Legacy of the Clockwork Key

by Kristin Bailey

  All was still as I pushed through the carriage house door. I hurried to the stables, holding my candle high.

  “Will?” My voice came out as a hushed squeak. A horse swished its tail. “Will?” I tried again.

  A hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. I tried to scream but another hand clamped over my mouth. I slammed against the stall door, a hard body pinning me to the wood. My candle fell to the floor, the holder clattering to the hard bare stone. The stable plunged into total darkness.

  “Have you gone barking mad?” Will whispered near my ear. I felt his hot breath slide over my neck as he eased his hold and lowered his hand from my mouth, but he didn’t back away.

  His body pressed against mine, and even through the layers of clothing, I felt the heat of him.

  “Will . . . ,” I stammered.

  “Hush,” he scolded. “You’re going to get us both sacked. Get back to the house.”

  “Please,” I whispered. “I need your help.”

  He stiffened, then let go, retreating from me. I grabbed the front of his shirt. My fingertips brushed smooth warm skin, and I nearly lost my grip on the fabric.

  “Let go, Meg.” His hand closed over mine, his touch gentle in spite of the warning in his voice.

  “I can’t.” I dropped my head and my forehead touched his shoulder. “Hear me out. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

  He took a step back, shaking off my hold and leaving me alone in the dark. “You’ve caused enough trouble. I’m not going to lose the only home I’ve known for you.”

  “Did Lord Rathford discover us?” I held on to the stall door to steady myself.

  “No.”

  I almost collapsed to the floor in my relief. For as frightened as I’d been the last few days, I didn’t want to be thrown out onto the street either.

  I could see the outline of Will in the dark. He turned. “That doesn’t mean he won’t. Coming here in the day is one thing, night is another.”

  “I had no other choice.” I took a step toward him, leaving the safety of the door. Adrift in darkness, I took another step to close the gap between us.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded, and I retreated, flattening my hands against the worn wood.

  “There’s a man named Simon Pricket.” I wished I could tell him more, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I felt I was in danger for knowing what I did. I didn’t want him to be in jeopardy as well. “I need you to help me find him.”

  Even as I said it, I feared I was drawing Will in too far, asking for his help to pull me out of a net that could easily catch him, too.

  “I don’t believe this.” He crossed his arms.

  “You can leave here any time you want, and no one minds. You can take the horses.” He had freedom I didn’t have. I couldn’t do this without him.

  Will kicked a pail, sending it crashing against the stone wall. It clattered along the floor. The horse behind me kicked the stall door and neighed. I jumped away, startled by the sound. Without anything to cling to, I felt lost in the darkness.

  “No,” Will insisted.

  It felt as if the horse had landed a second kick to my chest. Fine.

  He was right. I shouldn’t have expected any more from him, and I shouldn’t have taken the risk to come.

  “I’ll have to search myself,” I whispered.

  I moved toward the carriage house door, resigned. I had to find a way to do this alone.

  Will sighed. “Dammit, Meg.”

  Stopping near the coach, I turned toward his voice. A small slant of dim moonlight cut across the empty dark and fell on him. He hung his head. “I’m such a fool.”

  A lightness came over me. He’d help.

  “Who is he?” Will asked. I could hear the irritation in his voice.

  “A man who knew my grandfather. His name is Simon Pricket. He’s in the west of London. I don’t know any more than that.” The words came out in a rush.

  “Get back to the house. If I find anything, I’ll come to you.”

  I fought the urge to run forward and embrace him. “Thank you.” He held up a hand and retreated into the shadows.

  I felt along the floor to gather my candle, then stumbled out of the carriage house and returned to my bed.

  • • •

  Every day that passed felt like a lifetime as I waited for Will to leave me some sort of sign that he’d found something. Every quiet moment alone was a moment of hope, then disappointment.

  I obsessed over the key around my neck and the clock on the mantel, taking extra care when polishing them to ensure I hadn’t missed some clue to the connection between the baron and my grandfather.

