by Beth Ciotta
“Go on,” Bingham said, fairly salivating at the thought of picking Merriweather’s genius brain.
“Day before yesterday, a dark-haired man limped up to the gate.”
Jules Darcy.
“I don’t know where he came from. No land or air transport that I could see. He just appeared at the gate. Then . . .” Crag scratched his jaw, gave a nervous chuckle. “This will sound crazy. Next thing I knew . . . he disappeared before my very eyes.”
“You’re right,” Bingham said, palming his bandaged stomach. In addition to the pain he was beginning to feel ill. “That is a preposterous statement.”
“I scanned the area with my telescope, with my naked eye, and then with my binoculars. Know where I found the cripple? In the house. Speaking with Merriweather. Have no idea how he got in there. But I can tell you one thing. He never left.”
“But you insinuated Merriweather is missing.”
“He is. Along with the professor’s daughter and the cripple. They were all in that compound. Now they’re not. Boyd and I kept watch. Never saw them leave the grounds. But then as of yesterday, there wasn’t a lick of activity within the house. Boyd and I even approached the fence, skirted the grounds, used our optical scopes to spy in every window. Either those three are dead on the floor or they’re gone.”
“Why didn’t you go inside?”
“Can’t get past that electrified fencing.”
“Find a way,” Bingham said. “Either they’re in there or they got past you in the dead of night. Secure Merriweather, Crag. If you’ve lost him, find him. At the very least secure the contents of that compound. I intend to inspect that house for myself as soon as I’m on my feet.”
Crag tugged his hat back on. “Whatever you say, Lord Bingham.”
“Open that drawer,” Bingham told the man, pointing to the table where Steele had procured his wallet. “Do you see my telecommunicator?”
Crag handed him the device, then moved to leave. “I’ll be in touch.”
“See that you are.” He waited until Crag was gone, then thumbed a threatening coded message. He hadn’t flown halfway around the world and survived a deadly storm, cutthroat bushrangers, and a gunshot wound to lose this race. If Jules Darcy had indeed absconded with Professor Merriweather, then it was time to light a fire under Wilhelmina Goodenough’s sweet arse.
CHAPTER 28
JANUARY 24, 1887 GREATER LONDON
Willie had been astounded by the enormous number of underground passages they’d discovered whilst scouring Montague Lambert’s vast collection of maps. Phin had been right. London teemed with tunnels—ancient and new—as well as viaducts, catacombs, and subterranean crypts and vaults. Simon had been acquainted with random locations and specifics, and she’d soon realized it was because of former research and surveys he’d done in relation to his work as a civil engineer. One could not design and construct a building, bridge, road, canal, or railway without knowing the lay of the land. She had gotten a strong sense of his passion and experience when she’d first entered his library the morning after he’d pleasured her into forgetting her name.
“It’s magnificent.”
“It’s a mess,” Simon countered. “According to Fletcher.”
“That is because he’s so painfully neat,” Willie said as she moved inside. “He does not understand the comfort of chaos. I do.” Wide-eyed and charmed, she slowly toured about the dark-paneled library. A massive room with massive clutter. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were so crammed with books that many volumes were stacked on their sides. There were also piles of books on his ornate desk as well as on the floor. One wall boasted a huge and extensive map of the city, whilst another wall was covered in sketches and paintings of famed global architecture such as St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Vatican, and Notre-Dame. Willie also recognized several international engineering marvels—the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Great Wall of China, the Roman Colosseum, Stonehenge.
Along with multiple pencils and drafting tools, Simon’s own sketchbooks were strewn everywhere—the desk, the chaise, two tables. Some journals were wide open, some closed, and a few lone sketches stood on easels. One in particular caught her eye. “Project Monorail?” she asked.
“Mmm.”
She angled her head and studied the detailed sketch. An elevated railway system running through the heart of Westminster. Aside from the futuristic aspect of a smooth-nosed, streamlined train practically floating over the streets and gardens below, the attention to detail regarding Parliament, Clock Tower, and Westminster Abbey was quite astonishing. She’d never known Simon had such a flair for art.
