Clockwork Chaos (20 page)

Keeling waited, but Amanda asked nothing else. She made a soft sound, and when Keeling leaned forward in query, he realized she was emitting restrained whimpers as if the very act of crying were painful.

Keeling placed his hat on his head. “I wish you well, Miss Maguire. In conclusion, I will quote the master bard himself, William Shakespeare, who said, ‘Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.’ Good day.”

G
ail Gray

––––––––

Y
ou’re not really going through with this?” Nathaniel Dillon stood in the doorway, his face hidden in shadow. Behind him, several buildings along printer’s row shifted again, their foundations loaded on train rails by the building re-allotment engineers; the entire shops and contents to be shuttled away to the scrap yards. The groaning of masonry grated against masonry, the grind of stone followed by the fading
click-clack
of wheels on rails tortured the night. Nathaniel’s nerves, already distraught, sparked as violently as a Tesla coil piercing the night sky as he witnessed the slipping away of livelihoods and shipping away of souls..

Only a few days ago, the printing of newspapers was banned by the Industry for the Consumers Council. It was whispered on the streets and in the Printers’ Guildhall that any shop or dwelling which housed a printing press was slated for destruction. Their bricks were reused to construct iron, copper, and brass foundries. The iron presses were destined for the smelters to be re-poured for machinery parts. Anything suitable was outfitted for war machines. The merchants and shop owners simply disappeared.

In the sudden downpour, Nathaniel turned up the collar of his grey wool coat to hide his face from detection. There was no telling if hydrogen-dirigible spies lurked just above the clouds, their reverse periscopes peering into the Kensington streets. Once inside the Equinox Book Shop, he dripped water in small puddles. He kept his hands in his pockets so as not to drench any of the offerings in the shop. He held his body in, as if he could shrink to maneuver the stacks. Cracky, the printer’s apprentice, had often joked how Nathaniel was a freakishly large man, but Nathaniel retorted The Equinox was ridiculously Lilliputian.

Nathaniel navigated the aisles with only the gaslight from outside to steer him toward the stairs in the backroom. While it wasn’t unusual for The Equinox to be open into the evening, lamp oil was rationed and candles were hard to come by. He hoped Cecilia Bainbridge was here and nothing had befallen her on the way to their meeting. He was afraid to discover the reason she was at the bookshop so late. He could hear the pressurized moans of the steam pipes. He removed his coat, gloves, and bowler, grabbed a candle, lit it, and carefully opened the great wood-plank door leading to stairs carved in stone over a century ago.

Even on the upper steps, he felt the difference in atmospheric pressure. Below him, shapes were indistinct through the layer of haze and before he could make it halfway down, his shirt was damp, his hair listless.

“Who is it?” Cecilia called from below, her voice tense.

“Nathaniel,” he reassured her. “What are you doing? I was worried with all this blasted activity afoot. I have been waiting for you at the Blue Anchor.”

“I had no intention of missing our dinner, but I ran late. I’m sorry. However, you are just in time. I can use the light from your candle. Hurry!” As if to punctuate this point, the young woman slammed the clamshell press closed with a heavy, iron clang.

With every step of descent into the basement, the humidity became more cloying. He felt as if he navigated through heavy wool. His breath stuck in his throat as if someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth.

“You’ve done a marvelous job,” Cecilia said as she pressed the foot pedal for more steam. The pipes clanged and sweated as if under great stress, but held as they performed the task previously only handled by brawny men. Nathaniel shook his head. Perhaps he had made a mistake when he adapted the Koenig printing press to the effort-saving methods of steam. Even though steam-driven rotary presses had been used in the industrialized factories since 1814, few small clamshell presses, like the one hidden beneath The Equinox Bookshop, were powered by steam.

“Before now, no woman has had the strength to leverage this foot treadle,” Cecilia said, pumping the mechanism for emphasis, “or even turn the wheel, but with the help of your steam propulsion, I can manage quite well. Look!”

The platens of the press separated, revealing a sheet of paper. Sable-colored ink smeared on her cheek and nose made Cecila even more irresistible. He would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious. She gingerly removed the printed broadside with her fingertips, and held the paper flat on her palms as she slid it next to others on a long drying table. “There. That’s sheet ninety-seven, only one hundred and thirteen more to go.”

