“Describe for me exactly where this place is. I will go out myself later to see.”
She told him and he scribbled down a few notes. “It’s odd that my men didn’t find it. How did you?”
“I saw the footprints from the hound near the bog. It looked like it had been there repeatedly, circling and moving back and forth. So I took a look. That was all.”
“You wanted to find the hound.”
“Yes.” There was no point in lying.
“Why?”
“I was afraid you would have it destroyed. Mr. Granger already destroyed Camille’s notebooks and everything from her laboratory, and he said that he had instructed the police to destroy the hound. That creature is the only hope we have of understanding Camille’s design.”
“If the creature harmed a woman, then it ought to be destroyed.”
“But it didn’t! There’s something else. The zoetrope is from the Aynesworth house. It used to belong to my husband’s late sister, Rose. She was William Aynesworth’s late wife. The zoetrope went missing two weeks ago, and now it is found on the moor in pieces.”
“So you don’t think that the hound killed her because this thing was from the Aynesworth house?”
“I don’t think it killed her because …” she shook her head. She wasn’t so certain any more that the hound was harmless. She remembered its strength and size, and the fluid motions of its body. She thought of its teeth and gaping jaws. “I think that you and your men should turn your attention to Mr. Granger or someone in the Aynesworth house. This zoetrope changes everything.” She took a seat. “I see two possibilities.”
He seated himself across from her. Nothing in his manner indicated condescension or scorn, but neither did he seem eager to hear her conclusions.
“Mr. and Mrs. Granger both came to the Aynesworth house as regular visitors. One of them could have taken the zoetrope. There would be no reason for Mr. Granger to do so, but Camille did have cause.”
She told him about the box of money in the laboratory and her conversation with Nettie in the tavern.
“Camille could have stolen it to sell it,” she said.
“And your second possibility?”
“Someone in the Aynesworth house. A zoetrope is heavy and mostly metal. It could conceivably be used to hit someone over the head.”
“Why not just use a rock? Far less conspicuous. Far easier to hide afterward. And it wouldn’t leave glass or metal fragments lodged in the skull.”
“You’re right.” Of course. There would be no reason to use the zoetrope for such an act. She did not possess the understanding of the criminal mind that Inspector Lockton had.
After a silence, he went to his window and rested his hand on the frame. “So a zoetrope from the Aynesworth house ends up in pieces in the bog, in a hiding spot nearby and—where did you find this piece?”
“The abandoned mine. Southwest of town. North of the Granger House. It’s beyond this stone circle—”
“I know the one. Does your husband know that you have been somewhere so dangerous?”
“He was with me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You were looking for the hound in the mine?”
“Yes. I thought it might like sheltered places.”
“But you did not find it.”
“I would tell you if I had.”
“Would you?” He turned to her. “Would you truly?”
She held his gaze. “Give me your word that you will not destroy it, and I will do my best to help you find it. Just find Camille’s killer.”
“I intend to. I presume you would want the creature for yourself after we examine it?”
She nodded. He looked back out the window and seemed to be debating something.
“I can make this agreement with you,” he said. “If we determine that the hound killed Mrs. Granger, we must disassemble it. There could be no chance of it harming anyone else. Then, I am under the authority of my superior, and he might want to send the parts elsewhere for examination. But as much as it is within my power, I could try to see that you receive the pieces.”
“And if you determine that a human was the killer?”
“Then the hound is yours. Just take it back to London.”
“Agreed.”
“Now, tell me why you think the zoetrope was from the Aynesworth house instead of somewhere else? They are fairly common, are they not?” he said.
“William Aynesworth told me that a zoetrope went missing two weeks ago. This one is an older model, as was the one that his wife would have had. The timing and age of the thing are too much to be coincidence.”
“It’s still circumstantial.”
“So is the idea that the hound killed her with a rock or branch or its own foot?”
“True.”
“There is something you are not telling me,” she said.
“Naturally. This case is still under investigation and information is not available to the public.”
“But I’m not the public.”
“Of course you are.” He had a tight smile. “I appreciate the information you have provided, but I cannot share the information of my own investigation. What I need the most from you is the location of the hound.”
“I told you, the old mine. I think that’s where it has been hiding. Also, it’s trying to repair its battery. It appears to be trying to obtain substances that are alkaline, though there’s no imaginable way that it could have the understanding to make changes to its battery array. It must be imitating what it saw Camille do when she created it.”
“Extraordinary.”
“You can see why I want to examine the creature so much. With the information on battery design, as well as how to create a complex decision engine, better mechanicals could be made. No people would ever have to go down into a dangerous mine again. And other manufacturing jobs that are dangerous or difficult could be performed by mechanicals. We could see this advance within our own lifetime. You see the people of this town. The injuries and the deaths.”
For the first time, he looked at her with genuine surprise. There was admiration in it, and caution.
“Why does a woman of your station care about miners and workmen?”
