His Clockwork Canary tgvd-2

by Beth Ciotta

  “Soured on her life in America, she pursued a new existence in the UK,” Simon said, “but things weren’t much better there. The world was careening toward self-destruction and she was desperate to make a difference.”

  “Desperate enough to betray Her Majesty’s Mechanics, the British government, and the wrath of every nation who had their eye on Briscoe and his time machine.” Phin set a large platter on the wooden table in between Simon and Willie. “Bread, cheese, dried pork, fruit, and biscuits. It will have to do, as the pantry and icebox are minimally stocked.”

  “Difficult to conjure an appetite,” Willie said, “when you’ve just reminded me my mother was a thief and a traitor.”

  “Whose objective was to save the world,” Simon said, reaching across the table to give her hand a supportive squeeze.

  “So we’re surmising,” she said.

  “We’re surmising everything,” Phin said. “Spiced wine,” he announced, pouring them each a generous mug. “Now eat or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

  Simon snorted, but even though Phin was being glib, Willie knew deep down that he was indeed a sensitive soul. She helped herself to a small portion of bread and cheese whilst striving to keep the conversation on track. “You’re right, of course, Phin. Nothing we’ve read in the Book of Mods, nothing my mother told me, and, to an extent, not even what I learned whilst time-tracing is a given. Indeed it is most difficult to sort fact from fiction, reality from illusion. I must strive to keep my personal feelings at bay.”

  Simon looked at her with pride and affection whilst sipping his wine. “Let’s jump ahead. However the vital missing knowledge was obtained, however the theft was arranged, the end result was that the PRs installed Briscoe’s clockwork propulsion engine into their psychedelic painted bus and sixty-nine, give or take, twentieth-century radical peace activists—”

  “Of various brilliance and professions within the realm of arts and science,” Phin added.

  “—successfully hopped dimensions,” Simon said. “Departing in 1969 and traveling in reverse, arriving in 1856, five years after Briscoe made his great escape from Prince Albert’s Great Exhibition in 1851.”

  “Houdini,” Willie said, whilst nibbling on cheese. “Daddy said Harry Houdini was, or will be, a famous escape artist. A magician. A showman. According to tales, Briscoe made a show out of his time-traveling launch.”

  “It’s true,” Simon said. “My father witnessed the event. Although Briscoe was a distant cousin and several years my father’s senior, they did have an acquaintance and a shared passion for science. My father was but eighteen when he attended Prince Albert’s tribute to technological achievements. Briscoe chose his platform well. He had an audience of thousands. And, after much bloated pomp and circumstance, the man strapped himself into his gleaming self-professed ‘time machine’ and disappeared in a rainbow of brilliant light. At the time many thought it was an optical illusion. A magician’s trick.”

  “By a flamboyant showman,” Phin said. “Escaping to another time. An unparalleled stunt of magnificent proportions.”

  “A stunt that would have made Houdini proud.” Willie closed her eyes and thought back. Back to Filmore’s memories. “Something about Houdini,” she said.

  “We’ve already determined that the Houdinians took their name from Harry Houdini,” Phin said. “Like Houdini and like Briscoe, the Peace Rebels performed a magnificent stunt, escaping back in time.”

  “Then we surmise,” Simon said, “that at some point your mother, Filmore, and Rollins conspired to pinch the clockwork propulsion engine—”

  “Again,” Phin said.

  “—and to secure it somewhere safe in case it became necessary to escape even this century.”

  “In order to spread their cautionary tales even earlier in time, say the eighteenth century,” Phin ventured. “Or perhaps to return to their own time. Or, hell, to take a spontaneous holiday. Who knows? Well, aside from Jefferson Filmore and Ollie Rollins. Wherever they are.”

  “London.” Willie’s eyes flew open as she slammed her palms to the table. “I think they, or at least Filmore, might be in London.”

  Simon and Phin traded a look. “Why?”

  “The revolving safe house.”

  Brow raised, Simon abandoned his cold pork sandwich. “We’ve been over this several times and that is the first mention of a revolving safe house. Am I right, Phin?” Simon asked without breaking eye contact with Willie.

