The Fatal Engine

by Harriet Smart

  He shook his head.

  “You have a fever. It will last a while, I’m afraid, but you should pull through it. You have been poisoned, I think, with laudanum.”

  “Poisoned? But –” She frowned and pulled the covers more tightly about her. “But –” Her teeth chattered.

  “You must not worry about the hows and whys,” he said. “That is my concern. Your business is to recover. It will be a hard road, I’m afraid, but we will help you along it as best we can. Your body will crave the laudanum and you will be ill because of it, but eventually you will be free of it.”

  Her hand came out from the covers again, and gripped his arm.

  “Where is my father?” she said. “He was here and now he is not. He came to see me. Will he come back? He was so angry with me because I was angry with him.”

  “You saw him here?” She nodded.

  “I want to make peace. I want to tell him I’m sorry. Will you find him for me, sir? I need to speak to him.”

  Her delirium was clearly such that she had forgotten everything that had happened.

  “You had better rest and get well before that,” he said. “Everything in good time, Miss Roper. Rest first, that is the best thing for you.”

  “I cannot rest,” she said, flinging back the covers and attempting to crawl out of bed. He tried to restrain her, but she pushed past him and began to pace about the room. “I need his forgiveness. I need to see him. Please?”

  He would usually have administered a dose of laudanum to quieten such a distressed patient, but in this situation that was obviously impossible. He managed to get her back to the bedside, with a blanket wrapped about her. She perched there, crying.

  “Please?” she said again with a piteous howl that was not pleasant.

  He left her in the charge of one of the more competent nurses, hoping that she would soon exhaust herself.

  He went about his other duties at the Infirmary, and was called unexpectedly to assist with Mr Harper with a gruelling but ultimately successful operation to set a workman’s shattered shoulder. They had concluded this a little after two, and as the light was already growing dim, with the threat of more snow, Felix decided he would attempt to get back to Hawksby before the roads became impassable. Just before he left, he was pleased to see that Miss Roper was in a more settled state, although still feverish. She could not be said to be well, but she was in no danger.

  He rode back, feeling as he did the temperature falling. He was glad to get inside.

  Taking his coat, Littleboy the butler informed him that Mrs Carswell was entertaining some ladies in the drawing room. He demurred about whether to join them, or if he should make himself presentable first, but decided he would just look in briefly.

  He went in and found there Miss Jane Lacey, the Rector’s eldest daughter, and two ladies he did not recognise. Eleanor was presiding over her tea-table, while Lady Blanchfort was in a chair drawn close to the fire, wrapped up in a vast pale shawl and looking a little better than when he had last seen her.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Eleanor, smiling and stretching her hand out to him. “How is the weather? The road must be clear again! Hurrah!”

  “Yes, but it is getting cold,” said Felix. “There will be ice soon enough.”

  “Mrs Truro, Miss Fleming,” said Eleanor, “this is my husband, Mr Carswell.”

  Felix shook hands with them.

  “Ice – are you sure, sir?” said the heavily pregnant Mrs Truro. “I do hate ice. It is always such a worry, is it not?”

  “But it makes plenty of work for a surgeon, I suppose,” said Miss Lacey. There was something about her tone that suggested a great dislike of the medical profession. “Setting bones and so forth.”

  “That’s unfortunately true,” said Felix. “Now, please excuse me, ladies, I must go and change. I only came in to say good afternoon.”

  “You must have a cup of tea, at least,” said Eleanor.

  “I think we had better go,” said Mrs Truro. “If there is ice, I would like to get safely home.” She began to struggle out of her chair – Felix had to help her, and then there was a certain amount of nervous fussing with wraps. “It’s so pleasant here, though, and such an excellent fire, but we really should go home, shouldn’t we, Carrie? Mrs Carswell, thank you very much, and thank you, my lady,” she added, turning to Lady Blanchfort and making a small curtsey.

  “Perhaps we should order the carriage for you?” said Lady Blanchfort.

