They had gotten in a good twenty minutes of searching through files and papers before a servant had found them. Hazel heard footsteps a moment before the Professor, and by the time the door handle turned, Hazel had already scurried under the desk.
The Professor talked to the servant for a long time, making a convincing argument on why he should be in the room. But ultimately, the servant insisted that he escort the Professor downstairs. After they left, Hazel waited under the desk. She could leave. That was what the Professor had instructed her to do if he were waylaid. He would want her to obey him. Or she could delay her departure just a bit to try to find the plans. She decided to go through the files. She knew the term “peroxide engine” and she would recognize it if she read it.
Thankfully, the servant had left the gaslight on. The curtains were closed, so anyone in the backyard would not see a light upstairs. She slid a drawer open and tried to remember where she had seen the Professor leave off. About mid-way through the papers, she decided, and started to thumb through them.
She found nothing about a peroxide engine. Absolutely nothing. She had listened to the Professor curse under his breath as he had gone through, and she now did the same.
Flopping down into a chair, she glared at the file cabinets. Why did McCullen have to make the Professor’s life so difficult? She knew he had stolen an idea from the Professor, and that it must have been a terrible betrayal for the Professor to harbor such deep anger at him. The Professor could anger quickly, but it was always short-lived. So his longstanding bitterness toward McCullen had to be well-deserved.
The Professor and McCullen had been the closest of friends. That must have been the cruelest cut. Hazel was old enough to know that the worst pain came from those closest to you. And the Professor and McCullen had been close. Not as close as family, but not far from it.
She had a sudden thought. If the Professor was in trouble, someone would be on their way to this very room soon to see if he had stolen anything. There was no clock in the room, so she couldn’t possibly know how much time had passed. But every moment brought her closer to someone coming into the room. She had to get out.
She slipped through the door, leaving the gaslight on behind her. A light under the door might draw attention, but if the servant who had found the Professor remembered leaving it on, then her turning it off would indicate that someone else was working with the Professor. She knew with all her heart that the Professor would not give her away. Not even if they beat him or tortured him. So she was obligated to be careful and not do anything to foolishly make her presence known.
Feeling very much the trusted and clever friend of an important person, Hazel slid along the hall and down the back staircase. All of the servants were downstairs as far as she could tell, assisting with the mummy party. Good.
She wished she could see the mummy. Once, when her parents were alive, her father had shown her pictures of Egypt. There had been an illustration of a pyramid with slaves in loincloths toiling under the blazing Egyptian sun. Taller men brandishing whips had stood over them, looking menacing. Those were the overseers, her father had explained. Hazel had never been to a plantation, but she knew that there were slaves and overseers there too.
She snapped to attention as she heard someone approaching. She could not afford to daydream. She slipped into an empty room while the person passed, and then hurried down the hallway. She was in the shadows in the dark downstairs hallway when a couple crossed the hall in front of her. They were moving from the main house into the conservatory. That was the direction she was heading, as it put her closest to the back garden gate.
Thankfully, the couple passed through the conservatory and out the French doors at the back. Once they were gone, Hazel crept into the conservatory, which had more light than the dark hallway. That was comforting, but also left her more open to being seen.
The conservatory was enormous and octagonal, with a domed glass roof and glass walls on all sides except the one attached to the main house. A large round area at the center was paved in gray stones. At its exact center was a three-tiered planter, filled with ivy and other draping greenery. Off to one side of the paved area sat a garden table with two chairs. Orange and lemon trees ringed the area, surrounded by lower, thicker plants. Hazel chose a spot under the plants with the largest leaves and peered through the glass to the outside.
It was warm and moist in the conservatory, and she felt sweaty. She knew that once she calmed down, she would feel cooler. Fear always made her hot. She tried to still her thoughts and focus on being small and unobtrusive.
The couple outside walked slowly, so slowly, to a little bench at one end of the yard. They sat and talked for the longest time. Then another couple emerged from another part of the house and meandered around the yard, then came in through the conservatory. Couples and groups came and went, and still Hazel waited.
Her legs felt cramped, and she had to move from her squatting position to settling herself on the ground. She knew it would get dirt on her trousers and Mrs. Washington might scold her if she ever washed them. She hoped she could stay with the Professor long enough for that to happen.
The crowd thinned, and then she saw two servants check the conservatory and then the yard. She hoped it meant that they were clearing out any remaining guests. Her chance to leave was coming.
A young blonde man with a thin moustache and narrow face came in and sat down at the garden table. He crossed his feet at the ankle and leaned back, crossing his arms. He looked like he was settling in to wait for something. Hazel cursed silently, trying a particularly vulgar phrase she had heard one of the street boys use. It suited the situation, she thought. She would never have said it aloud, but felt justified in thinking it. She came up with other phrases as she waited.
