The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle)

by Catherine Webb

  ‘Can we get on?’ demanded Moncorvo.

  Lyle ignored him, and went on staring. The old man shuffled nervously in the face of Lyle’s gape. ‘Can I help you with something, young man?’

  ‘You’re . . .’ whispered Lyle. ‘I mean, you’re . . . you’re . . .’ The old man waited patiently for Lyle to find the words.

  ‘You’re . . . the most . . . the work is just . . . everything about . .. there wouldn’t be modern science without . . .’ squeaked Lyle, flapping his hands uselessly in front of him. ‘I mean, you’re . . . you’re . . . you’re him!’

  ‘Yes . . . I suppose I am. And who are you?’

  ‘Lyle, we don’t have the time!’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m your most . . . I mean, I admire . . . the work you do is just ... I mean ... I really think that you’re the most ... everything is just . . .’ Lyle gave up. ‘You’re just . . . very good, sir.’

  The old man beamed. ‘Why, thank you. It’s always nice to hear that sort of compliment, particularly at my age.’

  ‘Well, it ’s ...’ He shrugged uselessly. ‘You must hear it all the time, sir, but I just think it ought to be said.’

  Lin put a polite hand on Lyle’s shoulder and steered him away, with a murmured, ‘I thought that was very nice of you.’ Glancing back, she nodded at the old man and said, ‘A pleasure meeting you, Mr Faraday.’

  ‘You too, miss.’

  Lin led Lyle gently away.

  Lord Lincoln. There was no really satisfactory way to describe Lord Lincoln, Thomas concluded, since the man spent so much of his time perfecting the art of nothingness. His face revealed nothing, his clothes said nothing about his character, his eyes reflected no emotion, his bag bore no badge, his shoes had no stains on them, his face was scrubbed to a perfect glowing cleanliness, his voice didn’t tremor more than a semitone around a single, flat, nothing note.

  Thomas knew that, theoretically, the absence of distinguishing features should tell a good detective as much about a subject as two scars and a hare lip. But today, he wasn’t feeling at his objective best. Lord Lincoln didn’t so much sit in the chair at the end of Lord Elwick’s dining table, as fold himself into it like a paper doll, each limb crinkling up to form a new shape defined entirely by right angles, back as straight as a brick wall, hands folded neatly on the end of the table.

  Lord Lincoln smiled. It was the smile the alligators use when watching their prey nibbling at the water’s edge.

  ‘I am glad to have found you both in good health,’ he intoned. Tess sidled closer to Thomas; Tate cowered in a corner. ‘Mister Lyle does not appear to be at home. I had hoped to find him here.’

  ‘We ain’t seen him!’ exclaimed Tess.

  ‘Indeed? When did you last see him, then?’

  Thomas and Tess exchanged a look. She said quickly, ‘A few days ago. He were busy.’

  ‘Busy? Doing what?’

  ‘Didn’t rightly say, did he?’

  ‘Perhaps we can help you, my lord,’ offered Thomas.

  ‘Perhaps you can,’ murmured Lord Lincoln, his eyes moving from one face to another. ‘Last night there was an ... incident . . .’ the word forced itself between his teeth, ‘. . . at a local prison. Significant damage was caused, by systematic use of specialist equipment - fireworks, and smoke bombs that blinded the guards, as well as acts of assault by at least a dozen heavily armed individuals.’

  Thomas and Tess swapped a look, and Lord Lincoln’s smile narrowed. ‘I don’t imagine you have any knowledge of such an event.’

  Thomas shook his head. Tess said, ‘I ain’t knowin’ nothin’, guvnor my lord.’

  ‘I really don’t see how we could help,’ added Thomas. ‘Terribly sorry, sir.’

  ‘Naturally, the idea that either of you, or Mister Lyle, could be involved in such an activity is ... implausible. And yet - I hear rumours that Mister Lyle has not been himself these last few days. Acting irrationally, perhaps against the better interest of the public, hm?’ Only Lord Lincoln could make an inexpressive ‘hm’ sound so menacing, a tiny invitation to step into damnation, a polite request that you confess now before the knives come out, an inarticulate warning of nasty things to come.

  Tess mumbled, ‘Ain’t knowin’ nothin’, sorry.’