  “No, no, that would be too much, too much! It is only a hop and a skip away, as my husband said. Except I am in no state for hopping and skipping, am I?” she added with a nervous laugh.

  “You will be steady enough on my arm, Bessie,” said Miss Fleming. “But thank you so much.”

  “Let us hope it is all clear again for Friday night,” said Eleanor.

  “Yes, we are so looking forward to that!” said Bessie Truro. “And I hope we shall see you and your sister, and your father, Miss Lacey? It is always so nice to make new acquaintances in a village like this.”

  “On Friday? No, Mrs Truro, we do not dine out. My father does not care to,” said Miss Lacey. “Now, please let me help you home.”

  “But that is not your way home at all, Miss Lacey.”

  “No, it is not,” said Felix. “But it is no trouble for me. Allow me?”

  And so Felix took the Truro ladies back to White Lodge, and Miss Lacey went her separate way to the Rectory. As they walked back, Mrs Truro struck Felix as unnaturally short of breath and asked if she was uncomfortable. When they had got into the hall of the house, she did admit to being more than usually wretched at this stage. “This is my seventh, you see.”

  “If you are at all anxious, please just send for me,” said Felix. “If you would care to, that is. I can recommend another man, if you prefer it?”

  “I shall not hesitate to send for you,” said Mrs Truro. “I already feel confident in you. Although you may be cross with me if I do, for I know I am liable to over-worry, but I do feel somewhat strange – oh, perhaps I should stay at home on Friday? I will be no asset to the party, I know that; I would be going only to please myself and that is selfish. After all, people do not like to see a woman in my condition in public, especially when they are so very large, as I am. I will stay at home and rest. If you would please convey my apologies to your wife, Mr Carswell?”

  “I see no reason why you should deny yourself the pleasure,” said Felix, “if you rest properly beforehand. And if there is any chance of bad weather, we will send our carriage for you.”

  “Oh, that is too much, Mr Carswell!” she said. “And now I am going to send you back to your delightful wife and your lovely fire. None of the chimneys in this house draws so well. It is quite a business to get a good fire going, really it is.”

  “All the more reason to come on Friday, then,” said Felix.

  When he got back, he found Lady Blanchfort sitting alone in the drawing room. She had turned to contemplate the fire.

  “No accidents, I trust,” said Lady Blanchfort, as he sat down.

  “No,” said Felix, “fortunately. And you are feeling a little better?”

  “I think so.”

  At this moment Eleanor came running in, carrying what seemed to be a struggling bundle of linen.

  “Oh, thank goodness you are back,” she said.

  “What on earth –” said Felix, getting up and going to her. The bundle clearly enclosed an animal of some sort.

  A small, ginger head emerged – it was a young fox, and liable to escape her grasp at any moment.

  “I just noticed him on the lawn. He was limping horribly. You have to help him,” she said, and thrust the animal towards him. He was obliged to take hold of it, although it seemed to be in a foul temper.

  “You should have left him out there,” said Lady Blanchfort.

  “To die?” said Eleanor. “I think not! Felix, what can you do?”

  For a moment, Felix was in hearty agree
ment with Lady Blanchfort. He wanted nothing more than a cup of tea and a bath. The cold had exhausted him and he did not feel equal to struggling to save the life of an angry bag of bones who was trying, at that moment, to bite him.

  “I think he has been caught in a snare,” said Eleanor. “Though why there are snares on my land, I cannot imagine. I expressly told –”

  “I will do what I can,” he said, managing to get the fox bundled back up in the cloth. “But it may be kinder to wring its neck.”

  “No, no, please do not do that,” said Eleanor. “He’s only a little one. Look at him, is he not the loveliest thing? He will love you forever if you save him, Felix, I’m sure.”

  “This is not a children’s tale,” said Lady Blanchfort. “That is a wild animal, Eleanor, and you should be careful. A bite from a fox is extremely dangerous.”

  “I will do my best,” said Felix, “but then he goes into that old kennel in the stable. Your mother is right, it is not safe to keep him in the house.”