  “Right you are. What does it mean? Where did it come from?”

  “One of Filmore’s memories.” Willie sipped her wine, tried to temper her excitement. “When I saw my mother, I was so stunned, I called out. Mother, first. Then Michelle. At once Filmore flashed back to the future. What I saw and heard was so unfamiliar and then all at once he reverted to the past. He was arguing with my mother and Rollins about whether to hide in the west, north, or south. In one of the future memories, my mother made mention of a revolving safe house. It was just one of a few phrases I did not understand and it only came back to me just now as I was trying to slow those memories.”

  “Yes, but what is it?” Phin asked. “Is it to be taken literally? A house that is safe?”

  “Or perhaps a house where you keep something safe,” Simon said.

  Willie’s journalistic mind chugged as she fueled it with more and more conjecture. “In my lifetime, my family lived in three cities. New York City, Edinburgh, and London.”

  “West, north, and south,” Simon said.

  “In that order?” Phin asked.

  “No. London, Edinburgh, America, then back to London. My mother claimed to work for a global security firm, so it would make sense that she would live near whatever she was protecting, aye? She was killed seven years ago whilst living in London—a victim of a hit-and-run accident. We found Filmore in Edinburgh.”

  “The revolving safe house,” Phin said. “Three cities. Every so often or whenever they felt threatened, they revolved the engine to one of those three cities.”

  “If you follow the pattern as you stated it, Willie, the next safe house would be New York City,” Simon said.

  “If you followed the pattern, aye. But there are no longer three Houdinians. Only Filmore and Rollins or Filmore and a mercenary. And they have been protecting that engine for more than thirty years now. You saw Filmore. He had to be close to sixty years old, which would make Rollins seventy or more.” She paused as his younger face flashed in her mind, shivered with a wave of déjà vu.

  Simon touched her forearm. “What is it?”

  She shook off the strangeness. “Nothing. Sorry. Just that feeling that I’ve seen Rollins before, but damn, I cannot seem to place him.”

  “It’ll come to you,” Phin said, drinking the last of his wine. “Meanwhile we have a vague location. London is a hell of a lot closer than New York City. It would make sense to look there first regardless. But where to start?”

  “Underground,” Willie said.

  Simon angled his head. “Another vault?”

  Willie gulped her own wine now. “Whilst tracing my father, the most vivid and tumultuous memory was one of my mother looking wide-eyed and spooked. My father held her, saying, You spend too much time with the dead.”

  “Catacombs,” Simon said. “The coffinlike vault. That is the actual ‘safe house.’ And they shuffle it between the three cities.”

  “Three cities with extensive underground passages.” Phin scratched his head. “Good God. London Bridge alone harbors a veritable subterranean city of passages, crypts, and vaults. There’s an entire lattice of catacombs beneath Waterloo. Those are just two possibilities. And what about all of the churches and abbeys? How do we know what we’re dealing with? Where to look?”

  “I have a friend,” Simon said. “Montague Lambert. He owns a literary antiquities shop. His map collection is quite extensive. I say we fly back to London tonight, get a good night’s sleep, and meet at Lambert’s tomorrow morning.”

  “Rig
ht, then,” Phin said, pushing to his feet. “London it is. God, but I love a good adventure,” he added whilst rushing toward the main deck.

  Willie tried to stand but couldn’t find the energy. “I must confess, I’m feeling overwhelmed. It’s all somewhat fantastical.”

  “Quite the story,” Simon said, shifting to sit beside her. “And we still don’t know the whole of it yet. I have a feeling your editor, Dawson, will sing your praises, indeed kiss your feet, when you submit your serialized account of our adventure.”

  Willie’s mouth went dry. “Indeed, this is the sort of sensational reporting that would put the London Informer back on top.”

  “And to catapult the Clockwork Canary to celebrity status.”

  She cast him a hurt look. “Are you testing me, Simon?”

