Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (21 page)

“I'm heading home tonight, Jenny. Need familiar surroundings while I think what to do next.”

Jenny set her mouth in a firm line. “I don't think so, sonny. There's no way we're splitting up again.”

“Jenny—”

“Uh-uh. No way.”

Octavia repressed a sigh. She was going to have to do this, wasn't she? It was the only way Jenny was going to let them get away.

Octavia leaned toward Jenny, resting a hand—just! It barely touched the material of his trousers—on Tweed's knee.

She felt Tweed's reflex reaction to jerk away and had no choice but to dig her fingers in. Hard.

“Jenny, Tweed and I…we have some stuff we need to talk about.”

That wasn't a lie, was it? They
did
have stuff to talk about. She was surprised to realize she felt quite horrid misleading Jenny. She actually liked the woman.

Jenny saw Octavia's hand and grinned, her eyes lighting up. “Oh. Er…Fine. I suppose. We'll see you tomorrow. Bright and early, yes?”

Tweed was barely moving. He swallowed nervously and nodded. Jenny banged the steamcoach door with her hand and hopped up the stairs to join Carter, threading her arm through his.

Octavia realized she still had her hand on Tweed's knee and jerked it away as if it were on fire. She stared straight ahead through the shattered window. “We'll never talk of that again. Agreed?”

“Agre—” Tweed started to say, but his voice caught in his throat, coming out in a high, squeaky pitch. He cleared his throat. “Agreed,” he said, moving the steamcoach quickly out into the road.

“Now, what's going on?” Octavia asked. “You don't think we could use their help?”

Tweed shook his head firmly. “No. I put them at too much risk tonight, Songbird. I underestimated how this would unfold. You and Stepp nearly got killed. You were shot at, chased through the streets…” His fingers turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. “If anything happened to those people, I'd never be able to forgive myself. I'd rather we did this alone.”

Octavia was silent for a while. “You didn't force them to do anything. It was their choice. They
wanted
to help you. To help Barnaby.”

“And what if Jenny had been killed? Or Carter? You've seen them together. I don't think they could live without each other.”

“Of course they could,” Octavia scoffed. “But I see your point.” Imagining Jenny cradling the body of Carter in her arms—or vice versa—sent chills of horror through Octavia. Maybe Tweed was right. They were endangering too many people. Not to mention Stepp, an eleven-year-old girl.

“So we're going it alone?”

“We are.”

Tweed headed toward Whitehall once again. He turned onto Richmond Terrace, a road almost directly opposite Downing Street. He parked the car far along the lane, so they could keep an eye on Number 10 without being seen by anyone passing by.

“Now we wait,” said Tweed sleepily. “You take the first shift, I'll take the second.”

Octavia opened her mouth to say that she'd had just as difficult an evening as he had, but she saw the glint of his eyes as he watched her through half-closed lids, the ever-so-slight tug at the side of his mouth.

She snapped her mouth shut and faced forward. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

About an hour after midnight, Octavia shot up in her seat (where she had her feet up on the empty window frame, shivering in her jacket) and slapped Tweed on the head.

“Wake up!”

“Husah? Wha…?” Tweed struggled upright, swatting invisible insects from the air.

“A steamcoach just pulled up.”

Tweed yawned and leaned forward, squinting into the night. “How long was I asleep?”

“About three hours.”

“Three…? Why didn't you wake me?” he asked in surprise.

Octavia shrugged. “Wasn't tired. Thought one of us might as well get some rest. Look, he's coming out.”

The Prime Minister exited 10 Downing Street and hurried to the carriage. “Look at the way he walks,” said Octavia.

“Off balance,” said Tweed. “Used to walking with a cane.”

Lucien climbed into the carriage, and it chugged off along King Street in a cloud of steam. Tweed pumped the lever and released the brake, pulling out of the side road and onto Parliament Street. Octavia glanced over the divide, keeping an eye on Lucien's carriage. Tweed kept their pace slow, allowing Lucien to get far enough ahead so that when the two roads merged into one they would be far enough behind that they wouldn't be noticed.

