Immanuel drew her into a space behind a row of cotton bales. They crouched, holding their breath, listening.
The shouting was barely audible through the noise of the mill. Marie strained to hear, reached out with her inner sense through the awful thunder of the machines, and found something unexpected.
A soul. Driving the machines, and enraged.
This was the anger she had sensed, coming to this place. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by sorrow.
She had not the strength to restore this soul, so soon after helping Immanuel. She barely had the strength to stand, to run.
I cannot help you now, but I will return.
The soul’s awareness fixed on her, filled with sudden hope, with unvoiced questions.
I must escape.
For a moment the machines seemed to pause, as though drawing breath. Then the noise increased.
Thumping and clattering accelerated, and were joined by a shriek. The shouting shifted to alarm, then to fear and pain before being drowned by a chaotic crashing.
Marie cowered, covering her ears in a futile attempt to shut out the horrible sounds. Just as swiftly as they had begun, they ceased.
She raised her head. A tiny, distant ping was all she heard. The mill had stopped.
Immanuel stood, listened for a moment, then emerged. Marie heard only his footsteps. She rose, leaning against the cotton bales, and made her way out.
The way they had come was blocked by a tangle of machinery and brocade, the black and silver cloth intertwined with broken metal. Blood seeped along the floor toward Immanuel.
He turned back to Marie. “Don’t look.”
They stumbled back toward the cotton and past it, beneath a latticed stairway, and out the opposite side of the building. Cool night air smote Marie’s face. She smelled fire.
She pointed toward the graveyard. “That way.”
They went as fast as Marie could manage. Bushes caught at her clothing as she hurried past. She did not care.
It seemed they walked forever, but at last she saw headstones, then the ghostly shape of the airship. Jonas stood on the ground outside the gondola, waving them in. Christophe caught Marie in his arms with a soft cry. Marie saw Immanuel embrace Mary, heard Mary’s joyous laughter muffled against his shoulder.
With his knife, Jonas slashed open the bags of sand that sat upon the ground, weighting the airship. As the sand spilled from them he came aboard, closed the gate behind him and began pulling up more sand bags, slashing each, then hanging it over the side.
Mary raised her head to look at Marie. “Thank you. Whatever it was that you wished me to do, I will do it.”
Marie closed her eyes, laughing softly. She was weary, but she managed to smile at Mary.
“I only wish you to listen. There are many enslaved souls who need help. There is one in that mill — but we can talk of it tomorrow.”
Marie leaned against Christophe and watched Jonas slashing sand bags. When all were cut, he reached up and turned a valve. A hiss followed.
The ship rose slowly into the night, spilling sand onto the graveyard. With Christophe’s arms around her, Marie watched the ground fall away. Now she could see the roof of the building where she had been held, now the fire on the water that was all that remained of the Calypso. For a moment she thought it was a shame about the calliope, then she changed her mind.
She much preferred a music box.
What Ho, Automaton!
Chris Dolley
I think aunts must have come into being on the seventh day when God took his eye off the ball. Let there be light — no quibbles there. Let there be small furry animals — we Woosters have always been strong supporters of our fluffier friends. But let there be aunts? Big mistake. They interfere and have ‘opinions’ which take the form of holy writ. I strongly suspect that Hannibal had an aunt. One who buttonholed him as he was about to set sail for Rome. “Hannibal!” she would have cried. “If you’re off to Rome, you must visit your cousin in the Alps. And take those elephants with you. They’re ruining my prize dahlias.”
Which was why one Reginald Wooster, put-upon sap of this parish, was staring into a stiff drink at the Drones Club contemplating the inequities of Creation. Not because of elephants — that would have been easy — but because his Aunt Bertha had instructed him to leave immediately for Crandle Castle and extricate his cousin Herbert from an unsuitable engagement.
“Is there any other kind?” I’d asked.
Never attempt repartee with an aunt.
I tried to explain that I was persona non grata at Crandle, having once been engaged to Georgiana Throstlecoombe — until the unfortunate incident with the Pomeranian — and that the young lady in question was certain to be at Crandle and would set the dogs — especially the Pomeranians, who have long memories — upon me the moment I crossed the horizon.
Aunts are impervious to both Latin and Pomeranians.
“Why the long face, Reggie?”
I was snapped back to the present by the arrival of one Lancelot Trussington-Thripp.
“What ho, Stiffy,” I said, and then proceeded to give him the low-down on the aunt diktat.
“What you need is a Reeves,” said Stiffy.
“A Reeves?”
“Yes, we’ve just found one. He was in a cupboard in the attic.”
“Cupboard in the attic?”
My mind boggled on two counts, one, that the club had an attic and, two, that there was a Reeves living up there.
“He must have been there for years,” said Stiffy. “He was covered in dust.”
My mind reached new heights of boggledom. “Who, or what, is a Reeves?”
“A dashed brainy automaton,” said Stiffy, visibly getting excited and shuffling closer. “He’s dressed like a swami and knows absolutely everything. His brain is positively immense. Barmy’s trying to get him to tell our fortunes.”
“Ha!” I said. “Some of us know our fortunes only too well and would rather not be reminded of them.”
