as civil as I could manage, I ground out a question I felt sure I would regret. Do you have some business here, Ms. Anderson? Or are you here on a social call?

Wouldn’t that be the talk of the town? Kingsley and Mustang, courting. I must not have been successful in concealing my dismay at that mental image, for she laughed and shook her head. Well, you needn’t worry yourself about that, Hector. I’m here on business, as usual. Shifting the