Lord Bobbins and the Romanian Ruckus (A TeslaCon Novel Book 1)

by Sean Little

  “My friends, I am no god. I am only a man with business interests in this town. I want this town to prosper so that we can all prosper,” Bobbins replied in a soothing tone. “I think myself above no man, let alone the Almighty.” Andrei was at Bobbins’ hip, translating for the crowd.

  “Mark my words,” shouted Paschal. “This will come to no good ends. Keep your guns at the ready, my friends. There will be vengeance on the town tonight. If you pray hard enough and repent for your sins, perhaps God will keep the monsters from your door.”

  “Or perhaps there aren’t monsters to begin with,” said Bobbins. “We will learn the truth today!”

  “Look at what they carry!” Paschal asked the crowd. “Does it look like weapons of God, or weapons of man?”

  “Looks like weapons of Jules Verne,” muttered Clarke under his breath. He caught Csupo’s eyes and jerked his head toward the door of the Crying Pig. Csupo nodded and began to move that direction. Clarke turned Tesla’s shoulders to the door and gave him a small push. Shaw caught what they were doing and moved Bobbins in the same direction.

  Paschal continued to vent to the crowd. “Hear me! God will punish us for forsaking Him and trusting our salvation to this man. Did you see his red coat? If that’s not a symbol for hellfire and damnation, I don’t know what is.”

  “Dear me, hellfire and damnation? Does the Queen know about this?” said Bobbins. He allowed Shaw to push him toward the tavern. “It is madder rose red, not a true red. And I defy you to show me a devil wearing such smart buttons!”

  Paschal had a crowd gathered, and he was working them in rapid Romanian. He shouted and whirled like a carnival barker, gathering more people to listen to his rants.

  “Let me go, Ms. Shaw. I’ve never struck a man of the cloth before, but there’s a first time for everything. Say whatever you wish about me, but that coat is a formal piece for the Queen’s House of Lords and I’ll not have it besmirched by some crazed friar.”

  “You can’t argue with people like that,” said Clarke. “It never works. They always find a way to erect a moral high ground above you. If you want him to eat his words, we have to figure out this mystery.”

  “You’d think he’d be grateful. We’ll return things to normal, turn this village into a vacation paradise and everyone—including the church—will prosper. He’ll have more tithings and more parishioners. It’s a win for everyone,” said Bobbins. Mr. Petran took care of the horse and wagon while the group made its way to the side streets behind the tavern.

  The woods looked even darker and more foreboding. The lack of sun helped with that. When Clarke and Shaw had ventured in the first time, the sun overhead had lit the gaps between the trees with enough light to make it look like a hazy room, a thickly canopied fairy forest. Now, with the heavy clouds above, there were only dark shadows and gunmetal gray light. They walked the woodsmen’s path, Clarke in the lead, followed by Csupo, Tesla, Andrei, and Bobbins. Shaw brought up the rear cradling Tesla’s weapon in her arms.

  Bobbins kept up a lively stream of chatter for the first hour. He commented on everything he saw. “Is that a crow? I hear they eat the eyes out of corpses. Have you seen that before, Mr. Clarke?” and without waiting for an answer, he was on to the next top. “Look at that pine tree! Such a lovely, lush green. I should use it to make wreaths for the castle gate. Christmas will be upon us soon enough, you know.” He jumped from talk of Christmas, to politics, to rabbit breeding and fox hunting—because a rabbit being chased by a fox happened to cross their path. By the time they arrived at the clearing in the forest, Bobbins had abandoned the constant talking. The forest seemed to insist upon their silence.

  They paused in the clearing to drink water and have a few of the snacks that Chef had packed for them. Bobbins sat cross-legged upon the soft grass and beckoned Clarke to sit beside him. Bobbins beckoned Clarke to lean in and whispered to him, “Do you feel unwell?”

  “No more so than normal. Why?”

  Bobbins licked his lips and pressed his fingers against his mustache. “I simply feel awful.”

  “Sick?”

  “No…different than sick.”

  “That’s the fear-force we told you about,” said Clarke. “It’s a little alarming, isn’t it?”

  “Is this what fear feels like?”

  Clarke started to laugh, but stifled it. “Surely you know fear.”

