Cogheart

by Peter Bunzl

  “Is this true?” Lily asked the professor.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I never considered the legal side of things.”

  “Bien. Enough of this.” Madame placed her hands on the headrest of Lily’s chair. “Let Mr Sunder finish, he’s a very busy man. Mr Sunder, tell Lily about the other matter we discussed…”

  “Yes, Ma’am, but it’s rather delicate, if I might speak to the adults alone first?”

  Lily gave a pleading look to the professor. “I think,” he said, “if it relates to Lily’s rights she should be present. We must respect—”

  “D’accord.” The housekeeper cut him off. “You may speak in front of the child, Mr Sunder. I suppose the professor is right, there should be no secrets between us.” She grasped Lily’s shoulder and gave it a painful squeeze.

  “As you wish.” Mr Sunder smoothed the tuft of greasy hair atop his head, playing for time. “Ladies, Professor Silverfish, thanks to Professor Hartman’s…projects, the estate has accrued considerable debts over the years. More than his patents and holdings are worth.”

  “What do you mean exactly?” Professor Silverfish asked.

  “I mean the money is insufficient to pay either for Lily’s keep, or to stay in this house.”

  “You see?” Madame said to Lily. “It is as I feared.”

  Professor Silverfish shook his head. “I don’t understand. None of this seems possible. Surely John would’ve sold his patents? If things were so bad, he’d have done everything in his power to make sure Lily was provided for.”

  “Perhaps he was less circumspect than you imagine, Sir.” Mr Sunder took his glasses from his nose and polished them again vigorously with his handkerchief.

  “What would you advise us to do?” Madame asked.

  Mr Sunder glanced between Lily and Madame, his gaze lingering on Madame. “My advice to you, Miss Hartman…to your guardian…is to sell everything of value…mechanicals, devices, and then, possibly, even the building itself.”

  “You can’t,” Lily said. “They’re Papa’s things. Our things.”

  “It seems we’ve no choice,” Madame Verdigris told her grimly.

  Lily couldn’t believe it. There was always a choice, wasn’t there? Isn’t that what people said? If only she could persuade them…

  But then she saw the professor’s resigned expression, and the lawyer’s solemn face. She turned and caught the brief smug smile on Madame’s lips, and was shocked to realize that this horrible woman was now in charge of her life.

  Afterwards, while Madame showed Mr Sunder to the door, Lily took Professor Silverfish aside.

  “Please don’t leave me alone with her,” she begged.

  The professor’s face dropped. “I’m sorry, Lily. There’s nothing I can do. It’s your father’s decree and, for the moment, I don’t think it would be wise to go against it, despite the fact I don’t feel Madame Verdigris is entirely trustworthy.”

  Lily shook her head. “She isn’t,” she said. “Mrs Rust’s told me things about her – how she deliberately ran down the mechanicals yesterday, and she’s gone through Papa’s papers while he’s been away.”

  “Really?” Professor Silverfish looked shocked. “Well, that doesn’t sound like something she should be doing.”

  “No,” Lily agreed. She took the professor’s coat down from the hatstand and helped him as he wheezily struggled into it, then she buttoned the front closed over his bulky mechanical heart.

  Professor Silverfish put on his top hat, tapping the rim until it sat comfortably on his head. “If you like,” he said finally, “I can arrange to have John’s things stored at the Mechanists’ Guild. I’m sure it’s something he would’ve wanted – to help other researchers making new machines. But, only if you’re happy with such a decision, Lily?”

  “I’m happy with it,” Lily said. They had reached the front door, and she stared at Madame’s poker-straight back. The woman was standing on the driveway, waving to the lawyer as he puttered away in his little grey steam-wagon.

  “Good.” The professor ruffled Lily’s hair and stepped out into the cold. “I want you to do one more thing for me. I want you to keep an eye on your guardian and report back on her movements.” He took a card from his pocket and placed it in Lily’s hand, closing her fingers around it.