“I am so glad you were able to wait for me,” said a silhouetted man in the doorway. The man had a very faint Irish accent. This must be McCullen.
“How could I refuse? I’ve wanted to join Krewe Taranis for some time.”
“Your uncle spoke highly of you,” said McCullen. “Tell me what you know about the krewe.”
Hazel tried to listen, but her mind drifted as the younger man leaned forward and spoke to McCullen excitedly. The man was clearly enamored of this krewe and with McCullen himself. He rambled on, smiling and nodding in agreement with whatever McCullen said. He reminded Hazel of a puppy, trying to play with an older, grumpier dog.
She snapped to attention at the word, “war.”
“Your uncle told you that?” said McCullen.
The young man looked as if he had made a mistake and wanted to take back his words. “Only a little. I figured out the rest myself.”
“Very astute. What else have you figured out?”
“I’m not sure, but it looks like Ireland and France might join the South. But then there is Wales.”
Even Hazel knew that Wales had one of the most formidable militaries in the world. A war with Wales involved would be bloody and terrible.
“And Buchanan?” asked McCullen softly.
Hazel remembered that Buchanan had won the last presidential election. He would take office in a few weeks.
“I heard he didn’t survive. Breckinridge will take his place.”
Hazel got a chill. The future president was dead?
“I heard the krewe did Lincoln as well. Is that true?” asked the young man.
Hazel couldn’t see McCullen’s face now, but she saw the young man draw back a fraction.
McCullen waited a few seconds and then spoke. “The krewe is solely for making floats. Do you understand?”
The young man nodded, looking down at his hands. And at that moment, Hazel felt sorry for him.
Chapter 17
“Seamus Connor, born January 17th, 1832, Dublin, Ireland, it says.” An officer was reading from a fil
e. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s what I told the first man who was in here.” Seamus sat in a back room of the police station. The room had two chairs, one table and one grimy window. A single gaslight hissed in its bracket on the wall. Thankfully, he had not been placed in a cell. The very idea made his heart pound and his palms sweat.
He had already given his statement, explaining that he had wandered off into McCullen’s house out of curiosity, but as he had taken nothing, they could not charge him with theft. He hoped it was only a matter of time before he could leave. He was more than weary of this little display of McCullen’s power.
Another man entered and took a seat across the table from Seamus. He was wearing ordinary street clothes with a black duster. Not an officer then. He was of medium build and height with brown hair and eyes. He looked familiar, though Seamus thought he had the sort of face that is so ordinary, there might be hundreds like it in the world.
“My name is Neil Grey. And I believe we have a few things to discuss.” Mr. Grey nodded and the officer left them, shutting the solid wooden door behind him. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
Something about the man made Seamus relax a fraction. But he couldn’t let his fatigue cloud his wits. If Grey wasn’t with the police force, he could be in McCullen’s employ.
“I know you would like to return home,” said Grey. “So I will be brief. I am the consulting detective assigned to a particular case, and you are going to assist me.”
“Is that so?” Seamus was in no mood to be bullied further. If this man had the idea that he was easy to control or intimidate, then he was in for disappointment.
“Well, you have a choice, of course,” said Mr. Grey. “I cannot force you to assist. But you are uniquely qualified, we need your help, and you need ours.”
“Who is the ‘we’ of which you speak?”
Grey looked pleased, as if Seamus was a child who had learned to tie his shoes. It put Seamus’s teeth on edge. Any friendliness he felt toward the man evaporated.
“I work with a private agency,” said Mr. Grey. “I was called in because the New Orleans Police Department has found itself in need of our services. The first detective they assigned to this case ended up dead. Now, here is what we have so far.” Grey slid a few pages across the table to Seamus. “They are notes on the McCullen peroxide engine. You know of the accidents, I presume?”
“I’ve heard that some of the engines explode. Something is wrong with them.”
“Indeed, something is. And we need your help in finding out what it is,” said Grey.
“Who are you working with?”
“The New Orleans Police Department.”
“You said you were a consulting detective. Consulting from where?”
Grey pulled out a page and laid it on top. “Would you be so kind as to look at this?”
“If you need me to help, you can meet with me at my house properly instead of trying to convince me in a police station in the middle of the night.”
“You’ve never stood on formalities before, Mr. Connor.”
“You know nothing about me. We’ve never met before.”
“Of course not,” said Grey. But there was the slightest hint of pleasure in his look, as if they were friends.
“Where do I know you from?” asked Seamus. “You look familiar.”
“As you said, we have not met before.”
His curiosity got the better of him and Seamus looked over the first page, then through the rest of the file. There was nothing containing information on the blue tube or its role in the machine. There were, however, numerous reports of explosions and injuries.