“I was not always a woman of this station. And I would ask you to keep that to yourself, if you please. And even if I had always been in possession of wealth, I still have a keen interest in the well-being of my fellow man.”
“That we share.”
Of course, she thought. He solved crimes and protected the public. This grim and fastidious man had more in common with her than she had imagined. She felt like they had an understanding now, and though their stations would never permit them to have any other than the most fleeting acquaintance, under other circumstances, they might have been friends.
Chapter 28
Chloe rode away from town as fast as she dared and down the bumpy road to the mine. The previous night’s heavy rain and the day’s intermittent drizzle had soaked the dusty road and left puddles and slick, mud-filled ruts. She had to slow down repeatedly to avoid them, lest she risk an accident. If she was seriously injured, she could lie there forever before someone happened by.
But she could not turn back. Inspector Lockton’s assurance that he would do his best to get her the pieces of the hound was not sufficient. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Lockton was a street officer in a small out-of-the-way town in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t even have a name on his office door. Of course he would have superiors, and of course he would have to obey them. Since when would those in authority allow something like the hound to fall into hands like hers? If they didn’t destroy the hound, it would be sent to a laboratory, most likely a military one. It would be lost to her forever.
She parked the steamcycle when the road became impassable, grabbed the lantern and flint lighter and hurried to the mine. Once inside, she lit the lantern and held it aloft. The air was colder than when she had come with Ambrose, and it seemed
darker, though that must be her imagination. There was something else about the smell that seemed different. The air was heavier somehow.
“Hello!” she called. “Are you in there?” She tried to keep her voice light and pleasant, hoping that it was how Camille had spoken to the hound. There was no sound.
The entrance shaft of the mine was just as she and Ambrose had seen it. There was no sign of the hound. As she went deeper, the play of light and shadow on the walls became disorienting. The crevices and rock formations bounced as she walked, though she tried to hold the lantern steady. She stopped frequently, listening and scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. She remembered how quietly the hound had come up behind her at the stone circle. It could move silently, and it did not want to be found.
At the fork in the tunnel, she stopped and smelled the air, just as Ambrose had. A sound came from the left fork, the far-off drip of water. Now she knew what the heavy smell in the air was. It was moisture. Of course, the rain had soaked the ground, so it would be dripping down, down until it reached groundwater.
Should she go left or right? If the hound was here and she picked the wrong tunnel, it could escape out the mine entrance. She had to think. If the hound was a creature of habit, and its crate of items was down the left tunnel, then that would be the most likely spot. But if it anticipated her move, it would have hidden down the right fork when it heard her. No, it was not capable of such complex reasoning. She descended down the left tunnel.
The sound of dripping grew louder, and now and then a drop splashed into her hair, down her collar or onto her outstretched arm. How many tons of water-soaked earth were over her head, held up only by splintered wooden beams and an age-old tunnel?
She traced the dripping sound to a broad puddle that stretched from wall to wall and far enough ahead that she would have to step in it to make it across. She crouched down. If she had to step through the puddle, so would the hound, and the surrounding earth was wet and a perfect place for tracks to be captured. Yes, there were prints, going both in and out.
She splashed through the shallow water until she reached the broken support beam. The crate was still there. She crawled over the beam and checked further down the mine, in case the hound was in the shadows, watching. A huge pile of debris blocked most of the path ahead. If she wanted to pass, she would have to climb over it, passing through an opening near the ceiling. She held up her lantern and a black rat dashed into a crevice. How agile was the hound? Would it be able to climb over an obstacle like this?
She did not want to go further. There was no telling if she could get back up the pile from the other side. If she was too heavy, the rocks could slide. And if her lantern broke, she could become lost. She knew she could eventually find her way out by keeping one hand on a wall and walking until she reached the entrance, but the thought of being trapped in the blackness frightened her.
The sound of water dripping had increased in pace and the air here was so wet and thick that she felt as if it could seep from her lungs into her very bones. No, she would turn back and then check the other tunnel. Besides, the crate was still waiting for her inspection near the fallen support beam. She turned back, climbed back over the beam and opened the crate.
“So much,” she whispered as she sorted through paper scraps, whole newspapers, and pieces of glass, both clear and colored. There were wires, bottles, brass spools, a corked bottle of muddy water, coins and a few pieces of paper money. A large can held six inches of ashes. How many mouthfuls had it taken to get this much?
A chunk of mud plopped into the box, splattering her. She held up her lantern. The entire roof was heavy and shiny with water. The dripping of the puddle sounded faster now, almost a running trickle. By the time she passed it, it was running non-stop.
She rushed back to the fork, then down the right tunnel as quickly as she dared. She had to be thorough, or her trip would be in vain. She went all the way to the cave-in. Nothing. She hurried back out of the mine, sighing in gratitude at the first scent of fresh air and the gleam of daylight.
