He twisted at the waist and brought the spanner up to defend himself from Hargreaves’s next attack. But the inventor did not move from the floor. A ruddy puddle formed beside Hargreaves’s head, leeching the madman’s evil into the soil.
Ebenezer let the tool drop from his hand. He went to Marley’s aid, then, releasing him from the chair and helping him stand. Marley rallied as Ebenezer had, and took his own weight as he stumbled to the door. Together, they staggered out of the hellish laboratory and into the yard beyond.
Marley slumped to the ground beside the door and held his head in his hands. Ebenezer went to the nag and hitched her to the cart once more. Helping Marley to his feet, Ebenezer led him around to the back of the cart. The horse gave a whinny of complaint as Marley’s bulk put weight on the traces. Ebenezer patted its side and went back into the laboratory.
The boiler and furnace still burned and warmth filled the room. Hargreaves’s body lay on the floor where he had fallen. Ebenezer regarded his own hands. An oily smear from the spanner stained his palm.
“Fitting that I should leave this place with a mark on my hands,” Ebenezer said, glancing over his shoulder through the open door. Outside, Marley stirred in the cart. Ebenezer turned and went to the iron cabinet. The woman in the cabinet looked at him from behind a mask of stage paint. Glass orbs replaced her eyes. And even without these horrors, Ebenezer knew that his Rose had not benefited from Hargreaves’ labors. The woman before him now was none other than the inventor’s own wife, preserved somehow over time and here, in place of the woman Ebenezer had loved so dearly.
A bound volume lay open on the workbench beside the iron case. Ebenezer lifted the book and flipped through Hargreaves’s notes. The inventor had, indeed, found a way to animate the dead. His device drew the essence of life from a living host and infused it into a corpse. But the dead, once revived, would expire each night unless recharged by more infusions of life essence each morning. Worst of all, Ebenezer saw, was that the corpse to be revived needed a newly dead heart. His Rose had surely burned away in the inventor’s furnace, but her heart beat still in the mannequin before him.
Ebenezer went to the boiler and opened the gas jets full bore. Then he closed all the boiler valves and rushed outside to urge the nag and the cart bearing Marley away from that place.
Marley groaned with each step. When they’d gone some length along the road, Ebenezer turned to regard the carriage house. He felt a silent mote of satisfaction when, a second later, the boiler explosion leveled the building. The blast pushed against Ebenezer's chest and trembled in his belly as timbers and shards of metal and glass flew in every direction. The splinters of Hargreaves's madness rained on the landscape before him, and Ebenezer's ears rang hollow as silence rushed back to fill the night. A shriek of ravens sliced against Ebenezer's muffled hearing. Dark birds circled above him, slowly returning to their roosts in neighboring trees.
The horse spooked and nearly bolted, but Ebenezer calmed the animal as he had before. Only when he saw fire begin to spread to the manor house did Ebenezer mount the cart and begin the trek back to London proper.
Years passed and neither Ebenezer nor Marley spoke of the night in Hargreaves’s laboratory. Neither their suppliers nor their customers knew Ebenezer and Marley as younger men, and so no surprise registered when they appeared as wrinkled and bent as ancient oaks.
Their business flourished as Ebenezer’s keen eye for trading ensured they never wanted for goods to sell. Marley played the role of salesman in counterpoint to Ebenezer’s knack for acquisition, and the two remained the closest of friends throughout their years together.
Jacob Marley died one Christmas Eve night. His landlady found him in bed, as if asleep. Ebenezer alone paid for and attended his burial. A simple stone proclaimed the resting place of Jacob Finchly Marley, as dear in friendship as family.
Each day, counting his coins, Ebenezer reflected on the sorrowful turns his life had taken. The loss, first, of his father’s love and money, then, of the raft he’d built in his marriage to Rose. And, finally, the loss of his friend and cousin. It seemed that no amount of trying would prevent death from stalking him, and Ebenezer took to calling for it each night.