“You need me to see why the engines are exploding.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can save you some trouble. I don’t know. As I’m sure McCullen has reported, I purchased an engine, took it apart and couldn’t figure out how he’s getting such high energy output out of the cursed thing.”
“So, you have no idea why they are exploding?”
“None, I can’t even figure out how the engines are supposed to work under normal circumstances, let alone what makes them explode. I’m afraid I am no help to you.”
“You are too modest, Mr. Connor.”
“If I had a way of finding out why people are being harmed by these things, I’d be happy to supply the information. There’s no love lost between me and McCullen. But I’m sure you already know that. Tell me, do you have any copies of the plans for the engine?”
“We do not. It is a closely guarded secret,” said Grey.
Seamus knew that fact all too well.
“Is there any way to get an engine to dismantle?” Seamus asked.
“Unfortunately, no. The McCullen Company is very selective in choosing customers, an admittedly odd marketing strategy. But effective, in this case. There is far more demand for the engines than can currently be met. The cost of the engines has been driven to astonishing levels.”
“Couldn’t the police confiscate an engine from someone who already has one?”
“They could, but they won’t. The engines all belong to well-to-do families, the explosions have been kept quiet and if you ask me, a few palms in the police department have been greased.”
“That’s a serious accusation.”
“Yes. But I tell you because I need your assistance. You are the inventor of the peroxide engine and you were close with McCullen. You have the best chance of discovering what is happening with these engines.”
“This doesn’t make sense. Why do you care how the engines work? They injure people. Isn’t that enough?”
Mr. Grey had the faintly pleased look again.
Seamus shoved the papers back across the desk. “I’m knackered. I need to go home.”
“If you wish, Mr. Doyle.”
Seamus froze. Mr. Grey met and held his eyes. There was no malice in Grey’s face, none of the triumph that Seamus would expect a person to have who knew his name. This man did not draw pleasure from the power he held. No, he looked, what was it? Almost sad. As if he did not enjoy what he had to do. It was the look his father had worn when he carried a switch to the barn after Seamus had done something wrong.
“My surname name is Connor,” Seamus said. If there was any chance of avoiding this, he would take it.
“The police do not know. I have not told them. But I do require your help.” Mr. Grey stacked the papers, taking longer than was necessary.
“And if I do not help you?”
Mr. Grey opened his hands in a gesture to say that anything could happen.
Chapter 18
“Oh, thank heaven!” cried Mrs. Washington and drew Seamus into her arms. Seamus’s housekeeper had never embraced him before, and after a moment of him awkwardly patting her back, she pulled away, muttering an apology.
“It’s all right,” Seamus said. He pushed the front door closed behind him and secured the lock.
“I was just so worried after Miss Sanchez told me what had happened at that awful man’s party,” said Mrs. Washington. “I was going to go down to visit the bank in the morning, and then Miss Sanchez was going to go to the law office downtown.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary anymore,” he said.
Felicia stood behind Mrs. Washington, a broad smile on her face. “I take it they released you?”
“More or less,” he said. “They didn’t charge me with anything, but someone from the police office will be here in the morning.”
There was the sound of a knock at the back kitchen door. Seamus went to the kitchen, only to see a short silhouette through the door’s wavering glass panes. He opened the door.
“Hey, Professor,” said Henry. The boy wiped his feet on the mat and removed his cap. He
was filthy with dirt caked all over his trousers, shoes and hands. The boy also had purplish circles under his eyes, but then, it would be dawn in a few hours and he had not slept.
“What happened?” Miss Sanchez asked Henry. “Did you walk all the way home? Alone in the dark?”
“I had enough money to hire a cab.”
Miss Sanchez didn’t look pleased with the idea of Henry alone at night. Of course, that was the boy’s usual state, but Seamus knew that Miss Sanchez disapproved. Now that he thought of it, the idea of Henry alone at night bothered him as well. Strange that it had not concerned him before.
Henry dropped into a chair and rubbed his eyes. “I heard something that McCullen said. It was about a war.”
Seamus caught Miss Sanchez’s eye. She took a seat across from Henry.
“What did he say?” Miss Sanchez asked.
“He was talking about a krewe. And this younger man was with him. The younger man said something about a war. And France and Ireland might join in. And Wales.”
“Wales?” Seamus let out a breath and took a seat. “Let’s hope not. What exactly did he say?”
Henry paused as he collected his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Professor. But I didn’t listen in very well until they mentioned a war and then those countries. Then they said something about Buchanan. The young man said Buchanan didn’t survive, and Breckinridge would take his place.”
“Didn’t survive what?” Seamus asked.
Henry shook his head. “He didn’t say. Just that he didn’t survive. And then the younger man said that he had heard that the krewe did someone else. I think the name had an L.”
The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series) Page 13