  “Not like this,” said Bobbins.

  “You, a politician, have never felt fear?”

  “My dear boy, I’m a good politician. People adore me! When I was a boy I used to love a good ghost story around the hearth, get the hackles up for a bit of sport, but this…this is unholy.”

  Clarke clapped a hand on Bobbins’ shoulder. “Buck up, m’lord. It only gets worse from here.”

  The fear became a thick blanket that surrounded them. As they pressed on following the path that Clarke had hacked through the forest on the initial visit, they all felt it. Icy fingers clawed at their minds and every shadow lunged at them. Clarke had thought the fear-force would be lessened, given that that he’d known what it would feel like, and given there were more people with him—safety in numbers and all. It wasn’t. If anything, it was stronger.

  Tesla seemed to be the least affected. He checked his handheld gadgets often, sometimes waving them at shadows or arching them over his head. He fiddled with the knobs and dials on the backpack gadget Csupo wore. Sometimes he made a clicking sound with his mouth. Sometimes he grew frustrated and blew air through pursed lips.

  Clarke pressed through the forest, his head swiveling from side to side. He became hyper-alert, every noise a threat. It was like being back in the snipers, crawling behind enemy lines. It unnerved him. He didn’t like it. Thoughts of horrible war scenes pressed into his memory without being bidden.

  They pressed on. No one spoke. Everyone moved as quietly as possible to listen for the telltale snap of a branch or the rustle of underbrush. As the clouds had promised, a thick, fluffy white snow began to fall. In the span of a half-hour, it served to muffle the sounds of the woods further giving it an unsettling silence that only seemed to magnify their agitation.

  They paused for lunch deep in the woods. Clarke convinced them to sit with their backs to each other as the farmers did in India. They ate sparingly. The fear-force made their stomachs feel queasy. It was dry crackers and water. Bobbins even refused the vacuum flask of tea that Sandsworth had prepared. The manic lord’s attitude had changed to that of a serious, concerned man. It was an unwelcome change from his normal effervescence.

  By the time they arrived at the mouth of the cave, Bobbins looked to have aged five years. The corners of his mustache drooped, whether that was due to nerves or weather, it was unclear. Csupo and Andrei were wide-eyed and trembling. Clarke put a hand on their shoulders. “Courage, fellows. There are worse things than death.”

  “Like what?” asked Csupo.

  “Like cowardice,” said Clarke. “Stiffen the resolve. Put fear behind you even if it feels impossible.”

  “We have to go in there?” said Bobbins. “It looks awfully small.”

  “You’re not a claustrophobe, m’Lord,” said Shaw.

  “Of course not.” Bobbins held his head high. “However, I’ve always considered becoming one.”

  Silent through the whole journey, Tesla finally spoke. “What we seek is in there. This…fear…we feel, it is not fear.”

  “Of course it’s fear. What else could it be?” asked Shaw.

  “Sound,” said Tesla. He strode toward the mouth of the cave without further explanation.

  “That makes perfect sense,” said Bobbins.

  “It does?” asked Clarke.

  “No, of course it doesn’t. He’s a genius, but he’s also a lunatic.”

  The group hurried after Tesla. He was touching rocks at the mouth of the cave. “It is very hard.”

  “Yes. They’re stones,” said Bobbins. “They tend to be that way. What do you mean ‘sound?’”


  Tesla gave Bobbins a look of exasperation. “Precisely what I meant. It is sound, not fear. Very low sounds below the range of the human ear to perceive them.”

  “Well, that sounds ridiculous. If we can’t perceive them, how can they make us afraid?”

  “Have you heard Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture?”

  “Of course I have. Rousing piece. Such fun!” said Bobbins. “I love it when they shoot the cannons. I’m always up for a good cannon solo. I think more music should include an artillery barrage, don’t you?”

  “When they fire the cannons,” said Tesla, “do you feel it in your chest?”

  “Of course I do—” Bobbins stopped short. He bit back the next part of his sentence when he understood where Tesla was going. After a pause he said, “You’re telling us that something in that cave is creating a sound that is affecting the village and making us afraid?”

  “Yes,” said Tesla.

