Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (9 page)

He approached the clerk and cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Inspector McLeod asked me to bring him the file from the Knightsbridge attack. Two days ago? One of the victims was a man named Samuel Shaw.”

The clerk tutted at Tweed as if he had caused him an immense amount of pain, then opened a thick ledger on his desk and ran his finger down the entries. He looked up.

“Cabinet X-3. File, Twenty-eight October, number fifty-six.” Then he nodded at a cabinet over Tweed's shoulder.

Tweed hurried over to it and pulled the drawer open. He flicked through the files, resisting the temptation to see what other events were deemed so secret they couldn't be stored with the public police records. He found the October twenty-eighth separator, then flipped through until he found number fifty-six. He pulled out the file and took it over to one of the reading desks and sat down with his back to the clerk.

About ten minutes later he got up and asked the clerk for a piece
of paper and a pencil, then wrote down a list of numbers and names. He took the paper and visited another fifteen filing cabinets, pulling out the documents and jotting down everything he thought he might need.

Sebastian Tweed was furious. It took a lot to make him angry. Testy, he could do quite easily. Rather enjoyed it, actually. Sarcastic? Easy. Arrogant? Again, it came naturally. But to make him truly angry took a lot of doing.

“
Fifteen
deaths!” he hissed at Octavia as they strode along the late afternoon streets, wending their way through the end-of-day pedestrian traffic. “Fifteen murders committed by Moriarty and his gang. And what have they done? Nothing!”

“But…I don't understand,” said Octavia. “If they know it was Moriarty, if they know these killings are linked, why don't they do something about it?”

Tweed stopped and waved his arms in the air. “They
don't
know! It took me half an hour to realize they were committed by the same people, that they had the same M.O. It would take the police the same amount of time, if they could be bothered to check. But they haven't! Someone marks the files as restricted and hides them away before anyone can even view them.”

“But why?” pressed Octavia.

“Harry must have been right. Fear. It's the only answer that makes sense. They don't want it getting out that Moriarty's back. They're scared of the panic it would cause.”

“So they're just letting him swan around London killing whoever he wants?”

“The deaths are spread out over the past few months. I'm sure if they all happened within days of each other Scotland Yard would have
to do something. As it is someone just files away the cases and hopes it all goes away.” Tweed held up his finger. “I am not a happy person, Octavia Nightingale.”

“Er…I can see that. Which is why I'm not going to take you to task for that terrible joke in McLeod's office.”

“Oh. Yes.” The finger came down. “Sorry about that. Seemed funny at the time.”

“Oh, it was. Funny, I mean. It was all I could do to stop from laughing.”

Tweed squinted at her. “Really?”

“Really. I do have a sense of humor, you know.” Her face clouded over. “I got that from my mother.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks for reminding me. Here.” Tweed fished inside the jacket he'd retrieved from Bertie's archives and pulled out a file. He handed it to Octavia.

“What's this?”

“The restricted file on your mother. I thought you might want it.” Tweed turned and started walking again, hopping aside just in time to avoid being hit by a man on a motorized penny farthing as he putt-putted along the pavement.

“Hoi! On the road, granddad.” Tweed gave the back of the penny farthing a kick as it went by. The wheel wobbled, and the driver fought to regain control as the huge wheel bumped off the curb and onto the street, narrowly avoiding a collision with an oncoming omnibus.

“Quite a woman, your mother,” said Tweed as he carried on walking. “Human rights crusader. Investigative reporter. Did you know she was the one who broke the Ramases case? What am I talking about? Of course you know. I—” Tweed became aware that he was talking to himself. He paused and turned to see Octavia still standing where he'd left her, pedestrians parting around her like a rock in the ocean. He hurried back.

“What's wrong?”

“Do you know how many times I asked to see this file?” she asked. “They would never even admit they
had
a file. Always said they couldn't talk about it. Weren't allowed to.”

Tweed clapped his hands together. “There you go then. It's all yours. Consider it a gift. Or if you don't like gifts, a favor. Something you can repay me for later.”

Octavia opened the folder and scanned the contents before she reluctantly closed the file, folded it lengthwise, and put it in her inside pocket.