“My stars, you’ve already printed almost as many as Cracky did in such a short time. He was the best apprentice this side of London.” Nathaniel resisted the temptation to pull the copper tubing and stop this entire operation. It was just too dangerous. And it was his fault. While Nathaniel had been vulnerable to her charms and whims for years, he never imagined what would happen once he invited her to his mechanics workshop. There in the midst of inventions springing to noisy, sweaty life, she stood hypnotized by the power and potential. In her usual impulsive way, she begged him to build her a specific contraption—for a more specific reason—to stir up trouble.

“Thank you, Nathaniel. Ye of such little faith,” she said, gloating as she checked to see which sheets had dried. “You have to admit, I am my father’s daughter. Do me a favor, will you? Will you please shovel on another load of coal.” She pointed in the direction of the steam engine he’d built at the back of the room where he’d erected a dividing wall from leftover bricks, The wall protected the papers and press from the damp and as much as from discovery. The contraption which could lead to the destruction of the whole enterprise. Copper tubing extended upward to near ceiling height, crested the wall, and then stretched just above the ceiling both ways. One part dipped back down again to the junction at the press, while the other exited the building at ground level to relieve the build-up of excess steam.

“It seems warm enough in here to me,” Nathaniel said, removing his waistcoat and hanging it on a hook.

“I just need enough to finish the last batch. But yes, it is abysmally warm and humid,” she agreed. “I must remove my jacket before I faint.”

“You, madam? Struck by the vapors? I hardly think so. Remember how revolted you were when Margot, that silly neighbor of yours pretended to swoon at the opera? You would never stoop to such coy playacting,” he joked. “But I shall look away if you like.”

“Silly, Nathaniel. It’s only my jacket. I am wearing four layers.” She rinsed her hands in a small basin and after a cursory swipe of the hand towel, untied the ties on her jacket. The light from the candles bounced off the sheen of the russet silk, emphasizing her choice of bold colors, which set off her dark heavy hair. Fabrics dyed with madder were for the daring these days. Greys and blacks were considered more appropriate for young women. But Cecilia had never done what was appropriate. When he built the steam engine for her, hauling the pieces down the stairs bit by bit in heavy crates, he never imagined one of the benefits would be the opportunity to watch her disrobe. He was generously rewarded now. Without a hint of embarrassment or decorum, she removed the copper-colored jacket revealing a green- and white-striped corset. Her blouse was of material so sheer it exposed the embroidered linen petticoat beneath its gauze.

Cecilia reached into the maw of the machinery as if such an act was an everyday occurrence, especially in a secret room without a chaperone. She inked the roller as agile as any back street boy. She was a slim woman and the arch of her back beneath the striped satin was a sight he memorized without guilt.

Nathaniel stepped behind the brick wall and shoveled coal as she worked. The pumping clangs, hisses, and bangs of the machinery beat out a rhythmic music all their own, one of industry and efficiency, energy and intricacy. The sounds ran through him as if he were on the receiving end of the powers only steam created. It escalated his heartbeat, swelled his heart with passion for his mechanical work and renewed gratitude for this amazing age. Despite all the stresses of the current state of Britain, once the Science for the Advancement of the Individual Society was reinstated, he envisioned a future bright with commerce and production, where man could use his brain, not break his back to accomplish marvelous unimagined things.

Cecilia stopped working before he did. He stopped as well. The steam would build all night if he shoveled more coal. He walked around the edge of the brick wall, unbuttoning his shirt from the heat of his efforts.

“I’m having trouble keeping the paper from curling. Can you hand me a few blank sheets?” she asked without looking up. “I’ve had to keep them as far away from the steam engine as possible. They’re in that metal drawer under the paperweights.”

As he assisted her once more, he realized he was an accomplice. “You’re intent on publishing these broadsides?”

“Yes, of course. You know as well as I do, we’ve been driven to such recourse. You were there at the planning stages, even when Father was still alive.” She inserted the paper he handed her and then summoned the steam to operate the great wheel to close the press.

