His Clockwork Canary (22 page)

“Not precisely.” But her tormented gaze somewhat cooled his temper. It had been a
trying day, a volatile day. As a gesture of peace, he brushed a thumb over her cheek
and stated another concern that had set him off. “You didn’t have a lifeline, Willie.
If you’d gotten lost in there, distracted—”

“But she didn’t,” Phin said reasonably, reminding them of his presence. “At the risk
of stirring things up more, since the deed is done, as it were, I’d like to know if
she learned anything of consequence.”

Phin was being a diplomat and a pragmatist and Simon had to admit he, too, was curious.
He felt hypocritical, but tried to focus on the greater good. “Did you?”

Her eyes widened. “There’s a traitor amongst them.”

“Who? The Houdinians?”

“I think so. I need to rethink the memory. Sort things out. My father’s memories were
like a twisted collage.”

“I can imagine.” And the thought of her getting lost in those memories, any memories,
caught up in some sort of psychic limbo, chilled Simon to the bone.

“Right, then,” Phin said. “Let’s go below. Work the puzzle until we can determine
our next move. I don’t know about you, but I could use some
real
coffee. Protect me from that drip-o-matic swill of the future.” Mumbling on, he took
the lead, expecting them to follow.

“You go on,” Simon said to Willie. “I want to try Jules one more time.”

Willie slipped into his arms, eviscerating the lingering tension between them. “Being
his twin, don’t you think you would feel something in your stomach, in your spirit,
if something was terribly wrong?”

“Yes. I do believe I would. I felt it when he was horribly injured in the war, even
though we were miles apart.” Simon was feeling several things just now, but no ominous
portent. He hooked her hair behind her ears. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

She smiled up at him, though the smile was troubled. “I do believe we’ve stepped into
a monumental mess, Simon.”

He couldn’t argue that, and though this was monumental, being steeped in larger-than-life
drama was all too familiar. “All part of being a Darcy.”

G
REAT
V
ICTORIA
D
ESERT
A
USTRALIA

Although Bingham had insisted upon a swift journey to Queensland, after being cooped
up within the foul bowels of the
Iron Tarantula
for almost twenty-four hours, he was desperate for fresh air and steady ground.

The gigantic metal arachnid was an impressive terrain vehicle merely for its size,
durability, and innovative design. The iron cephalothorax housed the cockpit, sleeping
quarters, and galley, whilst the abdomen boasted a sophisticated engine room and cavernous
storage area. The eight towering legs crawled easily if not evenly over sand and rock
and did indeed carry them safely over treacherous landscapes at a goodly speed. But
the constant and jolting rocking motion coupled with the questionable ventilation
system and high temperatures had taxed Bingham’s titled being. He always traveled
in style and the
Iron Tarantula
was not even remotely comfortable. However, the most distressing aspect of this trek
was Bingham’s inability to communicate with the outside world. He knew not whether
to attribute the vexing phenomenon to the remote setting or the thick iron walls of
the beastly steam-powered spider.

Stomach rolling, Bingham made his way to the cockpit on shaky legs. He did not knock
upon the closed door. He slid it open with a vengeance and braced his hands on the
iron frame so as not to pitch forward. “I insist you divert to the nearest town.”

“The nearest town’s not so near, mate. Not on this course.”

“Then plot a new course.”

The Rocketeer swiveled in his leather captain’s chair, cigarette clamped between his
teeth, jaw bristled by two days’ growth of beard. He pushed up the brim of his slouch
hat and regarded Bingham with boredom. “You hired me to deliver you to Queensland
as quickly as possible, mate, and now you not only want me to veer off course, but
to stop?”

“I’m not your mate. I’m your employer. And yes, I am requesting just that, Mr. Steele.”

“Your money, Lord Bingham. My mistake. I thought time was of the essence.”

Bingham gritted his teeth. “Most assuredly. But because of my inability to communicate
with the outside world, I have no way of knowing if I am already too late.”

Steele waved him inside, then swiveled back around. “Who do you need to contact and
how?” he asked, flicking switches on a complex console. “What do you need to know?
I can access various communication devices as well as the latest global news. Take
a load off, mate.”