“Those men,” said Tweed thoughtfully. “In those files. The ones who were murdered over the past few months by Moriarty. They're connected to each other.”

“How?”

“Every single one of them was some kind of computing engineer. Whether it was a machinist, a Babbage programmer, a Babbage builder, a punchcard programmer. They're not just linked by the fact that they were killed by Moriarty. They're all linked because they have something to do with computing, something to do with Babbage's analytical machines.”

They resumed walking again, heading for where Tweed had parked his steam carriage. He had slipped out of the archives earlier that morning, fetching it from where he'd left it last night before his meeting with Octavia.

“Did they work for Babbage & Company?” asked Octavia after a while.

“No. They were retired.”

“What, all of them?”

Tweed nodded. “All over the age of sixty.”

“But
did
they work for Babbage & Company? Or did they have their own company?”

“Don't know. It didn't say in the reports.”

Octavia nodded thoughtfully. Then she flashed a brilliant smile at Tweed. “I have a plan,” she said.

“So?” said Octavia. “Are you suitably impressed?”

They had just left the Companies Registrar offices, where Octavia had accessed public files about shareholders in businesses, using a Babbage machine to input the names of all their victims. Two minutes later she was given the name of a company that all fifteen of the victims had been part owners of.

“Moderately so,” said Tweed.

Octavia stared at him.

“Fine. I am
very
impressed. Well done. Spiffing job. We now know all the victims were part owners of—” Tweed snatched the piece of paper from her hands—“United Analytics. What does that—?”

He frowned, scanning the page.

“What?” asked Octavia.

Tweed quickly pulled out the list of names he had made back at New Scotland Yard and compared it to the list of the owners of United Analytics.

There were two shareholders in the company who weren't in the police files.

Which meant they were still alive.

It was dusk when they arrived at the house of Henry Meriweather, the first of the two names from United Analytics that didn't appear in the police reports.

The early autumn evening was chill; wet, brown leaves flicked and gusted through the air, bringing with them the first hint of winter. Octavia shivered as she stared up at the double-story house. Obviously, the company had done well for its owners, because the house was in a leafy, well-kept street, with red-brick houses and immaculate, if small, gardens. Tesla power was available here. She could tell by the yellow-white glow shining from the windows. Gas lanterns had a singularly different look about them. In fact, the Tesla Tower itself could be seen from the street. It heaved up into the clouds, red and orange warning lights flickering on its bulbous crest to warn away passing airships.

It looked as if they were out of luck, though. Henry Meriweather's house was dark and silent, the only house on the street without some kind of light burning inside.

Tweed hurried along the short path and knocked firmly on the door. No answer. Octavia pushed the doorbell, hearing the long ring echoing inside the house.

Still nothing.

Tweed glanced warily around the street then took a long leather wallet from his inside pocket. He chose two pieces of thin metal, got down on his knees, and inserted them into the lock.

“What are you doing?” whispered Octavia, glancing quickly around to make sure no one was approaching.

Tweed paused, looking at her in surprise. “He could be lying dead in there. Or injured. We need to see if Moriarty's been here yet.”

Tweed turned back to the lock, then stopped and frowned up at her again. “After all we've done since yesterday,
this
is what you're concerned about?”

Octavia pursed her lips. He had a point.

A few seconds later there was a slight clicking sound. Tweed put the lock picks away and pushed the door open, then straightened up and slipped inside. Octavia followed after.

She closed the door behind her and looked around. They stood on a small landing. In the dim light filtering through the window she could see that the floor was tiled with a mosaic pattern. There was a set of stairs to her left.

“I'll check upstairs,” she whispered.

Tweed nodded and poked his head around the first door in the hallway. Octavia left him to it and hurried upstairs. Three rooms opened off the second floor landing. The first was what looked like a guest bedroom, with a single bed and a small table. The second room was an office, but it looked unused. An empty desk, empty bookshelves. Hmm. Octavia was beginning to wonder if anyone actually lived in this house.

The last door opened into the main bedroom. There was a large double bed, but it had been stripped of sheets and bedding. Octavia hurried over to the cupboard and pulled open the doors. Empty.

