Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy)

by Appleton, Robert

  “Ah, yes. You’ve surprised me there. I rather thought you’d go for someone more mature. My money was on the tall lieutenant by the piano, or one of the delectable sportsmen dressed all in white over—”

  “Maybe we ought to swap roles here, Cathy.” Her lovely chaperone imploded into a silent, frame-quivering giggle. “Seriously, is this something we need to devote some time to? What say I arrange a few introductions—soldiers and cricketers all right for you?”

  Cathy dabbed beads of happy tears from the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, you’re so like your sister. Wicked good fun. I’m going to enjoy this season, I can tell.”

  “Me too.”

  “Let’s make a start then, shall we?” Cathy took her by the arm and led her across to Boomerang Boy.

  “Should we not wait?”

  “Said the bird who didn’t get the worm.”

  Meredith failed to see the promise of romance in that analogy, but it was a fair point. With so many peahens doing the rounds in this one airship alone, dozens of the creatures, in fact, and all high-born, the prized peacocks were well and truly clucked. Closer to, she realised Boomerang Boy was very young indeed; his oversized tweed suit wore him, while his wrists and hands were pitifully small.

  “Good afternoon.” Cathy’s greeting elicited only a snappish glance from the boy, who chose to resume his tinkering rather than engage her. “What an interesting gadget. My friend here was marvelling over it just now, said it must be for a new sport of some kind. Is she right?”

  Again no response, only a more hurried fiddling with the intricate gears and springs, even though the lad clearly didn’t know a hinge from a harlot’s... Meredith was about to ask the valet if the boy was deaf when Cathy gave her arm a tug, as if she’d discovered something.

  “If you’ll excuse us, ladies, my master isn’t feeling well today. He means no disrespect.” The valet’s accent seemed to be a combination of Irish and Cockney. Meredith hadn’t noticed his stubble before, nor the granite cane he held flat next to a pint of Guinness on the bar. Suddenly she didn’t think he was a valet at all—no indentured servant would dare go so unshaven in public or drink in the company of his master. Which in turn cast suspicion on the boy. Unusually tiny, delicate hands, such a smooth face, eyebrows plucked, and he was wearing clothes too old and too big for him. This was no boy!

  “You mean she means no disrespect. Why, I can—”

  “Wow, wow, hold it there just a minute, miss.” The non-valet darted in front of Meredith. She recoiled, held onto Cathy.

  “What the devil—How dare you, sir!” Cathy spun Meredith around the back of her, squaring up to the mystery man, who in turn shielded his young charge. “Explain yourself.”

  Non-valet put a finger to his lips, pleading for them not to make a scene. He then whispered something to the puzzled youngster, and promptly held up his hands in surrender to Cathy and Meredith. “Easy, ladies, please, play it easy now, I beg you. My name’s Donnelly—” He plucked a business card from his inside pocket, “—Freelance Investigator, Personal Bodyguard, trouble-shooter for hire. You’ve already clocked my client, who speaks no English, I’m afraid. She’s dressed this way for her own protection, until I can get her safely where she needs to go. The private cabins were all booked up, so I’ve had to hide her in plain-sight, not too successfully, I gather. Don’t say a word to anyone now.”

  “No, of course not. I beg your pardon, Mr. Donnelly. It’s certainly none of our business.”

  Meredith snatched the business card from Cathy. “Will you be for hire in London, Mr. Donnelly?”

  He looked her up and down, then glanced away. Well, she liked what she saw, at least, even if he was likely a good decade older than she’d assumed from a distance. Probably early to mid-thirties. “As a matter of fact I will,” he replied. “The day after tomorrow. Any particular assignment the young lady has in mind?”

  “Meredith?”

  “Yes. I’ll contact you with the details, sir. Your telephone number is—”

  “On the back of the card.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  He held his dazzled gaze upon Cathy. “My pleasure, Miss...” Only at the last second did he look at Meredith.

  “McEwan.” Jealousy fizzed inside her as he kept looking at Lady Bloody Catarina. “I’ll be in touch, then?”