Bingham ignored the insolence and dropped into the seat next to Steele’s. He stared
at the instrumental panel before him, entranced, impressed, and vexed as hell that
not one of his transports had anything like this. “Where did you acquire all of this
advanced technology?”

Steele quirked an infuriating grin. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Your humor is unwelcome.”

“Who’s joking?” The ash on Steele’s cigarette glowed like a taunting beacon of disrespect.
“What do you need to know? Who do you need to contact?”

His list was long, but he homed in on his most fervent concern. “I need to contact
a Mod Tracker by the name of Crag. I need coordinates on a man by the name of Jules
Darcy. But mostly I want to make sure Professor Maximus Merriweather is exactly where
I’ve been told he would be.” At that moment, Bingham shared his most detailed coordinates.

“You’re a demanding but direct bloke, Lord Bingham. Let’s see what we can do,” Steele
said whilst pushing multiple buttons. “Meanwhile, a word of advice. Your traveling
companion, Renee? I’d treat her more kindly, mate. Hell hath no wrath like an automaton
scorned.”

Bingham barked a humorless laugh. “Renee has no feelings.” In addition to enlisting
one of his
Mars-a-tron
crewmen as a bodyguard, he’d brought Renee along as a way of amusing himself should
he grow bored. He had, in fact, been most bored last night. Her stamina and inability
to register pain or fear was both a boon and an annoyance. “Renee is a machine.”

“When abused or neglected, machines tend to malfunction. Just a friendly observance,
mate. Oh, crikey,” he added, leaning forward to peer out the transparent shield overlooking
the landscape.
“Damn.”

Bingham leaned forward as well, spying a cloud of dust a few meters off. “What is
it? A sandstorm?”

“Bushrangers. Runaway convicts who thrive in these parts due to their impeccable survival
skills. Robbers. Highwaymen.”

The hair on the back of Bingham’s neck prickled as Steele utilized an intercom system
to inform his crew of an imminent attack. Out of the voluminous dust broke a pack
of armored vehicles. He’d expected horses. Not steaming, belching weapons on wheels.
Was that a bloody cannon rocket?

“Looks like the Musquito Gang. Thievin’ cutthroats.”

Bingham wiped his moist palms over the trousers he had ordered Renee to steam press
just that morning. Indeed, he was not dressed for a skirmish. “What do they want?”

“Whatever I’ve got.” Steele chucked his cigarette, then jerked his thumb. “Best take
cover in your cabin, oh, Kingpin of the Universe. It’s gonna be a rough one.”

Bingham pushed out of the chair, heart pounding. “You promised me safe passage, Mr.
Steele.”

“Yup.” But his attention was on the controls and the incoming cutthroats.

Bingham heard the first explosion and hurried toward his cabin. He weaved and stumbled
as the
Iron Tarantula
swerved, then vibrated as though taking a hit. He heard the crew shouting and bellowed
for his own bodyguard. But when Bingham breached his cabin door, he only found Renee.
She was sitting stiff-backed in a chair, darning his socks.

Bingham hurried to the window, saw one of Steele’s men arming a rapid-firing cannon
from a balcony on one of the
Tarantula
’s legs. Good. They were fighting back. Still, Musquito’s gang comprised at least
seven armed vehicles. No telling how many men. What if they got on board? Where the
devil was his bodyguard?

“Put down the bloody socks, Renee, and get my Peabody 382. We’re under attack.”

“Attack. To set upon forcefully.”

“Yes, I know what it means. Just get my bloody gun. I have not come this far to be
felled by a band of bloody bushrangers. We must fight back. Kill the enemy.”

“Enemy,” she said in that monotone voice that grated. “A hostile force that seeks
to injure.”

Furious for the delay, Bingham spun around. “What the . . . Don’t point the gun at
me, you brainless, worthless bob of junk. The
enemy
! Shoot the—” He saw the flash, felt the blow, the pain and the astonishment. His
knees buckled and Bingham pitched forward. His thoughts blurred as he spied his blood
pooling. The pain was excruciating, then numbing. His lids fluttered, then started
to close. His last vision: Renee sitting stiff-backed darning his socks, a smoking
gun at her feet.