  Lord Lincoln sighed and sat back in his chair. For a moment he drummed his fingers, then declared in a harsher voice than before, ‘I know of few individuals who could produce the equipment used last night - certainly They never would.’

  ‘They?’ echoed Thomas.

  ‘I think we need no explanation as to who They are,’ snapped Lincoln, a little too quickly. ‘And Horatio Lyle is . . .’ He hesitated. As if trying to pluck a thought from nowhere, he gestured, a black iron ring the only ornament on his hand. ‘Let me rephrase. Horatio Lyle is a law-abiding citizen. The idea that he would participate in an attempt to free this . . . gentleman . . . from a prison is laughable. And yet . . . did he ever mention a man by the name of Berwick?’

  The question came so suddenly that Tess almost answered. She bit her tongue to keep silent.

  ‘Berwick?’ mumbled Thomas, the tips of his ears beginning to burn.

  Tess, more composed, leapt in. ‘Yes, he mentioned Berwick. Science type bloke, right, bigwig what his pa knew. I heard him mention Berwick.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Nah, few months back,’ said Tess easily. Now she was getting into the swing of it; she was more relaxed, leaning out past Thomas and almost, but not quite, daring to meet Lord Lincoln’s eyes. Tess had learnt at an early age the secret of lying - to know just enough to be convincing, have just enough truth in her words to be persuasive and believable, mixed in so thoroughly with the lies, that only the best-informed of detectives could begin to disentangle the two. ‘Was he the bloke what was in the prison?’ Under different circumstances, she could have been wearing a halo, her face was so angelic.

  ‘Where is Mister Lyle?’ asked Lord Lincoln with an impatient look.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but we are currently unaware of his whereabouts; although if we could help we would be only too happy -’

  ‘Let me be infinitely clear.’ Lord Lincoln’s words bit through. ‘Your Mister Lyle may be involved in something very rash. He may be entangled in events better avoided; in matters that are far over his head.’

  ‘What’s changed?’ asked Tess with a laugh.

  ‘The nature of his enemy,’ replied Lord Lincoln. ‘I cannot but consider how much Lyle may have informed you children of the situation’s true nature. I know you were with Lyle at Baker Street Station the day before yesterday, young woman - and I also know that even if he abandons the children who are his care, Mister Lyle rarely travels anywhere without his dog.’

  Three pairs of eyes wandered to Tate, who was unconcernedly scratching his ear. Aware that attention was on him, he looked up, saw Lord Lincoln’s glare fixed on him and growled, revealing surprisingly pointed teeth and a lolling pink tongue.

  The children sat in obstinate silence. Lord Lincoln spread his hands upon the table, as if measuring out its width. ‘You both know what the Tseiqin are, and that they would have killed you, and Lyle, before now. Since I think you both are involved in what Lyle is doing, I will say no more, but this. The Tseiqin are all, all of them without exception, aiming at the destruction of this city, of its people, and of your friends. Are you sure that in protecting Mister Lyle you are doing the right thing?’

  When they didn’t answer, he added, ‘Should you wish to confide in me any thoughts about where he might be or what he plans to do next, oblige me by doing so.’ Lord Lincoln rose, and Thomas instinctively got to his feet as well, but was waved away. ‘I will see myself out. It is in Lyle’s best interest that we speak soon. And, perhaps, in yours too. Consider what I’ve said. I’m sure you will.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Berwick

  The place was full of sugar. It crunched underfoot, it was sprayed across the wall, it had b
een caramelized into the ceiling, it was a sharp, teeth-tingling spice on the air. Swirls of brown sugar, and crunchy bags of white, had spilt out across the floor together to create the effect of marble-patterned snowdrifts, solidified here or there into amber and black burnmarks. Little growths of stalagmite-like sugar hung from crusted tables and workbenches. In an area of dim light at the far end of the room, a slouched shape in grey and faded green scurried around a lantern, muttering.

  Lyle, Lin and Moncorvo approached cautiously. Lin cleared her throat, and the figure jumped, its arms and legs flying outwards so that it seemed to grow in every direction as the slouch was displaced by a volume of flapping limbs. ‘What - who?’ it demanded.

  ‘The same to you too,’ replied Lyle. ‘Why all the sugar?’

  The man looked ill at ease. ‘Uh, just something that someone was working on.’

  ‘Thackrah,’ said Moncorvo briskly, ‘where’s Berwick?’

