Hounds of Autumn

by Heather Blackwood

  “If you mean your arrest, then no. I cannot help.”

  “But I am innocent. There’s no evidence. This makes no sense.”

  He did not answer, but stood and stepped back.

  She pulled most of the cloth covering off of the hound’s body and moved around to be near its back so as to unfasten it and pull the cover off the head. She saw a puckering of fabric near the base of the neck, right where three seams met. She worked it with her finger. Once the cloth was pulled aside, she nodded in satisfaction.

  “There’s the switch,” she said and flipped it. The hound stilled with a slow groan.

  A constable set a toolbox near her and she dug around for the right size screwdriver and started working at the screws. She was certain that the hound would not rise again, but this was a good sight better than talking to someone from behind bars.

  “Now, Inspector. What is this madness about an arrest?” she asked.

  The sergeant ordered everyone out except Constable Bell and Inspector Lockton. He stepped forward but did not kneel down as Lockton had.

  “It seems that there is a good amount of evidence against you, Mrs. Sullivan,” said the sergeant. “There is simply too much for us not to hold you overnight, as we cannot risk you running. And of course, you will not be allowed to leave town tomorrow as planned, as the evidence against you is mounting.”

  “Mounting? What on earth do you mean?” she stopped working on the hound. She glanced over at the inspector, who looked pained but was trying to conceal it.

  “Someone has come forward and told us about the loud rows you had with your husband. Also, about much of your unrestrained and, frankly, wild behavior. We understand that your husband wanted to keep two separate residences and that he was on the verge of contacting his solicitor to change the amount you would inherit upon his death. He would only be leaving you a modest sum.”

  “Those are filthy lies. Who said this?” But she was sure she already knew.

  “I cannot say, but the person will testify under oath.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. You know this is wrong, don’t you?” She turned to face Inspector Lockton. “You know it. Are they pressuring you for an arrest? Is that it?”

  Lockton looked at a yellowed map of the moor pinned to the wall. She was sure that he was acting under orders from his superior, and it galled him.

  “Why in the world would this mysterious individual be privy to this information when no one else is?” she said. “Why are you wasting time with invented domestic squabbles? Interview my maid, my husband’s valet, anyone else in that house and this silliness will dissolve into the air.”

  “We have people on it now.” The sergeant gave Inspector Lockton a look that sent him through the door, presumably to resume questioning the family. “In the meantime, we cannot risk you leaving town.”

  “Then send a guard home with me. I won’t run.”

  “You already ran from one of our guards, so your word on that is, shall we say, questionable?” said the sergeant. “But for now, I need you to get that hound to a state where it cannot harm anyone again. I’ll send someone in momentarily to keep watch.”

  She got back to work, removing the hound’s chest cover panel. The sergeant left the room, and for an instant, she realized she was alone. The room had no windows, standard for a room that housed prisoners. And even if she escaped into the hall, the building would still be full of police officers. Besides, the hound was here, and she could see every single part of it. The prize was in her hands.

  The interior of the hound was more complex and more beautiful than she had dared imagine. She understood most of the systems on sight, but some took further examination. She wished she had a notebook, or at the very least, a pad of paper in her reticule, but her heart was beating hard and she had the feeling that she would never forget what she saw. The design was elegant and complex, efficient with both space and energy while incorporating multiple complex modules and systems into interlocking larger systems.

  The creature contained items that Chloe remembered from the schematics that Inspector Lockton had allowed her to see, but there was more. Oh, so much more. But for what purpose exactly was this extra processing unit? And why were there too many connection wires, and each marked with a different color ink, all leading from the hound’s head?

  She moved on to its abdomen and the panel that had been covered by the cloth with the dark bone button. She had not noticed it before in her search for a power switch, but this was very strange. The metal panel closure was too simple, just a hook pivoting on a screw into a small metal eye. There were scratches all around it, as if someone had fumbled with it over and over. She glanced at the hound’s feet and then pried apart its toes experimentally. Once straightened, the toes were much longer and more nimble than they at first appeared. She turned back and opened the panel and removed the module behind the panel, setting it aside.

  “There you are,” she whispered, leaning down close to peer inside the hound.

  The battery was marvelous, and now she really did wish she had a notebook. The hound’s battery fluid was low, which she could have guessed before opening it. The hound would never have succeeded in creating an alkaline solution for itself and then somehow getting it inside its body. At least she didn’t think so.

  The door opened and a thin young man came in. She recognized him from the front desk.

  “Is everyone else gone?” she asked.

  “Most of them went back on duty around town. After you finish getting that thing shut off, then you’ll have to wait in the cell.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s that there?” He pointed to the module that she had set aside in her excitement to see the battery.

  “I’m not sure.”

  She opened it. Spools. There were two rows of brass spools. They all snapped into the larger module and she saw where the disconnected wires led from the spools into the main processing engine. And there was another part that led into what she had previously thought was an extraneous processing engine. She bent down close over the hound, not caring if her ample derriere stuck up in the air.