He moved in behind her, the scent of fresh soap as potent as an aphrodisiac. Willie tried her best to ward off wanton thoughts. Most difficult considering their recent bout of lovemaking. All she could think was, More shocking variations, please, and How can I pleasure you, husband? Simon had unwittingly unleashed a wild streak within her that she had no wish to tame.
“What do you think?”
“Sorry?” Willie flushed and blinked out of her naughty musings.
“My design,” he said. “Do you think it ridiculous? Intriguing? An eyesore?”
“Intriguing, to be sure.” The train possessed no wheels and seemed to glide over a single track. “How does it operate?”
“A complex system based on magnetic levitation. I’ll explain it someday if you like. When we’re not rushed for time.”
“I would like that very much.” She turned in his arms and peered up at him with awe. “You are quite the visionary, Simon Darcy.”
“My father thought so.”
“Your father was right. Hang the Old Worlders who sabotaged this project. You must not give up.”
“Yes, well, one challenge at a time, eh?”
And hence they’d spent several hours at Lambert’s Literary Antiquities studying maps and making notes and thereafter almost two full days trudging through dank underground passages. Aside from several claustrophobic encounters, they had withstood everything from mud to cobwebs to spiders to rats. And of course dead people. Hordes and hordes of dead people. Not for the faint of heart. Fortunately, Phin and Simon were not easily spooked. Nor was Willie, for that matter. She was, however, discouraged.
“I don’t see it,” she said, studying another iron gate as well as peeking through the bars at the four coffins stacked on the shelves of two walls.
“Perhaps if you’d use the battery-charged torchlight I offered you,” Phin said.
“I told you, I can see fine.”
“Night vision,” he said irritably. “Right, then. And how does that work exactly?”
“She told you before,” Simon snapped. “She doesn’t know exactly.”
“We need to change tactics,” Willie said, slumping back against a cold brick wall. “We need to narrow our focus. We’re only two days into this search and we’re already sniping at one another.”
“I don’t snipe,” Phin said.
“The hell you don’t,” Simon countered.
“What? You think you’re a ball of sunshine, Darcy?”
“It’s the constant anticipation of being attacked like we were in Edinburgh,” Willie said. “That’s what has us on edge. Plus the constant dark and gloom. The tight spaces and odious smells. It’s oppressive. Suffocating. Not to mention being surrounded by so much death. How did they stand it?”
“Who?” Simon asked.
“The Houdinians. This was my mother’s life? Patrolling a dank catacomb? Trading shifts with Filmore and Rollins? Hiding in the shadows and staring at a bloody coffin for hours, primed to o’blasterate any person who ventured too close?” Willie heard the hitch in her voice and cursed her lack of control. But by God. “How wretchedly pathetic.”
“Or noble,” Simon said, giving her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “And perhaps they did not and do not guard the engine around the clock, sweetheart. Perhaps that is precisely why they chose underground crypts as their safe house. Few people venture
into these places.”
Phin slouched against the wall next to her, flashed his torchlight on another gated vault. “You’re quite sure you’d recognize it. The conveyance housing the clockwork propulsion engine,” he clarified in a calmer tone.
“Aye,” Willie said. “Filmore’s memory was most vivid. Perhaps they utilize a different-looking conveyance in each city—whether it be a lone crypt or a coffin stacked into the walls like these—but the locking mechanism is constant and quite specific.”
This moment they were in South London, exploring the catacombs beneath West Norwood Cemetery. They’d already tackled another catacomb this morning and had another two ahead of them. Willie’s stomach cramped with the projected futility. Deep in thought, she gasped when she felt a strong vibration. Her coat pocket. The telecommunicator. Strangelove.
“What is it?” Simon asked.
“Nothing. I just . . . I need fresh air.”
“We’ll come with you,” Simon said.
