Metal and Magic

by Chris Paton

  “It’ll be fine, Dieter,” Romney gripped the wheel. “British cobblestones are no different than those in Frankfurt. Relax, Dieter; you are spoiling my fun with all your ernst.”

  “It will not be my f-fault if you cannot turn the corners with these thin wheels and rigid rubber tires.”

  “Oh, Dieter,” Romney grasped the spring handle of the gear lever and flexed the gearstick through the gears. She frowned at the crunch from second to third.

  “Stop that crunching,” Dieter leaped onto the running boards of the steamracer. “Smooth with the gears, Romney.”

  “Dieter,” Romney cocked her head and stared at the mechanic. “Are you finished?”

  “Ja, ja, I am f-finished,” Dieter stepped down from the running boards and flicked his finger at the steamracer on the opposite side of the narrow street. “Do you think he knows this is just a f-friendly circuit?”

  “Robshaw?” Romney turned to wave at the driver in the British steamracer, the boiler spitting bursts of hot water over the racing-green metal plates behind the driver’s seat. “There is nothing friendly about the British, Dieter.” Romney smiled at Robshaw. “Handsome, but not friendly.”

  “You must concentrate on the cobblestones, not your dinner date.”

  “He said yes?” Romney stamped on the accelerator pedal and released a plume of steam from the boiler pipes.

  “Ja, ja, he said yes.”

  “Well then,” Romney grinned. “I think the loser pays. Don’t you, Dieter?”

  “Never mind that,” Dieter pulled out a thick paper map from the pocket of his leather tunic. “The f-first bend is here,” he stabbed the map with a sooty finger. “A long, slow right.”

  “Yes, I know. Then the long stretch before Pimlico,” Romney squeezed the clutch and crunched into first gear.

  “You can catch him on Lupus Street, before Pimlico.”

  “Catch him, Dieter? Have you no faith in the Wallendorf racer?”

  “Ja, of course, but he is quicker on the cobblestones.”

  “And Grosvenor Road?”

  “Dirt, all of it. If you are in f-front...”

  “If?”

  “Ja, if, then you will have the lead all the way to the f-finish line,” Dieter smiled. “Where I will be waiting.”

  “Just like in F-Frankfurt.” Romney flashed the mechanic a wide smile.

  “Must you tease me? Better you f-focus on winning, Romney Wallendorf,” Dieter gripped the steering wheel and turned it to the right. “Robshaw is moving into position.”

  “Push, Dieter,” Romney released the clutch and pressed the accelerator beneath her heavy, buckled boot.

  Dieter guided Romney’s steamracer up to the start line of the Lupus Street Link, one and half miles of cobbles, dirt and dust. Behind the wheel of the British steamracer, Robshaw tugged his face mask down beneath his chin, leaned over and rapped his knuckles on the bonnet of Romney’s racer.

  “Pretty,” he grinned.

  “What is?” Romney flexed her gloved fingers around the clutch handle of the gearstick.

  “You,” Robshaw shrugged. “Your racer. You decide.”

  “I thought you were spoken for,” Romney licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue.

  “Aren’t we all?” Robshaw grinned.

  “Then why are you flirting with me?”

  “Who says I am flirting?” Robshaw slapped his hand upon his chest. “Dieter, am I flirting?”

  “Ja, Herr Robshaw, you are f-flirting,” Dieter thumped the windshield of Romney’s racer and took a step backward as the race official hurried the boy with the flag into the street. “Good luck.”

  “Don’t need it, Dieter,” Romney gripped the clutch handle. She winked at Robshaw. “Loser pays for dinner.”

  Robshaw nodded, “Loser pays.” Pulling his face mask over his mouth and nose, Robshaw nodded at the boy with the flag. “Try not to hit the boy, Romney,” Robshaw shouted above the boilers as the mechanics stoked them and built up a head of steam. “He is a friend of the family.”

  “All right.” Romney slammed her foot on the accelerator and released the clutch. Swerving in front of Robshaw’s racer, Romney grabbed the flag from the boy’s hand as she steamed past him and tossed it behind her. Ducking beneath the folds of the flag, Robshaw cursed and heaved the British racer into first gear.