The carriage headed east through the sparse traffic, heading along the Strand, then onto Fleet Street, past Newgate Prison and into Smithfield.

Tweed let Lucien take a longer lead now, as they headed through narrower roads, taking back lanes and muddy alleys. There were hardly any carriages around at all now.

“What a disgusting place,” Octavia murmured.

“I live around here,” said Tweed cheerfully.

Octavia closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, silently swearing at herself.
Well done, girl.
“Sorry.”

Octavia wracked her brain for something else to say that wasn't patronizing or insulting, but she knew she'd mess it up, so she just left it.

Lucien's carriage pulled to a stop outside a rundown, two-story house. Most of the windows along the street were dark. In fact, the entire street was dark. No street lamps here. No Tesla power. Here and there she could make out the soft glow of candles in some of the houses, but that was it.

Tweed stopped his steamcoach before turning onto the street. They watched as Lucien climbed out of the coach and hurried into the building. After a few moments a light bloomed in one of the upper windows as a candle was lit. They saw Lucien appear as he pulled a tatty curtain closed.

Tweed climbed into the back of the carriage and fished out one of his spiders. He frowned and looked out the window.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm going to have to take it in. I don't know the layout of the building well enough to send it up using the viewing screen. You get the transceiver warmed up. I'll be right back.”

Before Octavia could say anything, Tweed slipped out into the night and closed the door firmly behind him. She saw him sprinting across the road, heading straight for the house.

Tweed paused at the front door to the tenement and listened. He couldn't hear anything so he pushed it slowly open and slipped inside, finding himself on a dark landing. There was a door to his right and a set of stained concrete stairs to his left.

The building had an unused, empty feeling to it. That made sense. Lucien wouldn't want anyone else around when he was having secret meetings.

He sprinted up to the next floor. A single, guttering candle had been placed on the floor outside one of the rooms, casting flickering shadows across the walls and ceiling. Judging by its position it was the room Lucien was in.

Tweed moved to the door of the adjacent room, staying close to the wall so he wouldn't creak any of the floorboards.

The door was unlocked. Tweed pushed it open just enough so he could squeeze inside. Dim light filtered into the room from outside the dirty windows. The room was empty, its contents long since scavenged.

Tweed entered the bedroom, leaving clear footprints in the dust that coated everything. He moved to the wall that adjoined Lucien's room. He was hoping to find a hole or something he could slip the spider through.

It turned out he didn't need to. The walls were thin, rotting. He could hear their words almost as if he were in the same room.

“I do wish you'd stop looking at me like that. It's most disconcerting.”

“I apologize,” said a second voice. An accented voice. “It is just…we have talked about this for years, but I still find it hard to believe it is you.”

Octavia whispered in Tweed's ear, “That accent is Russian.”

Tweed jerked around, then swallowed nervously, trying to force his hammering heart to calm down. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“There was no image on the transceiver. I came to see if you needed rescuing again.”

Tweed ignored that. But Octavia was right about the voice. It was definitely Russian.

“Do you have it?” asked Lucien.

“Of course.”

There was a pause, then Lucien continued, “And it's definitely real? The Ministry has ways of checking for forgeries.”

“It is real. We have had
Herr
Klein in custody for years. He was the leader of a German anarchist group that was trying to cause trouble back in Russia. Just make sure your man flees along St. James's Street. The authorities will find Klein lying in the road with a fresh bullet hole in his head…a disagreement among comrades.”

“Who do you have doing it?” asked Lucien. “He is trustworthy?”

“Of course. The head of my secret police. He has been with me for over a decade. Speaking of which. Your man, he is careful, yes? I am seated next to the Queen. I do not wish to be shot by mistake.”

