The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle)

by Catherine Webb

  ‘Very!’ squeaked Tess, her wide eyes not having moved from Moncorvo’s smiling face. ‘Very, very now, please!’

  ‘Then let’s go,’ he murmured, turning away. ‘There’s nothing more to be done here.’

  Lyle watched them drive off into the night.

  Dawn across London in early spring. The still, dead time when the morning shift of factory hands is still sparse enough to comprise just the odd face here and there where later there will be bustle, and when that face, being anomalous, is more sinister for its passage down the empty street. The sun, when it rises, hardly warms, hardly illuminates, merely dispels the dimness to a paler form, without ever bothering to cast colour into it. It sends thin shadows from chimney stacks across dull slate roofs, catches thick smoke and lets it blend into the heavy clouds. It tickles the edge of the silvery fog, weighed down by smoke above and now nudged by dew below, trying to rise in the morning light. At this hour, the sounds that are usually never heard, become bigger - the murmur of pigeons perching in the gutters, the slamming of a distant door, the whistle of a train, the bell of a ship coming up the estuary and the sloshsloshslosh of its paddles, the dripping of the broken water pump down on the square, the coughing of the sleepy cab horse in its mews, the rattling of beer barrels being rolled down the street.

  In the suburb of Hammersmith, the butler in his nightrobe opens the door to young Master Thomas, and gapes with astonishment. ‘Sir! What are you doing up at this -’

  ‘Not now,’ says Thomas. ‘There’s a young lady asleep in the carriage. Please see that she is put to bed. Preferably without disturbing her.’

  Horatio Lyle stared across the Thames as the sun began to rise, and tried not to yawn.

  ‘All right,’ he said grimly. ‘Tell me how much worse today can get.’

  ‘You could sleep, Mister Lyle,’ suggested Lin.

  ‘I’m not letting him out of my sight.’ Lyle glaring at Moncorvo. ‘No thank you very kindly.’

  ‘We’ll not let him do any harm,’ insisted Lin.

  ‘I’m not being used and discarded like a snotty handkerchief! I’d like answers or . . .’

  ‘Or what, Mister Lyle?’ demanded Moncorvo. A smile twisted at the corner of his mouth. ‘How exactly will you threaten us now?’

  Lyle leant back against the cold stone of the Embankment wall. ‘Well . . .’ he said carefully, ‘it seems that what you lot are dealing with is a machine designed to kill by magnetism. So . . . whatever this device is, however it works, it’s going to be using either a lot of magnetic material, or a lot of electricity, or a lot of both, neither of which you people are exactly equipped to deal with.

  ‘Sooo ... it further seems to me - and I want you to know that I’m very tired and this is all good stuff considering how little sleep I’ve had - it further appears that no amount of knowledge about the Machine is going to help you, unless you have someone else willing to help you. Someone with a good understanding of electricity and magnetism and other unusual forces. And no allergy to iron and all its doings. What do you think?’

  Lin beamed. ‘Mister Lyle,’ she declared, ‘have I mentioned that I’ve always respected your work?’

  Lyle gave an empty smile. ‘Miss Lin,’ he said, ‘I never knew you cared. Go on, my lord, say something useful, that will make this farce worth my while.’

  ‘Oh, Mister Lyle,’ sighed Moncorvo, ‘how have you made so much of such a little, scuttling life?’

  ‘Come on,’ snapped Lyle, ‘out with it.’

  Moncorvo glowered at Lyle, then glanced more nervously at Lin. ‘I know you know Augustus Havelock. He is a gentleman of ... influence. The essence of “having friends in high places” - friends, patrons, employers, supporters, call them what you will. There are those who believe that my kind are a dying species, that we are somehow . . . less than these monkeys who currently lord it over the earth.’

  ‘See how I don’t hit you?’ murmured Lyle. ‘I’m becoming wiser each day I live.’

  ‘It came to my attention,’ stated Moncorvo with a show of patience, ‘that certain parties within Her Majesty’s Government who were . . . hostile . . . to my people, were attempting to construct a device capable of causing my kind great harm. I investigated further, and found that the mandate for this construction had been given to Augustus Havelock.’