Emerging from the mine, she extinguished the lantern and moved into the daylight. The moor grass swayed in the wind and the clouds had parted just enough for sunlight to shine warm on the rocks of a distant tor. So why did she feel like something was wrong? She turned to look toward the top of the mine. Everything was still until two warblers tore into the air in a flutter of wings. She thought she heard the crunch of footsteps.
She climbed the hill, and as she rounded the top, she found herself looking into the eyes of a blackface sheep. It was alone, and raised its head to look at her.
“Where is the rest of your flock?” She knew next to nothing about livestock, but she knew that a lone animal had little chance of survival. She checked it for a brand mark on its rump. Did people brand sheep? She watched it take a few steps and she checked its legs for injuries. It appeared healthy.
She should head home, but she couldn’t leave the creature out here alone for wolves or wild dogs. But what was she going to do, load it onto the steamcycle and give it a ride to the nearest farm?
“You wouldn’t thank me for that,” she said and pulled up a handful of grass. It sniffed it and lowered its head to graze. She patted its back.
“Hello there!” cried a woman’s voice, and Chloe spun around to see a tiny old woman striding toward her, her arm raised in greeting. The woman’s gray hair was loose and flying wild in the wind. Her wide-spaced dark eyes stayed fixed on Chloe as she walked. She neither hesitated nor looked at the ground as she closed the distance between them.
“You seem to have found my sheep,” she said, smiling with a mouth full of yellowed, square teeth.
“I thought it was lost.”
“She was. Got separated from my flock.” She placed her hand on the back of the sheep’s neck and leaned down until they were almost forehead to forehead. She made a little noise in the back of her throat, and straightened up. The sheep butted its head against her hip.
“Why are you here?” she asked, still looking at the sheep. Then she turned her eyes to Chloe.
“Er, I was looking for something. Looking for the mechanical hound. Have you seen it?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you want something to eat?” the woman said. “You’re out here alone, your face has a little bit of mud splattered on it, your feet are filthy and I know you’re not from here. So do you want some tea or a bite to eat?”
“Do you live nearby?”
“My cottage is a bit that way,” she pointed. “Least I can do for taking care of my sheep.”
“Oh, I didn’t do anything for it.”
“You tried to feed it, and you looked it over for injuries.”
How good was this woman’s eyesight? She had to be at least eighty, but she moved like a younger woman.
“I have fresh honey too,” the woman said.
“That would be lovely. Thank you.” Chloe followed the woman down the hill. If anyone had seen the hound, it would be this woman. And she had never seen one of the local farmhouses before. She wouldn’t stay long.
“I know where I’ve seen you before,” said Chloe. “Were you at Mrs. Granger’s funeral?”
“That I was. You were there?” Something about the way she said it was too casual. Chloe suspected that the woman had remembered her on sight.
“Yes. I’m a friend of hers. I’m Chloe Sullivan.”
“Maggie.”
“A pleasure to meet you.”
Maggie moved on, the sheep trailing at her heels without any encouragement. They walked in silence until they reached a small thatched-roof cottage. Who still used thatch for roofing in this day and age? Maggie opened the front gate for the sheep, and it trotted around the back of the house, presumably to its pen.
The ancient house was squat and sturdy. Moss grew on one side in a few crevices between the wall stones. Wind chimes jingled from the eaves in between hanging pots of plants,
their tendrils swinging in the breeze. Cats of all colors lounged in shadows and sunlight, on windowsills and on the doorstep. At Maggie’s approach, a few rushed forward and circled her legs. Gangly shrubs lined the cracked rock path to the front door, which Maggie opened for her.
“Make yourself at home, I’ll make some tea.” Maggie went to put on the kettle.
The interior of the house was cramped, but clean. The front room held a few chairs, a table and a large rug. At the back of the room, a patterned cloth hung over a doorway to what she presumed was the bedroom. A cat slept in the center of the kitchen table. Maggie pushed it aside, and it stretched and moved a few inches before settling back and closing its eyes.
“You live here alone?” asked Chloe.
“I’m the only person, but I’m not alone, no.” She moved her hand to encompass the dog at the kitchen hearth and the cat on the kitchen table. “So you were a friend of Mrs. Granger?” said Maggie.
“Yes. I had hoped to spend some time with her while I was visiting. We both make mechanicals.”
“Oh, do you now? Like that dog she made?”
“You’ve seen the hound?”
“Hound? Like the old ghost story?” She laughed and shook her head. “You like biscuits?”
Chloe said she did. Maggie opened the kitchen cabinet and revealed row upon row of mismatched herb jars, some filled all the way to the top. It was far more than any person would need for personal cooking. She had heard of people using old plant remedies instead of modern medicine, but she could not fathom why anyone would do so. Why not avail one’s self of the best and most modern cures? Perhaps the poorer people in town could not afford a decent doctor.
Maggie arranged biscuits on a plate, poured hot water into the teapot and set it on the table with two cups and a pot of fresh honey. “Now, tell me about your friend Mrs. Granger.”
Hounds of Autumn Page 17