“Don't worry about that,” said Lucien. “The shooter is one of the best. A man called Moran. He won't miss.”

Octavia and Tweed looked at each other in shock. The Queen? They were talking about shooting Queen Victoria!

“What will you do with the passport?” asked the Russian.

“I will feed it to the authorities. It would look suspicious if it was just found on Klein's body. No one would believe an assassin was carrying his own passport with him while murdering the Queen. Better it turns up a day or so later.”

“
Da
.”

There was the sound of hands clapping. “Then we are done!” said Lucien. “By this time tomorrow the Queen will be dead and Germany will be blamed. How does it feel, Nicholas? Knowing that all our planning is finally coming to fruition?”

“I feel relief, Lucien. Relief that I do not have to keep pumping money into your research. You have nearly bankrupted me.”

“It will all be worth it. You know that.”

Nicholas? Tweed sat back on his haunches. Nicholas II, the Tsar of Russia? The way he was talking about his secret police, about how he was sitting next to the Queen at the banquet…It had to be him.

The Tsar of Russia, plotting with Lucien to assassinate Queen Victoria. Tweed had gotten it wrong. So very, very wrong. All along he'd been thinking the
Tsar
was the target, but he wasn't. It was the
Queen
.

Tweed nudged Octavia, gesturing for her to follow him. He carefully moved through the rooms, out into the hall, and down the stairs into the street.

“What are we doing?” asked Octavia.

“Heading back to Meriweather's house. Barnaby said Lucien used the engineers to build their Lazarus Machine, then killed them so they couldn't talk. Meriweather's the only one left alive who knows where the machine is—where
Barnaby
is! We have to find him.”

Forty minutes later Tweed and Octavia stood in the dark landing of Meriweather's house. Tweed found a candleholder on the entrance hall table—a precaution for when the Tesla Towers stopped working—and put a Lucifer to the wick.

“Bedroom first, I think.”

They climbed the stairs and entered Meriweather's bedroom. It was exactly as Octavia had described it: empty of anything that
indicated it had ever been used. Nevertheless, they started their search. Tweed opened the bedside cabinet and peered inside. All it contained was a Bible. He riffled the pages, but there was nothing inside. The cabinet on the other side was empty.

He checked under the bed but there was nothing there. Tweed ran a hand over the floor. Not even dust. That made him wonder. Was there a way to track down his housekeeper? Perhaps she knew something.

He dismissed this thought. No time.

“Here. Give me a hand,” said Tweed, indicating the mattress.

They both heaved the heavy mattress up, but there was nothing beneath it.

The drawers and cupboard were likewise empty.

“I told you,” said Octavia. “It's like no one has ever lived here.”

“Let's check the office.”

Tweed sat down at the desk in the office, placing the candleholder in the center so he could see what he was doing. He opened each drawer, but all of them were empty. He glanced up at Octavia, who was busy searching the writing desk on the other side of the room.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Nothing. A few used pen nibs. An empty ink pot.”

Tweed sighed and got to his feet. Every filing cabinet had been cleared out. The man really had done a thorough job. He turned back to the desk and started pulling the drawers out, placing them in a pile on the floor. Once he'd finished he picked up the candle, got down onto this knees, and peered into the enclosed space where the drawers were housed. Hope flared slightly. There were items there, items that had been pushed out of overfull drawers and fallen down the back. There was some blank paper, a few envelopes, but nothing that could help him. He checked the other side. More of the same, including a full pad of cream-colored writing paper. Of good quality, but no help to him.

He was about to toss it back when something caught his eye. At the top of the pad was a name and a logo. He held it to the candle.

“The Savoy,” followed by the address of the hotel. Tweed quickly checked the paper from the left side of the desk. It was older, but it also had the name and address of the Savoy at the top.

Meriweather had obviously been to the hotel a few times in the past and had stolen the stationary. Could this be where he'd gone? To his favorite hotel?

