Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (24 page)

Octavia released the trigger. A low, guttural howl broke through the air. It was Sherlock Holmes. He was staring at the machine in horror.

“What have you done?” he screamed. “
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
”

He whirled on Octavia just as she pointed the gun at him. His
eyes widened. He flung his arm up and spun behind a conduit just as she fired again. The bolt of lighting surged around and up the metal pipes, illuminating the room in icy blue before fading away.

A second later Barnaby arched his back, his teeth gritted in pain. Tweed peered into the shadows and saw Holmes running through a door in the rear of the room. Tweed scooped up his Tesla gun and sprinted after him.

“Tweed!” shouted Octavia. “Your father!”

Tweed hesitated. He glanced back at Barnaby, the man's face writhing in pain, then back to Holmes's receding form. “You get him out!” he shouted, sprinting around the machine and through the door.

It led into yet another tunnel. At the opposite end Sherlock Holmes was already pulling the door closed on one of four small elevators. He threw a lever and it started to climb rapidly upward. Tweed ran forward. He leaped into the air, trying to grab the bottom of the elevator, but it was moving too fast. He slammed into the wall and slid downward.

Tweed swore and climbed into another elevator. He yanked the lever, starting his jerky ascent. There were no dials on the wooden structure. The lever acted as a simple brake that started and stopped his movement.

Tweed was about fifteen feet below Holmes. He craned his neck back, making sure the man didn't try to escape. Eventually, Holmes's elevator bumped to a stop and he threw the door open and bolted.

A few seconds later Tweed followed suit.

Everything was a blur as he raced after Holmes. A short, earthen tunnel. Then a crudely dug room, more a hole in the earth than anything. Another earthen passage. There was a grinding noise from up ahead. Tweed burst into a final room to find a thick, reinforced door swinging open. On this side, the door was solid metal, but on the other it was covered with rock and stone.

Sherlock Holmes was nowhere in sight. Tweed hurried through. The wall on this side of the room was made from the same rock and stone that covered the door, so when it was closed it would blend in, hidden from sight.

The room led into a basement of some sort, filled with building supplies. A long set of stairs led up into a vast, square room.

Except it wasn't just a room. Tweed felt a breeze on his face and looked around. A huge, square structure soared up above him, the ceiling lost in the dim darkness.

He was in the new Clock Tower.

Sherlock Holmes was in another elevator, moving upward. This one was a metal cage with safety grills all around it. Tweed looked frantically around and saw another one, this one holding a large toolbox and paint.

Tweed sent the elevator upward. Holmes was already disappearing into the shadows above. As they climbed, Tweed pulled out the gun and checked it. Empty. He wound the lever furiously around, but even so there would only be enough charge left for one shot. He'd have to make it count.

The elevator slid up floor after floor, rising through the different levels of the tower all the way to the top. Tweed dropped into a crouch and leveled his gun as the elevator bumped to a stop.

The four transparent clock faces surrounded him. The rain hammered down outside, the clouds black and threatening. The grey morning light revealed the huge cogs and gears that dominated the space, the machinery that would one day power the clock. Ten bells hung from the roof. They were huge, all hanging in a line, ready to strike the hours for all of London.

No sign of Holmes, though. Tweed stepped slowly from the elevator.

There was a rush of movement to his right and Holmes darted
out from behind the machinery, running straight for one of the clock faces. There was something on the floor there, a small metal box. It looked like the transceiver Tweed had in his steamcoach.

The trigger for the bomb.

Holmes was going to detonate it now, to cause what damage he could.

“Stop!” Tweed shouted.

Holmes froze, then turned around to face Tweed as he stepped forward, the gun leveled in front of him.

“Don't be stupid, boy,” said Holmes. “Fight against me, you fight against yourself.”

“I'm not the same as you,” said Tweed.