  They took him into Felix’s study, where after some struggle to swaddle up the fox’s upper body to keep him still and fix a handkerchief on his snout to stop him snapping, he was able to clean the wounds, and do some rudimentary bone-setting on the back leg, before clumsily splinting and bandaging it up.

  “I have no idea if that will do any good. I am not au fait with fox anatomy,” he said. “And you must understand he may not survive, even with this. It really is unlikely he will. He is half-wasted already.”

  “Then I will feed him up,” said Eleanor, stroking the mangy fur of the fox’s forehead. “And he will survive. I will not let him die.”

  “Don’t get too attached,” said Felix, wiping his hands. “It will only break your heart.”

  “At least I have a heart to break,” said Eleanor, “when you apparently have none.”

  “I have done all I can for the wretched thing! And I’m tired and I want a bath.” She gave him a most reproachful look. “All right, I will give him a little laudanum – at least then he will sleep.”

  “He cannot go outside,” said Eleanor. “He will freeze to death.”

  “Where else can he go?” said Felix. “In your dressing room?”

  He had meant to be fatuous but Eleanor was in no mood for that.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Eleanor.

  “This is not one of the Rothborough spaniels, bred for years to have nice manners,” he said. “He may turn on us – on you. Think about that.”

  He began to mix up half a grain of opium in some sugared rum.

  “It will be an experiment,” said Eleanor. “You are a great believer in those.”

  “Experiments are not about justifying yourself,” said Felix, “which is what I think you intend with this. Failure is always part of the bargain, but in this case, failure would be unpleasant. I don’t want to come home and find you with your eyes scratched out. Or one of the servants or your mother, for that matter. You cannot keep him in the house.”

  “This is my house, and I shall do as I like,” she said.

  “You already do,” said Felix, wondering now how he would administer the laudanum and if the fox would even tolerate such a substance. Perhaps a violent burst of vulpine vomiting might discourage Eleanor, but that would not be pleasant for any of them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This dinner on Friday. You are lucky that Miss Lacey was kind enough to make an excuse for you, when you had not bothered to invite her.”

  “She said her father does not dine out,” she said. “So it is just as well I did not ask them.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact. I think she was sparing you. But really, we should ask them.”

  “It is too many people,” said Eleanor.

  “Too many people that you do not like,” said Felix. “And there is plenty of room.”

  “And why should I invite people who are of no interest at all? People you will find thoroughly dull as well. I’m thinking of your amusement, Felix.”

  “That may be, but I think it is our duty to ask them. And if they say no now, we shall be clear on the point. Now, can you hold his jaw open so I can feed him this?”

  This was not the simplest procedure, and it seemed as if only a quarter of a teaspoon of laudanum actually went down the fox’s throat. But Eleanor did seem to have a way of soothing him, and soon she was sitting with the fox in her arms, which made a striking sight.

  “You see,” she said, looking over at him, as if perfectly aware how pretty she looked. “Is he not perfect? All he needs now is a name.”

  Felix turned away, anxious not to indulge her further in this recklessness. He began to tidy his workbench.

  “What is a handsome fellow like you called?” she said to the fox.

  “You should ask Truro,” said Felix. “He has a way with names.”

  “Oh yes! Of course!” she said. “We will call him Nigel!”

  Felix wondered at his own carelessness in mentioning Truro. Nigel was the saintly hero of ‘Sir Nigel of Boldwood’ who had been rescued by the beautiful Lady Angelica, the sister of his sworn enemy. Assuming a false identity, he had been nursed back to health in her brother’s castle. During the course of his recovery, he had fallen desperately in love with Lady Angelica and he had nobly (and quite unnecessarily) revealed his true identity to her brother. The evil Sir Roland, impressed by this show of honesty, had undergone a transformation of character and permitted their marriage. It had been at this point in the story that Felix had lost interest. He had been hoping that Nigel would make a thrilling escape with his lady and then defeat her brother in mortal combat.

