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

by Paul Crilley

  He checked under the bed but there was nothing there. Tweed ran a hand over the floor. Not even dust. That made him wonder. Was there a way to track down his housekeeper? Perhaps she knew something.

  He dismissed this thought. No time.

  “Here. Give me a hand,” said Tweed, indicating the mattress.

  They both heaved the heavy mattress up, but there was nothing beneath it.

  The drawers and cupboard were likewise empty.

  “I told you,” said Octavia. “It's like no one has ever lived here.”

  “Let's check the office.”

  Tweed sat down at the desk in the office, placing the candleholder in the center so he could see what he was doing. He opened each drawer, but all of them were empty. He glanced up at Octavia, who was busy searching the writing desk on the other side of the room.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing. A few used pen nibs. An empty ink pot.”

  Tweed sighed and got to his feet. Every filing cabinet had been cleared out. The man really had done a thorough job. He turned back to the desk and started pulling the drawers out, placing them in a pile on the floor. Once he'd finished he picked up the candle, got down onto this knees, and peered into the enclosed space where the drawers were housed. Hope flared slightly. There were items there, items that had been pushed out of overfull drawers and fallen down the back. There was some blank paper, a few envelopes, but nothing that could help him. He checked the other side. More of the same, including a full pad of cream-colored writing paper. Of good quality, but no help to him.

  He was about to toss it back when something caught his eye. At the top of the pad was a name and a logo. He held it to the candle.

  “The Savoy,” followed by the address of the hotel. Tweed quickly checked the paper from the left side of the desk. It was older, but it also had the name and address of the Savoy at the top.

  Meriweather had obviously been to the hotel a few times in the past and had stolen the stationary. Could this be where he'd gone? To his favorite hotel?

  He showed it to Octavia. “It's possible,” she said, “and we don't have any other options anyway, do we?”

  Octavia looked a bit of a mess. Most of her clothes were black from the smoke at the Ministry, and there were scratches on her cheeks and forehead from broken glass. But Tweed, well, he reckoned he looked pretty good actually. He'd wiped the blood away from his ears and nose, he had his long charcoal jacket on again, and he was feeling like himself once more.

  But he didn't look rich. Which meant they couldn't just walk into the Savoy as if they belonged. They needed a plan.

  “I just saw you get run over by a steam carriage,” said Tweed as they hurried along the Strand.

  “No. How does that help us find out if Meriweather's there?”

  “You can faint and I'll check their books.”

  “And you think Meriweather will have used his real name? Not too smart.”

  “He's not smart, is he? Otherwise he wouldn't be involved in all this.”

  “He's a Babbage engineer. A programmer. He's very smart. How about this? I found you wandering outside the hotel in a daze and the only words you will say are a description of Meriweather. Otherwise you're a dumb mute.”

  “No one would believe that.”

  “No, you're right,” said Octavia thoughtfully. “The mute thing? Don't think you'd be able to pull it off.”

  “Actually, I was referring to the dumb part. Why don't we just go with my original idea.”

  “Which was?”

  “To bribe the desk clerk.”

  “Because we don't have any money. At least, I don't. Do you?”

  “Not enough,” said Tweed.

  By this time they had arrived at the hotel. Wide, well-swept stairs led up to polished glass doors. The inside was brightly lit, tasteful chairs and small tables placed elegantly around the cavernous lobby.

  Tweed dashed up the stairs and swept past the sleepy-looking doorman—it was just after five in the morning, after all—striding purposefully to the front desk. He flashed his leather wallet at the startled clerk. “Henry Meriweather. Where is he?”

  “W-what? I'm sorry?”

  Tweed slammed his hand on the wood. “Don't waste my time or I'll have you down to the Yard quicker than you can say large and lonely cellmate. This woman,” he said, indicating Octavia, who was just approaching, “this poor, defenseless woman. Have you no pity?” asked Tweed. “Have you no shame?”

  “Wha…? I don't understand,” the clerk almost wailed. “What's happening?”

