Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection Read Free

gentleman forever on the cusp of the latest fashions and trends, of means, with an addictive personality and too much free time, he had fallen in love with the idea of the Spider from the moment he first saw her lithograph.
    In short order she had become his obsession. He eagerly purchased any publication that so much as hinted her, dined and interrogated any that claimed to have witnessed her murderous performances, and had waxed melancholic at his own ill-fortune in not having seen her himself, until that fateful airship voyage. His morbid interest did not go unnoticed, and the expertise my dilettante partner had acquired lead directly to the Home Office calling on us.
    Bartleby was in heaven. Even to those with connections as influential as his, the evidence lockers at Scotland Yard were off-limits, and the crumbs available at auction were only those artifacts that the Met didn't feel were relevant to their investigation. As proud of it as he was, Bartleby's collection of Spider memorabilia had been somewhat on the paltry side, things of value and interest only to the morbidly obsessed... but creative sorts live and thrive on just that sort of obsession.
    A fact I understood all too well, so I refrained from needling Bartleby about it.
    Too much.
    The evidence the police had transported to us, on the other hand, held treasures that Bartleby could have only dreamed of. Recovered murder weapons. Shards of glass from her more explosive entrances, mixed in with possible fibres from her costume. A bit of lipstick scavenged from the cheek of a victim she'd pecked while driving a dagger into his sternum. All of it tagged, logged, labelled, and displayed, laid out in my workshop.
    Bartleby abruptly rose and began to ascend the steps, seemingly having lost interest in the artifacts. I turned from the table to watch him go, befuddled at his abrupt change in demeanour before realising that he'd come to some sudden conclusion about the case.
    "Lunch then?" he asked.
    "Any conclusions?" I asked.
    He ignored my question until we were in the entrance hall at the top of the stairs. I'd insisted upon my workshop entirely cut off from the rest of the basement, the kitchen and the servants quarters. It wasn't that I didn't like or trust them -- I came from a working class upbringing myself. While I find our servants less tiresome than Bartleby's peers, I do not much care for any company when I'm working, and Bartleby calls such fraternisation with those he deems my lesser unseemly.
    "I've concluded that I'm in the mood for a light fruit compote for lunch," Bartleby said. "What shall I have Mrs Hoddie fix you?"
    "Bread with drippings," I said. "No, Bartleby, conclusions about the Spider. You've worked something out?"
    "What I cannot work out is your taste for bread soaked in last night's dinner. I'm rather well off, you know. You needn't eat like an east end factory worker."
    "It was how I was raised," I said.
    I have little patience for small talk. It isn't my way. I had grown up in a working class family, raised by a father with little tolerance for idleness or affection for his children, and I preferred conversation be short and to the point. Bartleby knew this, of course, and his continued deflections were his attempt to rile my temper for his own amusement. I would not give him the satisfaction.
    Still, I had to wait with growing impatience and discomfort while the cook prepared Bartleby's compote, and again while he took his goodly time nibbling at it. It was a good ten minutes of idle chatter concerning matters of little interest until he placed his napkin to the side of his plate and abandoned the facade of disinterest that he wore so very well.
    "I say, do you know what I fancy, James?"
    "You fancy any number of terrible things." Out with it, already.
    "I fancy some entertainment. Do you care to take in a show?"
    "Is this related to the case we've taken or have you just gotten distracted again?"
    He ignored my hostility. "Perhaps an