  “Looking forward to it,” he said. “By the way, that gadget you were interested in, it’s a fly-mech, a sort of mechanized slingshot, used in a French sport called Joute du Cuivre. The latest thing over there.”

  “Not dangerous, I hope.”

  “Not without springs.” He winked at Meredith, and she shivered with delight.

  “How can I get one?” Not that she gave a fig for sports.

  “Easily enough. I’ll bring one by if you’d like?”

  “Only if you teach me how to use it.”

  “At no extra charge.”

  She thanked him and said she’d telephone him in a day or two. As they left, Cathy leaned in and whispered to her, “So that’s who you had in mind.”

  “Uh-huh. For your future reference.”

  “I underestimated you. I see I’ll have to sharpen my game next time.”

  “Do your worst.”

  “There’s worse than sweet-talking an underage cross-dresser?”

  “I don’t know,” said Meredith. “We are descending into London.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Under the Microscope

  As he stood by the kitchen window, picking at his rich shortbread biscuit, Derek watched a hot air balloon rise from a glade in the nearby forest, its rough patchwork envelope clearly a labour of love for its owner—the McEwan’s gardener, Mr. Van Persie, according to Sonja. He watched with envy. It climbed so straight and true, untethered and self-sufficient, let loose from the tangle of the world below. Science had enabled its flight, but one man, toiling away in his work shed in his spare time, perhaps scraping pennies together for years, had given it flight.

  That was science at its purest. Not the red tape, the exclusivity, the monopoly on progress sought by the Leviacrum. That institution’s ultimate purpose was power, not progress, and it achieved the former by owning the latter, he’d decided. So where did that leave him, a work shed man at heart who had just signed his life away to an all-conquering laboratory in the clouds?

  “You’ve hardly eaten a bite today,” Sonja observed, looking more trim and pretty every time he saw her, “and you really don’t seem yourself. Whatever’s the matter?”

  God, where to begin. No, he hadn’t eaten more than a bite or slept more than a wink in days, which was why he was all cobwebs and aching bones, and why he couldn’t focus on anyone for more than a few moments without drifting into his foggy dilemma. “Nothing for you to worry about, honestly. I’m a little...low today, exhausted is all. Seems like everything’s happening all at once.”

  “Maybe you should sit down, rest awhile. I could read to you—Explorer’s Weekly published a couple of belting articles on giant fossils discovered in the Atacama; should help take your mind off things. You game?”

  “I’d be delighted, but it will have to be some other time, I’m afraid. I really hate to cut short our afternoon, Sonja—”

  “You can’t be leaving. Not yet. I mean we haven’t even discussed...you know...anything. And you’ve been so distant all day. At least sit with me before you go. You don’t even have to talk. It’s just...I’ve been looking forward to this, and it might be a while before I see you again.”

  She was right. This first announced visit had not gone at all as planned. Sonja and her Aunt Lily had been perfectly sweet and had gone out of their way to engage him during lunch, but his one-word answers and half-hearted questions had fizzled impolitely. If only he could tell her what racked his insides and held her at arm’s length from him like this. But she must not know his decision, or even that he’d had to make one.

  The Leviacrum and the Coalition both had him in th
eir sights for life; lying to one of them would have to be his curse, his burden, his dread. But he’d rather abandon Sonja without explanation right now than foist that same dread fear on her. The more he hinted at, the more curious she’d become, the more she’d be in jeopardy. It was safer to say nothing, and in time, if he could learn to live with his choice, to live with keeping it from her, and if she would still have him, maybe he might find a measure of solace in this new life under the microscope.

  He offered Sonja his hands. She gripped them, gazed up with puzzled wonder. Who are you? she might be saying. What have you done with Derek Auric?

  “Nothing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Had he really said that out loud? It was time to get out before he blurted something unforgivable. “I promise I’ll return in a couple of days.”

  “You’ll explain everything then?”

  He snatched up his coat and hat as he rushed out. “I promise.” Aunt Lily, back from her shopping trip, passed him on the front path. “Thank you for supper, ma’am.”

