The Mechanical Mind of John Coggin (18 page)

A pang of misery twanged in John's chest. He'd forgotten. His grand plan was dependent on one key ingredient. An ingredient that he didn't have.

“Something wrong?” asked Miss Doyle.

“I do have a grand plan,” John said, “but I need the poo from Henrietta hens for it to work.”

“You might try asking Maria Persimmons,” Miss Doyle said slyly. “I'm sure she'd be more than happy to
lend you some—it's making a mess in the back garden.”

“Maria's here?”

Miss Doyle nodded.

“How?”

“Simple.” Miss Doyle smirked. “I found her.”

“H
ARRY
, J
OHN, OH
my heart's ease, don't you ever do that to me again,” Maria said, splashing tears onto his shoulder and soaking his shirt.

John hadn't been able to say a word. As soon as Miss Doyle had shown him into the front room, Maria had wrapped him up in a hug so tight that he couldn't breathe.

He didn't want to. He was too happy knowing that Maria truly had forgiven him for what he had done.

“Of course I've forgiven you,” Maria said, after she'd finally released him and sat him down on the sofa. “You're family! And I was so worried about what had happened to you. The first thing I saw when I got home was a horrendous fire. Then Leslie told me that you and Nora—I'm sorry, you and Page—had run away.

“I didn't know if you had been injured or killed or
were somewhere in the cold starving to death. I had half of Littlemere out looking for you.”

There were deep bags under Maria's eyes and her clothes were mussed where she had hugged him, but she was the most beautiful person John had ever seen.

“Then this awful woman with a stuffed passenger pigeon in her hat showed up. She wouldn't tell me who she was, but she kept demanding to know more about you. So I told her to go to . . . the place other than heaven.”

“You didn't tell her you hated the sight of me?”

Maria looked shocked. “I'd never do that! As soon as I'd pulled together enough money, I sent Leslie south while I went north to look for you. I was searching for weeks.” Maria smiled. “I'd almost given up when I remembered Page talking about Pludgett. It sounded like a place you both might have been. So I packed my bags and took the train. And that's where I met Miss Doyle.”

“But the bakery is . . . ?”

Maria's eyes grew suspiciously bright. John thought she might be about to cry again.

“Not a bit left.”

“I'm sorry, Maria.” John hung his head.

“You were trying to help.” Maria hugged him again. “And I love you for it.” She drew her sleeve across her face and smiled. “In any case, I still have my Henrietta hens. Miss Doyle was insistent on having them shipped
here. Said I couldn't leave them orphaned in Littlemere.”

After hearing that, John almost wanted to hug Miss Doyle too, but he realized she might not take it as well as Maria had. Throughout the reunion, she had been sitting at a wobbly table, scribbling on a piece of paper.

Only now did she look up. “If you've finished coddling him, Maria, I think we'd best discuss our next steps. I deduce that John would like to focus on Page's retrieval.”

John nodded.

“How many hens did you bring to Pludgett?” he asked Maria.

“All of them.”

“Is that enough?” Miss Doyle inquired.

He nodded again. That would be more than enough fuel for the Autopsy's furnace.

“Capital.” She brushed off her hands. “Then what are the next steps?”

The matter-of-fact way in which Miss Doyle said this gave John heart. He wasn't about to be beaten—not with the Wayfarers, Maria, and a woman of uncommon talents behind him.

“I've converted a steam-engine carriage into a battering ram. We're going to hide it inside a dragon float, head down Main Street during the parade, and bust through the front door.”

John hadn't expected Miss Doyle to do sidesplits of
ecstasy when she heard his idea, but he had hoped she might congratulate him. Or at least give him a hint of approval.

Instead, she drummed her pencil against the table.

“There's only one door to the workshop?” she asked.

John nodded. “Made of oak. But a few hits should break it down.”

Miss Doyle kept tappety-tapping the pencil.

“What?” John demanded.

“Don't take this the wrong way.” Miss Doyle laid the pencil down with precision. “But I'm not sure you're fighting with your brains.”

“Of course I'm not fighting with my brains,” John shot back. “I'm fighting with the Autopsy!”

