The Technologists (48 page)

This was not the first time he’d had to get out of Boston in a hurry, and as soon as he’d read in the newspaper of his client Cheshire’s death, he knew the sands had run out. He did not feel much of an emotional qualm about the man’s demise. After all, the deformed stockbroker was rather a miserable pissant, whose chief quality of any value was being rich. But he
was
rich, and he had thrown plenty of money in Camp’s direction. Camp now regretted telling Cheshire about the boy with the lame arm whom one of his informants heard speaking of the stockbroker, and he had not asked or really wanted to know what it was Cheshire did about it, but he had seen the fury in Cheshire’s eyes as he listened to Camp’s report. Cheshire’s murder—if that’s what it was, but what else could an exploding sewer be in the jaded mind of a private detective?—was a shame. He did not like Cheshire, could not like him no matter what he was paid, but Cheshire was a true speculator, and Camp had always fancied himself a type of speculator—not in money and investments, but in people.

Simon Camp was a professional, through and through. He took cases to the end, and would not run away from one. But, he thought, as he packed his valise and laid aside his train ticket, this case was over. Prematurely, but still it had ended the moment Joseph Cheshire was burnt to a crisp. Cheshire was his client, Boston was not.

Certainly, Boston remained in great danger, and that was another
shame. Joseph Cheshire’s madness for revenge and his fiery end had convinced Camp not only that there was a lunatic scientist somewhere in Boston, but that the perpetrator would stop at nothing to carry his plan for the city—whatever it was—through to its unnatural conclusion. In that, Camp almost admired the unknown monster, though he liked Boston well enough and preferred not to see it destroyed. Camp indirectly had been witness to the most gruesome murders in Boston history, nearly three years before, and now? What word would one of those dandified bookmen he once trailed use for this chain of events? Anyway, Boston’s security was a matter for the police department, and Camp didn’t care a brass farthing what police ever did. Or, as he said in polite society, or to other detectives, he did not
meddle
with police affairs. He was a professional Pinkerton man, and had a much more lucrative opportunity up his sleeve that he was now free to pursue, whether Allan Pinkerton liked it or not, and that was that.

He did give a passing thought to those collegies the stockbroker had ordered him to follow and gather information on. Marcus Mansfield and the fellows he ran with knew something, and whatever they knew put them in danger, but also gave Boston a chance.

Just not a chance that Camp was willing to bet on.

“Your bill was paid in advance, Mr. Melnotte,” said the hotel clerk at the Parker House, addressing him by the alias he had used upon arrival. Camp had insisted on staying at the nicest hotel at Cheshire’s expense—the hotel where no less than Charles Dickens had slept on his visit to Boston. “We hope your stay in Boston was pleasant.”

“It’s been a fly in my teacup, actually. Thanks, fellow.” He looked around at the shining marble elegance and felt a pang of regret for this proud city, which always seemed to think it could sail through any circumstance unscathed.

Farewell, Boston. Not a moment too soon.

“T
HAT’S HIM
!”
Marcus said of the etching printed alongside the column about Joseph Cheshire.

“Could it really be an accident?” Edwin asked.

“I doubt it,” Marcus replied. “But the evidence to prove otherwise is gone—just like the laboratory.”

“Well, one fewer problem to worry about, with Cheshire out of the way,” Bob said sardonically.

“Assuming, Mr. Richards, that Mr. Cheshire didn’t tell anybody about us already, before he was under the sod,” Ellen pointed out.

Edwin shook his head at his friends in disbelief. “You are talking of a man’s life! Why would someone kill him?” he asked, looking up at Marcus.

“Perhaps he was threatening other people besides us,” he replied, shrugging.

“I’d have hanged him like a dog if he tried to stop us,” Bob said. “Not literally a dog, Professor.”

“Cheshire had been monitoring our whereabouts, our actions,” said Marcus, freshly troubled. “If the experimenter knows that the boy told us about him, he might try to harm him, too. We must find the boy and make certain he is safe.”

