Slow Demons (Hanover and Singh Book 2)

by Chris Paton

  “In the Spring of 1849? Yes,” Smith slipped the paper back inside his jacket pocket. “Of which the German Confederation was a sponsor.”

  “I did not know that,” Luise let her hand fall to her lap.

  “Not a lot of people did. In fact,” Smith gestured toward Egmont, “it was when the Admiral revealed that little snippet of information to me that I decided to help him by sending the Nightjar to seek out and assist your brother. It is also on account of that information, the scuffle in Afghanistan, and the unknown whereabouts of both Jamie and the Nightjar that I have sailed from Calcutta to London. Something I am loathe to do and try my very best to avoid.”

  “Do you see the connection, Luise?” Egmont stepped around Smith’s chair and reached down to take Luise’s hand within his own pudgy grip.

  “I am not sure that I do?”

  “Wallendorf Industries,” Egmont patted her hand.

  “And their backers,” Smith added. “We must not forget the hand that cranks the machine. And that hand grows impatient.”

  Egmont frowned at Smith. “Smith and I believe that the German Confederation is interested in your work.”

  “And Jamie?”

  “No, I do not think so,” Smith stood at the sound of the kettle whistling. “Allow me, Admiral.”

  Egmont let go of Luise’s hand and sank into the chair opposite her. Unlike Smith, the Admiral filled the chair, his brass leg poking out at an odd angle like a broken mast.

  “What is this really about, Admiral?”

  “Time,” Egmont stroked the white stubble growing from his chin. “And what you have been doing with it.”

  Chapter 2

  Lupus Street Link

  London, England

  May, 1851

  Romney gripped the clutch lever and yanked the gearshift from third to second as she braked into the Drummond Gate corner at the end of Lupus Street. A crowd of revellers poured out of the Bessborough Garden Fete and spilled onto the street oblivious to the oncoming German and British steamracers. The deep red of Romney’s racer splurged into the corner, tyres wobbling as they adjusted from the dunning of the cobbles onto the slippery smooth surface of the packed dirt street. Robshaw clawed at the distance between them, pushing the racing green British racer within yards of the German’s rear wheels. Romney flicked her eyes from the corner to the crowd ahead and slammed on the brakes.

  Smoke and dirt sloughed off Romney’s rear wheels, pitting the front of Robshaw’s racer and stinging the skin of his grubby forehead in the gap where the mask stopped and the helmet began. Robshaw cursed, wrenching at the wheel and spinning the racer toward the wooden facades of the buildings lining the inside corner of Drummond Gate.

  In the centre of the street, the blood-red German steamracer drifted left and right as Romney jerked the racer into first and stood on the brakes. The globus engine spat a gout of steam and smoke from the rear exhaust as the gaskets cracked and the metal buckled under the strain of deceleration. Romney gritted her teeth and steered the racer straight toward the stunned revellers parting to both sides in front of her. Ploughing through the gap, Romney’s eyes widened at the sight of an empty wooden carriage pulled by four geldings just twenty yards ahead of the racer. The horses bolted across the street as Romney ducked her head beneath the racer’s windshield to avoid the debris of the carriage as it splintered around her. The German steamracer slewed into the trestle tables set up outside a ceramic shop front, stopping only after the left front wheel and nose of the Wallendorf racer splintered the counter in the interior of the shop. Romney looked up as the heavy cash register toppled onto the bonnet of her racer with a metallic thump.

  The rush of panicked voices and slew of curses from the crowd outside stormed into the shop in the wake of destruction left by the Wallendorf racer. The shop owner emerged from the back room, the remains of a freshly thrown pot clinging to her fingers.

  “Hi,” Romney pushed herself out of the driver’s seat and climbed out of the cockpit. She jumped to the ground and pulled the goggles down from her face letting them hang around her neck. “Bit of a mess,” she waved her hand through the cloud of steam, smoke and dust and surveyed the shipwreck of pot shards, splintered wood and jagged timbers.

  The shop owner stared, the wet clay in her fingers falling from her grip.