  The extra wires, the eye apertures, the extra processing unit. She pulled open the hound’s head and disassembled it with trembling hands.

  “Oh God. This is—this is incredible.”

  “What is?”

  She paused. “I’m going to prove that Dora Aynesworth is a murderer.”

  Chapter 43

  “Well, you’ll have to speak with the sergeant about that in the morning.”

  “The morning?” Chloe pulled out her pocket watch. It was half past seven. How in the world had time flown so quickly? She must have been working on the hound for hours.

  “I really must speak with the sergeant immediately, or at least Inspector Lockton. I can’t wait for morning.” By morning, Dora could be gone, or she could bring forward more accusations that would need to be disproven. The hounds were circling, but she would not let Dora win.

  “Both the inspector and the sergeant will have gone home by now. It’s just us and a few of the men on duty. Nothing to do until morning.”

  The young man sighed and leaned back in a chair next to the door. Her cell door was open, and Chloe studied the locking mechanism. She had enough sense to know that even if she had a hairpin somewhere in the bottom of her bag, she couldn’t pick the lock.

  But she had an idea. She worked fast, but with care, taking parts out of the hound and assembling them. She worked on her mechanism carefully, concealing the tiny thing behind the hound’s body or under the edge of her skirt. The guard tipped his chair back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Half an hour later, Chloe put the last pieces of the hound back together but left off the cloth cover. She had surreptitiously slipped all eight spools into her reticule, which now bulged. She hoped the guard would not notice.

  In her palm was the small mechanism that was her only hope.

  “Excuse me, but do you think I co
uld get something to eat? I haven’t had any supper at all.”

  The guard opened his eyes. “Oh, yes. I can get you something in a minute. I have to lock you in first though.” He studied her with concern. Perhaps he was unused to dealing with upper class ladies or women of any sort. She did her best to look vulnerable and frightened, which in a way, she was. But the dark thing within her was calm and felt no such emotions.

  “Can I take that thing out of there?” He came into the cell, looking at the hound as if it might still leap up at him.

  “It won’t turn back on. I made sure.”

  It had hurt her to cannibalize the hound’s parts for her mechanism, but she was fairly sure she could reassemble it later. If there was a later.

  The guard dragged the hound out of the cell while Chloe backed herself up against the receiving end of the cell door locking mechanism. She lost no time and stood with her hands behind her, working as fast as she dared. She blessed the extra pounds around her waist that helped conceal her hands.

  “How long do you think I’ll be in here?” she asked.

  “No telling. But hopefully you’ll be out in the morning.” She could tell that he didn’t believe it, but she needed to keep him talking.

  “Do you really think so? Dora murdered my husband, and I need to talk to the inspector or the sergeant. Can’t they be brought in?”

  “No, mum. The sergeant specifically told me he would not be in until morning.”

  He stepped forward, keys in hand.

  “Are your superiors pressing the police to make an arrest? Is that why you had to bring in Mr. Granger and me? So it looks like you are making progress on the murders?”

  He appeared startled. “Now look here. This police force is a good one. They wouldn’t accuse anyone without good reason.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “But all the same, I understand that there can be pressure exerted from the top. For example, I saw that Inspector Lockton wasn’t happy with the development. He doesn’t believe I am guilty.”

  “He seems to like you. I know he asked for your help with a piece of evidence they found. He maybe wishes you were innocent.”

  “I doubt he would be so unprofessional as to let his personal feelings get in the way of his duty.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Now, do you still want something to eat? I’ll get one of the men out front to bring something.”

  He pulled the keys from his belt, but she still needed more time.

  “Please,” she said, changing tactic. “I’m too frightened to be locked up.”

  He paused, and she felt a moment of guilt as she saw pity in his face.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to,” he said.

  A piece of the mechanism slipped under her fingers. She gave a little gasp, and barely managed to catch it. The young man misinterpreted the sound as fear.

  “Don’t worry, now. No one will harm you.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, letting her voice take on a tone of slight panic. “I—I have never been in a place like this, where common criminals have been kept.”

  The fumbled piece was in place, and she now needed to get one final pin through it to make it hold.

  “Have you held murderers in this cell? Real killers? Like the Ripper?” She looked around the cell as if one such killer might be still there.

  “No, no Ripper here. It’s perfectly safe. Why don’t you sit down now? It will be all right.”

  The last pin was in place. She lowered herself onto the bed and the cell door clanked closed. The guard left, and the dark part of her told her to stay calm so she did not make a mistake.

  She slipped the reticule’s strap across her body so it would be secure and got to work. The still voice inside her told her she had to twist the small mechanism slowly, very slowly, and at exactly the right angle so the pieces would not break off inside. Seconds ticked by, and she was almost sure she heard footsteps coming down the hall. Her focus did not waver.

  The mechanism made a sharp snapping sound and she pulled the door. It did not move, but she was close. She worked at it again, this time hearing a satisfying clank. She eased the door open and slipped into the hall.