  “One of your guests, a Mister Henry Meriweather, agreed to a deal whereby Miss…” Tweed turned to face Octavia as if searching for her name. He winked. “Miss Jade Aurora would be paid for services rend—”

  “Actually, the truth is, he's my father,” interrupted Octavia, sweeping forward and elbowing Tweed out of the way. “He's a scoundrel and a cad and he recently ran out on my mother, myself, and my sisters—my five sisters, two of whom have whooping cough—to depart these shores with his mistress, a villainous gold digger. I simply want to try to convince him to stay, to face up to his responsibilities. And if…if he still wishes to go, why, then I simply hope to say goodbye to my father.”

  Tweed stared at Octavia, admiring her performance. She even managed to squeeze out a tear! Magnificent.

  It would never work, though—

  Tweed turned to the clerk to find tears running down his cheeks. He leaned forward and grabbed Octavia's hands. “Oh, Miss. What a sad story. Of course I will help! Just let me know what I can do.”

  “I merely wish to know his room number, so that I may have my last words with him.”

  The clerk nodded and sniffed. “And you said his name was?”

  “Henry Meriweather. But he won't be using that name for fear of my mother. She does have a terrible temper.”

  “Can you describe him to me, then?”

  Octavia opened her mouth, then she froze. Tweed tried to hide his smile. She was just realizing they had never seen Meriweather before. She didn't know what he looked like.

  Tweed let her stew for a few seconds, then stepped in. “Can't you see the woman is distraught! Asking her questions and things of that sort! You know women's brains overheat if they have to think too much! For shame. Her father is quite rotund, bald on top, a round face, very small eyes, and a small tuft of ginger hair around his strangely small ears. Now, do you have anyone fitting that description staying here?”

  The clerk frowned. “I…I think so, yes. That sounds like Mr. Almore.”

  “What room!” demanded Tweed, slamming his hand down on the desk again.

  “Uh…room 306.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” said Octavia, patting the clerk's hand then turning to the elevator. Tweed frowned at the clerk, then pointed to his own eyes, then at the clerk in an “I'm watching you” gesture.

  He caught up with Octavia as the elevator arrived. They stepped inside.

  “That went well,” he said as the doors slid shut.

  “Jade Aurora?” said Octavia.

  “Quite catchy, I think.”

  “And am I right in guessing that you were about to call me a prostitute who had entered into a deal with Meriweather?”

  Tweed looked shocked. “Perish the thought, Songbird. I would never do that. I respect you too much. As a person. As a woman.”

  Octavia frowned, then squinted at Tweed. “Sebastian Tweed, I do believe you are loosening up a bit. Perhaps that explosion at the prison rattled some sense into that tiny brain of yours.”

  “Hah. Not likely.”

  “No,” Octavia mused. “Probably not. How did you know what Meriweather looked like?”

  “Sound deduction.”

  Octavia was silent for a while. “A picture of him on the Babbage computer back at the business register?”

  “Possibly,” said Tweed, with bad grace.

  The doors slid open and they hurried along the richly car
peted hallway and stopped before number 306. Tweed glanced at Octavia.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded. “Ready.”

  “Then let's finish this up. I really need some sleep.”

  Tweed banged loudly on the door and leaned down to shout through the keyhole, “Fire! Fire!”

  Octavia nudged him. “Not so loud. You'll have everyone up.”

  Tweed lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Fire. Fire.”

  “Ha-hah. Very funny,” said Octavia, knocking rapidly on the door.

  It was eventually opened by a confused and half-asleep Henry Meriweather. Tweed didn't even give him time to register their presence. He shoved the man back, pushing him into the room. Henry stumbled and fell onto his backside. Octavia closed the door behind them and Tweed pointed an accusing finger at the frightened man.

  “There is one thing I want to know from you, and one thing only: Where did you build the new Lazarus Machine for Lucien?”