  “That’s a bold hypothesis,” said Shaw.

  “Not hypothesis. It is fact.” Tesla held up one of his instruments. A needle on a gauge made a slow, but steady rhythmic jump every few seconds. “This hears what our ears cannot. It tells me that it is hearing a beat below our range of hearing. I believe the caves act like audio tubes and the mouth of the cave serves as an amplifier. It is a giant megaphone. The sound travels for miles, and the cave mouth pointed directly at Cărbunasatul. It would affect everyone in the village, man, woman, and child. Even dogs and cats, probably.”

  “That explains why all the dogs ran away initially,” said Bobbins.

  “This sound makes us feel fear, then? Is that all it is?” asked Clarke. “This is a rather crippling fear, and it’s hard to believe that sound and sound alone is the culprit.”

  Tesla looked around the mouth of the cave. “It can affect our bodies in many ways. Fear is one of them. Anxiety. Depression. Hysteria. All are possible. As is hallucination and mania. It can even go so far as to make us lose control of our senses, given a lengthy exposure to it.”

  “How long would hysteria take?” asked Bobbins.

  Tesla thought for a moment. “If you lived at the mouth of this cave, then it would only take days. Given the distance from here to the village, it would take weeks. Maybe two or three months, at best.”

  “How long has it been going on?” Bobbins asked Andrei.

  “At least six weeks, sir.”

  “I’m not knighted, lad. Not yet, at least.”

  “Sorry, m’lord.”

  “Six weeks,” said Bobbins. “Maybe longer?”

  “Might be two months,” said Csupo. “It’s been weird here for some time.”

  “That means the people are on the precipice of insanity,” said Bobbins. “That will really kill tourism. No one wants to visit a whole town full of raging maniacs.”

  “Explain Philadelphia, then,” said Clarke.

  “Point taken,” said Bobbins.

  “The solution is simple enough: Stop the sound. All the fear will go away. Once the sound ceases, all will revert to their normal selves. There will be no long-term effects. If the sound stops, everyone will heal instantly,” said Tesla.

  “Then we have no choice but to press on,” said Bobbins. “Stiff upper lip, everyone. Gird the loins. Lead on, Mr. Clarke. Lead on.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Depths

  Clarke pressed forward into the darkness, a kerosene lantern in his left hand, his right hand resting on the handle of the Colt on his hip. For the moment, Shaw was behind him. “I’m not going to be much use in a little while,” she said. “I can only go so far.”

  “It’s just sound,” he said. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  Shaw didn’t reply. Clarke tried to give her a reassuring glance, but she said nothing.

  The group made it to the fork in the tunnel. “Both of these end in dead ends,” said Clarke. “The one on the right has a small gap beyond it where more caverns lie, but it’s likely impassable by a human. The one on the left is where I found the cog.”

  Tesla was checking his instruments. He frowned. He twisted some dials and knobs on the box on Csupo’s back. “Left,” he said.

  Clarke moved to the left, but Shaw fell back. “I can’t go on,” she said.

  “Come on, Ms. Shaw. It’s only sound.”

  “I can’t go on,” she said with finality. “I will stay here and guard your backs, but I cannot go any further.”

  “Andrei, stay with Ms. Shaw, please,” said Bobbins. “I will be fine with Mr. Clarke.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said Shaw.

  “I insist,” said Bobbins.

  “So do I,” said Andrei. He looked relieved to not be proceeding further into the darkness. He passed over Bobbins’ shotgun and pistols.

  “Keep one for you, just in case,” said Bobbins.

  “Give us that weapon, please,” said Tesla nodding at the strange gun he’d given Shaw. She handed it over without fuss. Csupo took it from her. The large weapon looked comical in his arms.

  “What does that even do, Nicky?” asked Bobbins.

  “Nikola,” said Tesla. “You will see when it is time.”

  “Can the time be now? I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “No.”

  The group pressed on without Andrei and Shaw. Clarke led the way holding a lantern aloft in his left hand, his pistol in his right. Behind him, Bobbins followed. Csupo was third, toting the Tesla weapon in his arms like an oversized baby. Tesla was in the rear, checking his instruments frequently and moving dials and sliders on the strange backpack Csupo wore.