“Who?”

“Theo,” Marcus said.

“What? Oh, the little fellow with the hand, you mean,” said Bob indifferently.

“He helped us and now he could be in danger. We involved him. He’s hardly more than a child, Bob.”

“Right now, we have other fish to fry,” Bob reminded him. “Don’t we?”

“Of course, but—”

“Why, Professor Swallow,” Bob interrupted, transfixed by something he saw in Ellen’s face, “what is the matter?”

True to form, her concentration had remained fixed. A gleam of possibility was in her eyes. “What if the mixture of chemicals there was not placed in cold water?”

“But that was how Bob found them,” Edwin said.

She shook her head. “Mr. Hoyt, you misunderstand what I mean. The water was cold, after what may have been
several days
, when Mr. Richards came upon it.”

Edwin stared at her for a long moment. “Yes … I see it.
… It
might have
turned
the water cold!”

“Cold, or, more likely, frozen,” Ellen said, nodding as she thought it through. “Mr. Richards saw what was likely several pounds of chloride of lime that appeared to have been heated before being placed through a sieve and powdered. We now believe, from what he recounted, there was residue of salt, too, and mercury. When combined, this mixture introduced into water
could
freeze it.”

“If we have sufficient raw materials, we can find out if it works,” Marcus said.

“We ought to move our inquiries to the Institute,” Ellen said. “I fear Mrs. Blodgett will have an ear at the door by now, seeing us all come in. Plus, we shall need more materials than we can obtain here.”

“Already preparing,” Edwin said, wrapping up some of what they needed. Meanwhile, Bob went down to the street to hire a carriage to carry them all to Back Bay.

Once they arrived at the Institute basement, they arranged the necessary equipment. Using a burner, they proceeded to heat chloride of lime. It gradually formed a porous mass, after which they ran it through a sieve. In a wooden vessel, salt was added and then a glass ball of mercury was inserted with a pair of tongs.

“Look!” Edwin said.

The mercury in the glass ball gradually froze solid.

“Now, Mr. Mansfield! The water!” Ellen said.

He poured in a container of water. Bob then delicately positioned a thermometer into the mixture. The thermometer dropped down ten, twenty, thirty, forty, then another sixty degrees. The water froze before their eyes, clutching the thermometer in ice.

“Incredible! This must be it! It must be the purpose of this experiment!” Bob cried.

Edwin threw back his head and laughed wildly. “We’ve found it!” Then his expression retreated into its normal state of caution. “What did we find, exactly?”

“An answer, but only to half our question. Now we must discover its use,” Marcus said.

“Yes. We must ask ourselves: What destruction could this create?” proposed Ellen.

“We’d have to consider every use of water in Boston,” Bob said, “and how such an experiment could derange its normal function.”

“We must think like a madman, you mean,” Edwin said, swallowing hard.

Evening trudged into night, Sunday slipped into the early morning hours of Monday. They had written theories on a chalkboard and crossed them out one by one; they took their turns napping on the bench in the corner of the laboratory. Edwin practically collapsed there during his turn, while the others were preparing the blast furnace to attempt an experiment using iron pieces similar to those noticed near the demonstration table in the private laboratory. Ellen said she did not need to rest, though on several occasions her eyes closed for a few seconds at a time while she was sitting, with her perfect posture, at the microscope. As soon as her eyes opened again, her hands deftly continued her examination right where they’d left off.

With so much to do, Marcus had no expectation of sleeping, either, when his turn came for the bench. But when he looked at the clock again he found almost an hour and twenty minutes had passed, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to resume his work. The next time he peeled his eyes open, someone swayed above him, shaking him and shouting. His mind returned to the fields in Baton Rouge, the wounded screaming
in desperation or writhing in final moments of life. A blurry array of shapes and colors swam into view around the laboratory: his friends, all prostrate around the room. Senseless. They had been attacked while he slept.