  “I am sure we can get this fixed up.” Romney curled a twist of red hair around her ear. “Given a little time,” she added.

  ҉

  The sandwiches wilted in the warmth of the study as the sun’s rays played across the coffee table. Luise glanced at the headline of the day’s newspaper where it lay on top of the stack on the floor to make room for the sandwiches.

  “You don’t like cucumber, Miss Hanover?” Smith pressed the limp white bread and vegetable innards together with both hands, biting one corner of the sandwich before flopping the remains onto the plate in his lap.

  “I prefer corned beef,” Luise looked up from the newspaper. “What is it... I mean why should the Germans be interested in my work? It is exploratory at best.”

  “Exactly,” Smith set the plate on the coffee table. “Exploration is the key to the Germans’ expansion,” he paused, “and their interest in your work. How long have you been with the Department of Chronology?”

  “About three years,” Luise leaned forward and tugged at the hem of her skirt. She straightened her back and shoulders.

  “And your sponsor?”

  “The Rector of Old Pye Polytechnic himself, Sir Henry Watershed.”

  “Does Sir Henry show an interest in your work?”

  “Well,” Luise blushed, “he looks in from time to time, but...”

  “But?” Smith reached out for his plate, paused, then clasped his hands together in his lap.

  “At a faculty dinner party he once confessed he did not really understand what I was working on, but was assured by others that it was relevant and interesting.”

  “Did you try to enlighten Sir Henry?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And what did you tell him? Try to be exact.”

  “All right,” Luise took a long breath. “I told him I was building a device that might influence time and that putting events in order was just one of the potential benefits of my work. I confess I was aware of the coming round of sponsorship applications and I wanted to further my appeal to the chronometrists among the heads of faculty.”

  “But ordering events is not your primary focus, is it?”

  “No,” Luise placed her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “What I have done is taken the abstract concept of travelling through time,” she rolled her eyes, “and applied it to the idea that we don’t need to travel through time if we can control the pace of time. If we can speed it up we can go forward and if we slow it down we can, to a certain degree, go backward.”

  “How far backward?” Smith exchanged a look with Egmont.

  “Well,” Luise’s lips spread wide to reveal her teeth, the tip of her nose wrinkled. “Theoretically, I can slow time to such a point that it stops.” She clapped her palms on her knees once and flopped back into the armchair.

  “Admiral, would you mind?” Smith rubbed his hand over his chin.

  “I’ll get the door,” Egmont walked from his place at the window and closed the study doors. Returning to lean against the window frame, he tugged at the cord bunching the curtains either side of the window and let them fall to plunge the room into a sudden gloom.

  “Admiral?” Luise sat up.

  “It’s all right, Luise,” Egmont stuck a match and lit the church candles either side of the window. “Just being cautious.”

  “Tell me,” Smith waved his fingers before Luise, “how does one stop time?”

  “I haven’t stopped it, not completely,” Luise flicked her eyes away from the Admiral and focused on Smith. “I confess to have had limited success.”

  “What kind of success?”

  “The device I have built; I call it an imped
iment machine,” she paused when Smith raised his eyebrows, “is an intricate combination of ever decreasing circles of cogs and gears. They spin faster the smaller they become, building a kind of vortex as the point of spinning narrows to less than a thousandth of an inch,” Luise paused. “It is possible Mr. Smith.”

  “I made no comment.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Luise smoothed her skirt over her thighs with her hands. “It was written all over your face.”

  “Please, forgive my obvious bewilderment. Do continue, Miss Hanover.”

  Luise took another long breath. “The faster the vortex spins at the base, the greater the twist in the spine of the device. It becomes self-perpetuating as it were. The spinning increases and the vortex,” Luise looked from Smith to Egmont and back to Smith. “The vortex creates a shadow vortex, a mirror of itself. This,” Luise made a fist with her left hand and twirled the fingers of her right around it, “spins outside of the device and whatever is placed inside of the shadow vortex, the mirror, slows.”

  “How does it slow?” Smith shook his head. “How do you know? Can you see it?”

