Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (12 page)

Fear.

Tweed paced back and forth in one of the rooms at Carter and Jenny's house, absently chewing his fingernails. The floorboards creaked rhythmically as he moved.

One, two, three,
creak
, four. Pause. Turn. One,
creak
, two, three, four.

The single candle he'd lit cast a dim glow throughout the room, his hulking shadow growing and shrinking every time he paced.

He felt confusion. A great deal of confusion. And he
hated
that. It meant he didn't understand something. That things were out of his control.
Another
thing he hated. Not being in control meant that the unexpected could happen. And the unexpected was…well, it was unexpected, wasn't it? That was the point.

Time to put all that teaching Barnaby gave him into action.

It was Holmes who had been going around London murdering engineers.

Not
Professor Moriarty.

Why?

That was the big question, wasn't it? Actually, no. The big question was why had he feigned his own death? But that wasn't something Tweed could possibly deal with just then, so he pushed it aside.

So. Why was Holmes doing this? That was the question that needed to be answered. Were the engineers he'd murdered criminals? Traitors? Was it possible that Sherlock Holmes was working undercover for the Crown? That could explain his association with Lucien and the Ministry.

But no. What was he thinking? He and Octavia had just witnessed Sherlock Holmes attacking and kidnapping the Prime Minister of Great Britain. That wasn't the work of a good person. That was the work of a villain. He was involved with the Ministry, yes. But they weren't working on the side of law and order.

So: Sherlock Holmes had been murdering the retired engineers, seemingly on the orders of Lucien, the head of the Ministry.

Why? Was it related to something the engineers were working on? Was there any way to find that out? That was something to follow up on tomorrow. There might be a clue there.

Tweed stopped pacing and stared at the wall.

Something was missing. Well, a
lot
was missing. Obviously. But Tweed couldn't fathom the connection between Sherlock Holmes, the Ministry, his own father, the murdered engineers, and the kidnapped Prime Minister.

Tweed realized something else.

They would have to go to the police with this. As soon as word got out tomorrow, the country would be in chaos. People would want to know what was going on.

They had to report it. It was their duty. But they had to do it without being recognized by anyone who might have seen them at the Yard. Best thing would be to write out what they had witnessed and drop it on someone's desk. At least then New Scotland Yard would know. Whether they believed it or not was a different matter entirely.

Tweed yawned. It had to be three in the morning now. He had dropped Octavia off at her home before coming here, but she'd said she was coming back at the crack of dawn. So he should probably get his head down for a few hours. He was no good to anyone with his brain all muzzy from lack of sleep.

He flopped down onto the bed, the springs squeaking loudly in protest, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep in an instant.

The next morning, Tweed was seated in the front room when he heard a knock at the door. He finished writing the last sentence describing what they had seen the previous night, then put the pen down and rose from the desk.

It was Octavia. Tweed blinked at her as he opened the door. She wore her long black hair down. It framed her pale face and neck in a manner he found…distracting.

“Look at this!” she said, thrusting something into his face.

Tweed stepped back so he could focus on the object she was holding. It was a newspaper.
The Times.

Tweed blinked and searched the headlines, expecting to find reports of the kidnapping of the P.M.

Except it wasn't there.

The front page story was about the Tsar of Russia and the talks that were taking place between their two countries. There was another mention of the state banquet to be held at Buckingham Palace in a few days. There was even a grainy photograph of the Tsar grinning at the camera.

Tweed snatched the paper from Octavia and flapped it out. He scanned the rest of the front page. Nothing.

“Is this today's paper?”

“Of course it is.”

Tweed scanned the page again. “There's no mention of the P.M. in here at all.”

Octavia stepped inside and closed the door. “Oh, there is,” she said over her shoulder. “Page four.”

Tweed opened the paper, and there it was: an article about the Prime Minister touring the building site of the new Clock Tower before its completion next month. He was to be there at eleven today.

Tweed had one last look over the paper. Just to make sure they hadn't missed anything. “This doesn't make any sense,” he finally said. “We weren't mistaken, were we? It was definitely the P.M.?”

“Definitely,” said Octavia. “I've seen enough pictures of him during my time at the paper.”

Tweed dropped the paper on the side table. “I suppose we should pay a visit to the new Clock Tower then.”

They arrived just before eleven. The unfinished tower thrust up into the sky, more than double the height and three times the thickness of the now puny-looking clock lurking in its shadow.

“Poor old Ben,” mused Octavia, as they moved along the street, passing reporters and curious onlookers. “It's only a clock. It's not as if it's obsolete.”

“Doesn't have to be obsolete. Bigger and better. That's the Empire's motto,” said Tweed.

“Bigger, certainly,” agreed Octavia. “Better? Not so sure.”

