Fury from Fontainebleau

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Fury from Fontainebleau Page 27

by Adrian Speed


  “Not a word to another soul alive,” I nodded.

  "Upon my honour as a gentleman.” Sir Reginald nodded and stood. “I wish we could have come on any other day, Heinrich, I really do. I am sorry.”

  “I am as well,” Heinrich said, draining his glass.

  Without any ability to console him further, Sir Reginald and I left. As we passed the gate of the governor's estate church bells began tolling for the dead. Franz Ferdinand was no more, war would soon begin, and it was all for nothing. I had to fight back tears as we listened to the bells and walked towards the time machine in silence. I knew Sir Reginald would notice them, but I prayed he thought they were tears for Heinrich.

  We stopped when we got to the river. Neither of us seemed keen to return to the time machine. We leant against the railings, and let history pass us by.

  “A while ago you said in your experience a grudge lasts from grandfather to grandson twice over before it crumbles,” I said. The river gurgled as it struggled through the rocks and pebbles on its bed. On the far side of the river people were going about their business again, as if the explosion hadn’t happened an hour before.

  “I did say that.”

  “I think you are right, even now. I think... I think...” I curled my fingers around the railings and hung on to them. “I think Heinrich has inherited a grudge against the Arnold family from his grandfather Waverly. He is going to pass it on to his grandson Professor Sotheby, and convince Sotheby to remove all records of Ebenezer Arnold from history. Scrub the records clean, so smart people like you and me can never find them. So the secret disappears from history.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But then it crumbles,” I said. “I don’t think Professor Sotheby succeeded in passing on his grudge. We know its all over by the twenty-second century. A Sotheby marries an Arnold and only kindness kills Jonathon.”

  “But then why would a Sotheby kill Marlin in the twenty-third century?”

  “I know, I know, I put my hands up to my head, that’s the one thing I am struggling to figure out. Family is meant to be the closest bond there is, the only thing that drives families apart is... is money.” And suddenly there it was. We had discounted inheritance immediately, because why wouldn’t you just wait for a hundred-year-old man to die? We had thrown out inheritance, but we shouldn’t have thrown out money at the same time. “That film,” in my excitement I practically hit Sir Reginald to get his attention. “That film Jonathon was working on, the 100 Days, how much money did it make?”

  “I am sure I don’t–”

  “Look it up!” I insisted, prodding at Sir Reginald’s tablet hidden in his coat pocket. Reluctantly Sir Reginald took his tablet out and scrolled through the pages of digital records until he found something useful. “The Glorious Return, previously titled 100 Days... worldwide ticket sales... $120 million.”

  “And what was its budget?!” I shook his arm.

  “$157 million...” Sir Reginald’s eyes flared. “And the Sotheby family were the primary funders of the film. Whatever they invested, it was gone.”

  “You heard his parents,” I turned and grinned at Sir Reginald. “They were going to finish his film as his lasting legacy. But how many other people in the family invested in it? How many Sotheby aunts and uncles and cousins and so on poured money into that film by the golden boy only for it to disappear?”

  “And then as the rest of their wealth bounces up the tree of inheritance, it goes up the Arnold side... not the Sotheby side,” Sir Reginald nodded. “Yes, now that would be a burr in any man’s soul.”

  “And it gets passed down, and gets passed down, until we get our killer!” I said. “Not killing Marlin Arnold because he wants his money, but because he is angry Marlin had the money in the first place! Marlin can’t just die of old age! He has to be punished!”

  “Punished simply for the crime of having the wrong name.” Sir Reginald stared out across the city of Sarajevo and whistled to himself. “We humans never change, do we?”

  “So now we can find him, right?” I said. “Find the Sothebys who invested in the film, track their family history, find the face that matches the one we saw.”