  “Supper?”

  “Um, no thank you. Dinner was a treat, though.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Regretfully no. Lunch was more than fine. I have errands to run.” As he hurried away down the lane, he called back, “Tell Miss Sonja I look forward to seeing her articles,” and shook his head vaguely, suspecting that didn’t sound quite right.

  ***

  From Gosport, across the entrance to Portsmouth harbour, the searchlights of a lone gannet ship roved across the inky water. Sonja crept along the old seawall, heading northwest toward The Round Tower in her stocking feet, so as not to make the slightest noise in her pursuit. Mother’s Navy cloak, a memento from her time spent in Africa with Major Bilali and his wife, was a godsend, warm and dark and hooded, its dark blue a splendid camouflage.

  She stalled when a high-spirited chase broke out between rival pub crawlers below, their thunderous heavy shoes clapping the cobbles, pint glasses smashed in their wake, then...the rowdiest laughter exploded and followed the chase until it was a faraway murmur.

  She quickened her pursuit. Derek’s striding form up ahead was difficult to see, and if he should climb down to street level now she might lose him. He was under some sort of duress, that much was obvious—luncheon had been an ordeal for him, even though she and Aunt Lily had gone to great pains to set him at ease—and though it might have been better to wait for his explanation, to trust his judgement, Sonja had to know tonight. Following him had been her way of protecting him, from whomever or whatever had the man she dreamed about in a ringer like this. It could be anything: blackmail, illicit family business, some twisted initiation stunt, even a duel, God forbid! But whatever it was, she would be there to help him if things got out of hand. Father’s Moroccan steam pistol tucked into her belt was fully prepared and loaded.

  He stopped on the wall just before the tower and leaned out over the seaward drop, watching the gannet search over the harbour. Another figure looked down from the roof of the tower. He looked up, then went inside. So as not to give herself away, Sonja scurried down the nearest flight of steps to the street. She sneaked up Tower Alley, drunkenly veering this way and that in case they were watching her, and hid in the shadow of a doorway, a pretty good place from which to observe.

  A woman?

  Extremely tall and slender, even gangly, she kept her distance at first but was soon all over him on the roof, shaking his hand, touching his shoulders, leaning in to whisper sweet nothings, and all the while he didn’t so much as flinch.

  There must be some mistake. Had she lost Derek somewhere along the way and this was another man altogether? It was dark up there, and even her spectrometer goggles on medium infrared magnification only made out a hazy Derek-like phantom. But his frock-coat, his top hat with the winged rim, the way he rocked on his heels, slowly, pensively, this was Derek Auric!

  And he was seeing another woman? It made no sense. And yet...

  Bringing Father’s pistol was either the best idea she’d ever had or a very, very bad one. Same with tonight’s pursuit.

  Someone had better give me an answer...and quick.

  Gangly Girl stopped touching him, at least. She appeared to be doing most of the talking. She went on and on, for five, maybe ten minutes, while he slowly rocked on his heels and the glare from the gannet searchlight cast the couple’s shadows far up the cobbles of her street. Finally she offered him something—too small for Sonja to see, but small enough for Gangly Girl to pinch between her fingers. A coin perhaps? Or a ring? No, at Derek’s nod, she reached in and pinned the thing to his lapel.

  What the heck is going on?

  They shook hands again. This time she went to kiss his cheek but he recoiled. She caressed his face instead. Sonja palmed her pistol. If he returned Gangly Girl’s gesture in kind...

  He didn’t. They descended from the roof, one after the other, a minute or so apart. Sonja waited until Gangly Girl had climbed down the steps to her left before she broke cover and headed after Derek, to see what other surprises he had in store for her tonight. A loud tss-umph, tss-umph spun her around. It belonged to Gangly Girl’s getaway vehicle, a striking experimental racer straight from the Steam Fair. The thing lashed past her at twenty miles an hour and was still gathering steam when it crunched over the broken pint glasses and made the turn onto Broad Street.