C
ANTERBURY,
E
NGLAND

“One more time,” Simon said. “From the beginning.”

“Maybe we should sleep on this,” Phin said, elbows on the table, his head in his hands.
“We’ve been at it for hours. Swear to God, my brain hurts.”

“I agree with Simon,” Willie said.

“Of course you do,” Phin said.

“We’re close to making some sense of all this,” Willie said. “I feel it. Each time
we create a scenario, it jogs another detail of one of the memories I experienced
via Filmore or my father.” Willie’s cheeks burned. Her gut twinged. She did indeed
feel guilty about time-tracing her father, but she couldn’t focus on that regret just
now. Nor could she meet Simon’s gaze. She’d disappointed him. Even though the tracing
had been accidental, the fact that she’d willingly gone along for the ride made her
question her morals. A new and wretched feeling.

“Right, then,” Phin said. “Another round. But not on an empty stomach. I can only
go on coffee for so long and we already missed a midday meal. Go on,” he said as he
moved toward a bank of cabinets. “I’m listening.”

Willie straightened in her chair as she gathered her thoughts. Her shoulder felt stiff
and her back ached. After this round, she vowed a bracing walk on the main deck. Phin
was right. They’d been cooped up in this small, rustic galley for hours. Even so,
she wasn’t ready for a break. Not just yet. “Starting with what we know of 1969,”
she prompted. “My mother—”

“Agent Mickey Price,” Simon clarified.

“—was a security specialist with Her Majesty’s Mechanics.”

“Formerly with NASA,” Phin said whilst slicing a loaf of bread. “Hence she’d been
exposed to advanced aeronautics and the concept of exploring new worlds in the quest
to benefit mankind.”

“Logical that she would be assigned to the ‘voyager’ who traveled through time,” Willie
said. “A phenomenal endeavor not yet accomplished by the American, British, or Soviet
space programs.”

“National treasure, indeed,” Simon said. “Briscoe Darcy was not only the most famous
man on the planet at that moment, but also the most wanted. Every national intelligence
agency in the world would be keen on unlocking his mind in order to learn his secrets.
If the ‘Space Race’ was intense, imagine the motivation to possess the knowledge enabling
men to travel into the past and future. Could jumping cosmic dimensions be much farther
behind?”

“So Briscoe’s under lock and key,” Phin said, attacking a block of cheese. “And the
time machine’s under lock and key. Maybe someone in the Mechanics tried to take it
for a test run, but it didn’t work. Maybe Briscoe alone knew how to activate the clockwork
propulsion engine.”

“Which brings us to the assumption that my mother, who’d had unlimited access to Briscoe,
tricked, coerced, or convinced the Time Voyager to impart her with that vital information.”

“She then helped to coordinate the theft of the engine with the Peace Rebels. We know
from things she told you,” Simon said to Willie, “that she had been involved with
the underground organization for almost a year.”

“I’m almost certain it was Jefferson Filmore who drew her in,” Willie said. “I think
he was some sort of professor and I know he was a fierce peace activist. I’m convinced
they were acquainted on an intimate level. I saw them embrace. I felt his affection.
In a memory, that is.” That specific knowledge cramped her stomach, made her ache
for her father, but at the same time, she sensed the affair had been short-lived.

“Soured on her life in America, she pursued a new existence in the UK,” Simon said,
“but things weren’t much better there. The world was careening toward self-destruction
and she was desperate to make a difference.”

“Desperate enough to betray Her Majesty’s Mechanics, the British government, and the
wrath of every nation who had their eye on Briscoe and his time machine.” Phin set
a large platter on the wooden table in between Simon and Willie. “Bread, cheese, dried
pork, fruit, and biscuits. It will have to do, as the pantry and icebox are minimally
stocked.”

“Difficult to conjure an appetite,” Willie said, “when you’ve just reminded me my
mother was a thief and a traitor.”

“Whose objective was to save the world,” Simon said, reaching across the table to
give her hand a supportive squeeze.

“So we’re surmising,” she said.