  ‘Given? By who?’

  ‘“Whom”,’ corrected Lin with a smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘“Whom.” Good grammar is important’ - she intoned the words like a chant - ‘as it allows easy blending with the most hostile of environments for successful completion of your aims.’

  ‘My God,’ muttered Lyle, ‘that’s told me. What was the question? ’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Oh yes, right. Who exactly gave this “mandate” to Havelock?’

  ‘Among others, Lord Lincoln.’

  ‘Lord Lincoln is involved in this? A royal aide?’

  ‘Of course. He is one of many who believe that my kind are . . .’ Moncorvo twiddled his fingers in the air, as if trying to pluck the correct sentiment out of nothing, ‘. . . abominations, I suppose, will serve. Surely you must have deduced this in your many dealings with his lordship?’

  ‘Certainly Lord Lincoln would appear to be chiselled from an iceberg. I could see how he might be less than sympathetic. So there’s government involvement?’

  ‘Of course. Indeed, it was largely through the support of some of Her Majesty’s Government that, as I learnt, Havelock was enabled to construct some sort of machine underneath the city.’

  ‘Underneath? Where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Wonderful. Let’s limit the story, then, and get to what you do know.’

  ‘My attention was somewhat occupied during this period, you understand . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, with a scheme for domination and demigodhood, I was there,’ muttered Lyle, waving his hand dismissively. ‘What exactly do you know?’

  ‘Havelock employed Berwick to design the Machine. That was almost five months ago, shortly around the time of my . . . arrest. I became aware of Berwick’s involvement: I had men dispatched to follow him, and I knew that Havelock had turned to him because there was something missing, a component in the Machine that they couldn’t get right but that he hoped Berwick would be able to supply. I also knew that Berwick was eagerly working to achieve this aim. I had his friends, his movements, everything about his life monitored, in the hope that it would lead me to the location of the Machine itself - but unfortunately, it did not. He was not, it seemed, working on the Machine site directly, but at a laboratory underneath Baker Street Station which was guarded night and day by . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes. Where’s Berwick now?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No,’ said Lin quietly. ‘He vanished a few days ago.’

  ‘But Havelock’s looking for him,’ added Lyle. ‘And Old Man White has said the Machine is almost ready to do . . . whatever it does.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘A bad answer, my lord,’ said Lyle. ‘It means you’re thinking something you don’t want me to know, because you are buying time to consider and contrive something evil; sorry to be morally crude about it. But the only reason you’re out of prison is to help us find Berwick before Havelock does, so please stop now.’

  ‘Berwick is the key to the Machine; yes,’ murmured Moncorvo, although not apparently to anyone else. ‘The Machine works by somehow . . . exploding magnetism. Does that sound plausible to you, Lyle?’

  ‘Exploding magnetism? No, not really. Most of the time magnetism is just a field, an area of influence . . . you can strengthen it, although, like gravity, it is theoretically infinite if infinitesimal over a distance, but “exploding”? Exploding implies poof ! There and gone in an instant. I suppose a single burst of current could produce that effect, but only through massive, massive, unthinkable amounts of energy. As for changing the field, making it a weapon - that would req
uire something spectacular, a . . . I don’t know . . . a small volcano or artillery barrage or thunderstorm or a bomb . . .’ He trailed off.

  ‘Lyle?’ Moncorvo’s eyes were bright.

  ‘What exactly,’ Lyle’s voice was distant, his gaze fixed on the vague eastern horizon, ‘was Berwick’s contribution to this project? ’

  ‘I don’t know. But I understood it to be significant.’

  ‘“Significant”,’ repeated Lyle, who liked to believe in scientific precision. ‘What exactly does “significant” mean when it’s not hiding in the dictionary between “signature” and “silence”? I mean, huge amounts of energy, you’d have to . . . build up a charge, we’re talking . . . miles and miles of ... but then if it’s underground, have to be in a Faraday cage to keep it in and then . . .’

  ‘What are you thinking, Lyle?’ asked Moncorvo quietly.

  ‘You said you could find Berwick. How?’