  Sonja threw off her hood and blew a few stray hairs from her sweaty brow. The gannet’s lights flashed Derek in silhouette as he strode away atop the wall toward the Square Tower. He went faster and faster until she couldn’t keep up. One hand clutching the new pin on his lapel, he doffed his top hat to the night-time ocean and hurled it out over the edge.

  It wasn’t the only thing that was all at sea this night.

  Chapter Twelve

  Solo Endeavours

  “But you didn’t get a close look at the pin?” Meredith wiped a few drops of spit off the polished black mouthpiece with her handkerchief, and held the receiver less than half an inch from her ear. She wanted to handle her sister’s vexation carefully. Sonja and Derek were at a fragile point in their relationship, with nothing yet concrete between them. And as much as she hated—loathed to her bitter core—the fact that she’d never known love like Sonja did now, Meredith hated even more the idea of anyone breaking her sister’s heart.

  “No, I had to keep an appreciable distance, and it was dark.” The telephone line rendered Sonja’s voice flat and tinny, but it couldn’t dampen the note of concern.

  “Damned odd time and place for a meeting.”

  “I know. And the way she sped off like that, in such a spiffy-looking racer, makes me think she isn’t from around here.”

  “No, probably not.”

  “And how brief the meeting was, and how little Derek said—it was all her, her, the tramp—has me pretty sure it was all her idea as well. She lured him there to tell him something, or ask him something. He hadn’t been himself that day, behaved like a rotten ghost with me and Aunt Lily at lunch, so I’m assuming this mystery meeting was weighing on him. Poor man was exhausted, evidently hadn’t slept a wink. Now, what could be a) so troubling to distract him like that on such a big day for us, b) so secretive that it had to take place at night in such a lonely place, and c) the likeliest explanation so soon after his induction into the Leviacrum?”

  “I see where you’re going with this.”

  “He’s just been recruited into the Atlas Club. I’m almost certain.” Important that Sonja said that first. The last thing Meredith wanted was to put words in her mouth, words that might incriminate the man her little sister thought could do no wrong.

  “It’s certainly sounding that way, but why should he lose sleep over it?”

  “Because Derek hates taking sides in politics. When you make friends like those, you inherit those friends’ enemies.”

  “True. But maybe it’s just an honorary thing, and he’ll be able to keep his head down, under the crossfire.�
�� Meredith was glad she’d said that. It might help Sonja trust him that bit more readily, even if her own instinct was to give the man a wide berth. He’d clearly thrown in with this esoteric society that fuelled the most dangerous dictatorial power of the modern age. He should not be trusted. “But be careful, Sonja, just in case. If he is Atlas, he’s putting you squarely in the mire.”

  Sonja’s sigh blustered through the receiver. “I feel like throwing up. What should I do? Ask him outright? Pretend I don’t know anything and just let it lie, wait until he approaches me with it, if he ever does? If not, it will always be there between us, and you know how combative I get when I sniff a conspiracy.”

  “Yes, you should be here with me. We’d solve this whole mystery in no time.”

  “Love to, if only I could think straight for two minutes. How is your investigation coming along, by the way? Any news?”

  “Perhaps. I hired a private detective, a bloke called Donnelly. Cathy—Lady Catarina—isn’t too keen on him, thinks he’s a waste of space, but he’s been working ‘round the clock for days now and apparently he’s turned up some interesting titbits. He’s actually in the other room as we speak.”

  “Oh? Would I like him?” The sudden joviality in Sonja’s tone blared out with New Year’s cheer.

  “I think you would. He’s in his early thirties, fairly handsome, actually more so when he lets his whiskers grow, a bit slovenly as a rule—which is probably why Cathy thumbs her nose—and it takes him all his time to speak properly. He’s sort of the opposite of William Elgin in that he’d much rather curse and keep his Cockney-Irish brogue than put on airs.”

  “I like him already.” Sonja seemed to wait for Meredith’s reply, which didn’t come. “So...will it be a double wedding?”

  “Ha! That would be one heck of a heck followed by one heck of a no. He’s already married with two daughters.”