  After two weeks of torment, I had begun to give up hope that Will could help. Perhaps he’d offered to help just to make me leave, and he’d never searched for Simon Pricket at all. Or maybe Simon Pricket didn’t want to be found.

  What was I to do? I could hardly start making inquiries on my own. I could ask to accompany Mrs. Pratt on market day and try to discover something, but it was unlikely that Mrs. Pratt would allow me to come when I had so much work to do in the house. Besides, I knew she wouldn’t let me speak with any of the vendors.

  The sack of hay beneath me felt thin and worn as I watched the embers glow in the fire. Agnes snored from her bed in the pantry. The rest of the house remained quiet.

  Perhaps I needed to return to the secret workshop. I had left in a rush after discovering my grandfather’s letter. Maybe I could find another clue if I looked more carefully, but I had no way to know if Rathford was working within it. There must be a way to close the entrance to the passage from the inside. In fact, there had to be some other way in. The large gears I had seen could not have fit down the stair. I didn’t wish to think about what might happen if he caught me there.

  I had to take the chance.

  I clasped my key in my hand, crossed the kitchen, and opened the door.

  Will stood in the doorway like a wall, his hair damp from the rain. It fell across his brow in dripping curls, while the wet shirt I’d mended clung to the muscles of his chest and arms.

  “Will.” Breathless, I looked him in the eye, trying to gauge whether he had good news for me. His dark brown eyes looked as black as the stormy night.

  Suddenly I realized I was standing before him in nothing but my underclothes. My skin felt as if it had just caught on fire as I grabbed my blanket and covered myself.

  “You could have given me some warning.” I sat down at the table, holding the blanket tight under my chin.

  He smiled. “You didn’t give me any last time you visited.”

  He eased down across from me. “Fair enough,” I admitted, though I had a feeling my modesty meant slightly more than his. “What have you discovered?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Pricket is dead.”

  My heart pounded. “How? When?”

  Will ran his hands through his hair, slicking it back over his head. He wiped his face, then clasped his hands on the table. “He died in July nearly four years ago. Shot in the back. The murderer wasn’t caught.”

  I brought my hand to my mouth and fought to tamp down my thundering heart. Simon Pricket had died a month before the date on my grandfather’s letter, one month after Papa’s supposed death.

  My disappointment felt as heavy as a leaden blanket. None of this made any sense.

  I looked at Will and time seemed to slow as I watched the low firelight flicker over his stoic features.

  “My grandfather said he visited Simon Pricket in the west of London that August.” I stood up from the bench and retreated to the fire. I watched the embers slowly dying. “But that’s not possible.”

  “You mean the cemetery?”

  I turned to Will so fast one of my braids swung over my back. I nearly dropped the blanket. “Pardon?”

  “People call the Winchester cemetery over in Brompton the West of London.”

  I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. That was it. Pri
cket was one of the men who had been murdered, and my grandfather had promised to do something at Pricket’s grave.

  That was where I’d find the next clue.

  I looked at Will in earnest. “I have to go there.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WILL PUSHED AWAY FROM THE BENCH AND HEADED straight for the door. I ran to him.

  “Will?”

  “No.” He grabbed the handle and opened the door to the stairs. A damp wind swirled into the kitchen. “I’ll have no more of this.”

  He slammed the door loud enough to rattle some of the hanging pots. I stiffened, afraid that if I ran back to my bed it would only increase the disturbance. Had the others woken? I listened for the harsh rumble of Agnes snoring, but heard nothing. A single tick cut the silence, but it was only the house settling. Agnes choked, coughed, and her familiar snore resumed. Only then did I ease onto my bed. Each crinkle of the straw sounded like the crackle of snapping kindling in my ears.

  I let my head fall onto the musty pillow.

  He didn’t need to storm out of the house. I hadn’t even asked anything of him yet. Surely helping me visit a cemetery wouldn’t be so difficult. I nursed my sore mood with a heavy sigh.

  I was on my own.