  ҉

  The air within the interior of Admiral Egmont’s office was laced with the smell of spices, hot sand and old books. The colours of the books, their spines climbing the walls and traversing the shelves above and around the doorway, were muted only by the contents of the small leather sacs and modest clay pots open to the curious who should wander around the first floor office. Luise stepped past Egmont as he held the door and appraised the colours and scents of the room.

  “There is a pot of tea on the desk,” Egmont stomped in behind Luise, “It’s Darjeeling; your favourite if I am not mistaken.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” Luise crossed to the desk. Pouring a cup of tea, she glanced at the French doors leading to the study. A shadow rising from one of two leather armchairs caught her eye.

  “Did someone mention tea?” The French doors opened and a wiry old man hobbled out of the study. Cleaning his glasses, the man made his way over to the Admiral’s desk. He reached out with his right hand. “Luise Hanover? My name is Mr. Smith.”

  Luise set the teapot back on the warmer; the candle flickered as she withdrew her hand. “Yes, I am Luise.”

  “Of course,” Smith clasped Luise’s right hand within both of his. “Jamie’s sister.”

  “That’s right,” Luise held her hands in front of her waist as Smith released his grip. “Jamie is my little brother – twenty-two – younger by three years.”

  “Smith knows all about young Jamie,” Egmont pointed at Smith. “This landlubber,” he smiled, “is from the Indian Office of Cartography.” The tip of Egmont’s leg clumped on the floorboards as he ushered Smith and Luise into the study. “Why don’t the two of you get to know one another? I will bring the tea.”

  Smith waited for Luise to sit in the armchair closest to the window before folding into the chair opposite, the arms of the chair dwarfing his body, the colour of the leather complementing his tanned face and hands.

  “Hanover? A German name, the same as that of Her Majesty?” Smith pressed the tips of his fingers together.”

  “Yes,” Luise leaned forward on the edge of the worn leather upholstery. “But no relation as far as I am aware.”

  “No, of course,” Smith studied Luise’s face. “My original name was Manningheim,” he paused. “I changed it around the same time as Her Majesty stopped using Hanover.”

  “Yes?” Luise waited.

  “Have you ever considered changing your name?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You do not read the newspapers?”

  “When I have time.”

  Smith leaned forward and pulled a newspaper from the pile on the coffee table between them. “The Germans are very ambitious.” Turning the paper toward Luise, he tapped the headline of the article below a picture of a large airship. “This man Wallendorf in particular.”

  “Wallendorf Industries,” Luise took the newspaper from Smith’s hands. “I have long been an admirer of Herr Wallendorf. Although, he works on a much larger scale than I do.” Luise placed the newspaper back on the table. “He is building airships now?”

  “Oh no,” Smith shook his head. “Well, not that one. That is The Flying Scotsman.” Smith leaned over to read the caption beneath the picture. “One of ours. Leaving Murrayfield in a few days time on a maiden voyage, apparently.”

  “What has this got to do with Jamie?” Luise looked up as Egmont stumped into the study.

  “Absolutely nothing,” Egmont winked as he presented Luise with her tea from the tray in his hands.

  “And yet,” Smith lifted the second cup from the tray. “Thank you, Admiral,” Smith took a sip. “We are interested
in the activities of Herr Wallendorf, and one of his associates. Herr Bremen from the ministry, in particular.”

  Egmont leaned the tray against the side of Luise’s armchair and walked around Smith’s chair to the window. He opened the window a crack and tugged a pipe and small pouch of tobacco from his breast pocket. “Smith has had some dealings with Wallendorf in Central Asia.” Egmont pressed a pull of tobacco from a leather pouch into the bowl of the pipe.

  “Really?” Luise’s china cup clipped the saucer as she set it down on the coffee table.

  “Oh yes,” Smith raised his eyebrows as he took another sip of tea. “Wallendorf designs fabulous marching machines, great carriers of people,” he paused, “and soldiers.”

  “Soldiers? Are we at war with the Wallendorfs?” Luise suppressed a giggle.

  “Who are we not at war with?” Egmont lit his pipe and puffed a cloud of fragrant sweet smoke toward the crack in the window. “Am I right, Smith?”

