Legacy of the Clockwork Key

by Kristin Bailey

  It had taken us a half hour to reach the cemetery, and it would take another to return. I didn’t have much time to find Pricket’s grave.

  It seemed impossible. The graves were jumbled together in crowded rows, leading to the colonnade at the end of the stand of trees. I had to start somewhere. Within the colonnade was as good a place as any.

  I ran.

  I didn’t stop. I didn’t look up until I reached the center of the circle at the heart of the graveyard. Out of breath, I turned, surrounded by angels, crosses, and death.

  All around me, the colonnade stretched, enclosing the circle in its grim arms. The series of arches in the corridor reminded me of an endless row of doors that all led to the same lonely path. The arches gave the illusion of escape, but through them, all I could see was the solid wall beyond. I felt completely closed in. No one else wandered the cemetery save a raven roosting atop the silent bell tower that guarded an entrance to the catacombs below.

  Dropping the lavender, I gathered my skirts and marched to the circle of graves. I swept past the headstones and monuments without really seeing them. I only looked at the names as a picture. What had once been people, death had transformed into nothing more than a series of letters on a stone.

  I didn’t have enough time. There were too many graves. The world seemed to spin as I passed the domed chapel over and over again, time sliding past as quickly as the names on the graves.

  On and on, names flashed before me, but I couldn’t find the one I was looking for. How many people had died in London and why did they all seem to be buried here? After searching the circle, I continued on through the graves crowded between colonnade walls, working toward the stand of trees leading to the gate.

  Several times I looked up expecting the bell tower to be on my left, only to find it on my right. I was twisted around, confused, and out of time.

  I fought the clenching in my chest as the hope caught within slowly died.

  I heard a rustle behind me, and the unsettling feeling of being watched crept down my neck. Glancing back, I thought I saw someone in a dark coat pass through an archway in the colonnade.

  “It’s over here.”

  The familiar voice drew my attention from the stranger. My heart fluttered as I turned. Beneath one of the trees, Will stood with his arms crossed. He scowled, but he inclined his head toward a large pedestal gravestone with a cross. The halo circling the center of the cross resembled a gear wheel.

  He found it.

  I ran to the grave, stopping short as Will speared me with the intensity of his gaze. What was he about? One moment he took great pleasure in chastising me, the next he helped. I didn’t understand. “Thank you,” I said, unwilling to think on it further or give him any more than that.

  “Whatever you’re after, I hope this puts it to rest for both our sakes.” He flicked a small rock at a tree across the path, hitting it with a sharp snap.

  I fought the urge to huff at him as I knelt and carefully inspected the grave. The pedestal below the cross was smooth marble with a single name carved in crisp block letters.

  PRICKET

  A darkened brass plaque was attached to the front. I felt along the thin edge of the plate as I read. The first inscription was for Georgiana Pricket, wife, mother, so on and so forth. Then came Harold Pricket, husband, father, yes, yes yes . . . Finally my eyes reached the one name I had hoped to find.

  SIMON PRICKET

  BELOVED HUSBAND AND TRUSTED FRIEND

  WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON THE 8TH OF JULY 1858

  AGED 22 YEARS

  Etchings of overturned torches marked the plate on either side of his name, a symbol of a life cut short. I touched them lightly, knowing in my heart they did not lie. Simon Pricket had died too young.

  I couldn’t let myself dwell. I was here for one thing. My grandfather had been here. He had to be alive somewhere. I knew it.

  I ran my fingers over the brass plate, looking for a button or lever, something that would reveal the three-petal flower I’d found on the clock.

  Nothing.

  I stood and circled the grave.

  “What are you looking for?” Will stepped away from the tree, but didn’t uncross his arms.

  I didn’t bother to answer. I checked the base, the cross, the gear-like crown of the memorial.

  Nothing.

  “It has to be here.” My hands slid over the gritty stone. There had to be some sort of groove or chink that would reveal the flower medallion.