  Moncorvo hesitated, but only for a second. ‘When we were watching him, we built up a coherent view of all his comings and goings, who he deals with, who he doesn’t - and in the process we learnt an intriguing thing.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Lyle’s voice was hardly there; his eyes still roamed some other world.

  ‘Have you heard of a man called Stephen Thackrah?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He co-authored a number of Berwick’s papers, particularly those relating to explosives.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Berwick never worked with anyone.’

  ‘He did with Thackrah. That gentleman’s expertise is, interestingly, in explosives.’

  ‘I’ve never seen his name anywhere.’

  ‘That’s because Mr Thackrah is the son of a dead Yorkshire convict, and a Jew.’

  Lyle sucked in a long, unhappy breath. ‘Oh. I see.’

  Lin looked bemused. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You’re new in this place, aren’t you?’ said Moncorvo, not kindly.

  ‘It can be . . .’ Lyle looked awkward, ‘difficult being Jewish in some areas. Not least if your father wasn’t renowned for good behaviour.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well . . . because . . .’ Lyle hesitated, looked surprised. ‘You know, I’m not entirely sure. I think it has something to do with theology.’ He spoke the words in the awed tone of someone aware that here were mysteries beyond his comprehension, and best left that way. ‘But I still don’t entirely see how this helps us.’

  ‘Thackrah works at the Royal Institute, ostensibly as an assistant librarian, although in practical terms he is more likely to be found experimenting, on Berwick’s authority. He is a trusted confidant, a friend and ally of Berwick, and, moreover, he has links in parts of the city where a man might wish to take shelter, should he not want to be found.’

  ‘You think Berwick would go to him for help?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you think Havelock . . . what . . . wouldn’t notice something like that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why, exactly?’

  ‘Because, Mister Lyle,’ replied Moncorvo, ‘you know as well as I do that Augustus Havelock does not have the imagination for details.’

  Lyle opened his mouth to say ‘Yes, but that doesn’t matter in the least. Just because he doesn’t notice anything that isn’t immediately relevant to him, it doesn’t mean he’s stupid, just . . .’ and stopped himself. He thought about it. ‘. . . just ignorant.’ He shrugged. ‘All right. Why not? It’s something, it’s more than anything else, why not! Let’s find this Thackrah!’

  ‘I knew we could rely on you, Mister Lyle,’ Moncorvo said, in a voice that sent a shudder down Lyle’s spine.

  Tess, Thomas and Tate sat in Lord Elwick’s dining room, around lunchtime, eating breakfast.

  ‘Bigwig?’ said Teresa.

  ‘Yes, Miss Teresa?’

  ‘You think Mister Lyle is bewitched?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss. He seemed to be behaving normally - for Mister Lyle - last night. But then, why did he break him,’ the hate was obvious in Thomas’s voice, ‘out? I just don’t know.’

  ‘Bigwig?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Teresa?’

  ‘What are you going to do if he is bewitched?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re oldest, you gotta do something,’ she said smugly. “Cos of how I’m the lady an’ all.’

  ‘I’m honestly not sure what I could do if . . .’

  ‘Only it seems as how,’ went on Tess coyly, ‘if Mister Lyle is bewitched or confused or dead or missin’ his brain or anythin’ like that, then I ain’t goin’ to have nowhere to go, so I might as well stick ’round here, if that’s all right with you, bigwig.’ Thomas turned white. Tess grinned an indescribably evil grin. ‘So . . . whatcha goin’ to do about it, bigwig?’

  Before Thomas had a chance to respond, the answer came through the door for him, and the answer was angry. Or as angry as anyone chiselled from an iceberg could be.

  The Royal Institute was situated in a part of London that was, in every sense, ‘royal’. Kensington Palace sat just across Hyde Park from Buckingham Palace, which in turn looked down the Mall, used for royal processions, to St James’s Palace, by the park of the same name, where the common people queued to catch a glimpse of the reclusive, widowed queen. Nearby on Piccadilly the great of several nations visited the Royal Academy, and the area’s elegant shops sold goods that only the most indulged of princes could afford, and every watchmaker was by royal appointment.