  “The Admiral is most certainly right, Miss Hanover.” Smith leaned forward and set his cup and saucer on the table next to Luise’s. “Of course, the lines of battle are very difficult to distinguish. What young Jamie experienced, for example...”

  “Jamie has been to war?”

  “Your brother has been in many engagements,” Egmont sucked on his pipe.

  “At sea,” Luise looked up at the Admiral. “With you and the fleet, yes,” she turned to face Smith. “But not, I think, in the manner Mr. Smith is describing.”

  “Told you she was quick,” Egmont pushed the pipe to one side of his mouth with a smile.

  “Your brother,” Smith steepled his fingers, “was travelling quietly in the mountains of Afghanistan while undertaking a little job for the Admiral.”

  “Afghanistan? What kind of job?” Luise looked up at Egmont. “What would Jamie possibly find in Afghanistan?”

  “Specifics are not necessary,” Egmont pulled his pipe from his mouth. “Suffice it to say I was interested in a rumour. I sent your brother on a mission to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “When? I haven’t heard from Jamie in over a year,” Luise looked at Egmont. “He wrote to me from Magnificent.”

  “You’re not close, Miss Hanover?” Smith leaned back in his chair.

  “No,” Luise sighed. “Not since my mother died.”

  “I see,” Smith turned to Egmont. “May I tell her what we know, Admiral?”

  Egmont poked at the embers cooling in the bowl of the pipe and nodded. “Luise has a right to know. That is why we asked her here,” he looked at Smith, “amongst other things.”

  “Where is my brother?” Luise crossed her arms.

  “Have you heard of the Indian Nightjar, Miss Hanover?”

  “No,” Luise shook her head.

  “The Nightjar is a clever little bird with plumage perfectly tailored to its environment and almost silent flight. After sundown, when it is most active, the Nightjar is almost undetectable,” Smith paused. “I have trained many men to wander the mountains without being detected, but I did not have the pleasure of training your brother. I did, however, train the man I sent to find your brother and to assist him on the Admiral’s errand.”

  “Not without a great deal of encouragement,” Egmont jabbed the stem of his pipe in Smith’s direction.

  “Reginald,” Smith spread his palms wide, “how many times must I apologise for my hesitation?”

  “Hesitation?” Luise looked from one man to the other. She stared at Smith. “What would make you hesitate to send this Nightjar to help my brother?”

  “Central Asia, Miss Hanover, and Afghanistan in particular, is a hotbed of scurrilous activity and no place,” he glanced at Egmont, “for the unprepared. Training men to operate in Afghanistan is a long and costly process, not least when agents are discovered. I did not want to risk my man being discovered while babysitting the Admiral’s.”

  “But Jamie can take care of himself. He is a lieutenant in the Royal Navy.”

  “Yes, but the mountains, I think you would agree, are another matter, especially for a man of the sea.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes,” Luise paused, “and this Nightjar.”

  “Yes,” Smith took a breath. “His name is Hari Singh.”

  “I will fetch more tea,” Egmont pushed himself off from the window frame and stumped out of the study, patting Smith on the shoulder as he passed him.

  “In short, Miss Hanover, we don’t know,” Smith placed his elbows on his knees, laced his fingers together and rested his chin upon them. “Although we did learn of a curious scuffle outside the gates of Adina Pur, in Afghanistan.” Smith stared Luise in the eye. “The wreckage of several of Wallendorf’s mammoth walkers has since been discovered being sold for scrap in Peshawar and at locations further down the river Indus.”

  “Wallendorf? You think that he has something to do with Jamie’s disappearance?”

  “Not directly, no. But Wallendorf is under contract by the German Confederation for the mass production of machines of war.”

  “War machines?” Luise sank into the armchair.

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why...”

  “I wondered if you had read the newspapers of late...”

  “And considered changing my name,” Luise closed her eyes. The sound of the Admiral’s brass leg tapping across the floorboards jarred Luise’s eyes open. Looking from one man to the other, she shrank under their stares.

  “There’s a fresh pot of tea brewing,” Egmont placed his hands on the back of Smith’s chair. “And I have called for a plate of sandwiches.”