  They went down the left tunnel, the one that ended in a dead-end. When they reached the little domed room at the end of the tunnel, Tesla came forward with his instruments and frowned. “It is behind this wall.”

  “What is?” asked Clarke and Bobbins at the same time.

  “Whatever is making the sound.”

  “Are you saying this wall is false?” asked Bobbins. “A sham? A sliding door that hides a secret room like you’d find at my estate? Uh…not that I have secret rooms at my estate, mind you. Certainly no sliding bookcases or butler’s spies, either. And I definitely don’t have a painting you can secretly stand behind and quietly observe people in my drawing room. That would be unethical and wrong.” He smiled broadly. “Everything is always above board at the Bobbins Estate!”

  Tesla nodded, ignoring Bobbins’ rambling aside. “These rocks are well designed, but they hide a wall. There is probably a latch or a button hidden in them somewhere to release the door.”

  Clarke passed the lantern to Bobbins and set to pressing the rock face of the cavern. Internally, he was kicking himself. When he found the cog, he should have known something was amiss. A secret door wasn’t a tough guess. He cursed himself for being stupid. He slid his hands over the stone, feeling for a catch or a lever. Maybe it was even a spot that needed to be pressed. It all felt as solid as any stone he’d ever touched.

  Tesla was moving dials on one of his instruments. His face was tense with concentration. “Stop,” he told Clarke. “Stop. You will not find it.”

  Clarke pulled his hands from the wall. “How do you know?”

  “I think the wall needs a code. I believe it is sound-activated.”

  “How can you tell?” asked Bobbins.

  “This device emits high frequency, too high for the human ear,” said Tesla. “It probably drives dogs insane, though. As I change frequencies, I am noticing that there is a harmonic return, also at a very high frequency. To me, this is coming from a device that is being stimulated by the sound. If I play the right sounds, the door will open.”

  “Can you break the code?” said Clarke.

  Tesla shook his head. “Perhaps, given enough time. It might take years, though. I do not know how extensive this code is. It could be as simple as matching a single frequency, or as complex as playing a full concerto at it.”

  “Csupo,” said Bobbins. “Do you remember this doctor that owned the castle
before me? Dr. Enwright?”

  “Barely, sir,” said Csupo. “I was but a small child when he left. I never saw him, only heard stories.”

  “Do you remember what kind of doctor he was?”

  Csupo closed his eyes in concentration. He was silent for a moment, desperate to remember. After a moment, his eyes reopened and they carried a look of defeat. “I’m sorry, m’lord. I cannot remember.”

  Bobbins looked at Clarke. “Care to wager that the good Dr. Enwright knows something about sound?”

  “What odds you want to give?” said Clarke.

  “No odds, Mr. Clarke, just a good, sound gut feeling. Sometimes, that gut feeling is enough to make you push all your chips into the pot.”

  “Should we try the other tunnel, then? That one ended in a narrow gap. Maybe one of Mr. Tesla’s fancy instruments can get a better reading there.”

  Telsa crouched by the gap at the end of the other tunnel. He fingered the jagged stone and small crystals around the edge. “This is not a door,” he said. “This looks natural.”

  “Can we get through it, though?” said Bobbins. He crouched next to Tesla and sized up the gap. He pressed his stomach lightly. “I think I’ve had too many of Chef’s lovely Swiss-chocolate cakes to get through there. I would have been hard-pressed to do it when I was on the athletics squad at Oxford in my youth. I was a fine specimen back then, Mr. Clarke. You should have seen me! Lean. Lightly muscled. I was like a coiled snake ready to strike. I could flex my bicep and strong women would swoon. No lie.”

  “A trained snake would come in handy about now,” said Clarke. He sized up Tesla and then the young Romanian. “Csupo? You think you can wriggle through there? You might actually be thinner than Mr. Tesla.”

  Csupo shrugged out of the backpack and set it gently on the ground. He handed the Tesla weapon to Clarke and moved forward to inspect the crack. He shrugged. “Maybe. It will be tight.”

  “Give it a shot,” said Clarke.

  “What if the monster is beyond there?” said Csupo swallowing hard.

  “Run like hell,” said Bobbins.

  “In the dark?”