  “I’m going to have a bath,” he said, “and after dinner I’m going to call on the Rector and ask them for tomorrow.”

  Eleanor did not answer. She was singing a lullaby to Nigel.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Watson or Whittaker?” said Coxe, after talking to the landlord with Gibbs. “Is either one his real name, do you think, sir?”

  “A good question. It all feels decidedly slippery,” said Giles as they walked along the platform to catch the Northminster train.

  He opened the door to a second-class carriage and waved Coxe inside. Coxe looked unsettled by this show of deference and hesitated for a moment.

  They settled in their seats, and the door was slammed shut. As the whistle sounded their imminent departure, Coxe looked out of the window and suddenly stood up, pulling down the glass and peering out.

  “What is it?” said Giles, also getting up and looking out.

  “I’m not sure,” said Coxe. “But I think I saw a man in a dark-green coat with a fur collar get into the next compartment.”

  The train had already started to move so they sat down again.

  “I wonder if I’m not seeing things,” said Coxe. He yawned. “But I think I saw him.”

  “We can find out at the next station. As far as I know, this train stops everywhere between here and Northminster. There would be time for one of us to get out and see.”

  “No, sir, it doesn’t stop,” said Coxe. “This is the fast one.”

  This was a little frustrating.

  “If it is him, we at least know that he’s going to Northminster,” Giles said. “That’s better than nothing. Was he carrying a parcel?”

  Coxe thought for a moment.

  “A bag. A portmanteau sort of thing. It’s probably not him. It would be too lucky if it was him.”

  “We are due for some luck,” said Giles. “And a dark-green coat with a fur collar is not common.”

  “It’s decidedly flash,” said Coxe.

  “Which is interesting in itself. Given this person has attempted to conceal his identity with aliases and – as Sergeant Gibbs put it – by not standing in the light, why wear such a distinctive coat?”

  “Because it is the warmest one he has and the weather has been foul. It would be my choice if I had such a thing, sir.”

  “Mine as well,” said Giles, r
emembering now a particularly handsome coat belonging to Lord Rothborough. “I wonder where he got it; if it was made for him or he bought it second-hand? I wonder what kind of man he is, giving supper and beer to mill-hands and printing ballads. What is this all about? Machine breaking again? That didn’t really work last time, back in ’20.”

  “No,” said Coxe, “machines are here to stay, whether we like it or not.”

  “My wife’s maid said that Roper’s sewing machine will put all respectable women out of their livelihoods.”

  “She has a fair point there, sir,” said Coxe.

  “I think we should look for any connections between this man and Roper’s death.”

  “Do you, sir?” said Coxe.

  “There may be nothing in it, but in this case I think it would be remiss not to,” Giles said.

  “As you like, Governor,” said Coxe. “You are usually right.”

  Three quarters of an hour later, thanks to the wonders of steam and iron, they had reached Northminster once more. Coxe leapt from the train, anxious in pursuit, and Giles followed, hardly less excited, for the gaslights of the platform revealed that Coxe had been right. A man, tall and lean, wearing a green coat trimmed with fur at the collar and cuffs and carrying a portmanteau, did alight from the next carriage and began to walk away towards the exit. There was nothing to be done but follow him.

  He did not pick up a fly, but took the flight of steps that led from the station up to the high road into the city.

  It was a little after seven, and despite the weather the street was thronged with people. Many of them were mill girls, their shawls drawn over their heads, walking with linked arms and enjoying the glittering displays by some of Northminster’s more enterprising shopkeepers. This scene Giles had observed many times before. Some local preachers had gone so far as to condemn it. These young women were in general paid far more than servants. They were not possessed of fortunes, but the bonnets, shawls and gloves displayed were not entirely beyond their reach. These were the girls he had seen supervising the great looms of Williamson and Collworth. They were new creatures, with a freedom about them that some would find disturbing and others admirable. What might Crimson Mary mean to such women? Would they embrace the sewing machine as a means to greater prosperity where Patton saw it as a threat?