  Pressure mounted in my head until I couldn’t think. I was wasting precious seconds. I felt the heat in my face as I clenched my hands. All around me, death. Nothing but dirt and rotting bones beneath my feet.

  I kicked, the heel of my boot connecting with the corner of the brass plate.

  “Meg!” Will grabbed me from behind, locking his arms around my chest as I struggled against him. He pulled me back, but I continued kicking. I couldn’t help it. Death, it was all death. Everyone that had cared for me was buried and gone, rotting in the grave. Only my grandfather remained, but the dead wouldn’t give up their secrets.

  Will placed my feet squarely on the ground and spun me, then grabbed my face and forced me to look at him. His eyes were filled with worry, worry that shouldn’t have been there. Not for me. I felt a tear slide over my cheek. He brushed it with his thumb.

  “They’re dead, Meg.” His voice was clear, reasonable, and I couldn’t speak. “Let them go.”

  He brought me into the circle of his arms. I tucked my chin and allowed him to hold me. I couldn’t stand on my own.

  Will’s threadbare coat pressed against my cheek. I nodded against his chest. He was right.

  He was right.

  “Let’s go home,” I whispered.

  I collected myself and pushed away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m usually not completely daft.”

  He shrugged. “Are you sure?” He gave me a hearty thump on the shoulder, as if I were a friend. I don’t know why but I was both heartened and disappointed by it.

  He stepped to the grave. “You knocked the plate out of its setting. Wait, what’s this?”

  I wiped my eyes on the backs of my hands. Will carefully lifted the plate, prying the metal pegs in the back out of the fitted stone slots in the pedestal. As the plate came free, sunlight filtered through the branches of the barren trees and the light glinted off metal.

  Embedded in the pedestal, set in the exact center of the slots for the brass plate, the three-petal medallion clung to the stone.

  “Good heavens,” I whispered.

  It was here. It was actually here!

  I fumbled as I tried to pull the key from the front of my apron. I yanked it over my head, opened it, and fitted the petals of the key into the wheel. I fumbled a bit with it in my agitation but managed to slide the petals into the lock.

  “Meg?” Will knelt beside me. I pushed the button and the key began to play its familiar song.

  The grave rumbled. A slab of marble on the base shook. The seam along one edge cracked as dust crumbled out of the gap. It shuffled to the side the way a heavy curtain reveals the stage. The small compartment held a tiny set of pianoforte keys, the same as the clock.

  Will leaned forward.

  The clockwork key stopped in a different musical phrase than it had the last time, but I knew the song and it was just as easy to play the tune on the tiny keys.

  “I’ll be.” Will reached out to press a key, but I landed a sharp smack on his fingertips before playing the end of the phrase.

  As soon as my finger pressed the final note, I heard a chunk, then the tick tick tick of gears coming to life somewhere within the grave.

  I watched in wonder as the stones just beneath the medallion shifted, moving out and down like bewitched puzzle pieces. They opened up in the same manner as the back of the fireplace, stacking themselves out and away, sliding on hidden gears until a small slot opened up.

  Will’s mouth hung agape.

  With great ca
re, I reached into the slot, not knowing what my fingers would discover. They slid along the smooth edge of what felt like leather, then I drew them down over the crinkling ridges of . . .

  “It’s a book!”

  With both hands I pulled the book out of the slot, captivated as it emerged from the dark hold of the grave.

  The sun shimmered on golden letters embossed in rich leather, then caught in the three-petal medallion embedded in the cover.

  I traced the letters with my finger.

  THE ILLUSTRIOUS HISTORY

  OF THE

  SECRET ORDER OF MODERN AMUSEMENTISTS

  S.O.M.A. I’d found it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I COULDN’T MANAGE TO DO ANYTHING BUT STARE. I certainly couldn’t speak. I shook myself out of my stupor. I didn’t have time to be dumbfounded. Mrs. Pratt would be waiting, and I couldn’t afford to risk her ire now that I’d found another clue.

