Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1

by Paul Crilley

  Moriarty let go of his victim and stood up. He knocked on the carriage door, and a second later two of his gang came around the side and grabbed the Prime Minister's unconscious body, lifting it into the carriage. Moriarty stepped into the center of the path, looking around to make sure no one had witnessed what had just happened.

  Octavia was able to get a close look at his lean face. She noticed the eyes first, sharp and piercing, taking everything in. Then the hawklike nose and square chin, the dark hair swept back from his wide forehead.

  Octavia blinked, not quite believing what she was seeing. She turned to Tweed, and by the shocked expression on his face, he was thinking the exact same thing she was.

  The man standing before them wasn't Professor Moriarty at all.

  It was Sherlock Holmes.

  Octavia felt Tweed grip her arm, pulling her back into the trees. Octavia hesitated, doubting her own eyes even though she was actually standing there. Surely it couldn't be him. It simply couldn't. Sherlock Holmes had been dead for over four years.

  Then Holmes turned away, watching the two men throw the body unceremoniously into the carriage. As he did so, Octavia saw that the right side of his face was hideously scarred, as if it had been burned in a fire.

  Tweed's fingers dug painfully into her arm. Octavia grimaced, trying to pull away, but he wouldn't let go. She finally tore her eyes away and turned around.

  Only to find the fog behind her glowing with a pale blue light.

  The light grew stronger and a second later the Gibbering Man stood before them, twitching and jerking. Electricity zipped around the strange top hat. The fog hissed as it touched the blue light. Octavia smelled burning tin. The Gibbering Man reached up and touched something on his hat, grinning at them while he did so, and the lightning shot around even faster, leaping and sparking when it hit the copper wire at the front.

  He held up the metal tube and slowly licked it. Then he pointed it at them.

  Tweed slowly raised his hands in the air. The Gibbering Man grinned even wider, his lips twitching every time the electricity jumped into the air.

  Octavia tensed, raising her own hands. But when they were halfway up, she suddenly dropped them and pulled the trigger on her Tesla gun. A bolt of blue lightning zipped through the mist and hit the man's top hat. It flared brightly, a blossom of white light. The electricity coruscating around the metal frame spat and jumped erratically, the lightning searching for a place to ground itself. It crawled rapidly over the rim of the hat, writhing across the Gibbering Man's face.

  He screamed in pain. The electricity arced into his mouth and danced across his eyes until they glowed blue, two unearthly orbs shining in the night.

  He turned and ran. But he didn't get far before the electricity started crawling over the strange contraption on his back. There was a hiss, a strange burping sound, and a second later the Gibbering Man exploded.

  Bits and pieces of him flew through the air, slapping wetly against the trees. His top hat whirred through the fog, spinning straight at Octavia. She jerked away, the lethal projectile missing her by inches. As she did so, she saw Sherlock Holmes striding toward them, peering into the fog.

  Octavia shoved Tweed and they both staggered into the fog as a shot rang out behind them. It hit the tree right next to her. Fragments of bark spun painfully into her cheeks.

  Octavia grabbed hold of Tweed's hand as they sprinted through the trees. They had to stay together. If they became separated now it would be the death of them. She heard Sherlock Holmes and his men running after them, their heavy footfalls echoing across the ground. Trees loomed out of the fog, appearing only an instant before they had to duck to avoid the branches. Whereabouts were they? Close to the gate? She had no idea. The fog was so thick they could be running in totally the opposite direction.

  A moment later, Tweed yanked her to a stop and pulled her behind a huge tree. His face loomed close to hers and he put a finger to his lips.

  Quiet.

  The running footsteps came closer. Octavia could just see around the trunk, and she saw Holmes dart past, his face a twisted scowl of anger. She swallowed nervously as he vanished into the fog.

  Seconds later the other two with the smoke masks lumbered past.

  Then silence.

