by Gareth Clegg
Bazalgette looked stunned. “Why on earth would he do that?”
“Well, I hear he believes they can reach the spirits through the fog, and that’s why they live in those stinking waterlogged ruins.”
“You believe in this magic? You didn’t strike me as the superstitious type.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss it, Mr Bazalgette. I seen plenty of strange things in my travels. Perhaps one man’s magic is another’s science?”
Simmons smiled as Bazalgette lapsed into silent contemplation. As they chatted, the vessel ploughed on, and Greenwich soon hove into view on the southern shore through a misty haze. This part of the Thames looked more like an inland sea than a river. Buildings of every shape, size and in all states of repair perched on islands. Ruined walls shed brick and stone into piles where the water lapped against them and crept toward the upper-storey windows.
Isaac steered between the ruins, and they emerged onto a vast open area with water as far as the eye could see through the low mist. He popped his head out of his canvas hidey-hole, a steaming metal mug of tea in hand. “Almost there,” he called forward.
“What is this place?” Bazalgette asked.
“It’s what remains of Greenwich Park,” Isaac said, lifting his hat and scratching through wisps of coarse white hair. “If you look there,” he continued, pointing to the south, “you’ll see the ground rising as it goes up the hill towards the Observatory. That’s where I’ll drop you. It’s not a long walk, but it’s way too shallow for this fat old girl.”
Isaac tapped the side of the boat. There was a strange sense of tenderness in how his hand seemed to linger as he caressed the wood. He turned to Rosie as she emerged from the stern, she also had tea, but in a china cup, complete with a saucer. “I’ll wait as you asked, Miss Rosie. If you haven’t been in touch before the fog sets in this evening, then I’ll return in the morning for you. Is that all right?”
Rosie finished the remains of her tea in a single mouthful. “Yes, that will be fine.”
She passed over a single coin. Simmons couldn’t be sure of the denomination, but it looked big enough to be a gold sovereign. I’m in the wrong line of business, he thought. Isaac steered the boat, so it drifted sideways into a low wall with a soft bump.
“After you, Rosie,” Simmons said, offering his hand to steady her, which she accepted with a smile.
Once she had alighted, he and Bazalgette followed.
“It’s only a few minutes to the Observatory,” Rosie said. “Josiah will expect us, and he’s not a man you want to keep waiting.”
15
As they climbed, the Observatory came into view between the trees. Its red and white brick facade had four domed turrets. Two large ones stood on either side of the main building with two smaller ones atop the front corners of the roof. The nearest had a bright red ball perched on a flagpole.
Simmons nudged Bazalgette, pointing at the strange sight. “What is that?”
“That’s the Greenwich time ball.”
He looked at Bazalgette, none the wiser.
“It’s how they measure Greenwich Mean Time and have done for years. I believe they installed it in the eighteen-thirties.”
“They measure it how exactly?”
“The ball rises to the top of the pole just before one pm, then drops on the hour. You can see it from the Thames. It’s how the navy and the workers on the river and docks set their watches.”
“Not that there’s much of a navy anymore.”
“True,” Bazalgette said, “but I’ve heard talk of new construction in the shipyards that survived in the North East and Scotland.”
“Really?”
Bazalgette nodded. “Some of the labourers from the meetings that Silas Cooper organised talked about a better life up there, but there’s debate about whether it’s true. Even if it was, how would they get there with travel restricted as it is?”
“Fair point. The Black Guard has a lot to answer for.”
“It’s not just them though, is it? They take their orders from the council.”
Simmons frowned at him. “Robertson you mean.”
“Well, I suppose so, he leads the council, doesn’t he?”
“Hmm,” Simmons grumbled. “I met him once, before the war, didn’t like him. There was just something about ‘General Sir George Frazer Robertson’ that disturbed me. He struck me as particularly ruthless, couldn’t stand not getting things his way. And he’s one of those types to hold a grudge.”