  Luise grinned. “I pushed a teaspoon of sugar inside the shadow vortex like this,” she pantomimed the action with her hands. “When I poured the sugar from the spoon my wrist turned faster than my hand – that was inside the vortex – and the sugar,” Luise giggled, “instead of tipping onto the tabletop, it hung from the spoon like honey.”

  “Like honey?” Egmont smiled.

  “Yes, it was like the sugar had become treacle.”

  “Did you try to pull it out,” Smith waggled his fingers. “I mean, pull it out of this vortex?”

  “Yes,” Luise cupped her face in her hands. “I had sugar grains all over the tabletop.” Luise’s lips sank, her smile retreated. “There was one other thing. A side effect perhaps, I am not quite sure what it was.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Yes,” Luise paused. “It was like a thing, or a being, incorporeal, like the vortex, right beside me.”

  “A person? From where?”

  “Not a person as such. Person-like, perhaps. I called it a demon. A slow demon.” Luise paused. “It’s almost like...”

  “Like what?”

  “Almost like I opened the door to some place...” she frowned, “somewhere else. I am afraid I can’t explain all the details about my machine after all.”

  ҉

  Helmet dangling from the straps in his gloved fist, Beau Robshaw shouldered past the angry crowd pressing into the demolished ceramic shop front. Ducking a fist-pumping coachman, the British steamracer stopped at the sight of Romney Wallendorf sitting on her hands on the bonnet of her racer, swinging her heels left and right. He turned to face the mob.

  “All right,” Robshaw lifted his helmet and waved it back and forth. “Calm down everyone. Let me have a few words.”

  “She damn near killed me, she did,” the coachman pointed past Robshaw, spittle dribbling onto his chin.

  “Yes, and I am sure that was quite exhilarating for you,” Robshaw smiled and lowered his helmet.

  “Exhilawhat?” the coachman stuttered.

  “Exhilarating. It means exciting. Best fun you have had in years, ever since your wife turned the cold shoulder.” Robshaw cast a quick glance over his shoulder and winked at Romney. He turned back as several women either side of the coachman began to titter.

  “’Ere, are you being smart?” the coachman clenched his fists by his sides.

  “Yes, exceedingly.” Robshaw stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulders. “But we needn’t be strangers, my friend. This young lady,” Robshaw pointed at Romney with his helmet, “simply lost control of that beast.”

  “And damn near killed me.”

  “Ah, but she didn’t, did she?”

  “Well, no, but...”

  “And you’re still here with a cracking tale to tell the wife.”

  “Yes,” the coachman frowned.

  “What’s more,” Robshaw turned the man to face the crowd, “you saved this young lady’s life by expertly driving that carriage into her path and thus slowing down the racer.” Robshaw swept his helmet in a slow arc before him. “In fact, sir, you are indeed the hero of the hour. Is he not?” Robshaw opened his arms wide.

  “Well I don’t know?” the coachman blushed at the onslaught of cheers and whistles.

  “I do,” Robshaw continued, “and I know they do.”

  The crowd cheered and pushed forward to shake the coachman’s hand. The colour of the man’s cheeks flushed to match the livery of the German steamracer. Robshaw stepped aside to give the man room and the crowd rushed in.

  “How did you do that?” Romney whispered in Robshaw’s ear.

  “That?” Robshaw slipped his arm around Romney’s slim waist. “That was nothing. What you did, however,” he nodded in the direction of the splintered shop front, “was nothing less than spectacular.”

  “You cheeky bugger,” Romney slapped Robshaw on his shoulder.

  “Bugger? Where did you learn to speak English?”

  “My family had an estate in the southwest,” Romney smiled. “I spent my summers growing up alongside the Cornish youth.”

  “Cornwall? I should have known. No wonder you took that corner like you did. You thought you were on a deserted Cornish country lane.”

  Romney wriggled within Robshaw’s grasp. “Are you going to let me go or do you intend to hold on until you are done insulting me?”

  “Oh, I intend to hold on, Miss Wallendorf. For as long as I like.”

  “And what will your lady friend say to that?”