  “No.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Truly I’m not. It is a conundrum even for me. A story like this, it’s bigger than one newspaper. It alters history books. Depending on how things unfold, we could be sitting on a damned fortune.”

  “Fortune enough to save your family.”

  “And yours.”

  She rubbed her temples. “If only it weren’t so personal.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “The conundrum.”

  She glanced up at him then. “My pressman’s nose smells more trouble. Something foul, Simon. I worry that we’re going to discover something . . . ugly. Remember when I relayed the memory of my mother telling my father, There’s a traitor among us?”

  Simon nodded.

  “I think . . . I believe it was just days, maybe even hours, before she was killed. Maybe the hit-and-run was not an accident as reported, but a calculated means of making sure every secret she knew died with her. Or perhaps she was distressed and distracted by what she’d learned and that had caused her to unwittingly step in a coach’s path. Either way, I think she died because of that traitor. Someone she knew. Someone close.”

  “Do you have someone specific in mind?”

  She shook her head. She did not. But she did have a bad feeling.

  Simon tucked her shaggy hair behind her ears. “What say you we deal with the mystery as it unfolds? One revelation at a time.”

  “Patience has never been one of my better qualities.”

  He laughed at that. “Nor mine.” Smiling, he held her close as the Flying Cloud rumbled to life and took to a bumpy flight.

  Willie grasped his forearm, licked her lips. “It will be strange returning to London as a woman, let alone a Freak. I’m grappling with the notion of revealing my Freak nature just now. I do not wish to deny my race, Simon. I am beyond that. But I fear it would hinder the progress of this investigation, so to speak. Once my true race is known to Dawson, to my coworkers, to anyone who looks me in my kaleidoscope eyes, I will become a source of fascination and ridicule. I will lose certain freedoms, which will hinder my ability to interact or converse with Vics on an effective level. And,” she said, meeting his gaze with her heart in her eyes, “our existence as a married couple will be under fervent fire.”

  Simon smiled a little. “Are you saying you’d appreciate a few days of anonymity in order to fully enjoy our union as man and wife?”

  Overwhelmed by their daunting expedition and future, Willie rested her head against Simon’s strong shoulder. “And to acclimate to the challenges of resuming my life in London as a woman.”

  “So be it,” Simon said, smoothing his fingers over her cheek. “One revelation at a time.”

  CHAPTER 26

  SOUTHEAST OF LONDON PICKFORD FIELD

  The flight from Canterbury to the outskirts of London did not take long; however, given the winter season, they were already well under the cloak of night. The moon sat full and bright in the sky and the city of London glittered on the horizon almost as keenly as the stars above.

  Although Queen Victoria was not a fan of the twentieth century and thereby anachronistic technology, she could not ignore, dismiss, or halt the natural progress of science. Candles had given way to oil lamps and then to gas lighting, and now, because Peace Rebels had inspired (or infected—the distinction depending on whether you were a New or Old Worlder) and educated nineteenth-century innovators, electricity was “ahead of its time” and fast becoming the most popular source of lighting in the home.

  Simon’s own town house was wired for the modern convenience, although Fletcher still seemed inclined to fall back on old ways. How Simon, a forward thinker, had ended up with a valet who deplored change had always been a source of amusement and frustration on both sides. This morning, after Teletyping Ashford, Simon had placed a long-distance telephone call to Fletcher. The connection had been poor, but Simon had been able to prepare the man for a change of monumental proportions.

  “I do not know precisely when I’ll be returning home,” he’d said. “But when I do, it will be with a wife.”

  To which Fletcher replied, “Whose wife would that be, sir? Should I start preparing for the invasion of an angry husband?”

  “My previous indiscretions are just that, Fletcher. In the past. I refer to my own wife.”

  “Are you snockered, Master Simon?”

  “No, Fletcher. I am not snockered. I am married.”

  “Were you forced by gunpoint, sir? An irate father or brother perhaps? I could alert your solicitor. Perhaps he could find a loophole.”

