Chloe looked out the window. She was not angry at her husband. He saw it as his Christian duty to help those very people who were scrambling at the bottom. His generous endowments for educating boys in the slums and providing food and necessities to widows were unknown to Ambrose’s peers. But she knew about it, and she knew his heart. He held no contempt for those lower on the social ladder. If he had, he would never have married her.
“Just because it’s that way now, doesn’t mean it always has to be,” she said. “Things could change slowly, not all at once. Railways gradually replaced horse carriages for long distances. Airships then supplemented those. There’s hope.”
“That there is.”
“I want to see Charles Granger. I want to see if I can get Camille’s research notes. They’re useless to anyone else, and if they’re lost, her work will be in vain. Her work on the cadmium and nickel battery—I think it’s the key to the thinking machines. I’m sure of it. A power source that small and powerful could do so much.” She settled back into her seat and watched the scenery, aware that she indeed bore the look of a woman concocting an idea. They reached the street near the railway station, and asked the driver to meet them an hour later.
“I heard they have a pastry and chocolate shop near the railway station,” said Ambrose, offering his arm. The mid-section of her dresses may have become a tad tight in the past month, but passing up chocolates and pastries was beyond her power.
They passed the time amicably over two steaming cups of hot chocolate and a small plate of Chelsea buns. They were fresh and warm, with plenty of sugar glaze dripping down. She set Giles on the floor, and watched as he moved around their table, looked out the window, and examined their feet and legs before settling by Chloe’s chair. The little cat could make decisions, albeit simple ones. And if Camille’s hound was even more complex—the possibilities were dizzying.
Ambrose glanced at his pocket watch and said, “It’s time,” and they walked to the railway station. Chloe scooped up Giles at the doorstep so he would not delay them. Ordinarily, they would have had a servant or two retrieve their crates from the station. But both of them were of the same mind when it came to these crates. They would check the contents of the boxes immediately upon their arrival. The crates, especially the largest, were too important to be left to a servant.
At the station, Ambrose arranged for a worker to open each of their crates for inspection. The boxes were waiting at the side of the station building, and Chloe observed with a frown that one on which she had painted “up” with a helpful arrow was upside-down. The worker lifted the lids of each straw-filled crate and Ambrose and Chloe took turns approving the contents.
Inside Ambrose’s crates were books, bound stacks of papers, a microscope, slides, notebooks and a projector with small, brass-encased playback spools. Chloe’s boxes were filled with mechanical parts of all descriptions, lengths of India rubber tubing, cans of lubricant and an assortment of gears, cogs, screws, fastenings and copper wire.
The largest box was last.
“The others boxes can be loaded onto our carriage,” said Ambrose to the man. “But we’ll need to unpack this one completely.”
Inside was the steamcycle, the only one of its kind. Once the straw was brushed off, and it was rolled to a clear spot, Chloe did a quick examination. Its exterior looked undamaged. The two leather saddle seats, positioned one behind the other, were unmarred. The glass headlamp was unbroken and its empty oil reservoir intact. A covered wicker lunch basket was fastened over the rear fender and held, among other things, a few tools and a lantern. She knelt to pop open the barrel-like enclosure that covered the engine. After a few moments of probing, she nodded in approval. She filled the oil reservoir, fired up the kerosene burner, gave the mechanism a spin to start it up, and closed the barrel. It gave a low, sweet rumble.
She wiped her hand on a handkerchief and stood back, admiring. From the grips on its handlebars to its brushed metal fenders, it was a vision in brass, leather and steel.
“Looks fine,” she said. “Give it a go and see how it is.”
As Ambrose mounted the steamcycle, the railway worker who opened the crates motioned over some of his loitering comrades. They jumped in shock as Ambrose gave it more steam and it roared.
“Is that one of those automobile things?” yelled one of the men. His friends laughed at him and he blushed.
“It is similar,” shouted Chloe, feeling sorry for him. She moved closer so he could hear her. “It’s like a bicycle, but with an engine so you can travel faster. My husband is a naturalist, and goes out into the countryside where he spends hours looking at plants and insect nests and such. This lets him travel long distances that would tire a horse, and he can spend as long as he likes.”
She did not mention that she sometimes rode it when they visited the country, far from their friends in the city. Of course, even in such circumstances Chloe had to be conscious of public opinion and always wore a split riding skirt instead of men’s trousers.
Ambrose motioned her over and they agreed to meet in front of the chocolate shop in three quarters of an hour after he performed a test run. As he drove away, Chloe closed her eyes to better hear the exact sound of the closed-cycle hot air engine as it sped away. There was a slight hitch, almost inaudible.
She would have to look at it later. Even with the steamcycle’s need of constant maintenance, she was proud of it. Perhaps Ambrose’s faith in her was not misplaced. With Camille’s notes and schematics, maybe she could change the world.
Chapter 8
Chloe strolled down Farnbridge’s main street, allowing Giles plenty of time to take in his surroundings and follow. The more of the world he was exposed to, the more situational decision options he would develop, and the more autonomous he would become. He batted at fallen leaves and poked his nose along the base of each door as he trailed her.