  “ ‘You know why’,” Sir Reginald said taking on the same cold tone of the killer. “We knew why because we were there when Jonathon Sotheby-Arnold died. And Professor Sotheby... he always said it was supposed to be much more than just the destruction of a treaty.” Sir Reginald sank to the ground, his legs falling out through the railings and dangling over the side of the embankment. “Oh, I have put us right in it this time haven’t I? Back and forward time, every stage of this mystery put us on the edge of paradox. I wouldn’t be surprised if my speech back there to Heinrich is half the reason he drunkenly makes his grandson promise to destroy the evidence Ebenezer Arnold ever did anything.” He blinked back tears and dabbed the sides of his eyes with his cravat. “I should have taken another mystery, any other mystery. It would have been a lark to visit Mottisfont, wouldn’t it? Find the sneaky brother who was smuggling women in. Why didn’t I pick that one for heaven’s sake?” Sir Reginald rested his forehead against the railings. “Instead I have earned us the infamy within two families for nearly five hundred years.”

  “Sir Reginald...” I sat down next to him.

  “I was worried about you in the fire of London,” Sir Reginald shook his head. “But there I was dragging you along a tightrope towards oblivion.”

  “Sir Reginald, it’s not your fault.” I tried to take his hand but he pulled it away. “Neither of us saw this coming.”

  “Aye, but you’re the student. I’m the experienced chrononaut meant to teach you how to safely navigate through time, and I sleepwalked on the precipice of doom.”

  “That’s not how it looked to me,” I said. “It looked like you were constantly steering us through the shoals and out into clear water. Always pulling me back when I wanted to go too far. Always keeping us on the safe side of history.” I ignored the guilt about stopping Archduke Ferdinand’s assassination barely an hour before.

  “Well then,” Sir Reginald said, like a man headed for the gallows. “To Lucon then, we must return. Bring the guilty to justice, and put an end to this sorry affair.”

  “Could…” I bit the inside of my cheek. This was wrong, this was so utterly and completely wrong. “Could we make one stop first?”

  “Hm?"

  “I want to see John Arnold, in 1666, just one last time. One more day in that time.”

  “I… well I suppose–”

  “To say goodbye.”

  “Well I suppose everyone deserves a fond farewell,” Sir Reginald sighed. “Especially us doomed mortals. Very well, one day in 1666, and then to Lucon.”

  Chapter XXVII

  This was stupid. I knew it was stupid. I had to do it anyway. I stayed out, pretending to be with John late into the night until I was sure Sir Reginald had gone to bed before creeping back inside, waited until I was sure he was asleep, then stole down the stairs to the cellar and the time machine.

  John Arnold did not deserve to die. The more time I spent with him, the more I knew it. I couldn’t even bring myself to go and see him again. It was too painful to sit with him and let him sleep walk towards his death. All the time I had spent with him proved it.

  When we sat late in a tavern and the girls started throwing themselves at him, he would always spurn them for his wife. When we passed anyone in the street he knew he made time for them, no matter how much of a hurry he was in. He even gave ten pounds to the lunatic Jewish trader who swore the Jewish messiah had been born in Istanbul and wanted to raise the funds to travel to him. I wasn’t the only girl I saw him defend late at night.

  History tried to stay the same no matter how much a time traveller fiddled. That was what Sir Reginald said. That's what happened in Sarajevo. Well what was John Arnold to history? Just a burnt body dug out of the ground in the twenty-first century. That body could be replaced by anyone’s, and history would do the choosi
ng. Someone had to die there, in that fire, but it didn’t have to be John Arnold.

  Elizabeth Arnold’s letter was another important piece of evidence John died in the fire. Once I was sure Sir Reginald was asleep I stole down to the time machine and put the letter into the firebox. The parchment smoked for a moment on the coals and then went with a whoomph. Now the only evidence the letter ever existed was in memories and Sir Reginald had always said memories often mistaken.

  I stoked up the boiler and began to build up the water pressure. I fed the boiler by hand to try and reduce the noise but the coals still seemed to echo as they struck each other. Sir Reginald... Sir Reginald wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t had John try to save him. He hadn’t sat next to a man doomed to die, talking excitedly about the new house he had found in Harrow, then Bethnal Green, then Deptford, he decided at last, definitely Deptford.