Nathaniel respected her as a sharp book dealer, as well as her ability to haggle to acquire rare volumes at the best prices, but in dealing with the real world, he didn’t trust her judgment. She was too independent, too driven on impulse. And unfortunately, she had a way of driving the rest of them into dangerous ventures without resorting to pouting or guilt. She simply took the first step. And for some uncanny reason—they followed.

“The authorities will trace them here,” he said, finally accepting the idea of a confrontation. “There is gossip they consulted a Chromotographer to analyze the ink in the diaries they think belong to Jack the Ripper. You shall be found out,” Nathaniel stepped into the light thrown by the candles.

“Nathaniel, you know I am not a stupid woman. I stole the ink from Ratcliff’s. His shop has been confiscated. Didn’t you notice the crane positioned outside his building ready to lift it onto the wheel bed? Fustin warned me. Do you recall that sly, but charming street urchin who comes by here all the time? He’s as good as any other leader of the revolt, heading up that raggle-taggle band of boys.”

Nathaniel nodded his head, but looked unsure. She ignored the look. “Fustin told me how his brothers were sent up Ratcliff’s chimney to crack the mortar. Afterward they were put to work at gunpoint, some sort of highly engineered gun the boy said, the stuff of nightmares, he said. They worked all last night extending the rail line beneath Ratcliff’s. By the time anyone thinks to trace the ink there, the building and its contents will be scattered in pieces across the scrap heap. Fustin also heard street gossip that Ratcliff buggered off just in time with that French woman. Luckily, he’s drinking absinthe in a Parisian café by now. Besides, Jack the Ripper and I can hardly be compared.”

Nathaniel looked at her in shock. “Murder is murder, my dear. Things are getting out of hand. This has gone too far.” He stepped forward and put one hand on her forearm. He could feel her muscles tense just below where she’d rolled up her sleeve. She stopped working, her hand stilled between the two platens of the printing press, the lace-edge against her sweat-gleamed skin accenting her feminine nature. But the hand holding the ink-roller, now stilled, was once again covered in ink like a workman’s hand.

“And you don’t think they’ve gone too far?” she asked.

“That demented Industry for the Consumers Council! Imagine banning newspapers? Mark my words, books will be next. This is our last chance,” she said in a tone which terrified him, slightly demented in its own right.

“Things have escalated on both sides so quickly,” his voice trailed off. He didn’t know the words to convince her.

“That is why we must make our move, is it not? It’s all the more imperative now that Cracky, Morris, and Archibald have been arrested. I’m not going to throw away six months of planning.” She pulled free of his grasp and held up the roller. “Besides this is the most common of all inks. Any Industry Council investigators will be led on a merry chase.”

“And the poison, you don’t think anyone will trace the poison?”

“I know my experiments with, let us say, the more deadly plants disturb you, but I’ve even consulted the alchemist. John Henry Bolton, whose father studied under William Withering, the first physician to realize the medicinal properties as well as the potency of the foxglove. And yes, the steroid glycoside: or digitoxin when taken from the more potent leaves and upper stem of what fanatics call
Dead Men’s Bells
and
Witch’s Gloves
can cause death, but it all depends on amounts.” She held up her fist and opened and closed it as a heart might look when beating.

Nathaniel winced. “But it can stop the heart.”

“It’s true, digitoxin pumps more than the usual sodium and potassium ions which impacts the heart rate. But, I’ve only extracted small amounts from the foxgloves in my garden. It may make the council men faint, suffer vomiting and dysentery, or even experience hallucinations and delirium...” She flicked away a lock of hair which had escaped from her chignon. He would have reached forward and assisted her, but he was stunned to the point of inaction.

“And granted it can go either way,” she continued, “with bradycardia or tachycardia if one has issues of the heart, but men with health problems should be at home with their families not out late at night stirring up trouble on the council. It’s not as if many will die. Most will just fall ill.” She spoke with calm detachment as if they stood in the drawing room, discussing a recipe for rose potpourri or boysenberry tarts. She put her clean hand on her hip as she tilted her head and grinned at him with a wicked wry smile on her face.