Miss Doyle held up her hand. “And a very effective weapon it is too. But I wonder . . . have you thought about your sister in this plan? She's in a highly vulnerable position.”

John slumped against Maria's arm. What Miss Doyle said was true. With Page inside the workshop, his Great-Aunt Beauregard had the upper hand. Blasting a hole through the door was all well and good, but there was no guarantee what kind of damage might happen during the siege. Page might be hurt in the assault. Or used as a hostage for his great-aunt's release. Or a thousand and one things he hadn't considered in his initial enthusiasm.

“What else can we do? There's only one door in and
out of the workshop. And we have to get through it.”

“Well,” Miss Doyle said, picking up her pencil once more. “Instead of an obvious frontal assault, I suggest we mount a sneak attack.”

“And may I be the first to volunteer for the estimable honor?”

Boz shot out from underneath the sofa, sending Miss Doyle's chair spinning in a tizzy.

“Boz! You scared me half to death,” Maria said, clutching her chest.

“Ah, my dear mademoiselle.” Boz yanked his balaclava from his head and kissed her hand. “How oft I have thought of you on my long and weary odyssey. How oft your sweet face has appeared to me in the dying light of a desert fire. How oft the words of contrition have hovered on my lips, only to have your sight whisked away by a comrade's hairy—”

“Boz!” she interrupted.

“Yes?”

“Do be quiet.”

“I am yours to command.” Boz sat down on the sofa. Then he jumped back up again. “But before I do, let me reiterate how anxious I am to ascend the highest heavens of self-sacrifice.”

“You were supposed to stay with the Wayfarers!” John told him.

Boz tilted his head. “And there I was. But it occurred
to me that I had made a solemn vow to protect you from mortal danger. Would the gods forgive me if I let you walk blindfolded into the mouth of an inferno? No, thought I! I must follow him, wherever he may go—”

“Boz!” the company shouted in unison.

“Sorry.”

“To continue,” Miss Doyle said to John, “I suggest we mount a sneak attack.”

“How?”

“Yes, how?” Boz twitted. He was busy massaging his hair into a gravity-defying Mohawk.

Miss Doyle poked Boz with her pencil. “You are coming with me to rescue Page.”

Boz turned the color of blancmange, but he didn't flinch. “I daresay that Miss Beauregard Coggin will be less than pleased at the turn of events.”

“She will not know,” Miss Doyle replied.

“Ah,” Boz said. “Then am I right in assuming you will be needing me for a little night ruse?”

“No.” Miss Doyle smiled. “You'll be a Saint Bernard.”

“What?” John and Boz exclaimed together.

Miss Doyle showed everyone the piece of paper she had been writing on. It was a list that included wool, needles, and linen. At the top, in large letters, were the words
DOG SUIT
.

“My trusty dog will accompany me when I make a delivery of groceries. While I unload the boxes, Boz can
sniff out the whereabouts of Page.”

“Why can't I be something more exciting?” Boz persisted. “Like an avocado?”

“Miss Doyle, it's brilliant!” Maria clapped her hands.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning back into her chair. “I am a woman of uncommon talents.”

But this time it was John's turn to be unconvinced. Although he admired the framework of Miss Doyle's plan, he could already see a number of large holes in the sheathing. Besides, if anyone was going to be involved in a daring rescue, it was going to be him.

“What's wrong?” asked Miss Doyle.

“Don't take this the wrong way, but it's not going to work.”

“Why?”

“Mainly because Great-Aunt Beauregard doesn't know who you are. There's no way she'll let you in the front door. Plus you haven't thought about the parade. The streets around the workshop are roped off to traffic.”

Miss Doyle took his criticisms with a practical good grace. “Fair points.” She clasped her hands together. “So is there any opportunity when your great-aunt would be willing to admit a stranger?”

John considered the humdrum routine of his former life. The only outsiders he'd ever seen in the workshop were undertakers, lumber deliverymen, and—

“BYOP!”

The adults looked at him as if he had gone crackers.