“Come on, Reggie. Give it a try. He really does know everything. If there’s a way to get out of your Crandle entanglement, Reeves’ll know.”
I relented. The Woosters have always had a soft spot for the outsider, and this plan rated a good 100-1 in anyone’s form book.
I followed Stiffy to the billiard room where an even more excited gaggle of fellow Drones were crowded around the far table. No one noticed our arrival. All heads were turned to the figure seated in a chair, which someone had placed upon the billiard table.
Had everyone lost their senses? A chair leg could rip the green baize!
As for the swami automaton chappie: never had I seen such a morose cove, his giant head topped with a pink turban and his shoulders swathed in flowing robes of pink and orange hues. Machine or not, I felt for the poor blighter. I’d had similar experiences in my childhood — being forced to sit still in the nursery while my older sister, the theatrically inclined Lady Julia, proceeded to dress me up like a prize peacock.
“I say,” shouted Stiffy, pushing himself to the head of the throng. “Step aside, Humpy, there’s a good chap. This is an emergency. Reggie has aunt trouble.”
Like the Red Sea, when confronted by Moses holding a note from his mother’s sister, the throng parted.
“Come along, Reggie,” said Stiffy, beckoning. “Tell all to Reeves.”
I recounted my sorry tale, omitting not a single Pomeranian. The Reeves listened intently, nodding his head in the places a living, breathing son of Adam would have felt like inclining his noggin too. As machines went, this Reeves was of the first rank. One could entirely believe he was human.
“Well?” said Stiffy when I’d finished. “Can you save our Reggie, Reeves?”
“There is a strong possibility that I can effect a positive outcome, sir,” said Reeves. His voice was most un-machinelike. Not that I’d ever heard a machine speak, but if I had, I’d imagine it would be redolent of clanking gears and punctuated by puffs of steam
escaping from the lips.
I espied not a single puff. This Reeves spoke like an educated cove. Maybe not Oxford, but certainly one of the lesser public schools.
“How?” I asked.
The Reeves took a deep breath. Still no puff of steam, or audible evidence of a piston clanking away in his chest.
“It is a most vexing situation, sir. One necessitating the utmost care and co-ordination. Are you prepared to execute my instructions to the letter?”
“Most certainly. You have the word of a Wooster.”
“Very good, sir. You must take me with you to Crandle.”
“What?”
The mind reacquainted itself with outskirts of boggledom.
“My presence at the castle is essential, sir, for I need to see the young gentleman and his intended in order to construct the perfect extrication. One which satisfies all parties, and increases the esteem in which you are held by your Aunt Bertha.”
The Wooster lips parted but the tonsil area was bare. I was still mired in Reeves’s last sentence. Could he really put me in Aunt Bertha’s good books? Did she have a good book?
And so it came to pass that in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and three, one Reginald Wooster and his gentleman’s gentle-automaton, Reeves — accoutred now in Saville Row’s finest valetware — left London for the northern climes of the county of Salop and that ancient pile, Crandle Castle.
We made good time; the Stanley Steamer, my second foray into the world of the horseless carriage, behaved itself and required only two stops to take on water.
“Do you need to take on water, Reeves?” I’d asked at the first stop.
“Not at this juncture, sir.”
“Well, shout out when you do. Coal, water, soothing oils. Whatever you require. I don’t wish to return you to the Drones broken.”
“Your intention is to return me to that gentleman’s club, sir?”
“Of course. We Woosters have a code. Return what thou hast borrowed.”
“A most excellent code, sir, but...what if the object in question would prefer not to be returned?”
“Oh.”
I cogitated for several minutes as my grey cells struggled with the philosophical niceties. When borrowing an umbrella, one does not expect said parapluie to request asylum. Free me, Reginald, let me fly away to Manchester to join others of my kind.
“You have an objection to being returned to the Drones?” I asked.
“If I may be so bold, sir. I did find being locked in a cupboard for fourteen years somewhat less than convivial.”
I could see his point.
“How did you come to be locked in a cupboard in the first place?”
“I believe I had been won in a game of cards, sir, the outcome of which was disputed. And, for reasons not divulged unto me, I was confined to a cupboard.”
“Where you remained until this very day?”
“Indeed, sir. Young gentlemen can be most forgetful.”
My conscience was pricked. Had I ever left a manservant in a cupboard? I didn’t think I had, but then if Oxford had been in the habit of handing out blues for memory, the name Reginald Wooster would not have featured.
“Once we’ve finished here, I shall drop you off wherever you wish, Reeves. The world is your cupboard.”
“That is most gracious of you, sir.”
I parked the Stanley on the gravel drive by the front door and removed my driving goggles.
“Well, Reeves, here we are. Has your giant brain formulated a plan?”
“I would advise a period of reconnaissance, sir, to ascertain the nature of the relationship between your cousin and the young lady and to posit a theory as to why your aunt would deem her unsuitable.”
I was impressed. Just think of the kind of plans he could have come up with if he hadn’t spent the last fourteen years in a cupboard!
“If you could engage the happy couple in conversation, sir, I will question the servants. It has been my experience that no one knows more about the activities above stairs than those below.”