Holmes laughed. “How can you even argue? We are
exactly
the same. That's the whole point. Come with me. I'll teach you how to think. I have those memories. I
am
Sherlock Holmes. I'll teach you how to observe, how to reason. How to make use of that mind. I'll make you great.”

Tweed said nothing.

“What can Barnaby give you? What
has
he given you? The life of a pauper? A life spent hiding away? Scamming people for money? Do you honestly think that's good enough for the likes of you?”

Holmes moved slightly, heading for the switch. Tweed followed him with the gun.

“Barnaby lied to you,” the villain went on. “Your whole life he's kept the truth hidden from you. You deserved to know your origin. You deserved to know where you came from. He didn't respect you enough to tell you.
I
respect you, boy. Just from speaking to you for ten minutes I can see the brilliance in you. The
potential
. I can make you the greatest thinking machine the world has ever seen.”

Tweed's hand lowered slightly. He felt…lost. Confused. For the first time in his life he didn't know what to think. It was true.
Barnaby
should
have told him. Tweed should have known his true heritage. To keep that from him…It wasn't right.

“Use your head,” said Holmes. “Don't feel guilty about wanting more. Feelings are for the weak. You have a brain that is better than everyone else's. Use it. Think about it rationally.”

Think about it rationally.

His whole life, Tweed had thought about things rationally. Had used his head. Had analyzed everything. Reasoned things through.

Then he met Octavia. What was it she had said?
You can't break everything down into patterns and logic, Sebastian Tweed. Sometimes you just have to have faith and feel life. Experience it.

“Claim your true name, boy. Sherlock Holmes. That's who you are. With our intellects we could rule the world if we so choose. No one would be able to stop us.”

If this had all happened a month ago, before he'd met Octavia, who knew what decision he would have made. But Tweed realized she was right.

“My name,” he said grimly, raising the gun, “is Sebastian Tweed.”

Holmes stared at him for a moment. Then he snarled and made a dive for the detonator.

Tweed fired. The weak bolt of electricity hit Holmes in the leg. He spun around with a shout of pain, staggered, then carried on moving toward the box. Tweed pulled the trigger again.

Nothing happened. The Tesla gun was empty.

Holmes was only a few feet away from the detonator. Tweed threw the gun down and raced at him. Holmes saw him coming, tried to move faster, but his injured leg slowed him down. Tweed was ten paces away. Holmes lunged forward, his fingers stretching out for the button. Tweed screamed in anger and launched himself into the air, colliding full into Holmes and lifting him off his feet. They flew through the air and crashed into the clock face.

It exploded outward in a thousand glittering fragments, soaring out over the Thames. Holmes and Tweed fell from the Clock Tower. Rain lashed Tweed's face. He spun and tumbled through the air, still holding onto Holmes. He saw the water rushing up toward him. Then the Clock Tower receding above him. Then grey sky, the rain.

Holmes screamed, “Not again!”

There was fear in his voice. Real, genuine, primal fear. And as Tweed heard the words, he felt it too, a sudden panic, the flash of a waterfall, of plummeting, falling, smashing into water like a brick wall. Rocks, blood, darkness…

Tweed looked into Holmes's eyes. There was an instant, a brief moment where there was the slightest connection between them. Understanding.

Then Tweed released Holmes, letting go of his jacket, separating from the man.

Tweed smacked into the water. It was freezing, yanking his breath from his body, pulling it from his lungs. Down he went, like a piece of lead dropped from the sky. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing. Which way was up? He moved his arms, trying to swim, but he suddenly felt as if he were swimming downward. His lungs strained. He needed air.

Tweed closed his eyes again and calmed his mind. Then he opened them and blew one single bubble of air out of his mouth. He watched as it bobbed away from him, then he followed it upward.

He exploded through the surface of the Thames with a gasp, sucking in air. He looked around frantically, but there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes anywhere. No body bobbing in the water. No figure swimming away. Just…nothing.

There was a shout from up above. He looked up and saw the distant face of Octavia peering down at him. He waved weakly, then spread his arms out and let himself float on his back.