  Sneaking away and walking to the cemetery was both dangerous and impossible. I could barely make it to the carriage house—not that I planned on ever going there again. Brompton was all the way out near Chelsea.

  Inspiration struck, and I nearly shot out of my bed. I hadn’t gone to visit the graves of my parents since entering this house.

  Perhaps it was time.

  The following day just after tea, I sought out Mrs. Pratt. She pinched her already thin lips tight as she looked up from her ledger. On the morrow she’d be leaving for the market, and I didn’t want to miss my opportunity.

  Dropping my gaze to the floor, I bobbed a short curtsy in respect.

  “What are you about, child?”

  I straightened and tried to fix my expression to some semblance of abject misery. “I have a kindness to ask, missus.”

  She blinked, but otherwise gave me no indication that my plea for sympathy was working. I folded my hands in front of me to try to calm my shaking nerves.

  “Well, what is it? Speak up.” She scratched at the ledger with sharp, hard strokes then blotted the ink with fierce stamps that shook the desk.

  “My mother’s birthday is recently past and I have found myself thinking on my parents of late. I wish to assuage my grief and tend their graves.”

  The tightness in her mouth eased. “So that’s the cause of your recent mood.”

  A shiver tingled down my back. I’d tried hard not to be noticed since finding the letter. It worried me that Mrs. Pratt suspected something.

  “Yes, missus,” I answered, tucking my head again so she couldn’t read the prevarication in my eyes.

  “Very well. If you are done with your morning chores before I leave for market, you may accompany me. But you must finish all your regular tasks after we return.”

  “Thank you, missus.” I bobbed another short curtsy.

  “You may go.” She returned to studying the ledger as I exited the room.

  I worked hard all through the day and well through the night to get my chores done. I didn’t want to give Mrs. Pratt any excuse for leaving me behind.

  The next morning I stood dressed and waiting for her at the stairs that led from the kitchens to the garden. Though I’d barely gotten two hours of sleep, I didn’t feel fatigued. Excitement coursed through my body. Mrs. Pratt marched past the table, once again putting the queen’s guard to shame.

  Agnes gave me a couple of sprigs of lavender to tend my parents’ grave and a wary look, as if she still suspected I was up to something. She didn’t say a word as I ascended the stairs after Mrs. Pratt.

  I stopped short. Will stood by the cart holding the reins of Old Nick. He blinked once from under the short brim of his cap. His expression reminded me of cold stone, his face giving away nothing of our secret meetings. He was angry. It didn’t show, but I could feel his displeasure lingering in the air between us.

  Immediately, I dropped my chin, hoping to hide the burning flush I could feel coloring my cheeks.

  I hardly had to bother. Mrs. Pratt didn’t spare me a glance. Will gave her a hand to help her into the cart then climbed up beside her. While he took the reins, Mrs. Pratt ordered me into the back. She didn’t have to tell me twice. I clambered into the cart and seated myself in a little heap just behind her.

  Will never looked at me. He was the picture of calm as he sharply snapped the reins. He acted as if I didn’t exist. Perhaps it was for the best. He wore an old gray coat with a patch on the elbow right where I’d mended a tear in one of his shirts. I had mended his tattered clothing, and now I didn’t warrant any acknowledgment at all, not even a conspiratorial glance. The cart rumbled forward. I felt each bump and jostle in my bones as we lumbered along through the sleepy streets of London.

  The sun slowly rose, painting the east in pink and orange, but the rest of London remained under a heavy blanket of gray clouds. The air felt damp from the cold spring rains. They had melted all but the most persistent lumps of snow, leaving the landscape bleak, soggy, and dead.

  As we neared the markets, more carts rambled down the street. Vendors laid out their wares in open stalls. The staffs of the privileged families of London wandered through the crowded square looking formal and dour in their crisp blacks, whites, and grays. From his perch on an old crate, a scraggly brown mongrel eyed the sausages. He nearly snatched one before a fat man with a tattered broom chased him away.