“No!” Willie instantly regretted the outburst. “Please,” she added in a softer voice. “I need but a moment and there are still several vaults along this corridor. I’ve described the lock to you and Phin. Continue on. I’ll rejoin you as soon as I catch my breath.”
Simon balked.
Phin nudged him. “She’s safer up there than down here.” He looked to Willie then. “Are you wearing the stun cuff I gave you?”
She flashed her left wrist.
“Don’t hesitate to use it,” Simon said.
Indeed, she would not. Willie left without another word and hurriedly backtracked until her lungs filled with fresh air and her eyes gazed upon blue skies. She grappled with the telecommunicator, the code, her pulse revving when she deciphered the message.
LEST YOU DOUBT MY SINCERITY, CONTACT YOUR EDITOR.
Willie collapsed against the cool stone of an aboveground crypt. So. Strangelove had done something to prove he could and would crush her should she fail him. She didn’t need to telephone Dawson to establish the damage, but she would. Eventually. For now she accepted on faith that Strangelove was a motivated bastard. Motivated and perplexing. Astonishing that the man had such unflinching faith that Simon would indeed locate and procure an invention of historical significance. The mystery hoodlum was fast becoming a source of intense vexation. Had he conspired against other Triple R entrants in this manner? Was he a rabid and slightly mad appropriator of rare antiquities? Did he mean to steal away famous artifacts for a private collection or perhaps to sell them upon the black market? Or was he simply after the monumental prize money and global glory? Surely he had not set his sights upon Simon alone. Surely he could not know for certain what invention Simon sought.
Or could he?
Willie massaged her aching heart, wishing she’d never buckled under Strangelove’s threats. Yearning to come clean with Simon, but fearing he would never forgive her for setting out to betray him, no matter the reason. One thing was certain. He would never trust her again. Whatever it was between them that burned so bright would be forever dimmed.
She could not bear it.
At sea with her quandary, she caressed the wings of a stone angel. In a desperate plea for guidance, Willie prayed to someone, anyone, for direction.
One word, one name, flashed in her brain, a divine intervention. Heavenly direction.
Thimblethumper.
Stiffening her spine, Willie typed her coded reply into Strangelove’s telecommunicator.
EXPEDITION FRAUGHT WITH MYSTERY. ATTEMPTING TO SOLVE.
A message meant to intrigue and pacify, affording her precious leeway. Strangelove had demanded an invention of historical significance. And that’s what he would get. Somehow. Some way. But not the time-traveling engine.
A heartbeat later, Phin and Simon joined her aboveground. Their coats were smudged with grime and they smelled of dirt. Their dour expression spoke of yet another failed venture into yet another catacomb.
“Willie,” Simon said.
She grasped and squeezed his hand. “I have a plan.”
• • •
“I don’t like it.”
“So you said.” Phin dropped a sugar cube into his coffee, looking annoyingly relaxed now that they’d emerged from the dank crypts and rejoined the living.
Simon, on the other hand, still bristled with ill humor. His own chipped crockery sat before him, the steaming bitter swill untouched. When they’d entered McSteam’s Coffeehouse, Simon had requested a table near the window, where he could have a clear view of Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Willie was just now entering the cluttered store and Simon hated that he wasn’t with her.
“Listen, good man, feeling protective of your wife is natural, but this need to be at her side twenty-four hours a day borders on obsession.”
“Less than two weeks ago,” Simon said, his gaze intent on the storefront across the street, “someone o’blasterated Willie.”
“Yes, well, we’re not down in the tunnels now.”
“Two days ago she was mocked for being a Freak.”
“Today she’s wearing corneatacts,” Phin reminded him whilst lighting a cigar. “She looks like any other Vic woman strolling the streets of London. If anyone bothers her, it will be to ask for the time. I’ve never seen so many bloody timepieces on one person.”
“She’ll need those if she time-traces Thimblethumper.”