He showed it to Octavia. “It's possible,” she said, “and we don't have any other options anyway, do we?”

Octavia looked a bit of a mess. Most of her clothes were black from the smoke at the Ministry, and there were scratches on her cheeks and forehead from broken glass. But Tweed, well, he reckoned he looked pretty good actually. He'd wiped the blood away from his ears and nose, he had his long charcoal jacket on again, and he was feeling like himself once more.

But he didn't look rich. Which meant they couldn't just walk into the Savoy as if they belonged. They needed a plan.

“I just saw you get run over by a steam carriage,” said Tweed as they hurried along the Strand.

“No. How does that help us find out if Meriweather's there?”

“You can faint and I'll check their books.”

“And you think Meriweather will have used his real name? Not too smart.”

“He's not smart, is he? Otherwise he wouldn't be involved in all this.”

“He's a Babbage engineer. A programmer. He's
very
smart. How about this? I found you wandering outside the hotel in a daze and the
only words you will say are a description of Meriweather. Otherwise you're a dumb mute.”

“No one would believe that.”

“No, you're right,” said Octavia thoughtfully. “The mute thing? Don't think you'd be able to pull it off.”

“Actually, I was referring to the dumb part. Why don't we just go with my original idea.”

“Which was?”

“To bribe the desk clerk.”

“Because we don't have any money. At least, I don't. Do you?”

“Not enough,” said Tweed.

By this time they had arrived at the hotel. Wide, well-swept stairs led up to polished glass doors. The inside was brightly lit, tasteful chairs and small tables placed elegantly around the cavernous lobby.

Tweed dashed up the stairs and swept past the sleepy-looking doorman—it was just after five in the morning, after all—striding purposefully to the front desk. He flashed his leather wallet at the startled clerk. “Henry Meriweather. Where is he?”

“W-what? I'm sorry?”

Tweed slammed his hand on the wood. “Don't waste my time or I'll have you down to the Yard quicker than you can say large and lonely cellmate. This woman,” he said, indicating Octavia, who was just approaching, “this poor, defenseless woman. Have you no pity?” asked Tweed. “Have you no
shame
?”

“Wha…? I don't understand,” the clerk almost wailed. “What's happening?”

“One of your guests, a Mister Henry Meriweather, agreed to a deal whereby Miss…” Tweed turned to face Octavia as if searching for her name. He winked. “Miss Jade Aurora would be paid for services rend—”

“Actually, the truth is, he's my father,” interrupted Octavia, sweeping forward and elbowing Tweed out of the way. “He's a scoundrel and a cad and he recently ran out on my mother, myself, and my sisters—my
five
sisters, two of whom have whooping cough—to depart these shores with his mistress, a villainous gold digger. I simply want to try to convince him to stay, to face up to his responsibilities. And if…if he still wishes to go, why, then I simply hope to say goodbye to my father.”

Tweed stared at Octavia, admiring her performance. She even managed to squeeze out a tear! Magnificent.

It would never work, though—

Tweed turned to the clerk to find tears running down his cheeks. He leaned forward and grabbed Octavia's hands. “Oh, Miss. What a sad story. Of course I will help! Just let me know what I can do.”

“I merely wish to know his room number, so that I may have my last words with him.”

The clerk nodded and sniffed. “And you said his name was?”

“Henry Meriweather. But he won't be using that name for fear of my mother. She does have a terrible temper.”

“Can you describe him to me, then?”

Octavia opened her mouth, then she froze. Tweed tried to hide his smile. She was just realizing they had never seen Meriweather before. She didn't know what he looked like.

Tweed let her stew for a few seconds, then stepped in. “Can't you see the woman is distraught! Asking her questions and things of that sort! You know women's brains overheat if they have to think too much! For
shame
. Her father is quite rotund, bald on top, a round face, very small eyes, and a small tuft of ginger hair around his strangely small ears. Now, do you have anyone fitting that description staying here?”