  They waited, then Tweed pried his hand loose from hers. She released it, embarrassed. She hadn't realized she was still holding it.

  He pointed behind them then moved quietly away. Octavia followed. They crossed the Mall, then slipped quickly through the gates and into Tweed's steamcoach.

  They exchanged glances. Octavia could see the same feelings reflected on Tweed's face that she was experiencing herself.

  Confusion, puzzlement…

  Fear.

  Tweed paced back and forth in one of the rooms at Carter and Jenny's house, absently chewing his fingernails. The floorboards creaked rhythmically as he moved.

  One, two, three, creak, four. Pause. Turn. One, creak, two, three, four.

  The single candle he'd lit cast a dim glow throughout the room, his hulking shadow growing and shrinking every time he paced.

  He felt confusion. A great deal of confusion. And he hated that. It meant he didn't understand something. That things were out of his control. Another thing he hated. Not being in control meant that the unexpected could happen. And the unexpected was…well, it was unexpected, wasn't it? That was the point.

  Time to put all that teaching Barnaby gave him into action.

  It was Holmes who had been going around London murdering engineers.

  Not Professor Moriarty.

  Why?

  That was the big question, wasn't it? Actually, no. The big question was why had he feigned his own death? But that wasn't something Tweed could possibly deal with just then, so he pushed it aside.

  So. Why was Holmes doing this? That was the question that needed to be answered. Were the engineers he'd murdered criminals? Traitors? Was it possible that Sherlock Holmes was working undercover for the Crown? That could explain his association with Lucien and the Ministry.

  But no. What was he thinking? He and Octavia had just witnessed Sherlock Holmes attacking and kidnapping the Prime Minister of Great Britain. That wasn't the work of a good person. That was the work of a villain. He was involved with the Ministry, yes. But they weren't working on the side of law and order.

  So: Sherlock Holmes had been murdering the retired engineers, seemingly on the orders of Lucien, the head of the Ministry.

  Why? Was it related to something the engineers were working on? Was there any way to find that out? That was something to follow up on tomorrow. There might be a clue there.

  Tweed stopped pacing and stared at the wall.

  Something was missing. Well, a lot was missing. Obviously. But Tweed couldn't fathom the connection between Sherlock Holmes, the Ministry, his own father, the murdered engineers, and the kidnapped Prime Minister.

  Tweed realized something else.

  They would have to go to the police with this. As soon as word got out tomorrow, the country would be in chaos. People would want to know what was going on.

  They had to report it. It was their duty. But they had to do it without being recognized by anyone who might have seen them at the Yard. Best thing would be to write out what they had witnessed and drop it on someone's desk. At least then New Scotland Yard would know. Whether they believed it or not was a different matter entirely.

  Tweed yawned. It had to be three in the morning now. He had dropped Octavia off at her home before coming here, but she'd said she was coming back at the crack of dawn. So he should probably get his head down for a few hours. He was no good to anyone with his brain all muzzy from lack of sleep.

  He flopped down onto the bed, the springs squeaking loudly in protest, and closed his eyes.

  He was asleep in an instant.

  The next morning, Tweed was seated in the front room when he heard a knock at the door. He finished writing the last sentence describing w
hat they had seen the previous night, then put the pen down and rose from the desk.

  It was Octavia. Tweed blinked at her as he opened the door. She wore her long black hair down. It framed her pale face and neck in a manner he found…distracting.

  “Look at this!” she said, thrusting something into his face.

  Tweed stepped back so he could focus on the object she was holding. It was a newspaper. The Times.

  Tweed blinked and searched the headlines, expecting to find reports of the kidnapping of the P.M.

  Except it wasn't there.

  The front page story was about the Tsar of Russia and the talks that were taking place between their two countries. There was another mention of the state banquet to be held at Buckingham Palace in a few days. There was even a grainy photograph of the Tsar grinning at the camera.

  Tweed snatched the paper from Octavia and flapped it out. He scanned the rest of the front page. Nothing.