Every evening, as he laid his head upon his pillow, Ebenezer cursed the fates that had taken his wife and then his only friend, and he cursed himself for approaching Hargreaves and for funding the man’s vile schemes. Unwittingly or no, Ebenezer had thrust a dozen children into death’s hand, and so he wished to be taken, too. Each morning, the dawn came not as a reprieve, but as an extension to his sentence. Month after month, year after year, each new day encased his heart in another layer of ice, until his last hope froze within him, waiting for a love that might one day thaw him anew.
Styled after after A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
Fred crouched down, watching the dockside building from the shadows, the calm, rippling resonance of the Thames River at his back. He recognised the two men loading a crate onto the back of a mechanised wagon; they worked for the infamous madman, Rupert Muggins. The strange, steam-powered conveyance they used left no doubt this was an operation backed by Muggins, purveyor of all things clockwork and mechanical.
The tip from Fred’s informant had been good. After tracking this man and his current scheme for months, he finally had a break in the case.
Fred drew his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time in the faint light from the morning sunrise. He frowned; his partner should have arrived. He couldn’t wait much longer. He glanced back to his adversaries. They were securing the back of the wagon.
“Damn, they’re leaving.” Fred pulled his pistol and rushed forward as the wagon began to roll away. “Stop! Cease what you are doing and surrender! You are under arrest by an agent of the Clockwork Department!”
The wagon driver cursed and pulled a lever. The wagon lurched, gaining rapid speed, spewing smoke and noise, while the other two men ran down an adjacent street. Fred made a quick decision and gave chase to the two men on foot, knowing the wagon could easily outdistance him.
The men had a head start, but he closed the gap and spied them slipping into an alleyway. Pumped from the chase, he recklessly pursued, only to be met with gunfire. Diving for his life, he barely escaped being shot as he dodged for cover behind a pile of rubbish.
“Damn it, it’s an ambush.”
He heard an odd, ominous, familiar rumble and the wall above his head exploded in a shower of stone that fell painfully over his shoulders and back.
“Deuced hell, it’s one of those wretched beam weapons!”
“That’s right, Agent. Now it’s your turn to surrender, or we’ll blast you to pieces!”
“Not damn likely!” Fred popped up from his cover, firing his pistol, before dropping to relative safety again. He counted four more men, besides the two he had chased into the alley. He was quite outnumbered.
The noise of their infernal gun sounded again and Fred barely evaded the deadly beam, as well as the bullets that ricocheted off the wall behind him. He returned fire, hitting one of the henchmen.
“You’ll have to do better than that chaps, if you want to kill me!” Gunfire answered his shout; happily, the shots went wide of their intended mark.
“It’s a blessed thing you fellows have such bad aim, or I would be dead by now.”
Another blast from the beam weapon answered him, and scorched the wall to his right. He flinched involuntarily before he shot back with his pistol, wounding another one of his opponents, who went down with a scream.
Two more shots echoed, but surprisingly, not in Fred’s direction. He snuck a peek, to see a third henchman fall to the ground. Fred smiled. His partner had arrived.
About confounded time, too.
He reloaded his pistol and sped, shooting from concealment, joining the power of his weapon to his partner’s. Caught in crossfire, the remaining adversaries went down with a minimum of fuss. Then Fred’s lovely partner, Mary, stepped out of the sh
adows and wisps of gun smoke to view the aftermath.
She holstered her weapon, raising the hem of her skirts and stepping lightly around the dead bodies. “I almost didn’t find you this time. Luckily, I arrived at the waterfront to see you duck down the street in a pursuit. I ran into trouble of my own following your lead, or I would have arrived sooner.” Something caught her attention. “Is that one of Muggins’ focused-beam weapons?”
Fred walked over to the device. “Yes, indeed. Not much to look at, is it?”
Mary ran her hand over the three-foot-high metal contraption, lightly stroking its long cylinder and crank. “No, it’s all tubes and wires and gears. How can anything this cumbersome be so dangerous? It’s difficult to believe.”