“We’re surmising everything,” Phin said. “Spiced wine,” he announced, pouring them
each a generous mug. “Now eat or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

Simon snorted, but even though Phin was being glib, Willie knew deep down that he
was indeed a sensitive soul. She helped herself to a small portion of bread and cheese
whilst striving to keep the conversation on track. “You’re right, of course, Phin.
Nothing we’ve read in the Book of Mods, nothing my mother told me, and, to an extent,
not even what I learned whilst time-tracing is a given. Indeed it is most difficult
to sort fact from fiction, reality from illusion. I must strive to keep my personal
feelings at bay.”

Simon looked at her with pride and affection whilst sipping his wine. “Let’s jump
ahead. However the vital missing knowledge was obtained, however the theft was arranged,
the end result was that the PRs installed Briscoe’s clockwork propulsion engine into
their psychedelic painted bus and sixty-nine, give or take, twentieth-century radical
peace activists—”

“Of various brilliance and professions within the realm of arts and science,” Phin
added.

“—successfully hopped dimensions,” Simon said. “Departing in 1969 and traveling in
reverse, arriving in 1856, five years after Briscoe made his great escape from Prince
Albert’s Great Exhibition in 1851.”

“Houdini,” Willie said, whilst nibbling on cheese. “Daddy said Harry Houdini was,
or will be, a famous escape artist. A magician. A showman. According to tales, Briscoe
made a show out of his time-traveling launch.”

“It’s true,” Simon said. “My father witnessed the event. Although Briscoe was a distant
cousin and several years my father’s senior, they did have an acquaintance and a shared
passion for science. My father was but eighteen when he attended Prince Albert’s tribute
to technological achievements. Briscoe chose his platform well. He had an audience
of thousands. And, after much bloated pomp and circumstance, the man strapped himself
into his gleaming self-professed ‘time machine’ and disappeared in a rainbow of brilliant
light. At the time many thought it was an optical illusion. A magician’s trick.”

“By a flamboyant showman,” Phin said. “Escaping to another time. An unparalleled stunt
of magnificent proportions.”

“A stunt that would have made Houdini proud.” Willie closed her eyes and thought back.
Back to Filmore’s memories. “Something about Houdini,” she said.

“We’ve already determined that the Houdinians took their name from Harry Houdini,”
Phin said. “Like Houdini and like Briscoe, the Peace Rebels performed a magnificent
stunt, escaping back in time.”

“Then we
surmise
,” Simon said, “that at some point your mother, Filmore, and Rollins conspired to
pinch the clockwork propulsion engine—”

“Again,” Phin said.

“—and to secure it somewhere safe in case it became necessary to escape even this
century.”

“In order to spread their cautionary tales even earlier in time, say the eighteenth
century,” Phin ventured. “Or perhaps to return to their own time. Or, hell, to take
a spontaneous holiday. Who knows? Well, aside from Jefferson Filmore and Ollie Rollins.
Wherever they are.”

“London.” Willie’s eyes flew open as she slammed her palms to the table. “I think
they, or at least Filmore, might be in London.”

Simon and Phin traded a look. “Why?”

“The revolving safe house.”

Brow raised, Simon abandoned his cold pork sandwich. “We’ve been over this several
times and that is the first mention of a
revolving safe house
. Am I right, Phin?” Simon asked without breaking eye contact with Willie.

“Right you are. What does it mean? Where did it come from?”

“One of Filmore’s memories.” Willie sipped her wine, tried to temper her excitement.
“When I saw my mother, I was so stunned, I called out.
Mother
, first. Then
Michelle
. At once Filmore flashed back to the future. What I saw and heard was so unfamiliar
and then all at once he reverted to the past. He was arguing with my mother and Rollins
about whether to hide in the west, north, or south. In one of the future memories,
my mother made mention of a revolving safe house. It was just one of a few phrases
I did not understand and it only came back to me just now as I was trying to slow
those memories.”

“Yes, but what is it?” Phin asked. “Is it to be taken literally? A house that is safe?”

“Or perhaps a house where you keep something safe,” Simon said.

Willie’s journalistic mind chugged as she fueled it with more and more conjecture.
“In my lifetime, my family lived in three cities. New York City, Edinburgh, and London.”

“West, north, and south,” Simon said.

“In that order?” Phin asked.