  “Is this today's paper?”

  “Of course it is.”

  Tweed scanned the page again. “There's no mention of the P.M. in here at all.”

  Octavia stepped inside and closed the door. “Oh, there is,” she said over her shoulder. “Page four.”

  Tweed opened the paper, and there it was: an article about the Prime Minister touring the building site of the new Clock Tower before its completion next month. He was to be there at eleven today.

  Tweed had one last look over the paper. Just to make sure they hadn't missed anything. “This doesn't make any sense,” he finally said. “We weren't mistaken, were we? It was definitely the P.M.?”

  “Definitely,” said Octavia. “I've seen enough pictures of him during my time at the paper.”

  Tweed dropped the paper on the side table. “I suppose we should pay a visit to the new Clock Tower then.”

  They arrived just before eleven. The unfinished tower thrust up into the sky, more than double the height and three times the thickness of the now puny-looking clock lurking in its shadow.

  “Poor old Ben,” mused Octavia, as they moved along the street, passing reporters and curious onlookers. “It's only a clock. It's not as if it's obsolete.”

  “Doesn't have to be obsolete. Bigger and better. That's the Empire's motto,” said Tweed.

  “Bigger, certainly,” agreed Octavia. “Better? Not so sure.”

  Tweed glanced at her in surprise. “Are you a Traditionalist?”

  “Not at all. But I understand them. I don't see the point of technology for technology's sake. If the clock's working, why change it? And if a human can do a job just as well, why build a computing device to do it?”

  “To see if they can?”

  “Exactly. And that's the problem. I mean, what was wrong with the old clock?”

  Tweed looked up. Each of the new clock faces was square, over fifty feet along each side. They were made from glass so that you could see the inner workings of the mechanism, could see the brass cogs and gears as they turned and diced up segments of time. It was said there would be a permanent staff of specially constructed automata whose job it would be to make sure the Clock Tower stayed clean and functioning.

  “Sorry, but I kind of like it,” he said. Then he frowned. “Why am I apologizing? I like the bloody thing. I think it's going to be magnificent.”

  “That's because you have no taste,” said Octavia. “Or style. It's not your fault. It's what comes from being raised in an all-male household.”

  “I resent that,” snapped Tweed. “I have lots of taste. And I'm incredibly stylish. This coat is a collector's piece, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Octavia, “you can tell. It belongs in a museum.”

  Tweed straightened up and pulled his jacket tight across his chest. “You, madam, are a…a buffoon!”

  That didn't have quite the effect Tweed wanted. Octavia burst out laughing. “A buffoon, you say?”

  Tweed turned haughtily away. “That's right.”

  Octavia grabbed him by the shoulder. “Wait, don't walk off. What about a scallywag? Am I a scallywag as well?”

  Tweed pursed his lips. “Right now? Yes. You are.”

  Octavia laughed so hard that she snorted. But that didn't stop her. She hung onto Tweed's shoulder, head hanging down as her back heaved and trembled with laughter. She suddenly looked up.

  “What about…What about a dollymop?”

  Tweed frowned. “I wouldn't go that far.”

  She sniggered. “A strumpet?”

  Tweed sighed. “No.”

  “A flap dragon?”

  “N—What does that even mean? You just made that up!”

  “I did not!”

  “You did! There's no such thing as a flap dragon.” Tweed shook her off his shoulder and headed toward the spot where the journalists had started to congregate.

  “What about a flax wench?” he heard Octavia call. “Do you think me a flax wench?”

  Tweed didn't answer. He was reasonably sure that wasn't a real word either.

  The journalists were putting away their flasks filled with coffee and tea, straightening up with their notebooks out and their pencils sharpened. As Tweed approached he noticed a tall, brass automaton standing dead center in the group.

  “Have you finished now?” he asked Octavia when she joined him.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Yes. I have. And thank you. I haven't laughed that hard in…well, for a long time.”