  Among all this, at the boundary zone where the arched arcades and flush carriages began to be displaced by the tighter passages of southern Soho, and the bobbies dared not venture in groups of less than four, was the pillared front of the Royal Institute. Horatio Lyle always felt out of place in the Institute. Although technically he was a member, his ideas were sometimes too radical for many wealthy members who saw science as a hobby rather than a means of advancing mankind, and whose enthusiasm, at least to Lyle, didn’t always make up for an absence of experimental method. A glance at the lecture notices for the week produced in Lyle a mixture of awe and contempt; his eyes lit up to see ‘Darwin - the debate rages!’ while his face fell in response to ‘Newton and Hooke - the particle model is the only model!’ and ‘Miasma and the ether - a radical reassessment of the airborne inter-spatial medium’.

  ‘Amateurs,’ he muttered, marching up the steps.

  ‘You have better theories, I suppose?’ Moncorvo demanded.

  ‘I just don’t like the idea of everything being explainable by a big intangible wobbly “ether” that I can not examine! It’s as bad as saying that there’s . . .’ Lyle cut himself off, but it was too late.

  ‘Magic?’ suggested Moncorvo, raising one eyebrow, a trick Lyle had never quite managed, even in front of the mirror.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Lin said, ‘You know, things could be worse!’ She ignored the glares that descended on her like fiery meteors. ‘Think what an opportunity this presents us for reconciliation and understanding! A chance for two bitter, angry, life-long, pig-headed enemies to work together for a common cause!’ She beamed. ‘Isn’t that nice?’

  ‘Nice?’ hissed Lyle.

  ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘it’s far better that you work together out of your common desire for reconciliation and understanding than that I bang your heads together until you cry.’

  They considered this. ‘You are a traitor to your kind and will die in your own pitiful loneliness,’ replied Moncorvo.

  ‘You’re a bit odd, miss,’ admitted Lyle.

  ‘See! The two of you practically agreed there!’

  And, in fairness, the scowls that greeted her were almost identical.

  Lyle pushed back the doors to the Royal Institute, stepped into the hall, and said, ‘If we’re going to find Thackr—’

  A voice to one side of him boomed, ‘Young man, could you please help me with this?’

  Lyle turned, with the words, ‘Sorry, sir, in a bit of a rush -’ on his lips - and de
flated mid-mumble.

  The man who’d spoken was shortish, sported huge grey side-whiskers, and had a wrinkled old face that looked out from under an enormous pair of eyebrows.

  Lyle stood and gaped while Lin peered over his shoulder. Moncorvo drummed his fingers.

  The old man, sensing something amiss, said, ‘If you would be so kind, sir; my man appears to have abandoned me . . .’ and indicated a large box at his feet, wrapped in brown paper.

  A nod, and a tiny squeak that might have been a word was evidently the only answer Lyle could give. He edged forward and struggled to lift the unwieldy box. The man smiled thinly and said, ‘Please be careful, there’s some very fragile equipment in there . . .’

  ‘Lyle,’ snapped Moncorvo, ‘we hardly have the time.’

  Lyle shot Moncorvo a glare. Lin peered at the box and said, quite reasonably, ‘What exactly is it?’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed the old man with a widening smile. ‘A young lady with an interest in science! Are you aware of the wave-particle debate?’

  To Lyle’s surprise, Lin said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. And I don’t suppose by chance you are familiar with the current work in the field of electromagnetism on the debate as to whether the flow of electricity, the current down a wire, is in the form of particle movement or waves?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well!’ The old man looked as though he could have danced on the spot. ‘This device - careful, dear boy, careful -’ gesturing urgently at Lyle - ‘is part of an attempt to determine the very nature of electricity, whether it is merely a charge on mass, or a free-flowing wave, part of a field, to attempt to determine, if you will, the very stuff of ... of stuff. To understand the properties of mass through an analysis of current, voltage, drift, charge, and so forth, and thus break more ground in the great particle-wave debate that for so long we have been unable to reconcile and ... do be careful! It’s very, very fragile! If you’d put it here ... very gently ... thank you, dear boy, you are a saviour.’