  “This is my new London address, you can write or telegraph any time to tell me how you’re getting on. And if there’s anything else, anything you need…” He gave an embarrassed cough. “I’m so sorry we’ve been out of touch for so long, Lily. I’d only recently returned to England when I heard the terrible news, and I felt it was imperative I come visit you.”

  “I’m very glad you did.” She gave him one more hug. “I do wish you and Papa hadn’t lost contact.”

  “Well, it was understandable really. Towards the end of his time in London, we had a falling-out.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, the business mostly. And, because I was sick, I missed your mother’s funeral, for which I don’t think he ever forgave me.” Professor Silverfish gave a start when he saw Madame Verdigris approaching up the steps of the porch. “But now is no time to talk about that. Next time you’re in London you must visit me and I’ll tell you about it.” He folded his arms over the ticking machine on his chest. “Right, I’m afraid I have to go – there are things I need to do for my health. I do hope they find your father, Lily. If you need advice, or you have any further trouble with her,” he nodded at Madame, “then you must contact me right away.”

  “Thank you, I shall. And I shall keep this safe.” Lily slipped the card into her pocket.

  “See you do.” The professor bent down and kissed her on the top of the head, before striding away from the manor. As he passed Madame he didn’t even tip his hat.

  “What was that all about?” she asked, but Lily brushed her aside and ran to the edge of the porch. She watched her godfather get into his Rolls-Royce Phantom steam-wagon. Her last hope was leaving without her. When he was seated comfortably, the professor looked back and gave her a brief wave goodbye, then he signalled to his mechanical chauffeur and they drove off down the drive, making tracks in the deepening snow.

  That afternoon in the village, everything was quiet. Snow had been falling all day, and thick drifts of it muffled the streets. Robert only had one visitor at Townsend’s: Mrs Chivers, an old woman from the village with selective deafness, who’d traipsed through the knee-deep powder in her winter woollens carrying her mechanical canary and its tiny unique winding key. It had stopped working and no longer chirped. Robert examined it, and she pouted and scrunched up her wrinkled face like a paper bag when he explained that it would be a couple of days before he or his da could make the repairs because parts were not arriving owing to the bad weather.

  Later, while Thaddeus busied himself in the workshop, Robert got on with the accounts. Adding the lines of numbers in the book required every ounce of his concentration, and the hours drifted past in a sea of ticks, until, before he knew it, the November light was fading.

  When the row of clocks in their cases chimed out four, he closed the ledger and reached out for the oil lamp on the edge of the counter. Removing the glass chimney, he struck a match and held it to the wick, then replaced the glass and watched the flame’s amber tones fill the room, scattering shadows between the clock faces.

  A movement caught his eye. A thin, odd-looking man, his eyes hidden by the brim of his stovepipe hat, stood silhouetted in the doorway. The chime of the clocks must’ve masked his entrance, for Robert had not heard the bell and he could’ve sworn the fellow hadn’t been there a moment before.

  The thin man thrust his lacquered cane into the umbrella stand and let go of its silver skull handle.

  Outside the shop, the large mutton-chopped gent from the morning before limped into view. Robert watched him stop and lean his wide, wool-coated back against the etched glass window. Presently, he lit a fat cigar and gazed off down the street.


  The thin man was hunched forward, examining the clocks in the shop’s display cabinet. He cleared his throat, took off his gloves and, with their fingertips, brushed the melting snow from the front of his long coat. “Good evening, Master Townsend, quite the place you have here.”

  “We’re proud of it, Sir.”

  “Indeed you should be.” The man tipped back his stovepipe hat and the shadows lifted from his face. “My name is Mr Roach.” Robert gave a gasp, for his eyes were mirrored just like the mutton-chopped man’s.

  Mr Roach laughed. “What’s wrong, boy? Have you never seen a hybrid before?”

  “Nnnn…no. I mean…only your colleague outside.” Robert shook his head and involuntarily put a hand up to touch his own cheek. “What…what happened to you?”

  “Nosy, aren’t you?” Mr Roach’s lidless eyes didn’t blink. The two silver lenses trapped the room in their surface. Unflinching. “My colleague and I were blinded in combat. Our master repaired us.”