“No. London, Edinburgh, America, then back to London. My mother claimed to work for
a global security firm, so it would make sense that she would live near whatever she
was protecting, aye? She was killed seven years ago whilst living in London—a victim
of a hit-and-run accident. We found Filmore in Edinburgh.”

“The revolving safe house,” Phin said. “Three cities. Every so often or whenever they
felt threatened, they revolved the engine to one of those three cities.”

“If you follow the pattern as you stated it, Willie, the next safe house would be
New York City,” Simon said.

“If you followed the pattern, aye. But there are no longer three Houdinians. Only
Filmore and Rollins or Filmore and a mercenary. And they have been protecting that
engine for more than thirty years now. You saw Filmore. He had to be close to sixty
years old, which would make Rollins seventy or more.” She paused as his younger face
flashed in her mind, shivered with a wave of déjà vu.

Simon touched her forearm. “What is it?”

She shook off the strangeness. “Nothing. Sorry. Just that feeling that I’ve seen Rollins
before, but damn, I cannot seem to place him.”

“It’ll come to you,” Phin said, drinking the last of his wine. “Meanwhile we have
a vague location. London is a hell of a lot closer than New York City. It would make
sense to look there first regardless. But where to start?”

“Underground,” Willie said.

Simon angled his head. “Another vault?”

Willie gulped her own wine now. “Whilst tracing my father, the most vivid and tumultuous
memory was one of my mother looking wide-eyed and spooked. My father held her, saying,
You spend too much time with the dead.
”

“Catacombs,” Simon said. “The coffinlike vault. That is the actual ‘safe house.’ And
they shuffle it between the three cities.”

“Three cities with extensive underground passages.” Phin scratched his head. “Good
God. London Bridge alone harbors a veritable subterranean city of passages, crypts,
and vaults. There’s an entire lattice of catacombs beneath Waterloo. Those are just
two possibilities. And what about all of the churches and abbeys? How do we know what
we’re dealing with? Where to look?”

“I have a friend,” Simon said. “Montague Lambert. He owns a literary antiquities shop.
His map collection is quite extensive. I say we fly back to London tonight, get a
good night’s sleep, and meet at Lambert’s tomorrow morning.”

“Right, then,” Phin said, pushing to his feet. “London it is. God, but I love a good
adventure,” he added whilst rushing toward the main deck.

Willie tried to stand but couldn’t find the energy. “I must confess, I’m feeling overwhelmed.
It’s all somewhat fantastical.”

“Quite the story,” Simon said, shifting to sit beside her. “And we still don’t know
the whole of it yet. I have a feeling your editor, Dawson, will sing your praises,
indeed kiss your feet, when you submit your serialized account of our adventure.”

Willie’s mouth went dry. “Indeed, this is the sort of sensational reporting that would
put the
London Informer
back on top.”

“And to catapult the Clockwork Canary to celebrity status.”

She cast him a hurt look. “Are you testing me, Simon?”

“No.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Truly I’m not. It is a conundrum
even for me. A story like this, it’s bigger than one newspaper. It alters history
books. Depending on how things unfold, we could be sitting on a damned fortune.”

“Fortune enough to save your family.”

“And yours.”

She rubbed her temples. “If only it weren’t so personal.”

He kissed the top of her head. “The conundrum.”

She glanced up at him then. “My pressman’s nose smells more trouble. Something foul,
Simon. I worry that we’re going to discover something . . . ugly. Remember when I
relayed the memory of my mother telling my father,
There’s a traitor among us
?”

Simon nodded.

“I think . . . I believe it was just days, maybe even hours, before she was killed.
Maybe the hit-and-run was not an accident as reported, but a calculated means of making
sure every secret she knew died with her. Or perhaps she was distressed and distracted
by what she’d learned and that had caused her to unwittingly step in a coach’s path.
Either way, I think she died because of that traitor. Someone she knew. Someone close.”

“Do you have someone specific in mind?”

She shook her head. She did not. But she did have a bad feeling.

Simon tucked her shaggy hair behind her ears. “What say you we deal with the mystery
as it unfolds? One revelation at a time.”

“Patience has never been one of my better qualities.”

He laughed at that. “Nor mine.” Smiling, he held her close as the
Flying Cloud
rumbled to life and took to a bumpy flight.