Ahead of them, a massive white dome stood atop the third storey of a long brick frontage. It angled towards the turreted building they had seen earlier, and another wall met it at a rusty iron gate leading into a courtyard. At their approach, two figures detached themselves from their position leaning against the wall. “Oy, who are you and what the hell do you want?”
“My name is—” Simmons started before the big man interrupted.
“Do I look like I give a damn who you are, Mister la-de-da? Piss off before I plant my boot up your posh—” the man broke off halfway as Rosie made herself visible.
“Oh, Miss Rosie. I—” he stuttered as she glared at him. “I didn’t know you, you was coming. If these fellows are with you, then I suppose—”
Rosie lashed out, her tongue like acid. “You suppose? Well, there’s a first. That would seem to indicate that you can think. What with little more than a walnut between those ears of yours, I’m surprised you manage to breathe and walk at the same time.”
He stood there, eyes cast down, unwilling to meet her gaze.
“I had a pig of a day yesterday, so I suggest you open this gate before I get annoyed and inflict my foul mood on someone within arm’s reach.”
He jumped to it, unlocking the padlock and swinging the rusty gate outward.
“I’m sorry Miss—”
“Shut up.” Rosie strode into the courtyard while Simmons and Bazalgette followed. The man was breathing hard, and Simmons wondered if he was holding his anger in, or letting his fear out; perhaps both. The other guard watched, his face a mask of calm indifference to their passing. Rosie moved towards the building across the courtyard, her boots crunching on the packed gravel.
Bazalgette stopped. “The Prime Meridian,” he said, his voice carried an air of awe.
Simmons looked down at a dirty strip of corroded brass crossing the courtyard. “That’s the meridian?”
“Well, yes,” Bazalgette said. “Granted, it’s seen better days, but it’s the principle of the thing.”
Simmons hadn’t meant to sound so negative. “I suppose if it were polished… It would be quite something to see?”
“Oh, it was,” Bazalgette said, his enthusiasm back. “I came here when I was a lad. My grandfather brought me, and it shone like fire when the sun caught it. It’s a remarkable reminder of our maritime heritage. Longitude zero degrees. I remember standing astride it, one foot in the east and the other in the west, don’t you feel it?”
Simmons felt something, but it wasn’t the enthusing that his friend had for this scientific marvel, or natural phenomenon, or whatever it was to him. It was a gnawing rumble in his gut, reminding him he’d not eaten for the best part of twenty-four hours.
“Let’s catch up with Rosie,” he said. “I’m sure there will be plenty of time to explore later.”
Bazalgette stood astride the meridian a moment longer, then followed.
Rosie waited beside a dark wooden door into the building, watching them with an expression that spoke of incomprehension. Her velvet tones fluttered across to them. “If we are ready, gentlemen?”
They both stepped a little sharper to cover the distance. Rosie watched, her mouth slipping into a quiet smile, and shook her head as they reached the two steps up to the door.
“Right,” she said. “Josiah will be waiting in the octagon. It’s where he spends most of his time. He’s, let’s call it, unusual in appearance. Try not to stare.” This last bit seemed focused at Bazalgette, but he was
oblivious, eyes still darting around the building and courtyard.
The interior was an Aladdin’s cave of all things clockwork. Clocks, watches and timepieces of all shapes and sizes lined the walls, taking pride of place within their protective glass housings.
Every clock face showed the same time. Second hands were so synchronised they each clicked, ticked or swept at the same moment—an orchestra of precision instruments playing to a hidden conductor’s tempo.
Bazalgette stood awestruck. “Look at it,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, very impressive,” Simmons replied. “But perhaps we shouldn’t keep this Josiah waiting.”
Deaf to his words, Bazalgette moved to inspect the largest display case. An array of brass and steel pipes and cogs swung back and forth, almost silent. The only sound was a quiet ticking as mechanisms engaged and disengaged from the pendulous collection of weights and pulleys.