“It's an event Great-Aunt Beauregard holds on Pludgett Day,” John explained. “People are invited to bring parents or loved ones into the workshop to get them measured for coffins. It's very popular,” he said, noting their skeptical expressions.

“This city is in desperate need of medication,” Miss Doyle noted.

“But we can't dress up Boz like an old person,” Maria said. “Your great-aunt would see right through that.”

“She would,” John agreed. “Which is why Miss Doyle will be in the market for a
pet
coffin.” One that's just the right size for an avenging Coggin,
he thought to himself.

Miss Doyle chuckled. “Inspired, John. Inspired.”

Maria was still worrying at a piece of dough stuck on her arm. “Are you sure the event is going to happen? She's wrapped up that place so tight.”

“Not tight enough!” Boz crowed, yanking a Pludgett Day poster from the inside of his jacket. “BYOP takes top billing this year.”

John examined the printed poster. Boz was right. There the BYOP was, lording over the parade and the fireworks and the pickle-eating contest. His great-aunt must be running low on funds—for the first time in John's memory, she was charging a hefty admission fee.

“Then it's settled.” Miss Doyle picked up her list. “Boz and I will gain entrance to the workshop disguised
as a befuddled pet owner and her aging Saint Bernard.”

“And what am I required to do after that?” Boz asked Miss Doyle.

“Simple,” she said. “The most rational place for Page during BYOP is in a strong locked room. Is there one in the building?” She paused to look at John.

John nodded. “The ground-floor storeroom has a good lock. That's where Great-Aunt Beauregard keeps the safe.” Simple enough for me to gain access to, he noted silently.

“So your job, Boz, is to pick the lock, help Page into your costume, and send her back to me.”

On hearing this last instruction, Boz's Mohawk flopped limply to one side. “I hate to interject, but won't that leave me in a rather unenviable position?”

“Only for a quarter of an hour or so,” Miss Doyle replied. “Once we have Page safely in hand, you can sneak or fly or hopscotch out through the front door.”

Boz bit his lip. “Even so, it seems a rather hazardous undertaking for one diminutive daredevil.”

“You don't have to worry about escaping,” John interrupted. The moment had come to lay down the law.

“Why?” Miss Doyle's tone sharpened.

“Because Boz isn't going.” John stood up. “I am.”

Maria grasped his arm. “No, John. We cannot risk you.”

“She's my sister!” John shook himself free.

“As we well appreciate,” Miss Doyle said with infuriating calm, “but Maria is correct. As I said before, we can't risk you being captured by your great-aunt. And should this first plan fail—which, I will admit, is a slim possibility—we'll need you on the outside to save us.”

John was livid. Here they were, only a couple of days away from the parade, and Miss Doyle wanted to chop off his limbs. He had let Page down so many times, he couldn't bear to sit on his backside and watch Boz waltz into danger.

Practically breathing fire, he stomped outside and squatted on the front steps. A fog of queasy odors swirled around him.

The front door opened, and a set of footsteps approached. Then a dried red sponge bloomed in John's left eye.

“My dear boy, you appear to be wrestling with cherubim and seraphim,” Boz said.

“I want to go!”

Boz sat down. “I know you do. But Miss Doyle is right. We may yet need your services. This part is not yours to play.”

“Yes, it is!”

“No,” Boz said, “it's mine.” He ran his fingers through his hair and pulled out a pinecone. “I'm aware I have not been what one might call the most exemplary of friends. Yet despite having loins that are the consistency of a
jellied eel, I am going to make it up to you. So I will brook no opposition. I hereby vow to hoist your great-aunt Beauregard with a Saint Bernard—my final penance for a misspent maturity.”

John examined Boz carefully. In all the days he had known his friend, he realized, Boz's squished-in face was the closest it had ever been to looking serious.

“You're not going to let me go, are you?”

Boz shook his head. “No, my dear boy, I'm not. And I'm afraid that if you try, you will wake to discover yourself chained to the nearest radiator.”

John sighed. “You promise you'll find her?”

Boz smiled. “As sure as the sun sets upon the salty sea.”

John reached into his pocket. “Then I'll guess you'll be needing this.”

And he handed Boz his jackknife.