They had done it. They had stopped Sherlock Holmes.

And now they had proof of Lucien's plan. They had the Lazarus Machine. They even had Lucien's body. They could tell the Queen what had been planned. The authorities would have no choice but to believe them now.

He supposed that meant he should start swimming.

Four days later Tweed and Octavia waited in a large drawing room, watched over by a frowning man in a black suit, who by the looks of it thought they were going to steal the silver and run off with it at any moment. The man looked vaguely familiar to Tweed.

The sofa was firm and slightly uncomfortable. Tweed shifted his backside and looked up at the huge paintings mounted on the walls, the elegant sideboards covered with flowers.

He frowned down at the floor, then peered into the corners.

“What are you doing?” whispered Octavia fiercely.

“No dust,” said Tweed.

“What?”

“There's no dust.”

“Of course there's no dust. It's Buckingham Palace!”

“It's not natural.”

“Don't be silly. Have you and Barnaby spoken yet?”

“No.”

“Don't you think you should?”

“No. Anyway, it's not just me. He hasn't forgiven me for leaving him in the chair while I chased after Holmes.” Tweed was silent for a while. “I don't know who I am, Songbird. I don't know how much is me and how much is him leaking through. I can't trust my own thoughts.”

“Of course you can. You are who you are. What do I always say?”

Tweed thought about this. “‘Tweed, you're an idiot?’”

“What else?”

“‘Stop being so annoying?’”

“Yes. And also, don't
analyze
everything. You are who you are, Sebastian Tweed. For better or for worse.”

Tweed pushed himself to his feet and went to look out the large window. The parade grounds stretched out below him. Guards dressed in red jackets and helmets were…doing whatever it was guards did.
Guarding
things, he supposed. He had been rather surprised to receive the summons this morning. Actually, that was an understatement. He had been
very
surprised. Yes, they had told their story to an endless number of government flunkeys, but he hadn't actually expected a summons from Queen Victoria herself.

He swiveled around and walked the perimeter of the room, coming to a stop before the servant. He squinted at the man, who
definitely
looked familiar. He was in his fifties, bald, oddly small nose, with red marks around the nostrils. Frown lines creased his forehead and eyes, eyes that also seemed slightly inflamed and red. Tweed leaned forward and sniffed.

The man recoiled. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Tweed stepped back, running his eyes over the man's clothes, his shoes, his clasped hands. He locked eyes with the man again.

The door opened.

The servant blinked in apparent relief and turned to attend.

It was the Queen.

She swept into the room, waving the servant away. He left and closed the door behind him. Octavia shot to her feet, and Tweed hurried back to the couch to stand next to her.

Queen Victoria was a lot shorter than Tweed had expected. There was a determined expression on her face, but Tweed didn't think it necessarily had anything to do with them. He thought it was just how she normally looked.

She sat down on the couch opposite them.

“Sit,” she commanded.

Tweed and Octavia did as they were told. Octavia fidgeted nervously,
clenching and unclenching her hands. It was making Tweed nervous. He elbowed her, but all she did was elbow him back, harder.

“My people have spent a very long time talking to both yourselves and Mr. Barnaby Tweed,” said Queen Victoria. “And from all that has been said, I gather I have you two to thank for my life.”

Tweed said nothing. Neither did Octavia. It hadn't exactly been a question.

The Queen turned her hard gaze on Tweed. She studied him intently.

“And if Barnaby is to be believed, not only are you a simulacrum of Sherlock Holmes, but you have his soul inside you?” She spoke with disapproval.

“It wasn't my choice, I assure you,” said Tweed.

“No. So much of what happens to us isn't,” she replied. “And you. Girl.” Octavia jerked and tried to straighten up even more. “You were involved? You assisted him?”

“With respect, Your Majesty, I did not assist him. We assisted each other.”

The Queen nodded. “Good answer.”