“It’s a Harrison sea clock,” Bazalgette murmured, staring at the intricate mechanism. “No,” he added, “it’s the sea clock, his first design. Simmons, it’s beautiful. A masterpiece of engineering.”
“Yes, it’s very impressive, but—”
“He was a genius, years ahead of his time. He made this over one hundred years ago and look at it. They might have built it yesterday.”
“Very interesting—”
“That’s just the start. This clock worked on a naval vessel and kept time to within the second. No electricity, just clockwork, precision engineering, springs and escapements—”
“Bazalgette.” Simmons placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. The mesmerising effect of the sophisticated timepiece’s spell broke. “Bazalgette, we need to meet Josiah. You can come back later. All right?”
“Yes, of course.”
Simmons turned and hurried to catch up with Rosie. A narrow stairway opened onto a small hall where off-white plaster awaited a new coat of paint.
Rosie approached the large double doors, thrusting them inward. Dark wooden panels covered the walls of the octagonal room with double-height windows occupying each wall. The bright plaster continued above the wood, and light flooded in painting them whiter than their yellowed brethren outside.
More timepieces adorned cabinets on the walls which drew their eyes to a figure seated at the opposite side of the lavish wooden floored chamber.
To say Rosie had warned them of Josiah’s unusual appearance, it was a shock to see the man in the flesh.
Leather, brass and steel replaced skin and bone on the left half of his face. The different elements fused with heavy stitch marks along the edges where they met flesh. Though shaped to mimic the original aspect of his features, they were bulky and angular. Mechanisms whirred, producing an eerie sense of constant motion. Pistons hissed, expanding and contracting to power his arm as he turned his bald head to greet his visitors.
Simmons felt his eyes drawn to the movement and the strange, sharp angles of Josiah’s entire left side. Don’t stare. She said not to stare.
“Rosie, my dear,” Josiah said, his voice low and gravelly. “I see you have brought guests with you.”
“Josiah, let me introduce Sir Pelham Simmons and Mr Nathaniel Bazalgette.”
“A pleasure to meet you both, gentlemen.”
“And you too, Josiah,” Simmons said with a nod.
“Yes, a pleasure indeed,” Bazalgette added, his eye wandering around the room to yet more marvels of mechanical artifice.
“So, time is short,” Josiah said. “I’m sure you have questions.”
“Quite a few,” Simmons said. “Let’s start with Rosie and the Black Guard—”
Josiah held up his right hand, stopping him. “Let us hold that thought, Mr Simmons. Rosie, these gentlemen must be famished. Would you be a darling and pop over to the kitchens and get them to organise tea? I could do with a drink, and I feel there is plenty to discuss this day.”
Rosie returned her view to Josiah, her face blank for a few seconds. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“No rush. Take your time, my dear.”
Josiah waited till Rosie left the bright octagonal room. “Sweet girl. Still, a little troubled, shall we say?” He focused on Simmons. “I’m aware of your investigations into my associate Mr Cooper and the rather unfortunate events that transpired at the public-house. You no doubt also have questions about the names mentioned in his journal.”
Simmons looked Josiah straight in the eye. “You seem to know an awful lot about my activities and findings.”
“I am a man of means, Mr Simmons. Information is the lifeblood by which I thrive, the procurement and distribution of that knowledge is how my empire grows and expands.”
Bazalgette turned from his perusal of a large floor standing clock. “Rosie said she killed the men on that list. Three out of four, anyway. Why would she do that?”
Tiny clockwork mechanisms clicked into frenzied activity for a few seconds as Josiah turned to face Bazalgette. “They undertook a great project and were sworn to secrecy. You could claim, they made her what she is today. But I do not wish to bring the tone down so early in the day. Our time may be short, so suffice it to say, Rosie was the daughter of a brilliant, but evil and cowardly man.”