  The man, Thackrah, cringed and tried to speak.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Lyle quickly said, indicating Moncorvo. ‘Are you Stephen Thackrah?’

  ‘Maybe?’ hazarded the man.

  ‘In God’s name!’ Moncorvo strode forward and grabbed the man by the arm. Looking him intently in the eye, he muttered, ‘Tell me where Berwick is.’ His voice, to Lyle’s ear, was flat and unpersuasive, not at all the melody he associated with Tseiqin speech.

  Thackrah wrenched himself free of Moncorvo and backed away. ‘Oi! Lay off!’ he retorted with a distinctly East End abruptness. ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’

  ‘Forgive him,’ said Lyle, stepping forward and pushing Moncorvo aside. Whether from surprise or anger, Moncorvo’s face was white, and in the dim lamplight Lyle saw for the first time how heavy and deep the shadows ran under the Tseiqin’s eyes, and how far his cheeks had sunk over the bone. ‘He’s just a tactless dolt. My name is Horatio Lyle.’

  ‘Lyle? Like Harry Lyle?’

  ‘His son.’

  The other man’s face lightened, if only a little. ‘I am Thackrah,’ he confirmed, holding out a cautious hand. ‘I’ve heard good things about you, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lyle shook his hand, noticing the length of the fingers, and how prominent the veins were. ‘I’m so sorry about my ... companion’s rudeness. We mean no harm in saying we are looking for Berwick.’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘Because you know Berwick,’ said Lin. ‘You help him.’ Lyle noted Moncorvo’s distant look. His face had become the white mask of a tragic clown.

  ‘Me? No no no no no, I’m just an assistant librarian, I wouldn’t . . .’ began Thackrah.

  ‘Why all the sugar?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sugar.’ Lyle’s face was a picture of polite enquiry. ‘Fuel, maybe? Attempting to build some sort of bomb, explosives, Mr Thackrah? I’m thinking that perhaps Berwick asked you to do a little nosing into explosives?’

  Thackrah shifted unhappily from foot to foot. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Maybe very high-velocity explosives, perhaps designed to do something very specific - an exact function. Did Berwick mention anything like that?’

  ‘I’m just the librarian . . .’ Thackrah tried again.

  ‘And I bet you have a lot of time for sitting around reading?’

  Thackrah looked away, defeated. ‘He didn’t say what to do if people came asking! He just wanted a place to think, that’s all he said; to think and work on the regulator in peace and quiet.’

  ‘What’s the regulator?’

  ‘It’s the . . . thing for regulating . . . the thing.’ Gesturing vaguely with four fingers, two thumbs and a lot of elbow, Thackrah tried vainly to explain exactly what thing regulated what, using, it seemed, nothing but flapping. Huffing with futility, he said, ‘Look, I just help him out with research and things, that’s all he asked!’

  ‘Mr Thackrah, I’ve had a very long day,’ said Lyle. ‘Please, please tell me that he came to you a few days ago with this regulator thing and asked you to find him a place to stay and it’s somewhere south of Scotland and you said yes and you’re willing to divulge the address.’

  ‘But . . . but he said that . . .’

  ‘Mister Lyle.’ Lin’s voice came through sharply, suddenly alarmed. She stepped forward, staring fixedly at Thackrah. ‘Has someone been here already?’

  Thackrah hesitated, and Lyle’s heart sank. ‘Tallish gentleman, thin brown hair, smartly dressed, slightly aquiline nose?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say aquiline as such . . .’

  ‘So much for Havelock not knowing,’ muttered Lyle, but Moncorvo didn’t seem to hear. ‘Mr Thackrah, please, if you believe in anything at all right now, believe that Berwick is in danger.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘By the pricking of my thumbs. Did you tell Havelock where to look?’

  Thackrah shook his head. ‘I told him I didn’t know.’

  ‘Did he believe you?’

  Thackrah looked wretched and said nothing.

  Lyle sighed. ‘He’ll work it out. He always does in the end.’

  Thackrah mumbled, ‘If you are Horatio Lyle, then Berwick said you were to be trusted - but Mister Lyle, I don’t trust your friends.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Lyle, ‘But please, I promise I will do everything within my power to keep Berwick safe. Where is he?’

  Tess and Thomas sat in silence. Each studied the floor as if it was the most important thing in their life.