  “Oh.” Robert felt hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  Mr Roach leered at him. “If you think we look bad, you should’ve seen the enemy combatant.”

  “W-why…what happened to him?”

  “Let’s just say he lost his head.”

  Robert gulped, and Mr Roach laughed.

  “Of course we wouldn’t even be fighting wars if mechs could do the job, but they’re far too stupid.”

  Robert’s blood boiled at such a lie – he knew mechs couldn’t kill humans, it had nothing to do with them being stupid.

  “And now I must speak with your master, the clockmaker,” Mr Roach was saying.

  Robert realized his mouth had fallen open, and snapped it shut. “I’m afraid Da’s busy. Were you looking for something in particular?” He had a horrible notion he knew exactly what the man was nosing for.

  “So the clockmaker’s your father?” Mr Roach’s mirrored eyes gleamed. “Surely you have some idea of our foxing problem?” He gestured with his black gloves, indicating the mutton-chopped fellow outside. “You met my colleague, Mr Mould, on the street yesterday morning and were kind enough to give him some information about the mechanimal we’re looking for. Only your information proved to be false. Now we’re wondering if you know something more.”

  “Are you from the police?”

  “Exactly so, boy.” Mr Roach gave a parrying smile, though his eyes remained cold. “A very secret police. Mr Mould thinks you might be able to assist us further in our inquiries if we take you in for interrogation.”

  Robert swallowed a prickly dryness at the back of his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I told your colleague everything I saw.”

  “Perhaps you did, or perhaps you didn’t.” The corners of Mr Roach’s lips twisted into the slightest of smirks. “We might never know unless we apply a little pressure.” He picked up Mrs Chivers’s mechanical canary from the counter and tapped its face with his long bony finger.

  “Mr Mould has a most singular way of dealing with those who refuse to cooperate with our enquiries. He has methods for making them sing.” Mr Roach pushed the face of the canary onto the sharp corner of the display table.

  CRAACK went the clockwork canary.

  And Mr Roach pushed harder until the thing’s face dented into an irreparable splintered mess. Then he placed the broken mechanimal on the counter in front of Robert.

  “Well, I must be going, Master Townsend. No doubt we will see each other again before long.” Mr Roach pulled his cane from the umbrella stand and his eyes flashed white as he opened the door.

  The bell jingled cheerfully as he left.

  Robert let out a sigh of relief for, as soon as he’d gone, it felt as if the air returned to the shop. He picked up the broken clockwork bird and watched as the pair crunched away through the drifts, and disappeared at the dark end of the street.

  Thaddeus was incensed when he found the destroyed mechanimal; he gave another long lecture on caring for customers’ property, until Robert mumbled an excuse and said that he’d dropped the thing. He didn’t want to worry his da unduly, and he was afraid if he told the truth, Thaddeus might get rid of the mech-fox before they’d even got it working again.

  For the rest of the afternoon he pretended nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Besides, Roach and Mould could still be watching the shop. Quietly, he got on with his work, tidying up the mess, but the whole time he was thinking about the mechanical fox – it must’ve been truly valuable if those men were making such violent threats to get hold of it.

  When he finally finished his chores, he could barely contain his sense of inquisitive excitement as he took the lamp back to the workshop to check on whether the mechanimal had awoken.

  It lay in exactly the same spot as last night – frozen on the felt blanket in the centre of the workbench. Robert wound it once more with the key, and waited, but again nothing happened.

  He peered closely at the keyhole on the fox’s neck, and saw straight away what the problem was: the mechanism inside was minutely misaligned. He took down a screwdriver from his da’s selection and, putting it into the keyhole, pushed until he felt the click of the mechanism slotting into place. Then he replaced the key, wound the mechanimal yet again and waited.

  After a while there was a low sound and a series of clanks and crunchings reverberated around the fox’s insides. The mechanimal’s ribcage began to judder; a shiver ran along its spine, and its body began to slowly shake and tick.