Josiah tapped on the table, a rhythmic click from his reconstructed index finger marked perfect tempo with the clocks as he seemed to consider how to continue. “He allowed them to experiment on his only daughter. In return, they promised him great rewards in the years to follow. It was after the war, and they had discovered many artefacts. These were dangerous and sinister things from a world very different from our own. I have seen information that leads me to the conclusion that Doctor Carrington recovered a live sample. One of the alien creatures. He used it to create something that was more, and sadly, also less than human.”
“What are you suggesting?” Simmons asked.
“Having spent a little time with young Rosie, you may have noticed she has, shall we say, a few peculiarities? She finds it easy to get on with people and to turn them to her way of thinking, all part of her father’s experiments with alien brain tissue. The ordeals they put her through seem to have been too much for her fragile mind to cope with. It fractured, trying to protect itself, hiding elements away deep within her psyche. Things that return to the surface in times of stress.”
“You expect us to believe this man blended alien and human tissue?” Simmons asked. “If it’s true, why are we not overrun with these creatures?”
Josiah smiled, the left side of his face creaking with the movement. “She was the prototype for the many Hybrids they commissioned Carrington to produce, but his daughter’s suffering haunted even his callous nature. He freed her—his last attempt to redeem himself for the horror he had inflicted upon his own flesh-and-blood. She repaid him with the only kindness she knew. They say his body was unrecognisable when they found him. Alien symbols carved into what little skin remained, his vital organs positioned around him on the floor, removed with a surgeon’s precision.”
“Dear God,” Bazalgette said.
“I am not here to judge Carrington. I tell you this as a pretext to why the four men from the journal are involved, of what they hoped to create. Their task was to produce someone capable of passing themselves off in high society, accomplished at debating and gaining great concessions from powerful negotiators. Of ruling an Empire.”
He let the information sink in. “Yes, they sought to replace the young Empress with a tool of their choosing, who they thought they could control. Instead, they unleashed a monster which, through pure luck, keeps itself locked away, most of the time.”
“How did she come to your attention?” Simmons asked.
“Fortune shined down upon me when young Rosie came into contact with a trusted associate of mine, Silas Cooper, and I saw her potential and learned of her strange story. Thus it was that with their plan foiled, these four men, and those who pull their strings, required a replacement - and quickly. They needed
to find an interim until they could recover Rosie, and their payments matched the urgency of the task. From the information we have gathered, it seems their plot is already in motion. That our good Empress Victoria is an imposter, groomed and trained for her role and kept as far from the public as possible.”
“What?” both Simmons and Bazalgette said together.
“Cooper discovered the truth, but against my advice, he shared that information with the people. And so, here we are. The Black Guard are unforgiving, and once the hounds are unleashed, there is often only one outcome.”
“So you’re telling us that Victoria is an imposter as Cooper was preaching, but what of these Watchmen and Dent?” said Simmons.
“The Watchmen are but tools of the Black Guard, officers selected for their loyalty and skill in the field.”
“And you know who is behind it?”
“Come now, Mr Simmons. You already have the answer to that question. He who owns the Black Guard controls the Watchmen.”
Simmons spat the word. “Robertson.”
Josiah gazed out of the nearest window for a while, the room falling into silence. “As for Dent’s work, clever? Perhaps, but flawed. They are cheap copies of his father’s achievement. Those were real masterpieces. Yes, these trinkets tweak the time and space continuum and may seem useful, but they are the product of an amateur, not a true Horologist.”
“Horologist?” Simmons asked.
Bazalgette half whispered to him. “The study of time and chronometers.”
Josiah continued. “Ever was the young Dent keen to take on his father’s trade, but his heart wasn’t truly in it. Granted, he is a superb artificer and can produce pieces of exquisite beauty and precision, but that isn’t enough. A Horologist dedicates his entire being to his craft, must make great sacrifices and let nothing stand in the way of his quest for knowledge. Dent focused too much on chronometers, while I have transcended that limited view and opened my mind to everything a true Horologist may accomplish.” He motioned to his mechanised body for emphasis.