  “Then it's my pleasure. Now what's that for?” he asked.

  She glanced at the construct, her lip curling in disdain. “A perfect example of what I'm talking about. That's the Financial Times showing off. It'll record the words of whoever speaks and then go back to the offices where a secretary will transcribe them for the paper. People are saying the editor has asked Babbage if he can create a program that will enable it to pick out the important bits and write them down itself. I mean, what's the point? All they're doing is putting a journalist out of a job. The thing must have cost more than ten years’ salary of the man he replaced.”

  Tweed and Octavia squeezed their way through the crowd, ignoring the grumblings and complaints. Beyond the cordon was the building site. Rubble, bricks, and metal girders had been shoved into slightly neater piles to accommodate the P.M.'s visit. Scaffolding crisscrossed all the way up the new tower. Tweed squinted up against the light drizzle that had started to fall and could just make out the top of the structure. It was difficult to see the clock face from down here, but that was only because he was so close to the tower. From any other point in London, the view of the new clock would be magnificent.

  The journalists all straightened to attention. Tweed glanced forward and saw movement from the blackness beyond the huge arched doorway leading into the tower. He could see figures moving, walking into the light.

  The Prime Minister came first.

  Tweed frowned, staring hard at the man. He had to be an impostor, surely? It was the only solution.

  And yet…

  And yet, as the man approached, it was obvious to Tweed that it wasn't an impostor. It really was Arthur Balfour. His features, his hair, his mustache, his clothes. It was him.

  So what had happened? Had he escaped? But then why was there no mention of the kidnapping in the papers?

  The Prime Minister approached a small dais that had been set up for his use. He stepped up onto it, smiled, and nodded at the journalists.

  Tweed stared at him. From this close to the man, Tweed noticed certain things. Things that didn't add up. The Prime Minister's eyes seemed to glaze in and out of focus. Every now and then the man seemed to fall under a momentary cloud of confusion, as though he didn't know where he was. He would blink, look around, then stiffen and pull himself together. He also moved awkwardly, favoring one of his legs, as though he'd suffered a leg wound recently that hadn't yet healed.

  Concussion? From the blow to the head?

  The P.M. was surrounded by a gaggle of followers. Some of them looked at him with resp
ect: those who worked on the clock. Others checked diaries and timepieces to make sure he was running on schedule: those who worked for him.

  He cleared his throat and straightened up.

  “This is a new world we are living in. We all know that. We are moving forward, heading toward great things. Who knows what the next ten years will bring? The next twenty? No one can predict such things. All I know is that we live in exciting times. And the Traditionalists—those who stand against progress—have no place in these times. You cannot live in a constantly evolving city like London and eschew progress while enjoying the benefits of Babbage and Lovelace's technology. Doing so makes you a hypocrite.”

  The P.M. surveyed them all with a serious look, then he broke into a proud smile.

  “I have been very impressed with what I've seen here today,” he said. “The design and construction of the new Clock Tower, next to the sadly outdated and now sadly misnamed Big Ben, shows the world just how far the British Empire has progressed in such a short space of time. Both towers stand as symbols, one of the old way of life, and the other of the future.”

  The P.M. smiled and shook hands with someone who looked like an architect. Then he shook hands with the people in charge of the actual construction of the tower. Reporters shouted questions at him, but he merely held up his hands in a placating gesture.

  “Forgive me. I must go. I am already running late for my talks with the Tsar of Russia. And before you ask, the talks are indeed proceeding well. I foresee a future of mutual prosperity between our two countries.” He smiled, then moved away with his advisors, heading toward the Palace of Westminster.

  The reporters started to disperse, drifting into small groups as they chatted about what Balfour had said.

  Tweed looked at Octavia. “What do you think?”

  Octavia shrugged. “You tell me.”

  There was a note waiting for them when they got back to Carter and Jenny's house. Tweed glanced it over then handed it to Octavia.