  “What lady friend?”

  “The one in the newspaper, a few months ago.”

  “Luise?” Robshaw relaxed his grip.

  “Yes, the scientist.”

  “Ah, well,” Robshaw sighed. “A tragic story, I am afraid.”

  “Care to tell me about it?”

  “Over a meal with wine and candles?”

  Romney laughed. “Wine and candles? Perhaps. It appears I lost the race,” she pointed at the steamracer embedded in the shop counter. “I suppose it is I that must invite you to dinner.”

  “You won’t be able to afford dinner after you are done paying for this,” Robshaw raised his eyebrows. “Let me pay for dinner and I will see what can be done about reimbursing the potter and calming the peasants.”

  “Did you just call these people peasants?” Romney whispered.

  “Peasants or pedestrians,” Robshaw shrugged. “What’s the difference? Anyone fool enough to get in the way of a steamracer doesn’t deserve much in the way of praise. I call them what I will, Miss Wallendorf.”

  “What do they call you, I wonder?” Romney stepped to one side as a small boy crept forward through the crowd with a sheaf of paper in his hand. He tugged at the helmet in Robshaw’s hand.

  “Scuse me, Mr. Robshaw, sir,” the boy let go of Robshaw’s helmet and wrinkled the paper in both hands.

  “Hello there, young man,” Robshaw knelt in front of the boy. “What can I do for you, today?”

  “Just your name, if you please, sir,” the boy thrust the sheaf of paper at Robshaw.

  “An autograph? Well, let’s see what we can do about that, eh? Hold onto this for a moment,” Robshaw slipped the helmet on top of the boy’s head and walked around the steamracer to talk to the potter. “Bit of a mess, eh?”

  The potter nodded.

  “Difficult to know where to start, I would imagine.”

  She nodded.

  “Bit of a shock,” Robshaw patted the potter on her arm. “Got a pencil?”

  “In the drawer,” the potter pointed at the drawer lying upended in the corner of the room, its contents scattered across the shop floor.

  “Great,” Robshaw bent down to pick up a pencil. “I’ll be sure to put it back where I found it.”

  The boy leaned his head back to look at Robshaw as the British steamracer scribbled his signatu
re on the top page of the wrinkled papers.

  “Is this your homework?” Robshaw tilted the lip of the helmet with the end of the pencil.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’ll get in trouble if you don’t hand it in?”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy frowned. “I’m not so good at sums, sir.”

  “No, I can see that,” Robshaw bent over and pressed the paper against his thigh. “What is your teacher’s name?”

  “Miss Archibald, sir.”

  “Well, then,” Robshaw scribbled a short note on the second page. “Be sure to give Miss Archibald this bit of paper and I am sure your arithmetic will improve for the next week at least.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the boy ducked out of the helmet as Robshaw lifted it off his head. Waving the papers in his hand he wriggled through the crowd and raced down the street.

  “That was very sweet of you,” Romney took Robshaw’s hand as the crowd led the coachman out of the shop to the promise of a round of drinks at the Cat and Gable.

  “I can be sweet,” Robshaw squeezed Romney’s hand. “But right now I must return a pencil.”

  Romney watched as Robshaw picked his way back to the contents of the drawer scattered on the floor. Bending down, Robshaw placed the pencil by the side of the wooden drawer and thanked the potter. He stood up and walked back to Romney.

  “Now then, let’s see how long it takes Dieter and his gang to pull out the beast and I’ll get a team in to fix up the shop.”

  “You can do that?”

  “You did read that newspaper article about me? Did you not?”

  Romney blushed. “I skimmed the uninteresting parts.”

  “By that you mean?”

  “The article,” Romney clamped the tip of her tongue between her teeth.

  “I see,” Robshaw took a deep breath. “So you wouldn’t know that I was rich?”

  “Not in so many words,” Romney slipped her hand through the crook of Robshaw’s arm. “If we are to become an item...”

  “An item?”

  “Shush,” Romney slapped Robshaw on the chest. “If we are to become involved then you will have to understand something about me.”