“Most of Muggins’ inventions defy belief. The man might be wicked to his core, but he is a mechanical genius without peer.”
“That he is, unfortunately for us.” Mary took a step forward and leaned against him. She whispered, “I’m glad you are not hurt,” and lightly kissed his cheek. Then she flashed him a bright smile, causing him to grin back, marvelling at her adorable dimples.
But then, he marvelled at everything about her, from her kissable mouth to the liveliest pair of eyes in which he oft had the pleasure to drown. Sometimes Fred found it difficult to believe that such a delicate and beautiful creature excelled as a skilled government agent for the Clockwork Department. He counted himself a lucky man indeed to have fallen in love with such a woman and have her return his feelings. He reached out and took her hand.
“Not the source of information we were hoping for, my dear, but this ambush they set for me proves we are making Muggins and his gang nervous.”
Mary gave his hand a little squeeze. “True, but unfortunately, that may not be enough to satisfy our superiors at the Foreign Office. Mr. Griffith will not be pleased with our lack of progress.”
Fred grimaced at the thought of giving his report to his director, Edgar Griffith. The man would give him a dressing down to be certain.
“And we still have to clean up this muddle.” Mary swept her hand through the air over the dead bodies littering the alley.
“Right you are. We should send in a signal to summon a cleanup crew.”
“Already done.” Mary held up her wrist, waggling the intricate homing bracelet she wore.
“Excellent. And if we can keep the Peelers off our backs until we’ve taken care of everything, we might just make it out of this scrape without more misfortune.”
After leaving the cleaning crew—and Mary—to deal with the disposal of the evidence, Fred entered the offices of the Clockwork Department, secreted deep in the bowels of the Foreign Office of London. He went to his immediate superior, Edgar Griffith, to make his report, and found a scowl and angry words to greet him.
“Muggins is running us in circles! This morning’s debacle has us no closer to finding the villain! We don’t have his whereabouts or any credible information on what he is planning! He has the run of the city, and we have nothing! The man is making us look like fools!”
“True, sir, the skirmish this morning went to Muggins, but we have yet to assess any evidence found at the scene and we did capture another one of his beam guns.”
Griffith glared. “Yes, you did, but only after a very public battle. What were you thinking? Exchanging gunfire in the street like common thugs! And with a beam weapon, no less! Great Scott, man! Are you trying to bring unwanted exposure to this department? You can be thankful it was such an early hour and that most decent people were still abed!”
He sighed heavily. “You can’t keep having these very showy encounters with our foes, Fred, old boy. It’s all this office can do sometimes to keep these exchanges out of the papers. If word got out about these fantastic devices we keep under wraps, there’d be inquiries, a call for an accounting of our department, and that would never do.”
Fred took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Next time I’ll do better.”
Yes, next ambush, I’ll just let them kill me.
“See that you do. Now get back out there and find Muggins.” Griffith waved his hand in dismissal and Fred left his presence.
A weary and thoroughly rebuked Fred left the Foreign Office with one task left to accomplish. He made his way through the late afternoon streets of London to the counting house of Scrooge and Marley. His adventure with Mary reminded him that he had happy news to impart to his Uncle Ebenezer, though he doubted the old man would wish him well.
Upon arrival, he found his uncle temporarily gone from the place, so he settled in to wait, leaning against the dividing doorframe so he might chat with Bob Cratchit, his uncle’s clerk.
Fred gave him a friendly smile, in hopes that he might brighten the mood of the clerk’s dismal workplace. “How goes it with you, sir? Is your family well?”
Cratchit put down his pen and looked up from his copying. “’Tis fine with me, Master Fred, and I thank you for asking. The family’s fine as well.” A slight frown marred his face. “Although, my youngest, Tim, has been feeling poorly of late. No doubt it will pass, and he’ll be right as rain again.”
“No doubt. Children are a resilient lot.” A noise from the adjoining room brought his attention away from the idle chitchat, and a gruff voice rang out.
“Who’s there? Who’s in with my clerk?”