The people they passed gave Giles a wide berth and a few people murmured to their companions. He never drew this sort of attention in London, but then the city was crawling with the strange and the cosmopolitan. It was probably good for the country folk to get a taste of something different than their grocer’s stacking mechanical or their butcher’s meat wrapper.
They were approaching the police station where a constable rested on a bench, smoking. Chloe did not recognize him as either of the two constables she had seen with Camille’s body. Small blessing. He eyed Giles and, once Chloe was within speaking distance, he rose, touched the brim of his domed hat and bid her good morning.
“May I ask you about your little, er, animal?”
“It’s a cat. A mechanical cat.”
“Yes, mum. May we take a look at it?”
Chloe did not know who else was included in his “we,” but she called to Giles. He swiveled his ears at her and trotted over. The constable squatted but pulled his hand back when Giles opened his mouth with a metallic “Brrr?”
“You can touch him if you like. It won’t damage him.”
The constable scowled. “This is the same one from the airship, is it not? Got at some lady’s hat yesterday?”
Chloe flushed. “Yes. But he’s not dangerous. It was the only time he’s ever done something like that. And he’s been fine ever since. I recently upgraded his electro-neural systems back at home. That’s in London. Unfortunately, the data storage system in his decision engine was partially destroyed. He did not lose an excessive amount of information. But the only way for him to reintegrate information is for him to be out in the world. I try to keep him out, so he’ll learn faster, you see. He can learn, in a way. He’s just a baby.”
The man looked doubtful, but he touched Giles’ back with two fingers. “You bought him in London?”
“No, I built him.”
“You mean you ordered him, from a shop? Picked out his this cloth cover and all?”
Heaven above, the man was obtuse. “No, I built him. Myself. Out of parts.” Why was it so unimaginable that a female could
design something like Giles? She and Camille couldn’t be the only tinkering women in the world.
“I’m sure you don’t know this, mum. But the sergeant is deciding whether all incoming mechanicals need to be inspected and potentially confiscated.”
“Confiscated? Whatever for?”
“There have been problems. Mechanicals can be dangerous.”
“It was only a hat,” she said. Then she thought of the prints in the mud near Camille’s body. “Is this about Mrs. Granger’s hound?”
He looked at her in shock and rose. “Now how would you be knowing that?”
“Camille Granger was a friend of mine. As we were coming into town yesterday, we saw her body.”
“And you know about her hound?”
She nodded. “The design of the hound is very similar to that of my cat. There’s no way it could have harmed her.”
“Then you know how the hound works?”
“Partially. I’ve seen a few drawings, but I really can’t say.”
“I think the inspector would like to speak with you, if that is acceptable, mum. Do you think you could give us your address? He could perhaps call on you or …”
The poor man was at a loss. An inspector could call upon a lady, but the Aynesworth family would certainly not thank him for it.
“I can see him now,” Chloe said.
The constable was relieved and led her into the dark of the police office. A thin young man was bent over a stack of folders at a paper-strewn desk. He looked up at the constable and nodded a greeting.
“Is Inspector Lockton still here?” asked the constable.
“In his office.” The young man jerked his head.
The constable asked Chloe to wait by the desk as he went back. She spent the time reading the notices pinned to the bulletin board on the wall. Some were so old that the paper had yellowed and the ink had faded to a dusky blue. Most were for stolen articles, like an ivory and jet chess set or household silver. One had the name of a missing girl, aged seventeen, who was last seen in the company of a nineteen-year-old man. Not much of a mystery there, she thought.
A man emerged from the doorway. He was short and round, with a few age spots on his balding scalp. He introduced himself as Inspector Lockton and eyed Giles.
“Constable Jackson says you made this.” He motioned to Giles who was nosing around the base of the desk.
“That’s right.”
“And you were friends with Mrs. Granger?”
“Yes. My husband and I are staying with the Aynesworths, his family. And I had planned on calling on Mrs. Granger while we were here.”
“Do you know how the hound works?”
“I have an idea, but the hound is a lot more complex than Giles.”
“Giles?”
“My cat.”
“I see. Please come back to my office.”
He led her down a hall and opened the door to his office, holding it open for her. It was tidy nearly to the point of obsession. Books were stacked along the shelves according to size and five new pencils poked, points up, over the top of a cup on the corner of the desk. One corner of the room was filled with boxes and another corner housed multiple filing cabinets. Though the room was filled, it had an odd, impersonal feel to it.
He motioned for her to take a seat, and she took one of two slat-backed chairs facing the desk. A file lay open on the blotter, which Inspector Lockton closed and slipped into a desk drawer. He seated himself and pulled out a different file but did not open it.
“Tell me about the hound. Do you know where it might be?”
“Does this mean your men have been unable to locate it?”
“It seems to have vanished. Now please, what do you know about the creature?”
“I know it couldn’t have killed Camille Granger. It’s similar to Giles, and he’s harmless. Even with the size difference, there’s no way it could kill someone.”
“I heard it can think.”
“It has a decision engine. Like my cat, it can retain information and learn in a fashion. But it’s not possible for it to decide to—” she paused, “crush someone’s skull.”
