by Robin Jarvis
The body was also hammered out of the flame-coloured metal, forming a tubby doublet with rivets for buttons, and a high collar with a crimped and corrugated edge. Scarlet velvet covered the arms and legs, and the hands were protected by white gauntlets. A conical hat, almost as tall as the rest of him, sat on top of the domed head and Adam was intrigued to see that a grilled window was cut into the front. It was too dark to see what, if anything, was within.
Standing before the astrologer, the outlandish creation executed a low, courteous bow and three copper feathers affixed to a riveted band about the hat scraped over the floor.
“Good evening, Lantern,” Doctor Dee greeted as warmly as if addressing a real person. “I trust your journey here in the travelling chest was not too disagreeable?”
Not even the most expensive mechanicals had the power of speech. Lantern’s burnished head slid from side to side, then the secretary bowed once more.
“Tell me,” the astrologer said, “have you witnessed all that occurred this night?”
Lantern nodded and the trio of feathers jiggled up and down.
Doctor Dee indicated the fearful groom. “Did Jenks commit this dastard crime?” he asked.
The mechanical gave a forceful shake of its head, and the groom sank against the wall, sobbing his gratitude.
“I was convinced as much,” the old man muttered. “What, then, were the circumstances of this tragedy?”
Executing another bow, Lantern trotted over to the four remaining horses and began to mime the events he had seen. Reaching as high as his diminutive stature allowed, he pretended to polish their flanks and brush the tangles from their tails.
It was rather embarrassing for Jenks because the mechanical repeated everything he had observed in accurate detail. He was adept at mimicking the groom’s mannerisms and copied the arrogant jaunty swagger perfectly. It was soon proved, however, that Jenks adored the horses in his care, for Lantern kept throwing his arms about them in a fashion which appeared quite absurd and comical.
Then, with a nimble hop, he sat cross-legged on the ground and shovelled imaginary food into his non-existent mouth, wagging his head and rubbing his copper stomach as if enjoying it heartily.
“The supper was to your liking I see,” the Doctor remarked to the groom.
Jenks managed a weak smile; the provisions had been tastier than anything he was accustomed to.
Lantern stretched up his arms as though fatigued, then rose, inspected the horses again, and wandered over to the straw where he eased himself down and lay in precisely the same hollow that Jenks had created earlier.
Walsingham shot the Doctor an impatient glance. “A very pretty mummery,” he said. “But what happened then?”
The mechanical bobbed up again and shook off the persona of the groom. Striding to the entrance he assumed a new role and came sneaking into the barn, looking this way and that and advancing with nervous, jerky movements.
“Now we have it,” Doctor Dee declared. “The third player in this lethal equation.”
Lantern stole over to the empty impression in the straw, rubbing his gauntleted hands together as he had seen the malefactor do before. Taking pains not to make any sound, he performed the planting of the incriminating bottle in the sleeping groom’s purse, then turned to where Belladonna had stood.
Holding out his small hands to appease and calm the high-spirited steed, he stalked towards the now empty spot, his copper shoulders shaking as if with mirth. Deftly, his palms travelled across unseen contours until, with an expert twist which had obviously popped one of the steel plates free, he reached up, holding something carefully between his fingers.
“Enough,” Walsingham rapped. “The rest is plain. Who, then, is responsible?”
The burlesque over, Lantern took a side step to cast off the villainous character. Returning to his master, his round head revolved slowly in order to survey everyone present.
From the door, where Henry was still standing, those green lenses panned through the barn. Over Master Tewkes they roamed, then Jenks, Lord Richard, Adam and the remains of Belladonna, until at last they rested upon Sir Francis Walsingham.
“Is the rogue present?” the Queen’s advisor demanded.
Lantern bowed then walked purposefully towards the entrance. Watching him approach, Henry Wattle began to splutter, but there was no need to be alarmed, for the copper figure veered aside and pointed an accusing finger at Master Arnold Tewkes.
“What game is this?” the man exclaimed in an injured voice. “Get away from me, you walking kettle!”