  The boiler seemed to take an age to build to pressure. The firebox purred like a cat as I flung coals into its hungry maw. They turned from black, to red, to white. A bell chimed and I flung myself at the controls. First the twenty-first century, then 1666. I locked the coordinates in place and pricked up my ears. The house was still silent. Nothing moved. Nothing creaked. I pulled on the time travel lever. The time machine came to life with its click-clack of glass. Lightning burst around the time machine, every colour of the rainbow, and with a faint pop I disappeared.

  For a few moments nothing but silence reigned in Covent Garden. Then, slowly, Sir Reginald’s footfalls made their way down the stairs to the basement door. He opened it and groaned at the empty space in the cellar.

  Lightning arced in the darkness and the time machine returned with a shudder. Another Sir Reginald stepped out of it, his suit torn and singed, his face dark with soot and streaked with sweat.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” the new Sir Reginald asked.

  “Sadly,” Sir Reginald nodded.

  “Then she’s all yours.” The new Sir Reginald waved at the time machine. Sir Reginald dropped down the stairs to the basement floor and ran his hands over the controls, setting in the new coordinates. “Good luck,” the new Sir Reginald said as he climbed to the top of the stairs.

  “And to you,” Sir Reginald said. With a haul of the time travel lever he and the machine disappeared. The new Sir Reginald waited for a moment. The time machine returned with a pop, driverless. He stepped back into the house, tottered over to the drawing room, dropped into it, and began to cry.

  *****

  The time machine landed in the Great Fire with a pop. The fire was licking its way around the Royal Exchange. The moment it touched it, all the galleries seem to kindle into flame at once. The fire took on a sickly sweet smell as the spices began to burn. Within seconds of landing the Exchange had transformed into a bonfire.

  I didn’t have the best view, thanks to the mask covering my head. I could barely even hear the roar and crackle of the fire that tore through the city. The loudest noise was the sound of my own breath through its filter. I was head to foot in the best fire protection the twenty-first century could make. I could sit in the centre of the inferno for half an hour and my oxygen supply would run out before the flames got me. The only thing I didn’t have that was fireproof was a bag with a second set for John.

  But I’d stripped the time machine of almost everything flammable. The books, the bookshelves, the emergency supplies, the cloth, the only thing left that might burn was the paint. If the time machine could withstand the heat of the firebox, it could withstand a few minutes of the Great Fire.

  I turned away from the fire and towards the shop in Birchin Lane. The houses all around were deserted. Everyone had fled, and the fire was advancing faster than people could run. I hammered down the cobblestones towards the Arnold shop to see a hand cart outside it laden down with casks of wine. Jacob was in the doorway heaving another keg out of the shop into the cart.

  “Jacob!” I ran towards him, waving. He dropped the keg and leapt almost a foot in the air. Dark wine splashed across the road.

  “God preserve us!” Jacob said as I approached.

  All in black, appearing to emerge from the flames, I must have seemed like the grim reaper himself. I pulled my mask off.

  “Jacob its me!”

  “Andrew! Thank god you have come.” Jacob took off his hat in thanks. “We have almost the last of the Bordeaux into the cart. Between the three of us–”

  “What are you doing?!” I screamed. “Go! Run! Run now! Go!”

  “But... but the stores–”

  “Better penniless and alive than dead clutching your riches,” I shoved at him. “Run! I’ll get John!”

  Jacob reached a hand towards the hand cart as if he still hoped to escape with it. The sky burst with thunder and the pair of us were thrown to the floor.

  “What in all hell was that?” Jacob struggled back to his feet.

  “What happens when you set light to a thousand gallons of brandy?” I shoved at him again. “Go now! I’ll get John!” I dived into the shop. John was down in the basement surrounded by fallen kegs and oranges strewn all across the floor. John was buried in them, shoving them aside looking for something.

  “It’s here, I know its here.”

  “John!” I yelled at him. “We have to move!”

  “I know, I know, but I know it’s here.” John pushed a handful of kegs over and scrabbled at the basement floorboards.