  Meriweather's eyes widened. He tried to backpedal away, but Tweed bent down and grabbed him by the pajama top.

  “We're not here to harm you. At least, not if you tell me where it is.”

  “I…I don't know what you're talking about!”

  “You do realize what they are using it for, don't you?” asked Octavia.

  Meriweather glanced over Tweed's shoulder at Octavia.

  “They're hatching a plot against the Empire. Against the Queen. You don't want to be remembered as a traitor to the Crown, do you, Mr. Meriweather?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then tell us where it is. We want to stop them. We'll keep you out of it, I assure you.”

  “You're the only one left,” said Tweed. “All your old friends. All your old business partners—dead. Lucien and his goons are picking you off one by one.”

  “Don't you think I know that? Why do you think I'm hiding here?”

  Tweed looked around. “You could have picked a less conspicuous hotel.”

  “I like my comfort,” said Meriweather defensively.

  Tweed prodded him in the belly. “I can see that. Now come on. Tell us. Right now we're your only hope. If we stop this you won't be chased anymore. You can return to your old life.”

  “What can you do?” scoffed Meriweather. “You're just children.”

  “Is that right?” said Tweed softly. “Mr. Meriweather, if we—mere children—managed to find you, how long do you think it will be before Lucien does as well?”

  Meriweather's face paled. His eyes flicked between Tweed and Octavia. “All right! Fine,” he said, pushing himself up from the floor and sitting on the bed. “The machine is below the new Clock Tower.”

  Tweed and Octavia shared a confused look.

  “Below the Clock Tower?” asked Tweed. “Why there?”

  “The Lazarus Machine requires a lot of power. I mean, a lot. It had to be somewhere no one would notice. It was Lucien who put forward the plans for the new Clock Tower, you see, and Lucien who approved the designs. He's been planning this for years. The power the new clock draws will cover any uses of the machine.”

  “How do we access it?”

  “Years ago, the Ministry—well, Lucien—had a tunnel built beneath the river, leading from Westminster to the opposite side of the Thames. He said it was for security. In case they were ever attacked and needed to evacuate the government. That's how he got it approved.”

  “That's…very long-term thinking,” said Octavia.

  “Isn't it just?” Meriweather replied. “Lucien owns a shipping company on the opposite bank called Sherrinford Industrial, just before the Charing Cross Bridge. That's where the tunnel comes out.”

  Tweed glanced at Octavia and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Let's go,” she said.

  Octavia and Tweed drove across Westminster Bridge in the early morning chill, heading toward the docks and salvage yards along the south side of the Thames. They stared up at the new Clock Tower as they passed, a dark, ominous shadow against the grey sky. The rain started to fall. Not just a drizzle, but a heavy, monotonous downpour that soon had them both soaking wet as the water blew in through the broken windows.

  “This is pleasant,” said Octavia.

  Tweed turned to her and grinned. He wore small goggles to keep the rain from his eyes, but she could still see the manic glint in his gaze.

  “Cheer up, Songbird! It's the endgame. We've nearly got him.”

  Octavia said nothing, instead turning to watch the rain falling into the river. It was all right for him. Despite the obvious danger, there was every chance they were about to rescue his father. But her mother was still missing, and Octavia still had no idea where she was.

  Tweed must have realized what she was thinking.

  “We've got her records now,” he said, “everything they have on her, including who moved her from the prison. We'll find her, Songbird. Don't start getting all emotional on me. You're always telling me to stop living up here.” He tapped his head. “But the same goes for you. You have to stop living every moment in here.” He tapped his chest. “Use your head for once. She's alive. You know that. They're moving her around. That's good. It means there should be a trail. We'll get her back, Songbird. I promise.”

  Octavia thought about what he'd said. He was right, in a way. She spent all her time chastising him for living in his head, making all his decisions based on reason and logic. But she was the opposite, letting emotions do her thinking for her. Surely there had to be a middle ground.