The mechanical stood his ground.
“Tewkes,” Walsingham hissed. “What have you to say?”
“Only that I find no jest in this. Remove this clunking hobgoblin at once, before I lose my temper.”
Lantern continued to point. Master Tewkes snorted angrily and lashed out with a vicious kick which sent his denouncer staggering back.
“Explain yourself!” Walsingham growled.
Master Tewkes drew himself up. “Surely, My Lord,” he objected, “you are not serious in this? I have served you faithfully for many years, yet you are ready to accept this silent clowning as evidence against me. I am dismayed and affronted.”
“Lantern is never mistaken,” Doctor Dee said firmly. “His vision is often deeper and clearer than mine own.”
“He is at fault, I tell you!” Tewkes denied hotly.
The mechanical shook its head and again the finger pointed. Incensed, the furious man sprang forward, pushing Lantern off balance then leaping on top of him. In an instant he had wrenched the copper breastplate away and spat upon the exposed, delicate workings.
The little figure flailed beneath him as Master Tewkes raised his fist to smash the glass vessels of the controlling ichors. “You’ll accuse no more!” he ranted. “A pan for stewing cabbages is all you’ll be fit for when I’m done.”
Before the threat could be carried out, Doctor Dee and the groom dragged him clear, and Jenks pinned him against the wall. Master Tewkes struggled and demanded to be set free; then he caught sight of Walsingham’s grim face and his efforts ceased. A wintry light was glinting in Sir Francis’ dark eyes.
“You knew,” he breathed, bewildered. “You have suspected me all along.”
“Not all along,” Walsingham confessed. “Your singular condemnation of all Popery did kindle my initial suspicions, for they were such ardent damnings that they left a bitter tang upon even my Puritan palate. Yet gradually I learned of your treachery and collated as much intelligence pertaining to it as was possible.”
“How much?”
Walsingham’s eyebrows bunched together. “You are in the employ of Spain,” he stated. “You were indiscreet enough to be observed at a clandestine meeting with the ambassador, the Count de Feria, on two occasions during the past five years. Yet I have further proofs than that and expect many more still.”
Master Tewkes turned pale. “There is no need for torture,” he said quickly. “I will tell you everything.”
“Oh, I know, but it’s tidier this way, don’t you think? You were always such a zealous clerk that I am certain you understand. A tickle of torture to give veracity to your statements, and then …”
“Then?”
Sir Francis permitted himself a grave smile. “The Tower,” he snarled.
“No!” Master Tewkes yelled in terror. “Not there! I beseech you, My Lord! I would rather die a hundred deaths.”
“One will suffice,” Walsingham said coldly. “The Tower it is.”
“Never!” the man cried in panic, and with a shriek he stamped violently upon Jenks’ injured foot. The groom recoiled, and in that brief moment of liberty, Master Tewkes snapped the neck of the bottle containing the indigo ichor and poured the liquid down his own throat.
A wild, dangerous look clouded his face as the fatal juice trickled into his stomach, and his stained lips blistered immediately. “I’ll not go to that doom!” he cried, his voice rising to a high
, mad laugh. “Though you, My Lord, may shortly be consigned there. The time of Elizabeth, the misbegotten usurper, is over! The crown of Englandia will be cast from Her head. Philip will reign here. This uplifted world is for the true Catholic faith – not your filthy heresy. It must be cleansed of your infection, as God plainly wills …”
The secretary shuddered as an agonising spasm seized him and he gripped his stomach feverishly. The venomous ichor was scorching his insides and he dropped to his knees, convulsing in torment.
Lord Richard hastened over to him but Master Tewkes was beyond rescue. Dark blue vapour trailed from his nose and mouth and, emitting a last gurgling cry, the traitor fell on his face and expired.
Richard Wutton knelt beside the dead man, whose features had assumed a hideous, chalk-like pallor. The master of Malmes-Wutton looked across to the crushed corpse of Edwin Dritchly lying by the barn entrance. It had been a night of horrors and countless emotions broiled inside him.