  “Whatever it is it’s not worth your life.” I reached over and grabbed at his arm. “The fire’s already taken the Exchange. We’ve only got a few minutes before it reaches us.”

  “It’s here,” John pulled up a floorboard. Underneath was a metal box, no bigger than a snuff box. He snatched it up. “Hold up that keg of – what in the heavens are you wearing?”

  “It protects me from the fire, I’ve got one for you, but now we have to–” Another explosion shook us, weaker than the last, but it was enough to crumble the loose mortar holding the ceiling joists. I moved without thinking, hauling on John’s arm and pulling him towards the stairs and away from the collapse. Three tonnes of wood and wine smashed into the floor where John had been lying seconds before. The kegs split and a lake of wine flooded the cellar. Oranges bobbed in it like a Victorian Christmas.

  If it weren’t for me John’s skull would have been smashed in. Even if he survived the blow, he’d drown in the wine. He’d have been buried under the rubble and the wine as the fire passed over. He would have been forgotten, and left, for three hundred and fifty years until someone pulled his bones up to build something new.

  “We have to move,” I said and hauled him up the stairs. There was still one beam holding the ground floor; the side with the wine casks had completely caved in. I had flashbacks to the obstacle course and Camp Ouareau. It was a lot harder in the bulky flame suit.

  “You first,” I pushed John forward towards the beam. He didn’t try crossing on his feet, but lowered himself to the ground and slid across on his stomach. I watched in horror out of his shop front window as the flames started licking the buildings on the other side of the street.

  “Just take your time,” I reassured John, even as the walls of his shop were beginning to steam. “Better to do it right and slowly than to get it wrong.” I still put my mask back on, just in case. John was almost at the other side of the shop, almost able to escape into the street.

  Something creaked. I watched in horror as the last remaining beam started to rock in its mortar. John flailed in panic as he tried to balance; something slipped. He would have tumbled straight down, head first into the fallen beams if it weren’t for a black-clad arm reaching out to grab him.

  I stared at the doorway, and stared at a figure dressed in identical fire protection bracing itself against the doorframe and holding onto John with all its strength. It turned its mask towards me and I stared into my own eyes.

  “I’ve got John!” my muffled voice came out of the fire suit. “Get to the time machine!”

  I
didn’t argue with myself.

  *****

  I thought my arm was going to pull itself out of my socket as John dangled from my arm. I watched my past self gawp at me, then dash across the beam before it had a chance to give way. They slid past me, barely touching and disappeared towards the time machine.

  “John!” I shouted. “You need to grab onto the doorframe and pull yourself up. Otherwise you won’t ever get out of that cellar.”

  “How can there be two of you?”

  “I’m Hannah!” I shouted back. “That was Andrew! Now stop worrying about it and pull yourself up!”

  John let go with one hand and clawed at the doorframe with his nails until he could find purchase. He grabbed at the edge of the doorframe, where I was bracing against it, and hauled. At first the weight on my arm seemed get even worse, then John got some of his weight over the lip of the doorframe. His skin scraped against the oak frame as he tried to find a new grip and he grunted with effort as he slid out into the street. With a final heave I kicked away from the wall and dragged all of him out of the cellar and lay panting in the street.

  “What... what is a time machine?” John asked as he gasped for air.

  “Not the time for that question,” I said and pulled myself upright. It was a struggle. A fierce headache was splitting my skull from the exertion. I pushed the bag of fire retardant clothes at John. “Now put these on, quickly.”

  “What? We need to move,” John stood up and made to push the hand cart.

  “We can’t outrun the fire, but this suit will keep us safe from it, for at least long enough to escape.” I thrust them at him and he started to pull them on. They didn’t fit well over his baggy, saggy seventeenth-century clothes but they fitted with a bit of a struggle.

  “Bishop’s Gate?” John asked as he pulled the jacket around himself.

  “Too far, I have a better way, trust me,” I said.

  “You and your brother have both saved my life,” John smiled. “I trust you, Hannah.”

  “Good, now mask on, it will filter out the smoke.”

 

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