  Will stared as I played the set of notes to close the gravestone again. After affixing the brass plaque back on the pedestal, I rose and offered him my hand.

  He took it.

  I helped him to his feet and his brow knitted as he looked from me to the grave. I took a step toward the path, but he didn’t move.

  “Mrs. Pratt will be waiting. I’ll explain in the cart.” While I could sympathize with his shock, we didn’t have time to dally.

  He nodded, though he took one last look at the now unremarkable grave.

  We ran out of the cemetery. I barely noticed the rows of tombstones as we hurried to the cart. He lifted me onto the seat before I had a chance to climb in myself. “What is going on?” he demanded, taking the driver’s seat.

  My words tumbled out without a thought. I was too swept away by the excitement of it all. “After you helped me restore the locket, I discovered a mechanism within the clock on the mantel of the study. I thought the locket might be the key to wind it, since my grandfather also made the clock.” If only the story were as simple as that. Then perhaps I would have believed it. The truth was far too extraordinary.

  “It is a key, Will. It’s the key to everything.” A cab raced by too closely in a clatter of hooves and wheels on stone.

  “What do you mean?” Will worked the reins as Old Nick tossed his head.

  It felt good to finally have a confidant, so I told him all that I had discovered. The secret workshop, the letter, everything.

  “If your grandfather’s alive, where is he?” Will shook his head as if this whole mystery were beyond the pale.

  “I told you. He’s in hiding. My grandfather, Pricket, the baron, they’re all members of this Secret Order of Modern Amusementists.” I smoothed my hand over the embossed seal on the book.

  “What is an Amusementist?” We turned a corner and I heard the din of the market in the distance. I didn’t have much time.

  “I haven’t the faintest,” I admitted. “I’m sure I’ll find the answers when I read the book.”

  Will slowed Old Nick and looked at me, his expression serious. “Whatever this is, you’d better stay out of it. These are secrets, deadly secrets if Pricket is any example. They’re also the baron’s secrets. He won’t appreciate you digging in ’em.”

  “This is my grandfather, Will. My only family.” I tucked the book safely under my apron. It felt heavy in my lap, comforting and terrifying at the same time. “I’m not going to stop until I find him.”

  “At what cost?” Will asked, but I knew he wasn’t expecting an answer.

  We fell silent as we approached the market. Once Will stopped the cart, I climbed into the back just in time for Mrs. Pratt’s return.

  Her sharp eyes scrutinized me as soon as she reached the side of the cart. “Did you find your solace, child?”

  I pressed my hand to the cover of the hidden book. “Yes, missus.”

  • • •

  That night, I huddled near the light of my candle and opened the book.

  Neatly elegant handwriting stretched across the pages. Like the papers in the baron’s workshop, the book was filled with detailed drawings. They weren’t designs so much as illustrations, a visual account of beautiful machines, some functional, some whimsical, and some purely terrifying.

  The candlelight flickered across the page as I turned to the front of the book and found a list of hundreds of names. A few caught my eye, Henry Whitlock, my grandfather; George Whitlock, my father; Lord Rathford; Simon Pricket. My eyes skimmed past the rest, overwhelmed by them. From what I could tell, there were members of the House of Lords as well as common tradesmen. Even if only half of these men remained a part of the Order, the scope of it was enormous and, if the foreign-sounding names were any indication, far-reaching.

  I turned to one of the early entries and began to read.

  Headmaster Lawrence has accepted my proposal to record some of the most recent Amusements for posterity as part of my apprenticeship. I hope that after I pass my initiation, I will continue this venture, and this record will inspire and advise those who come after me. For my first entry I wish to speak with Charles about the use of Stonehenge as his inspiration. While the Brenington land was suitable for such a venture, the task of having the Amusement rise out of the ground proved daunting. Argus and the rest of the men from the Foundry outdid themselves crafting the gears needed to make the sculpture erupt from the ground in magnificent fashion.