“I did not expect that,” Walsingham said dryly. “There was much he could have told us – what a squandered opportunity.”
Doctor Dee agreed. “I did not foresee what other purpose the malignant ichor might be used for,” he murmured. “We must be doubly vigilant. ’Twould seem our enemies have been most busily occupied.”
“They are massing their strength, constantly devising new weapons of destruction. My spies in the Spanish court have recently despatched reports of mechanical torture masters, diabolic instruments which only a Catholic mind could envisage. I would dearly like to obtain a copy of the plans.”
Lord Richard could endure it no longer and his simmering rage finally burst forth. “Listen to you!” he snapped. “You chatter and squawk whilst two men lie dead, and pick over their carcasses like carrion birds. This ridiculous visit was orchestrated solely for the purpose of unmasking your secretary. The blood of Edwin Dritchly besmears you both.”
Walsingham regarded him with faint surprise. “I regret the death of your craftsman,” he drawled in his usual composed and maddeningly detached manner. “But it was necessary to capture Tewkes as far away from court as possible. You still do not realise the perilous state of affairs. There was simply no other way.”
Lord Richard could not bear to look at him. “I want you gone,” he ordered. “Now that your odious mission is complete, you are to leave my lands. Get from this place, you are no longer welcome.”
Sir Francis was already striding for the entrance. “You were always an emotional fool, Richard,” he reflected. “To buy the safety of Her Majesty and ensure the welfare of Her blessed realm I would gladly sacrifice any number of lives.”
“Then I pity your conscience,” Lord Richard murmured and he turned his back on him.
Walsingham’s tall black figure departed, but Doctor Dee remained. “I told you this was not of my doing,” he said.
“Spare me your hypocrisy, John,” Lord Richard retorted. “May another fourteen years go by before we see one another again. You spend the lives of my friends too freely.”
The astrologer fell silent and motioned to Lantern to follow him. Still sitting upon the floor, occupied in the task of replacing his own breastplate, the little figure rose to his feet. Only then did they realise the damage caused by Master Tewkes’ savage kick.
The mechanical’s right leg was buckled and bent backwards. Peering down, Lantern gave the disfigured limb an experimental shake and the green light dimmed in his eyes when there came a tinkling rattle of fragments that clattered down into his boot. Abruptly the leg gave way beneath him and, with a clang, the copper man sat down again.
“My dear fellow,” Doctor Dee exclaimed, offering him a hand. “Can you not walk?”
His leg twitching pitifully, Lantern gave him a forlorn look then hung his head.
“Take it to the workshop,” Lord Richard said with some reluctance. “I’ll send Jack Flye to deal with it.”
The colour rose in the astrologer’s face and he thanked his host for this last kindness.
Richard Wutton went stomping from the barn. “I go now to speak with Mistress Dritchly,” he said tersely. “When that painful interview is over I will expect to find that you and Walsingham have gone.”
A short while later, Jenks had readied the remaining horses. The body of Master Tewkes had been slung over the beast that had carried him to Malmes-Wutton and Sir Francis Walsingham was impatient to be away. Master Dritchly’s remains had been respectfully removed into the manor.
Within the stables, Lantern was sitting upon Jack Flye’s workbench, keenly watching the boy repair his leg.
“Nasty bit of harm done here,” the seventeen-year-old declared. “Don’t think it can be mended back to what it was before. Need a whole new limb, this will.”
Casting an interested eye over the impressive array of tools gathered in the workshop, Doctor Dee tutted into his long white beard. “How inconvenient,” he muttered. “Such skilled work requires time. I rely upon my secretary a great deal. His assistance is invaluable to me, as is his steadfast companionship.”
Jack scowled. “Master Dritchly might have been able to do it,” he said with undisguised reproach. He resented having to work on anything belonging to those who had caused Edwin’s death and he was tired after so long and bitter a day.