  Thomas cleared his throat. The grandfather clock in the corridor went Tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Somewhere downstairs, someone dropped a plate and went, ‘Bugger!’ in a loud, unashamed voice.

  Tess glanced up, accidentally caught Thomas’s eye, and looked away again. Outside in the stables, a horse stamped its iron foot against the cobbles, and made a deep whruph through its nostrils.

  Tess said, ‘I dunno much . . .’

  Thomas said, ‘If Mister Lyle is wrong about this . . .’

  Tess said, ‘That Lord Lincoln is an evil bigwig, bigwig. He’s the sorta bigwig what gives your kind a bad name.’

  Thomas said, ‘But he knows things, and he’s always been on our side . . .’

  Tess said, ‘Yeah, but what side were that if it ain’t Mister Lyle ’s?’

  Thomas stared at the floor. Tess went on, ‘I ain’t sayin’ Mister Lyle is right all the time, ’cos he ain’t. But I ain’t trustin’ the bigwig, and I ain’t trustin’ that Havelock fella to do what’s good an’ all.’

  Thomas thought about it. Then he looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘You’re right, Miss Teresa. If we aren’t on Mister Lyle’s side, then we aren’t on anyone’s. What do you think we should do?’

  Tess folded her arms. ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Nothin’? I mean . . . nothing?’

  ‘Nothin’. The bigwig will be expectin’ us to go an’ do somethin ’. I just bet he’s watchin’ this house, hopin’ as how we’ll go an’ get involved. So, we does nothin’.’

  ‘That’s not very helpful.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tess grinned a wide, nasty grin, ‘But have you got summat smarter?’

  To Thomas’s surprise, he found himself starting to think about it.

  Berwick. What exactly does that word make Lyle feel? Berwick: a name that over the last few days has lost any association with face or personality. It has become an idea - the idea that Berwick has the answers, that Berwick can solve the mystery, that Berwick knew.

  It is difficult to remember how this had started, how he’s got involved. Event on event had piled up, so the distant recollection that he’d been concerned at first for a friend, has been smothered behind the concern for so many other things. It is hard to think past the immediate moment, to assemble thoughts and pick out priorities, list each order of concern.

  So here is Horatio Lyle in a cab, squashed between his deadly enemy and a lady with green eyes who likes to dance. They’re being driven towards Smithfield, past the meat market, through the remna
nts of the ancient city wall, past all those mean houses and flea-ridden little music halls where, he remembers with a start, the whole thing began just a couple of nights before.

  So here is Horatio Lyle, climbing out of the cab in a smelly little street where brown-stained washing drips brown water onto the sludge-encrusted cobbles and the doors hang loose on rusty hinges and the reddish bricks are coated with black stains and green slime where water runs down from a broken pipe, and where the water from the pump at the end of the street comes out a greyish colour and smells of dead eels.And here is Lyle, knocking on one door and suddenly feeling so, so tired, not really sure if he can put up with this for much longer, just wanting to sleep and forget the whole thing, and saying to the lady who answers, ‘My name’s Lyle. I’m here to see Mr Andrew Berwick, please.’

  The lady squints past him at Moncorvo and Lin and says, ‘Who’s the foreign lassie? I ain’t havin’ no women in the house!’

  And Lin, to Lyle’s surprise, says, ‘I’ll wait outside,’ and Lyle knows there’s something wrong there, something not entirely to do with the image of Lin he’s built up these last few days, but by now he’s so tired, so close, he doesn’t really care.

  So here is Lyle, climbing a flight of stairs that shriek like a Greek funeral under his footsteps; here is Lyle, knocking on a gloomy little door; here is Lyle, staring into the one eye and one revolver barrel that peer cautiously round the crack in the door; so here is Lyle, saying, ‘You make trouble.’

  And here is Andrew Berwick, a short, ginger little man who speaks with a thick Scots accent and has more freckles than he has hairs on his head, stepping back as he pulls the door open and blurting, ‘Horatio? What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?’

  And suddenly, there was no more time left to think.

  ‘Well may you ask,’ muttered Lyle, ducking under the low doorway into a room smelling of damp and unwashed clothes and which also carried the sharp whiff of metal. ‘I’m going to make a deductive leap and suggest the gun is a reaction to quite how deep into the effluent you’ve managed to waddle.’