Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl by David Barnett Read Free Book Online Page B

customary, then . . . well, no one saw him after that.”
    “Maybe he’s out of the village,” said Gideon. “Called to Whitby, or Staithes.”
    But Peek glanced out the window, at the darkening sky, and Gideon saw in his furrowed brow that same look he’d had the day after the Cold Drake was lost. He said quietly, “Old Mrs. Higginbotham said he’d been planning to go to Lythe Bank. Check out a report he’d had.”
    There was a moment of awkward silence, then Mrs. Peek said, too brightly, “You’ll stay for tea, Gideon?”
    “No. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
    “He’ll turn up,” he said. “Clive Clarke.”
    “Yes.” Gideon nodded.
    They both looked at their feet, then Gideon said his goodbyes and left, heading down the hill toward the beach. On the horizon a thin, pale line was advancing, indicating another sea mist was going to crawl inland. The last time it had come, the sea mist had claimed his dad. Gideon wondered what fresh terror this new incursion would herald. In truth, he had been famished and would have gladly sat at Peek’s table, but he had suddenly felt so very sick to his stomach. He had sent Clive Clarke off to investigate those noises from Lythe Bank . . . had he sent the police officer to his death? Had whatever overwhelmed the Cold Drake insinuated itself into the tunnels beneath the cliffs, awaiting more victims? Bram Stoker said it couldn’t be his fanciful vampire crawling in under cover of the sea fret, so it must be something more solid . . . and much, much worse.
    “Why’d you say that to him?” asked Mrs. Peek as she dished up the stew. “About Clive? You said yourself he’s apt to be a little away with the fairies. Who knows what he’ll make of that?”
    Peek dipped a hunk of bread into the brown soup. “He’d have found out anyway. Better he can put this sort of thing into . . . oh, what’s the word, Harold? When something looks one way or another depending on what sort of place you’re at when you looks at it?”
    Peek’s son Harold, who was a whiz with his spelling, shrugged. “Perspective?”
    Peek considered. “Sounds right. Better he can put this sort of thing into perspective while he’s in a sensible frame of mind. Even if Clive is missing in Lythe Bank, and God knows no one wants that, at least Gideon’ll be able to see it’s just one of those things and not one of his mysteries.” He winked at Harold. “Perspective. Bloody good word, that.”
    “Well, he looked half starved to me on top of it all,” said Mrs. Peek. “I bet he hasn’t had a square meal since his daddy died. After tea you can take a bowl of stew over to Gideon.”
    Peek sighed and Tommy perked up. “I’ll take it.”
    Mrs. Peek was about to protest, but her husband held up his hand. “Aye, let the lad. It’s only five minutes.” He turned to his son and waggled his spoon. “No letting him fill your head with nonsense, mind. I know you’re almost as much of a bugger for those penny dreadfuls as he is.”
    Before Gideon returned to the cottage, there was a ghost to lay to rest, a more looming presence than Stoker’s Transylvanian phantoms or the disappearance of Clive Clarke.
    He hadn’t set foot on the Cold Drake since the crew was lost, had barely had the stomach to look at it. He wanted to run from it, in fact. But Trigger wouldn’t do that. Trigger would face the beast in its lair. He walked with measured footfalls along the rickety pier until he was alongside the ship. The other trawlers were moored farther along the beach, black shapes in the dying day. Why didn’t they look as foreboding as his father’s ship? Why didn’t they fill Gideon’s gut with butterflies? They just looked like gearships wound down for the night, awaiting preparation for tomorrow’s fishing, once the sea mist had lifted. The Cold Drake looked like something else. Something other . Gideon could see, now, why none of the more seasoned fishermen of Sandsend would take to the sea with