*   *   *

T
HE FIRST FACE THAT HE COULD IDENTIFY
among the attackers was that of Albert Hall. The cowlick hanging down on the forehead, the thin, perpetually open lips now saying something Marcus could not hear. He tried to reach out and strike that chubby pink face but could not manage to raise his hand. He fought as he felt himself lifted under his arms and half-dragged, half-pushed out into the hallway, followed almost immediately by a stumbling, groggy Bob. A few moments later, clear vision and sense returned, and Marcus, understanding, hurried back into the laboratory and helped Albert and Darwin Fogg drag Edwin and Ellen into the hall, while Bob crawled on the floor to the furnace and put out the burning irons.

“You all right, Mr. Marcus?” Darwin asked when they were back in the safety of the hallway.

“I think so, Darwin,” Marcus said, holding on to his throbbing head.

“Carbon gas!” Bob said, bringing water to Edwin, who was gasping. “We were all poisoned by it. There was some loose brickwork on the furnace that we hadn’t noticed, and it must have been releasing fumes.”

They activated the ventilation fan and convened in Ellen’s laboratory while the air cleared.

“Thank you for your help, Hall,” Bob said.

“I come early to review the student account ledgers, and look what I find. What were you doing in there?” Albert demanded. “What
exactly
are you doing down here?”

“We have permission to use the laboratory, Hall,” Marcus said. “You can confirm that with the faculty office.”

“Oh, I will do so! But she is meant to be in her own laboratory only, isn’t she?” he asked of Ellen.

“For classes, yes, Mr. Hall,” Ellen, wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief, answered with proper deference. “Yet I am permitted to assist other students when necessary.”

“I’ll have to confirm that, too,” Albert said with suspicion. “Something strange—well, I could have been killed trying to rescue all of you, you know.”

Darwin continued to tend to the students until he was assured they were well, which they were, except for slight headaches.

“That will set us back,” Bob said when both Darwin and Albert had exited.

“We’ve run out of time,” said Marcus.

“What do you mean?” asked Edwin, who was still coughing and struggling for his voice.

“Think of it, Edwin,” Marcus said. “The experimenter has had his freezing mechanism completed for at least a day and a half, maybe longer. Bob found it Saturday night, and he and Miss Swallow hadn’t seen anyone enter the experimenter’s laboratory for hours before that!”

“Then why wait?” Edwin asked. “Why would the wretch not just use it yesterday or the day before?” Then, prayerfully, “Perhaps it isn’t intended for any harmful use.”

“We must not relent!” Bob exclaimed.

“Enough, Bob. We almost just died in there!” Marcus shouted over him. “If Darwin and Hall hadn’t happened to be passing—”

“That was bad luck,” Bob interrupted, nodding his head.

“Or some kind of sabotage,” Marcus said.

“Why, that furnace probably hasn’t been started more than two or three times since the building was put up, and probably hadn’t been completed when their funds ran low. You know half the basement was left unfinished. We cannot stop when we’re so close!” Bob exclaimed.

“Cheshire.”

“What?” Bob replied.

“Joseph Cheshire,” Marcus went on in a louder voice. “He was conducting some sort of investigation into the events—we know that. Perhaps he was coming closer—he discovered that
we
were investigating, in any event, and may have known much more than that. Professor Runkle knew we were investigating. One man, Cheshire, is dead, the other, Runkle, may yet succumb from the attempt on his life. This isn’t a schoolyard game—if it ever seemed like it was, it’s not anymore. None of us is safe, not in our homes, not here, not in the streets. The experimenter
knew that someone had been to his laboratory and destroyed the building—now he may work faster to execute his plans.”

“Then what exactly do you suggest?” Bob asked.

“We cannot wait, and there is nothing left of the private laboratory or its superintendent to give us any further intelligence. We must bring everything we know to the police, and pray for the best.”