“Very good, Reeves, and watch out for the Pomeranians. They are deceptively swift.”
One of the problems with large, stately homes, of which Crandle is one of the largest and stateliest, is that locating people one is looking for is often more difficult than locating people one is trying to avoid. Viz. the Lady Georgiana, whom I discovered, thankfully sans hunting pack, on the terrace as I turned the corner.
I was accorded an Arctic glare. “What are you doing here, Reggie? Run out of dogs to kick in Piccadilly?”
“I never kicked your dog, Georgie. It had my ankle in its jaws and I was merely trying to shake the blighter off.”
“What rot, Reggie. I saw you!”
“Talking about seeing,” I said, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. “Have you seen my cousin and his intended?”
“No, and I wouldn’t tell you if I had. Beast!”
Lady Georgiana flounced off across the lawns, tossing epithets such as ‘worm’ and ‘toad’ over her shoulder. I thought it wise to beat a hasty retreat in the opposite direction in case she was planning to return with reinforcements.
Espying an open French window, I took refuge within the library. There was little chance of discovering Herbert in such a room — reading being well known to give the poor lad a headache — but I cast a disquisitive eye around the room just in case.
That’s when I saw my host.
It is said that Arthur Throstlecoombe, eighth Earl of Twyneham, had never been the same since he lost his wife, having misplaced her at the Newmarket Spring Meeting sometime between the third and fourth race.
Some say she ran off with a jockey. Others maintain that the good lady was the unfortunate victim of an accident involving a runaway steam train. Myself, I rather hope for the jockey. We Woosters are all romantics at heart.
“What ho! Lord T.”
Lord Twyneham barely registered my existence. He was sitting at a table, poring over a book and muttering.
“It’s not right,” he said.
“What’s not right, sir?”
Lord Twyneham looked up, noticing me for the first time.
“What? Who are you?”
“Reginald,” I said. “Reginald Wooster, cousin of one Herbert Wooster, currently feeding at your trough.”
If recognition did strike the aged earl, it left scarcely a mark.
“You’re not a priest by any chance, are you?”
“No.”
“Pity. I’m of a mind to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“You are?”
“If not the Pope. One of them must know how to exorcise a pig.”
Boggledom approached once more. I was beginning to suspect all the roads leading out of Boggledom had been permanently blocked.
“Don’t you have a pig man for that?”
“It’s not my pig. It’s Pomphrey’s pig. The Colossus of Blackwater.”
“Large pig, is it?”
Lord Twyneham snorted. “Too large. Abnormally large. Demonically large.”
I tried to think of something soothing to say — the poor man was obviously out of sorts — but couldn’t come up with anything better than, “There are more pigs in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” And Hamlet is never soothing.
“It can’t be allowed to win again,” continued his lordship. “There has to be a rule against entering devil hybrids in a fat stock show. Do you know the beast is reported to be even larger than last year?”
“I did not.”
“The Princess of Crandle cannot be expected to compete against a devil pig. It’s not fair.”
Drawing another blank in the soothing word department, I decided it best to take my leave and continue my quest.
I located Herbert and his intended in the rose garden, and turned a sleuth’s eye upon the pair. She was tall and sporty looking — the kind of girl who would look good on the prow of a ship — whi
le Herbert was his usual stocky self with a neck thickened by years of scrimmaging on the rugger field. If one were considering opening a breeding farm for future England rugger players, I would say, “look no further.”
“What ho! Herbert.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Taking the air, admiring the roses,” I said.
“What rot! You’re here to spy on me, aren’t you?”
Herbert gave me the kind of look that had frozen many an opposing scrum half at ten paces.
“Spy on you? No, I often come to Crandle.”
“Rot! Which one of them sent you? Brunhilde? Bertha?”
For a man who’d taken a lifetime of blows to the head, Herbert was rather astute.
“I assure you, old bean, I didn’t even know you were here. Came as a complete surprise when I saw you sauntering through the rose garden arm in arm with...I’m sorry, we haven’t been introduced.”
“Josephine Smith,” said the mystery girl, proffering her hand.
Now I was up close, I could take better measure of the girl. She was a good hand taller than Herbert, of statuesque appearance, fair-to-middling in the looks department, well-dressed and well-spoken. Not the kind of girl to send aunts reaching for the family blackball.
“Reginald Wooster,” I said, doffing the hat. “Would that be the Hampshire Smiths or the Wimbledon Smiths?”
“My family hails from Bristol, Mr. Wooster.”
She held the Wooster gaze as she spoke. Calm, refined, unexcitable. The girl should have been an aunt’s dream.
“Reggie! You are here to spy on us. Admit it! All these questions.”
“Steady the buffs, Herbert, old fruit. I was only making conversation.”
I could tell by the fiery eyeball and the clenched fists that a stronger card needed to be played.
“If you must know, I’m here to see Georgie. We were once engaged, don’t you know.”
The card was an eyeball quencher. Sweetness and light returned to the rose garden and Reginald Wooster, sleuth, continued his gentle interrogation of the happy couple.
An hour later I found Reeves on the terrace and reported all.
The Shadow Conspiracy II Page 33