“It sounds as if my uncle has returned.” Fred gave Cratchit a grin. “It is only I, Uncle, your nephew, Fred.” With a wave, Fred took his leave of the clerk and went to see his uncle, who was hanging up his shabby greatcoat.
“By what displeasure have you come to see me today, nephew?” Scrooge, now divested of his coat, shuffled to his desk and sat in his creaky, well-worn chair. “If you are looking for a handout, you will be sorely disappointed. I’m in the business of making money, not providing charity.”
“No need to fret, Uncle, I am not here for money, simply to impart some happy news. I am engaged to be married.”
“What! What nonsense is this? You barely have two pennies to scrape together and you want to burden yourself with a wife? Rid yourself of such youthful folly at once, is my advice.”
“I shall do no such thing, Uncle. Mary and I are in love, and plan to be wed.”
“Love? Bah, useless twaddle. No good for anything, and certainly not a reason to marry. Why you come to bother me with this tripe, I can’t imagine. Be off with you. I have work to finish.”
“As you wish, Uncle, but be warned, you shall be receiving an invitation to my wedding.”
“Bah! Be off with you I say, and take your silly notions of marriage with you.”
“Good-bye, Uncle, and despite everything, I do hope you attend the wedding.”
Fred slipped out the door and went on his way. The visit to his uncle went as he expected. Ebenezer Scrooge was not one for sentiment. With spirits in disarray, Fred walked back to his rooms to settle in for the night and put the difficult day behind him.
The next morning, as he sipped his tea and munched on buttered toast, a loud knocking sounded at his door. With a sigh, he left his breakfast and answered it. Mary burst into his rooms, flush with excitement, and waving a longish, much folded wad of paper.
“Yesterday may not have been the disaster we feared! Plans, Fred! We found plans hidden in the lining of one of their coats.” She waved the paper under his nose, causing him to step back and clutch closed his dressing gown.
“Calm down, Mary. Let me dress and we can discuss this development over breakfast.”
Mary blushed, realising he stood before her in his night clothes, and sat down without another word. Fred left the room and came back more properly attired, wearing a smart suit, pressed shirt, and cravat. He found Mary had removed her pelisse and hat and made herself more at home in a plush armchair by the fire. The sight made him grin.
“Well, now, let’s see those plans.”
Mary rose and they both moved to the dining table, where she spread the paper across the surface, pushing aside the remain
s of Fred’s interrupted breakfast. Fred retrieved his repast and poured her a cup of tea as he looked at the unfolded document covering his table.
“Is that some sort of a design?” He frowned, taking a closer look. “It’s a mechanical diagram, for a—good heavens! A mechanical rat? What in the world could Muggins want with a design for a two-foot clockwork rodent?” Flabbergasted, Fred sputtered his words.
“I have no idea, but if the notations in the corner are any indication, we may find out at four o’clock today.”
Mary pointed at handwritten scribbling on the plans.
Fred peered at the writing, reading aloud. “Initial testing. Hyde Park. Four o’clock. And with today’s date. That does sound rather ominous, and that is definitely where we want to be this afternoon. We should pay a visit to Topper before we go.”
Mary smiled. “I already sent word. He’s expecting us.” She deftly folded up the plans and tucked them under her arm. “Shall we go, then?”
“After you, my dear.”
Fred and Mary soon found themselves threading through winding corridors deep beneath the Foreign Office, on their way to Topper’s laboratory. While both a friend and a colleague, Topper was also the agency’s resident inventor.
As they entered his sanctum, Topper greeted them, “Hello to you both,” and waved them forward.
As was his customary habit while in the lab, Topper presented quite the image, wearing his frayed and stained white coat, tarnished brass goggles, and shockingly unkempt head of hair. A dark smudge of unknown filth on his youthful, ruddy cheek completed the odd picture to perfection.
"I hear you have a bit of an adventure planned this afternoon. I have quite a few new gadgets that may aid in your quest.” He grinned. “Come, follow me.” He beckoned them like a schoolboy as he pranced across the floor.
Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology Page 21