  Tweed steered off the bridge and turned left onto Belvedere Road. The street was pitted, filled with holes from the heavy carriage and steam engines that carried equipment and supplies to the wharves. They passed a number of timber yards, the high-pitched sawing and screaming of woodcutting slicing through Octavia's brain. How could anyone work in those places? It would drive her insane.

  After the timber yards was the Government India Store depot, then just a short distance later they came within sight of the Charing Cross footbridge. Tweed slowed and then stopped his steamcoach.

  They were silent for a while, staring out the window at the bridge. The metal of the structure glinted dully in the rain.

  “Guess we should start walking from here?” said Tweed.

  They climbed out. Tweed checked his Tesla gun and Octavia quickly did the same. Her stomach twisted in fear. She looked at Tweed, but he didn't seem frightened at all. Which was insane, surely. They were about to enter an underground tunnel that would lead them directly into the clutches of people who wanted to kill them. He had to be scared. He was just good at hiding it.

  Octavia couldn't help feeling they were getting caught up in the flow of all this, like pieces of driftwood trapped in the currents, swept along with no way of controlling the outcome. Maybe they should take a step back to think about what they were doing and decide if it was the right course of action.

  But one look at Tweed's face made Octavia realize there would be no talking him out of this. He would go in with or without her.

  Which meant she had to go in as well, to back him up. If something happened to Tweed because she was too frightened to see this through to the end, she'd never forgive herself.

  They walked along the embankment until they arrived at Sherrinford Industrial, a decrepit yard fenced off with old, moldering wood.

  A locked metal gate barred their way. Octavia peered through the gaps in the fence. A messy yard lay beyond. In one corner was a pile of old, green- and brown-stained anchors, covered with dried-out barnacle shells. Iron pilings and girders lay scattered everywhere, rust eating flaking holes in the metal and staining the puddles brown. At the far end of the enclosure, built up against the embankment, was a large warehouse with wide double doors.

  The gate was padlocked, but it was a matter of moments for Tweed and Octavia to climb over, landing with a muddy splash on the other side. Octavia looked warily around, but the yard seemed deserted.

  There were two de
ep ruts in the ground. Octavia and Tweed followed them to the warehouse, where they found a smaller door built into the wall. Octavia tried the handle but it was locked. She put her shoulder against the wood and hit up against it. It didn't budge.

  “Give me a hand here,” she said.

  Tweed came to stand next to her, and they both raised their feet and kicked at the door. The lock splintered, the door shifting slightly. They kicked again, and the lock broke apart, the door banging open to reveal the inside of the structure.

  A stained concrete floor stretched into the dim shadows. Holes in the roof allowed in the dismal grey light and rain, the steady drip drip echoing around the warehouse. Against the left wall lay piles of massive, rusted chains, the links almost as long as Octavia's leg. The center of the floor was clear, while the broken wood from smashed-up crates was stacked up against the right side.

  They walked in and looked around. They checked the rear wall facing the river, but it was just a thin barrier riddled with holes, allowing them to look directly onto the rain-churned river.

  Octavia and Tweed split up, walking along opposite sides of the warehouse as they looked for the tunnel Meriweather had told them about. It would have to be big—massive, really—to get all the machinery through. How big was this Lazarus Machine anyway? She had no idea. They really should have asked.

  The only logical place for a tunnel of any size was in the floor. Octavia moved to the center of the warehouse, checking the floor for any gaps or cracks. She glanced at Tweed and saw him doing the same thing.

  About twenty yards in from the wall she saw a line in the ground. A deep groove that was filled with muddy water and dirt. She poked her finger in and wiggled it about. She followed the course of the groove with her eyes. It went around the floor in a large circle.

  “You see this?” she called to Tweed.

  Tweed was already moving toward the walls, heading for the pile of old crates. He disappeared behind them.

  “Step back,” he called a moment later.

  Octavia quickly jumped back out of the circle. As she did so there was a loud grinding sound. There was a puff of air, and muddy water jerked into the air. Then the circle dropped into the floor.