  Will helped Mrs. Pratt out. She straightened her bonnet while inspecting the quality of a sack of onions.

  “Take the girl to the cemetery, then return here to help me load the cart.”

  “Yes, missus.”

  I climbed to the seat of the cart. Mrs. Pratt skewered me with a harsh glare then flicked her gaze in the direction of the groom.

  “I expect you to honor the memory and reputation of your parents well,” she warned. I swallowed. Doing my best to look humble and innocent, I nodded. “You have three hours.”

  Will snapped the reins again, and we rumbled on. As we turned a corner the sounds of the market faded into the clatter of London’s busy streets.

  I looked longingly down the neat lanes as we traveled west and entered the quiet neighborhoods and wealthy shops of Mayfair. Oxford Street was just north of us. I felt as if I’d stepped back into my old world. We were merchants, but my family had done well. I belonged here, not under the stairs.

  We’d had our own housekeeper, a sweet woman named Mrs. Cobb who always made my favorite currant scones in the summer.

  We drove south, near the edge of Hyde Park. In my mind I again wandered down its stately paths. On pleasant mornings, mother and I would walk through the park, and even the most well-to-do ladies would stop to greet us kindly. She seemed to know everyone in the West End.

  I swore I could hear my mother’s voice as she taught me about the trees and gardens, then shared the latest gossip about the parade of gentry before us. The trees and the gardens remained. The nobility still strutted about. It wasn’t the same. My mother was gone. Mrs. Cobb was gone. Yet the West End looked as if nothing had changed at all.

  Will drove the cart west down Brompton toward the Earl’s Court, and I found myself wishing I were going to lay flowers on my mother’s grave. She deserved them. I suddenly felt bad for my deception, but it was too late to change course now.

  “What are you about?” Will asked, breaking the silence between us.

  Funny how he could ask a question and not have it sound like one. “I’m visiting the graves of my parents.” If he didn’t want to be a part of my quest, he didn’t have to.

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “If you were clever, you’d stop trying to find Pricket.” He snapped the reins and Old Nick tossed his head as he picked up his step.

  “I don
’t see how my business is any concern of yours.” It wasn’t. I’d decided.

  “ ’Tis my concern when you do something foolish. Are your parents even buried here?” He gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles blanching under the pressure.

  “I’m never foolish, and yes,” I blatantly lied. After all, the cemetery at Kensal Green was practically the same as Brompton. It was a matter of perspective, really.

  He laughed, and it reminded me of how he’d chuckled when we first met. It was a hard and bitter sound.

  I rounded on him. “Look. Either you wish to be within my confidence, or you don’t.”

  “Your confidence is a dangerous thing,” he observed.

  He was a rat. I clasped my hands in my skirt and counted to ten as he drove the cart past a milkman with a braying mule. A short distance ahead I saw the gate of the cemetery. The tall stone walls, set with narrow windows in close pairs, rose up from the street. The gate loomed higher than the walls and was built from larger blocks of stone that had a golden hue in the weak light of the overcast sky. Four thick columns stood beneath the heavy crown of the gate. The sharp, clear letters cut into the stone had a grim finality.

  WEST OF LONDON

  AND

  WESTMINSTER CEMETERY

  “I think it’s best if you stay with the cart,” I said as I tugged on my mop cap. I didn’t need him. I knew what to do, and I could do it just as well without him.

  He pulled Old Nick to a stop.

  I jumped down from the cart on my own and marched to the gate. Heavy iron bars lurked within the thick arch, a severe warning that this was one place that had no escape.

  I didn’t look back. Whatever I found, Will would have no part in it, and that suited me splendidly.

  He could sit in the dust and dark of the carriage house and rot for the rest of his life. Clearly that’s what he wished to do. It was not my place to get in the way of so profound a destiny.

  I shivered as I passed through the arch to the long open path beyond. The cemetery was enormous. The path continued on and on beneath trees lined up like soldiers, their skeletal branches reaching over the rows of stone crosses and sculpted angels.