The inspector’s eyes widened ever so slightly at hearing a lady speak in this manner. She held his gaze.
“So how does this decision engine work?”
“Would you like me to show you?” At his nod, she pulled Giles up onto the desk and turned him off. After the young man at the front desk was summoned to locate a suitably small screwdriver, she pulled back the velvet fur and removed a few cover panels to show the inspector the cat’s innards.
“With an ordinary household mechanical, there are spools that are wound and re-wound to allow it to perform a set of tasks. Very simple. But with this,” she indicated the decision engine, “he can absorb and retain information, recorded on extra sets of spools.”
“So it can think.”
“Only in a very rudimentary fashion.”
He asked her a few questions about the mainspring barrel and strange tangles of wiring, before seeming to come to a decision. He opened the file folder and handed her a few of the sheets within.
She sucked in a breath. This was it. These were the schematics for the hound. She pored over them, though there were only two sheets. She noted with disappointment that the most complex and therefore intriguing sections were not detailed here. Even so, there was plenty to discover. Her friend’s gracefully curved script covered the page, crammed into corners and creeping up the margins.
Someone had killed her, but it wasn’t the hound. Chloe was sure of it.
The inspector waited, hands folded, and when she continued to study the pages, he asked her if she knew how it worked. She tore her eyes from the pages with difficulty.
“Yes, yes,” she explained some of the diagrams, and though he nodded, she was fairly sure that he did not understand.
“What I am certain of,” she said, “is that this creature could not have killed Camille. See? Its center of gravity is too far forward for it to get high enough to bash a human in the head. It would topple forward.”
“It could have stood on its hind legs, even for a few moments, or waited until she had bent down,” he said.
“Unlikely. How could it grab something, rear up and hit her with it? Even if it managed such a feat of balance and coordination, it makes no sense. What motivation could it have to kill?”
“It could have gone mad and become violent.”
“Impossible.”
“Like your cat attacking that woman yesterday?”
Chloe sighed in exasperation, “It has no opposable thumbs, so it couldn’t grasp anything. And even if it was able to, look at the shoulder and knee joint shapes and musculature bands. There’s no way it could generate the power or have the range of motion to smash a skull.”
He sat back. “You helped her build it, you said?”
“No, Camille was the builder. She shared some information with me, but I had intended our visit, in part, to learn all I could about her hound. Giles is less complex, and I couldn’t have built him without Camille’s contributions. She’s a far more gifted inventor than I am.”
He was studying her, perhaps looking to detect a bit of false modesty. But she knew exactly where she stood in relation to Camille Granger’s talents.
“The world has lost a great mind,” she said.
“Indeed,” said Inspector Lockton. “And that mind may have spawned a dangerous creature.”
“I am telling you, it is completely impossible.”
“Please think it over, Mrs. Sullivan. If you think of anything you would like to add, please contact me.”
He rose to indicate that their interview was at an end. He thanked her and allowed her to reassemble Giles at his desk while he sorted through files in boxes. Then he escorted her out the front door. She continued down the street, spotting the carriage, steamcycle and her husband outside the chocolate shop. She raised her hand in a wave and lifted her skirts to cross the street.
Chapter 9
On the morning of Camille’s funeral, Chloe put on the gray dress and black shawl that Miss Haynes had selected for her. Chloe grabbed her small reticule and took Ambrose’s arm at the front door. Outside, three carriages awaited, the matched pairs of horses tossing their heads. Liveried footmen held the carriage doors and the family climbed inside. Alexander, Beatrice and Mrs. Malone sat across from Chloe and Ambrose.
Mrs. Malone rested her elephant-headed cane against the side of the carriage and folded her hands in her lap. She and Beatrice spoke softly together. Beatrice’s plain hat sported one spot of color—the tiny mechanical robin that Chloe had repaired. It was not moving, and Chloe hoped to heaven that Beatrice had not brought the key in her handbag. To have the little bird bobbing and twittering at a funeral would be inappropriate in the extreme.
The carriage lurched forward, the horses’ hooves crunching rhythmically on the gravel drive. Once they emerged on the main road, the row of carriages turned away from the direction of town. The sun shone white through the morning mist that swirled up from the damp earth and a soft wind rustled through the moor grass.
After a twenty-minute ride, the carriages stopped in front of the Granger house, a two-story home that was respectably opulent without being ostentatious. Bright clay pots brimming with asters, pansies, irises and other flowers in reds, yellows, blues and whites lined the walkway to the front door.
“How could these plants grow in this season and climate?” said Ambrose, leaning over a lush pot of white crocus.
“Mrs. Granger had a greenhouse, a large one,” said Robert. “She loved exotic plants and even ordinary ones. She let me go see them if our family came to visit. She had the servants bring some of them out in wheelbarrows each day and bring them in at night.”
“One of her little eccentricities,” said Dora. “She spent hours in the greenhouse, pulling off dead leaves, watering them, just looking at them. It was servant work, but she liked it. The only thing she loved more was tinkering with her little machines.” She turned away to pull a handkerchief from her bag and dab her eyes. Alexander put his hand on his sister’s shoulder.
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