Tweed glanced at her in surprise. “Are you a Traditionalist?”

“Not at all. But I understand them. I don't see the point of technology for technology's sake. If the clock's working, why change it? And if a human can do a job just as well, why build a computing device to do it?”

“To see if they can?”

“Exactly. And that's the problem. I mean, what was wrong with the old clock?”

Tweed looked up. Each of the new clock faces was square, over fifty feet along each side. They were made from glass so that you could see the inner workings of the mechanism, could see the brass cogs and gears as they turned and diced up segments of time. It was said there would be a permanent staff of specially constructed automata whose job it would be to make sure the Clock Tower stayed clean and functioning.

“Sorry, but I kind of like it,” he said. Then he frowned. “Why
am I apologizing? I
like
the bloody thing. I think it's going to be magnificent.”

“That's because you have no taste,” said Octavia. “Or style. It's not your fault. It's what comes from being raised in an all-male household.”

“I resent that,” snapped Tweed. “I have lots of taste. And I'm
incredibly
stylish. This coat is a collector's piece, you know.”

“Yes,” said Octavia, “you can tell. It belongs in a museum.”

Tweed straightened up and pulled his jacket tight across his chest. “You, madam, are a…a
buffoon
!”

That didn't have quite the effect Tweed wanted. Octavia burst out laughing. “A buffoon, you say?”

Tweed turned haughtily away. “That's right.”

Octavia grabbed him by the shoulder. “Wait, don't walk off. What about a scallywag? Am I a scallywag as well?”

Tweed pursed his lips. “Right now? Yes. You are.”

Octavia laughed so hard that she snorted. But that didn't stop her. She hung onto Tweed's shoulder, head hanging down as her back heaved and trembled with laughter. She suddenly looked up.

“What about…What about a dollymop?”

Tweed frowned. “I wouldn't go
that
far.”

She sniggered. “A strumpet?”

Tweed sighed. “No.”

“A flap dragon?”

“N—What does that even
mean?
You just made that up!”

“I did not!”

“You did! There's no such thing as a flap dragon.” Tweed shook her off his shoulder and headed toward the spot where the journalists had started to congregate.

“What about a flax wench?” he heard Octavia call. “Do you think me a flax wench?”

Tweed didn't answer. He was reasonably sure that wasn't a real word either.

The journalists were putting away their flasks filled with coffee and tea, straightening up with their notebooks out and their pencils sharpened. As Tweed approached he noticed a tall, brass automaton standing dead center in the group.

“Have you finished now?” he asked Octavia when she joined him.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Yes. I have. And thank you. I haven't laughed that hard in…well, for a long time.”

“Then it's my pleasure. Now what's that for?” he asked.

She glanced at the construct, her lip curling in disdain. “A perfect example of what I'm talking about. That's the
Financial Times
showing off. It'll record the words of whoever speaks and then go back to the offices where a secretary will transcribe them for the paper. People are saying the editor has asked Babbage if he can create a program that will enable it to pick out the important bits and write them down itself. I mean, what's the point? All they're doing is putting a journalist out of a job. The thing must have cost more than ten years’ salary of the man he replaced.”

Tweed and Octavia squeezed their way through the crowd, ignoring the grumblings and complaints. Beyond the cordon was the building site. Rubble, bricks, and metal girders had been shoved into slightly neater piles to accommodate the P.M.'s visit. Scaffolding crisscrossed all the way up the new tower. Tweed squinted up against the light drizzle that had started to fall and could just make out the top of the structure. It was difficult to see the clock face from down here, but that was only because he was so close to the tower. From any other point in London, the view of the new clock would be magnificent.

The journalists all straightened to attention. Tweed glanced forward and saw movement from the blackness beyond the huge
arched doorway leading into the tower. He could see figures moving, walking into the light.

The Prime Minister came first.

Tweed frowned, staring hard at the man. He had to be an impostor, surely? It was the only solution.

And yet…

And yet, as the man approached, it was obvious to Tweed that it wasn't an impostor. It really was Arthur Balfour. His features, his hair, his mustache, his clothes. It was him.

So what had happened? Had he escaped? But then why was there no mention of the kidnapping in the papers?

The Prime Minister approached a small dais that had been set up for his use. He stepped up onto it, smiled, and nodded at the journalists.

Tweed stared at him. From this close to the man, Tweed noticed certain things. Things that didn't add up. The Prime Minister's eyes seemed to glaze in and out of focus. Every now and then the man seemed to fall under a momentary cloud of confusion, as though he didn't know where he was. He would blink, look around, then stiffen and pull himself together. He also moved awkwardly, favoring one of his legs, as though he'd suffered a leg wound recently that hadn't yet healed.

Concussion? From the blow to the head?