The other apprentices were leaning on the bench, watching. Although the hour was late and they were both drained after the night’s awful events, they were also eager to see the inside workings of this wonderful creation. Never had they seen such cunning devices; there was a delightful harmony of swinging weights and clicking levers. Wheels spun smooth and silent, while brass chains slipped gracefully across their gears. It was all ingenious and engrossing, but the most fantastic element, which drew a long, low whistle from Henry, was the quantity of ichor.
The three usual humours were there in long glass cylinders, but next to them was an even larger vessel containing the black cordial – the most expensive of all.
“This mannikin must be smarter than all of us put together,” Henry marvelled.
“Imbeciles,” the Doctor commented, “whether human or not, are tiresome society.”
As the minutes passed, Henry began to nod, but Adam was becoming concerned at Jack’s treatment of Lantern. He was being inordinately rough and ham-fisted. Where gentle, persuasive tappings with a small hammer were required, the older boy bashed and bullied the damaged metal as though venting his anger and frustration.
Despite being brutalised in this way, Lantern remained quietly tolerant and suffered every fresh attack with remarkable forbearance. He even assisted Jack by passing him the tools he needed and at last Adam saw what was kept inside the tall, conical hat.
It was a stout candle and, now that it was lit, tiny punctures were revealed over the whole copper surface from which the warm light pricked and twinkled, casting a field of fiery stars across the wall.
“Is that where he gets his name from?” Adam asked.
Doctor Dee said that it was not, but he explained no further for he was also beginning to realise that Jack was applying more force than was entirely necessary. Sternly, he drummed his fingers on the bench until the boy moderated his technique.
“That’s the best I can manage,” Jack said at last. “If I carry on it’ll be doing more harm than good.”
Lantern was lifted from the bench and set on the floor. But when he tried to walk, he limped so badly that Jack actually looked guilty and embarrassed. The small mechanical hobbled gamely about the workshop, tottering unsteadily between the disassembled sheep and cows which still littered the place. When eventually he halted before his master, he shook his head in such a dejected fashion that Adam felt sorry for him.
“It’ll need proper attention when you get to London,” Jack said.
The Queen’s astrologer gave a curt nod and led the faltering Lantern to the door.
“You did that on purpose,” Adam hissed at Jack.
The older boy smirked and began climbing the l
adder to the hay loft. Adam watched the little mechanical struggle to the yard then ran after both him and his master.
“Stay a moment,” he pleaded. “I believe I can be of service. The injury may not be as serious as we thought. If you could spare a little while longer.”
Sir Francis Walsingham was shaking his head, anxious to leave, but Doctor Dee assented and so back to the stables they went. Adam worked quickly. Sitting Lantern upon his own bench he was appalled at the sloppy workmanship of the older apprentice, but made no comment. Carefully, he put new steel pins into the knee joint and tapped out the remaining dents.
“You are very skilled,” the Doctor complimented. “Previously, in the barn, you excelled with Belladonna where I could not. You know your trade well – I foresee a prosperous future for you.”
Adam laughed. “Tell that to Henry!” he said indicating the boy who was now lying fast asleep across two sheep in the corner. “He’s the one who wants to be rich.”
“And you do not share that ambition?”
“I don’t want to leave Malmes-Wutton. I like it here. This is where they found me and this is where I belong. Lord Richard’s been more than kind – even lets me read the books in his library. The ones he didn’t have to sell, of course.”
The Doctor was impressed. “A scholar, in addition to your practical accomplishments.”
Again Adam laughed. “I just like to know things, that’s all.”
“Knowledge is all,” came the compelling reply.
Pausing in his work, the boy looked at the old man’s lined face. The pale hazel eyes were ageless, and wisdom more ancient than his august years was written across those brows. Almost without realising what he was saying, Adam asked, “Do you really dig up bodies and speak to the dead?”
The impertinent question did not irritate the Doctor in the least. “I use whatever means I can to further my understanding,” he said warmly. “I have studied necromancy, alchemy, I am a cabalist, hermeticist, mathematician and much more besides. I alone have cast the Queen’s horoscope without fear of losing my head, for it was at Her own bidding, you see – I luxuriate in the indulgence of Her Majesty.”