  “You are also an engineer, are you not, Miss Hanover?” Smith continued to stare at Luise.

  “A scientist first, but I dabble in engineering as a hobby.” Luise leaned forward. “What has that to do with...”

  “What is it you are currently working on? How would you describe your project?”

  “I do not work in the public arena,” Luise crossed her arms. “I am privately funded and my projects are,” she paused, “private.”

  “Allow me to reveal what I know of your projects,” Smith reached inside his jacket and withdrew a cream coloured piece of paper folded lengthways. He opened it. “You are well renowned within your field of hydraulic miniaturisation and,” he smiled, “the applied science of fourth dimension physics. In layman’s terms,” Smith glanced at Egmont, “the operational definition and exploration of time.” Smith folded the paper.

  “Yes,” Luise reached for the paper in Smith’s hands. “Is that the piece I wrote for the Dartford Exposition?”

  “In the Spring of 1849? Yes,” Smith slipped the paper back inside his jacket pocket. “Of which the German Confederation was a sponsor.”

  “I did not know that,” Luise let her hand fall to her lap.

  “Not a lot of people did. In fact,” Smith gestured toward Egmont, “it was when the Admiral revealed that little snippet of information to me that I decided to help him by sending the Nightjar to seek out and assist your brother. It is also on account of that information, the scuffle in Afghanistan, and the unknown whereabouts of both Jamie and the Nightjar that I have sailed from Calcutta to London. Something I am loathe to do and try my very best to avoid.”

  “Do you see the connection, Luise?” Egmont stepped around Smith’s chair and reached down to take Luise’s hand within his own pudgy grip.

  “I am not sure that I do?”

  “Wallendorf Industries,” Egmont patted her hand.

  “And their backers,” Smith added. “We must not forget the hand that cranks the machine. And that hand grows impatient.”

  Egmont frowned at Smith. “Smith and I believe that the German Confederation is interested in your work.”

  “And Jamie?”

  “No, I do not think so,” Smith stood at the sound of the kettle whistling. “Allow me, Admiral.”

  Egmont let go of Luise’s hand and sank into the chair opp
osite her. Unlike Smith, the Admiral filled the chair, his brass leg poking out at an odd angle like a broken mast.

  “What is this really about, Admiral?”

  “Time,” Egmont stroked the white stubble growing from his chin. “And what you have been doing with it.”

  Chapter 2

  Lupus Street Link

  London, England

  May, 1851

  Romney gripped the clutch lever and yanked the gearshift from third to second as she braked into the Drummond Gate corner at the end of Lupus Street. A crowd of revellers poured out of the Bessborough Garden Fete and spilled onto the street oblivious to the oncoming German and British steamracers. The deep red of Romney’s racer splurged into the corner, tyres wobbling as they adjusted from the dunning of the cobbles onto the slippery smooth surface of the packed dirt street. Robshaw clawed at the distance between them, pushing the racing green British racer within yards of the German’s rear wheels. Romney flicked her eyes from the corner to the crowd ahead and slammed on the brakes.

  Smoke and dirt sloughed off Romney’s rear wheels, pitting the front of Robshaw’s racer and stinging the skin of his grubby forehead in the gap where the mask stopped and the helmet began. Robshaw cursed, wrenching at the wheel and spinning the racer toward the wooden facades of the buildings lining the inside corner of Drummond Gate.

  In the centre of the street, the blood-red German steamracer drifted left and right as Romney jerked the racer into first and stood on the brakes. The globus engine spat a gout of steam and smoke from the rear exhaust as the gaskets cracked and the metal buckled under the strain of deceleration. Romney gritted her teeth and steered the racer straight toward the stunned revellers parting to both sides in front of her. Ploughing through the gap, Romney’s eyes widened at the sight of an empty wooden carriage pulled by four geldings just twenty yards ahead of the racer. The horses bolted across the street as Romney ducked her head beneath the racer’s windshield to avoid the debris of the carriage as it splintered around her. The German steamracer slewed into the trestle tables set up outside a ceramic shop front, stopping only after the left front wheel and nose of the Wallendorf racer splintered the counter in the interior of the shop. Romney looked up as the heavy cash register toppled onto the bonnet of her racer with a metallic thump.