  Soon the ticking grew louder and more regular:

  And, with a crackling creak, the fox awoke, its entire frame stiffening into an alert pose. Robert stepped back as its face bristled and blinked, and it shook the stillness from the rest of its body.

  Its eyes darted round the room and, when it saw him, it arched its back and let out a low warning growl – a deep mechanical sound which made his knees quake.

  Robert flashed the fox a grin but it glared back at him, unblinking; then it gnawed angrily at its repaired leg and gave a yelp of pain.

  “I know. It hurts,” Robert said. “It’ll take time to feel better. A few days, while you get used to the new parts.”

  The mechanimal growled and bared its white teeth at him. “Of course it hurts, you insolent meat-puppet. It hurts like a steel-toothed ratchet-claw!” Its glassy black eyes seemed to stare right through him. “Who are you?” it demanded. “What d’you want? Where the clank did you find me?”

  “Don’t be scared,” Robert told it. “I only want to help.” He held out his empty palm and stepped towards the fox.

  Its growl deepened.

  “Shush,” Robert said, and he reached out to the mechanimal.

  Lightning fast, the fox snapped at his fingers.

  Robert stepped back, tripped over a battered trunk and landed seat first on the floor, banging his head on the leg of the workbench. There was a long silence during which he took off his cap and rubbed his head. He stared sheepishly at the mech. “You could’ve killed me with those sharp teeth, you know.”

  “I did warn you, monkey boy. Now, if you don’t tell me who you are in the next tick-tocking minute, I shall bite you for real.”

  “I thought you couldn’t hurt humans.”

  “In your case, I think I might be able to make an exception.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Try me and find out.”

  Robert straightened his jacket. “No thanks,” he said. “I don’t want any more trouble. My name’s Robert. Robert Townsend.”

  “Then this is the clockmaker’s shop?” the fox asked. “And you are…the clockmaker?” He gave Robert a disapproving stare. “You look far too stringy to be the clockmaker.”

  “I’m his apprentice.”

  “Oh, I see. I suppose you would be. You’re only a pup, after all, and a mangy-looking one at that.”

  “Who are you calling mangy?” Robert said. “You’re the one who looks like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

  “I’m o
n a mission,” the fox snapped. “There are those who wish me harm. Are they still sniffing about, the meatheads who were chasing me?”

  “I don’t know,” Robert said. “I caught a couple of ’em skulking round the lanes yesterday morning – the fat silver-eyed one with ginger mutton-chops and some others. You ought to be thanking me. I sent them off in the wrong direction when their dog was on your tail. Then, today, one came in the shop to talk to me. Another mirror-eyed man, thin, with a scarred face – Mr Roach, he said his name was. Very creepy.” He paused for breath. “What do they want you for anyway?”

  “Talk a lot, don’t you?” the fox said. “Bit of a barking blabbermouth. Ask a lot of questions.”

  “Sometimes,” Robert mumbled.

  The fox ignored him and lapsed into silent contemplation. At last, it spoke. “You’re not going to tell anyone about me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I apologize. I’m usually better mannered, but this injury’s given me the jitters. My name’s Malkin, by the way.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Malkin,” Robert said.

  “And I yours.” Malkin gave a slight nod of his head, which Robert assumed was meant to stand in for a bow, and winced. “Most people don’t believe mechanimals feel pain,” he said.

  “But you do, don’t you?” Robert asked.

  “Of the more extreme kind, yes.” The fox gnawed at its injury once more. “My leg aches like it’s been put through a bandsaw and that’s a new sensation for me.”

  “We fixed it for you, my da and I. Though it’ll take time before it’s fully healed.”

  “Thank you. But this puts me in an awkward situation. You see, I’ve a message to deliver, and time is ticking by.” The fox felt with his nose around the ruff of his neck and looked up sharply. “Wait – what the tock! Where’s my letter?”

  “Oh crikey,” Robert muttered. “I forgot.” He searched round the workbench, under the tools and screwdrivers, until he found the envelope and pouch. “I can put it back. But I wouldn’t walk anywhere for a few days, if I were you. Maybe I could take the letter, if you’d like?”