She closed them again and looked around in frustration. He wasn't here. Coincidence? Or had he found out what was happening to his old business partners and decided to take a long holiday somewhere far away?

She left the room and headed downstairs. Tweed was waiting in the corridor.

“Anything?” he asked.

Octavia shook her head. “He's not here. No clothes in the room, no sheets on the bed.”

Tweed nodded. Then he smiled. “Still. Least we didn't find a decomposing corpse lying on the floor. So that's something, yes?”

“I…suppose?”

“Right. What's the last name on the list?”

Octavia didn't have to check it again. She'd memorized it. “Jonathan Ashdown. Ann Street.”

Ann Street was not a residential road. It was an alley of offices that opened off from Wellington Place.

Octavia and Tweed paused at the entrance. Two benches had been placed beneath a small tree in a little quadrangle about halfway along the length of the alley. Gas lamps reflected off the damp cobbles.
It looks quite pleasant
, thought Octavia.

Night had fallen. Most businesses had closed up, and people were making their way home or, in the case of the pub right behind them, warming themselves in front of a welcoming fire. Octavia could hear the raucous laughter, could see the movement and cheer behind the windows.

She heaved a sigh and pulled her jacket tighter about her. “Shall we?” she asked.

“No,” replied Tweed.

Octavia frowned at him. He stared intently into the alley. “What—?”

“Sshh.”

“Don't tell me—”

She didn't get a chance to finish. Tweed's gloved hand flashed out and clapped across her mouth. Her eyes widened in outrage. She was about to tear his hand away and give him a piece of her mind when he turned to her and put a finger against his lips—much as she'd done back in the airship factory—then he slowly pointed into the alley.

Octavia's eyes swiveled to the side. At first she saw nothing. Then, at the far side of the alley, where it fed into Apsley Road, she saw a slight movement.

Someone was hiding in the shadows.

Octavia and Tweed moved closer against the wall. Had the figure spotted them?

“Do you think it's one of them?” she whispered.

“Not sure. I can go ask if you like.”

“Nobody likes a smart aleck, Tweed,” she snapped.

“Is that so?” said Tweed, distracted, still peering into the alley. “Is that why you have no friends? Can you smell that?”

Octavia frowned, then sniffed. She
could
smell something. Very faint, just a hint on the damp autumn breeze.

Smoke.

A moment later a door to one of the buildings in the alley flew open and banged against the wall. Two figures stepped outside, wreathed in a billowing cloud of black smoke.

It was two of Moriarty's gang, the ones with the long smoke masks that fell to their chests. They turned and hurried along the alley, heading toward the figure waiting in the shadows. As they approached, he stepped into the light.

It was Moriarty.

The three held a brief conversation, then Moriarty nodded and the three turned toward Apsley Road.

“We need to follow them,” said Tweed urgently.

“What about Ashdown?”

But Tweed didn't answer. He was already running, heading toward the other end of the alley where Moriarty and his goons had vanished. Octavia hurried toward the building that was on fire. She coughed and tried to wave the smoke away.

“Hello?” she called.

Nothing. Octavia crouched down. There was no smoke at this level. That was good, wasn't it? It meant the fire hadn't taken hold of everything inside. She also couldn't feel much heat from where she was.

Octavia hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at Tweed. He was still peering around the corner of the alley. He must be trying to see what kind of vehicle Moriarty was using so they could search for it later on. He couldn't exactly be flying his airship through the streets, could he?

Octavia hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath and ran into the house at a low crouch. Her movement caused the smoke to swirl and eddy around her head, drawing it down from the ceiling into the clear band of air she moved through. Octavia swore and slowed her movements, trying to make sure she didn't disturb the thick, black smoke any more than she had to.

The air was already heavy in her lungs. She coughed and ducked her head even lower, trying to draw clean air into her body. She saw an open door up ahead and glanced inside. It was a storeroom filled with wooden filing cabinets and stacks of old furniture. She turned back to the corridor and paused, trying to see where the smoke was actually coming from, but she couldn't see. It was growing thicker, the band slowly dropping down to fill the corridor. It was clear she didn't have much time. She pushed open the next door. A sitting room. Nothing of interest.