“I personally hope that she does,” Phin said. “If she can glean more intelligence on Filmore and his habits, anything at all having to do with the Houdinians, then it could increase our chance of locating the man and the engine in a timelier fashion.”
“I agree with the intent and goal,” Simon said, ruffling his hair in agitation. “I simply wish I was with her.”
Phin blew out a heady stream of smoke, whilst skimming a complimentary newspaper. “We’re only across the street and she is armed with a stun cuff. Willie’s a resourceful sort and damned smart. Give her some credit. I think her assessment of the situation was bang-on. From what you both said, Thimblethumper associates you with your brother and for whatever reason he feels hassled by the Mechanics. She stands a better chance of garnering information on her own using her tried-and-true methods.”
“Maybe,” Simon said, finally indulging in the piquant brew. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with Willie. Something beyond her anxiety regarding her mother and the Houdinians. It made him question her judgment. Made him suspicious and restless.
“What a pungent and appallingly frowsy establishment,” came a pinched, feminine voice.
Simon glanced up, saying, “Dr. Caro,” at the same time Phin said, “Bella.”
Never mind that Simon was surprised by the Freak doctor’s personal visit, the informality of Phin’s greeting was doubly intriguing. “You know one another?” Simon asked as he stood to greet the woman.
“Unfortunately,” Caro said with a tight expression.
She looked exactly as she had when she’d visited Simon’s room in Edinburgh. Ghostly complexion, bold red lip stain, glossy ebony hair twisted into a severe and complex knot. Purple-tinted spectacles shielded her kaleidoscope eyes, her riding hat sat a jaunty tilt, and she was buttoned neck to ankle in that black leather duster with the gleaming brass fasteners. Hauntingly beautiful, Simon thought, in a severe and repressed way.
Although with a delay, Phin stood out of respect as well. “Should have known you were Simon’s contact within the agency.”
“Indeed,” the young woman said. “Then again, you were always slow at putting together two and two, Phineas. May I join you, Mr. Darcy? My time is limited.”
Since Phin was Jules’s closest friend and since Caro had been Jules’s personal surgeon, it made sense that they’d met at some point, Simon supposed. The white-hot tension between them, however, was baffling. Although Phin offered her a seat, she instead chose to sit on the same side of the table as Simon.
Whilst those two traded steely glares, Sim
on glanced over to Thimblethumper’s, his mind on Willie even though he was anxious for news of his brother. “I didn’t expect a personal report,” Simon said honestly as he moved in beside the stiff-backed woman. Much as Phin had advised Simon to trust that Jules was in control of his situation, he’d been unsettled by his inability to contact his twin via the tele-talkie. Yesterday Simon had buckled under an intensifying discomfort and had, after consulting the calling card she’d given him, telephoned Dr. Bella Caro.
She’d answered on first ring. “Dr. Caro.”
“It’s Simon Darcy.”
“Who’s dying?”
“I’m worried about Jules.”
The woman’s tone had been as cold as ice, but the mention of his brother’s name had snagged her interest. Simon had asked whether she’d heard from Jules. If she knew where he was and if he was on official business. Simon had mentioned the tele-talkie and the fact that there’d been no response to his emergency calls in close to ten days. She’d said she’d be in touch. He’d expected a call, a telegram, or a Teletype. Now here she was in all her chilling arrogance.
“Would you like some coffee?” Simon asked.
“And risk contracting gastroenteritis or hepatitis?” she asked whilst frowning at the bare-armed, stained-aproned attendants and the dingy, battered surroundings. “No, thank you.”
Simon noticed then that she was still wearing her gloves and seemed averse to touching even the tabletop.
“We’re here for the location, not the ambience,” Phin said, obnoxiously blowing cigar smoke in her direction.
“Willie’s attending to some business in that shop across the way,” Simon said, leaving it at that.
“I was sorry to hear that her recovery’s been slow, but I did warn you,” she said, sounding somewhat defensive.
“We’re grateful for all you did,” Simon said. “What have you learned of Jules?”