  Lord Brenington had died in a hunting accident not long after my grandfather. The rumor was he’d hit his head after a fall from his horse. But one did not have to fall from a horse to receive a crushing blow to the skull. My thoughts turned macabre. Gracious, someone murdered a titled man. I flipped through several pages of Pricket’s writing on the aesthetics of the Stonehenge design. I paused as I read a single word, the word that was circling through my own mind.

  Why?

  It has often occurred to me that I do not know why we should invest ourselves so heavily in such a sport as this. As part of this journal, I feel I should address this.

  Why did I accept the nomination to become an apprentice? I suppose I love the challenge. My work is enhanced by the creativity the Amusements inspire, and I enjoy the company of like-minded men who serve as guides and mentors for my growing business as well as my invention.

  Mostly it has appealed to my boyish fantasies of being part of a secret order. We are truly a society apart. I find the politics and long-standing rivalries between old families within the order more complicated and fascinating than any of the goings-on in the House of Lords. Take the example of George and Elsa. One would have thought their names were Montague and Capulet.

  A strange sickness settled in my heart. George and Elsa were my parents’ names. I continued reading.

  It is no wonder they have attempted to keep their young daughter apart from this. Their marriage certainly caused a stir. Now if only I can find myself as fortunate in both love and the ability to challenge the expected.

  My fingers felt numb as I read the last part over and over. He was talking about me. My mother and father had tried to protect me from this, but now I was deeply entwined. And Papa! He used the song we sang together, and yet never once let on that it had a purpose.

  I flipped back to the list of names. To my shock I found the name of my other grandfather, my mother’s father, as well. Gerhard Reichlin. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before.

  I let the book fall into my lap. The cover softly closed, leaving me staring at the Amusementist seal embossed on the medallion.

  I couldn’t read further, but I couldn’t sleep either. My mind was full, reeling with a mystery so great, I felt as if it could sweep me away in an unforgiving tide. Everything I had thought I’d known, I now doubted.

  This was a secret far greater than anything I ever had to bear. I tucked the book under my pillow, then a wave of doubt passed through me. Agnes could find it, or Rathford could be watching.

  With haste, I wedged it between the wood frame of my bed and the wall. Only Will knew I
had the book. I questioned my decision to tell him about the key and the plot against my grandfather. I realized I didn’t know the depth of his loyalty to Rathford. He might confess what he knew.

  Powerful men had died. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might be next.

  All the next day passed by in a blur. Thank heavens my hands had become so accustomed to my daily routine, I could shuffle through my chores without thinking.

  My mind was too filled.

  That night I dared open the book again, but skipped to the back. I needed to know what had happened. What had driven the Amusementists to murder?

  My grandfather’s name caught my eye. I began to read.

  Henry stopped by the shop today, concerned about Rathford’s latest plans. What each of us has been given is beyond the scope of an exploration of a simple property of physics.

  I admit it does seem suspicious, and I’ve been rather baffled by my part in what Rathford has proposed. Usually the larger scheme is included, but for this project, each of us has received only a part of the design to implement. I find it a dangerous way to work. One mistake and the whole of the design could go awry.

  Henry is more concerned with the secrecy. He claims Rathford has been in a strange mood since the delivery of the designs. Henry intends to present the design in the next Gathering to seek approval from the Order to continue to work on the project. Surely, whatever Rathford’s invented cannot be so dangerous as to require trickery to achieve it and he is not so bold to defy the rules of the Order. I’m certain Rathford is simply being impatient as usual. If we weren’t allowed to explore new discoveries without the specific approval of the Order for each new innovation, no one would have the freedom to achieve anything.

  Henry is not convinced. He is working with Alastair to surreptitiously gather all of the plans. They are attempting to discover the purpose of Rathford’s strange machine.

  The next entry was more hastily written. Pricket’s neat handwriting became a jagged scrawl.