  She did not stop to look, for even if someone had spied her, she would not have stopped. Lockton’s office, said the dark part of her. The inspector was at the Aynesworth house and would not be there. She had just closed Lockton’s office door behind her when she heard two voices in the hallway.

  No time. She flung open the window and threw one leg out. She managed to get her split skirts through and was glad she was not wearing heavy petticoats or, heaven forbid, a bustle. She let herself out the rest of the way, and most of her body was hanging into the alleyway before her toes touched the ground.

  A moment later, she was off running. She raced past stinking garbage bins and assorted alleyway detritus. She cut down a side alley, turned and ran until she reached the railway station.

  Where was the blasted thing? The steamcycle was not where she had left it and she raced around the side of the station. Any moment now, police officers would be out looking for her, and she had to be out of town by then.

  She saw pair of workers loading crates. “You there! Where is the steamcycle?”

  They looked at her as if she were speaking in Swahili.

  “The bicycle, with the motor. Like a motorcar?”

  “Over there. We haven’t crated it yet.”

  The steamcycle was to one side, behind a stack of boxes. She guided it out to an open space, silently apologizing to the engine, which she hoped had enough water inside to cool it. She lighted the burner and gave the flywheel a spin to set it in motion. The roar of the engine was beautiful.

  She tore out of town, her hair flying behind her and her eyes squinting into the wind. She had left her goggles in the rear basket, but could put them on later. For now, she had one goal: the mine.

  Once she got as close to the mine as the road allowed, she opened the basket, dumped all the spools from her reticule into her satchel and flung it over her shoulder. She then found the lantern, lit it and raced toward the entrance. Already, there would be officers en route to the Aynesworth house and the more there were, the harder it would be for her to accomplish her mission.

  She had the feeling again of being watched, but did not pause. If the moor liked her so much, as Mad Maggie had said, then she could use some help about now. A crow cawed. It was perched at the top of the mine entrance.

  The inside of the mine was muddy and wet. New hunks of earth were all over the ground. Parts of the roof had come loose, but Chloe did not pause. Once she was in the side tunnel, her boots were sucked ankle-deep into the mud. She slopped ahead.

  The crate was in its place, though sunk a few inches into the mud. She held the lantern aloft. The spools were still there, and she gathered all four of them and shoved them into her satchel.

  She now understood how the hound could see in the darkness of the mine. Among other things, it had in its optical apertures a tiny light-emitting device that would probably be adequate to see in very dark places. She wondered why it had not used it at the stone circle. Then again, the light of the full moon might alone have been enough to illuminate the landscape.

  But there had been something else in the hound’s construction that had been far more critical. There were optical pathways that led to an image capturing and storage system. It was a sort of camera.

  Chapter 44

  She had to abandon the steamcycle far from the house lest the roar of the engine alert everyone to her arrival. She ran, not daring to use the main road for fear of being seen. It became cooler, as it had at the stone circle, and she felt the soft caress of the damp air on her skin.

  Mad Maggie had said that things here on the moor did not change, while things in London did. And Chloe knew that with her modern machinery, she herself was a part of that change. But perhaps she had lost touch with something older and more primal. This place was wild and dangerous, and though some stree
ts of London could be deadly as well, it was in a different way. There were strange places here, like the stone circle, the mines and bogs and there were large, empty places where a person could become lost. There were few places in London where one could be completely alone, and here, it wasn’t any different. The moor was watching. She knew that now. But she didn’t mind. She welcomed it.

  She heard a snuffling sound, then a soft nicker. She froze and looked back along the road, expecting to see a constable on horseback, but no one was there. Up ahead, something moving was blocking the road. She crept closer, keeping to the dark and hidden places.

  A herd of ponies was blocking the road. A sturdy little mare raised her head, her dark eyes meeting Chloe’s. She tossed her gray mane and gave a soft whinny, baring her large, blocky teeth. Well, Mad Maggie had said that the moor liked her. She ran on.

  No sooner had Chloe passed the ponies than she heard hoofbeats. Two constables on horseback were galloping toward the Aynesworth house, but they pulled up short at the ponies. As she ran, she heard them shouting at the animals to clear the road. Then she heard one of them yell something about bees. She didn’t stay to listen.

  She rounded the back of the house and slipped through the servants’ entrance. After climbing the servants’ staircase, she tore through the house toward her laboratory. The door was ajar. She entered and turned to lock the door, but there was no lock.

  “Brrr?”

  She lit the gaslight on her work table and found Ambrose’s spool playback machine. She had just opened the case when the door opened. Chloe spun around to find Miss Haynes.

  “I thought I heard something,” Miss Haynes said. “Then I saw the light under the door.”

  One of the bookshelves that had held Ambrose’s possessions had been emptied and covered with a dust cloth. Miss Haynes pulled off the cloth, threw it to the ground and kicked it to block the crack under the door. Chloe set up the spool playback machine on Ambrose’s desk, facing it towards the wall beside the door. She emptied the spools from her satchel.