There was only one more door, at the end of the passage. As Octavia drew closer she saw that this was where the smoke was coming from, streaming out from the gaps around the door. Octavia struggled to breathe. Her eyes were streaming, turning everything into a blur. She covered her mouth and put her hand to the door. Then she jerked it away with a cry of pain. The door was burning hot.

But she had to check. Ashdown might be in there. Might be injured. She used her foot to push down the door handle—

—and she was thrown bodily to the ground, landing on her back with a grunt of pain. Octavia heard a loud roar. She looked up in surprise and saw a long, billowing stream of flames roiling along the ceiling, followed by thick, cloying black smoke. Stunning heat wrapped around her face, drying her mouth and eyes, stealing away her breath. She winced, closing her eyes and looking away.

Something pulled at her. She cracked her eyes open and saw that it was Tweed, dragging her away from the room. She pushed herself onto her hands and knees, crawling along the passage. She glanced over her shoulder, but all she could see were flames roaring out from inside the room, crawling up the door frame. There was no way anyone could be alive in there.

The noise grew louder as they made their way to the front door, a frightening crackling sound that surrounded her on all sides. The ceiling was engulfed with fire, the angry flames crawling down the walls. Octavia was astounded at how fast it moved. Twenty seconds ago the passage was smoky but still breathable. Now it was an inferno.

Octavia couldn't see anything except smoke and fire. The heat pressed down on her from above, driving her to the carpeted floor. She ran her fingers frantically along the burning walls, knowing she just had to keep going straight ahead to get out. The smoke had draped across the whole hallway like a deadly curtain. She didn't know which way she was going.

Then she saw the smoke swirl as it was sucked outward. The door! She staggered into a crouch and lunged forward, bursting out of the house, sucking in great gasps of cool, refreshing air.

She felt hands under her arms. “Come on, Songbird,” said Tweed hoarsely. “Time to breathe later. We have to get after them.”

Octavia coughed out more smoke and straightened up. She wiped her streaming eyes, squinting back at the house. Flames were visible in the windows now. As she watched, one of them exploded outward,
showering the alley with shards of glass. Flames roared out of the empty frame, reaching up into the sky.

“Come on,” Tweed shouted.

She turned to see him hurrying back along the alley to where he'd parked the steamcoach when they arrived. She sprinted after him and climbed up into the seat just as he pumped the lever that sucked air into the boiler. A shrill whistle burst from behind them, and Tweed quickly yanked on a release valve. The carriage lurched forward, trundling out across the cobbles of Wellington Place.

“Did you see them?” she asked.

“’Course I did. They're in a horse-drawn hansom.”

“Horse-drawn? Rather old fashioned of them.”

Tweed steered the carriage around a corner. As he did so, Octavia saw a group of five automata running toward the alley. They were painted red and yellow, but the paint was old, dull and chipped, and covered in smoke stains. They were much larger than normal automata, about ten feet tall, with huge bulbous backs that contained a chemical used to douse fires. Their æther cages were hidden away, reinforced so as not to get damaged by the heat. They contained the souls of firemen who now served the city in death, their widows and families paid a monthly salary.

At least the fire won't spread to the other houses now
, thought Octavia.

Tweed turned right at the end of Wellington Place, moving onto the busy traffic of Arbour Street. They spotted Moriarty straight away. There weren't many horse-driven carriages nowadays. They were used mostly by the Traditionalists, who refused to have anything to do with modern transport, or the extremely rich, who used horses in a pathetic attempt to be different or eccentric.

The thickening mist had slowed the traffic in the steam-driven lanes, a lucky thing because it would have looked odd if Tweed drove his steamcoach at the same pace as Moriarty's carriage.

The automata pulling carriages had lifted the plates covering their æther cages, allowing the white light of the trapped souls to illuminate the way forward through the dark and mist, the glow sending a cone of hazy light out in front of them. Moriarty's carriages had lanterns hung above the driver's seat, the bouncing of the wheels causing the lights to swing wildly.