  “This marriage is of my design, Fletcher, and I expect you to welcome Mrs. Darcy with an open mind and heart.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “No, I don’t. Should I prepare a bedchamber for Mrs. Darcy?”

  “We won’t be sleeping in separate rooms.”

  “Ah. It is quite serious, then.”

  “Most serious,” Simon had said, his chest aching as he’d fought against the notion of love. A fruitless effort, it would seem. As the day had played out, he was most certain he was unequivocally in love with Wilhelmina Darcy. The realization was as invigorating and chilling as the frigid night air.

  Restless, Simon joined Phin in the cockpit as the superb aviator began their descent into Pickford Field. “When I last made this trek two weeks ago, I was at the wheel, and the Flying Cloud handled like a flying death trap.”

  “She was in dire need of upgrades and fine-tuning, true,” Phin said. “Although I’m sure it didn’t help that you’re a shite pilot,” he said with a teasing grin.

  “Be that as it may,” Simon said, adjusting his goggles. “Thank you for all you’ve done. And thank you for being so kind to Willie.”

  “Not a hardship. Trust me.” He glanced toward the stairwell. “She still below?”

  “Putting the galley to rights and resting her eyes.”

  “And lovely eyes they are,” Phin said. “A man could get lost in those swirls of color.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll thank you to keep your wits.”

  Phin laughed. “Good God, man. You are arse over teakettle in love. In the words of Mr. Goodenough,” he said with a wink, “bully for you.”

  Simon shook off the green-eyed monster and smiled a bit. “You don’t need to meet us at Lambert’s tomorrow.”

  “And miss out on the rest of the adventure?”

  “Surely you must have duties here at Pickford. Unfinished repairs. Booked charters.”

  “Nothing I can’t put off or reschedule.”

  Simon braced for landing and narrowed his eyes on the former militiaman. “Did Jules ask you to look after me?”

  “I’m no man’s keeper, Simon.”

  “He knew about my run-in with a Houdinian. Knew that Willie had been injured and that I was determined to pursue the engine, no matter the danger. It’s no secret that I’m inexperienced when it comes to facing a deadly opponent. You, however, are a professional.”

  Phin spared him a glance as he steered the airship toward the moonlit landing strip. “Don’t get all pissy about it.”

  “I’m not,” Simon said honestly. He appreciat
ed Phin’s multiple areas of expertise and he’d be a fool to turn away a man who could help in protecting Willie from harm. Especially since Phin was a man both he and Jules trusted implicitly. “That means Jules has been in communication with you since he left for Australia. Have you heard from him recently?”

  “Not since last week.” The Flying Cloud skimmed over the snow-dusted field, the whirling blades slowing, the engines quieting. “Considering his expedition,” Phin said, “I did not anticipate hearing from Jules anytime soon.”

  “So you know what he’s after.”

  “Same as you. The jubilee prize.”

  “Yes, but are you aware of his destination?”

  “I am.”

  “Then you must understand my concern.”

  “You think he’s risking a journey into the future for nothing.” Phin cast him an enigmatic glance. “What if he’s not after the clockwork propulsion engine?”

  “What else?” Simon frowned. “Briscoe?”

  “He is family and he is in quite the pickle,” Phin said as he finessed the airship to a smooth and full stop.

  “But that was thirty-six years ago. Given my infamous cousin’s pickle, he’s probably dead by now.”

  Phin shrugged. “Not if Jules arrives in the future close to the same day Briscoe did.”

  “You mean before the Peace Rebels even left there?” Simon massaged his temples. “I cannot begin to fathom the effect and impact that could have on our time. Surely Jules is aware.”

  “Of course he’s aware. He writes science fiction, for God’s sake. I’m sure he’s considered the paradoxes and ramifications. Look, good man. Jules didn’t inform me of specifics and I didn’t ask. I know my boundaries and I know his limitations.”

  Meaning his brother’s mission was top secret? An official assignment? Who better to infiltrate and pinch something or someone from Her Majesty’s Mechanics than another Mechanic? “What do you know of Jules’s . . . extracurricular activities?” he asked as Phin cut the engines.