Tweed cleared his throat. “Lucien, I mean, the Prime Minister—?”

“Locked away in the Ministry cells, ranting and raving like a man possessed.”

Tweed let out a breath of relief. He had still been worried that Lucien would be able to escape.

“He denied it for a while. But then he changed tactics. He admitted it was he, Lucien, but said he did what he did for me, for the Empire. Keeps going on about scientific progress. Odious man.”

“And the Tsar?” asked Octavia.

“Ah, well there we had to stifle our pride and leave him be, I'm afraid.”

“
Why?
” exploded Octavia. “He plotted to kill you! He was going to try to take over the Empire.”

“Oh well, I'm sure it was nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal?” said Octavia in amazement.

“It is politics, child. All is fair in love and politics. Or something to that effect. Who is to say I would not have done something similar if I were in his position?”

“I don't think you would have,” said Octavia.

Queen Victoria smiled briefly. “Thank you. It is nice to know some still have faith in me. But the thing is, who would believe such a tale? I barely believe it and I've seen the evidence. No, we do not want a war with Russia. It is best he thinks we know nothing of his involvement. He will reveal his hand eventually, I am sure.”

Queen Victoria turned her attention to Tweed. “I find myself…nonplussed, young man.”

“How so, Your Majesty?”

“I know how you were created. In fact, you were created against my express wishes. By your very existence, your are evidence of treason against the Crown.”

“And yet?” prompted Tweed.

“Who said anything about ‘and yet’?”

Tweed shrugged. “It was implied by your choice of words.”

The Queen set her mouth in a thin line. “Hmph. I can definitely see something of the man in you, my boy.
And yet
,” she continued, glaring at Tweed, “I find myself rather glad that my word was ignored. Just this once.”

Queen Victoria stood up and walked to the window. “I have a proposition for you. For both of you. It is evident I have enemies within my own government.
And
without, but that goes without saying. Now, more than at any other time, I need people I can trust, people I can turn to when I need certain…
matters
looked into.”

She turned around to face them. “What I suggest is that you work for me. Not the government. Not the Ministry. For me. The
Crown will pay for your training, plus a monthly retainer. And if I have need of your assistance, you will drop everything and come running to me. What do you say?”

“How much of a retainer are we talking here?” asked Tweed.

Octavia jammed her elbow hard into his ribs again. She smiled and said, “We would be honored, Your Majesty.”

“Good.”

“But if I may…?”

“Yes?”

“I'd like your permission for us to use our newly available resources to search for my mother. She was investigating Holmes and the Tsar. She was kidapped by them.”

The Queen nodded. “By all means, child. It is the least I can do.”

The Queen started to move toward the door, but Tweed stood up. “Seeing as we're now working for you, I should probably tell you that the servant that was in here just now? He's stealing silver from you. Quite a lot of it.”

Queen Victoria paused. She narrowed her eyes at Tweed, then bellowed out, “Jenkins! In here at once!”

The door opened and Jenkins hurried inside. He hesitated when he saw everyone staring at him.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Mr. Tweed? If you would be so good as to expand upon your theory?”

Tweed walked slowly forward.

“What silver polish is used at the palace?” he asked Jenkins.

“Messrs. Rombut and Slim's patented brand. Very expensive,” said Jenkins.

“Indeed. So not jewelers rouge?”

“Definitely not,” said the Queen. “The stuff is horrible. Scratches the silver.”

“Yet it is very obvious to me that Jenkins has been using jewelers rouge over an extended period of time. Using it to polish up the silverware he steals from the palace before selling it to a dealer in Whitechapel.” Tweed squinted at Jenkins. “In George Street, to be exact.”

Jenkins's eyes narrowed in anger. He looked to the Queen. “Your Majesty, I must protest. I have never stolen
anything
from the palace!”

“Note the rash on your fingers,” said Tweed calmly, “and the discoloration of your teeth. You have been having trouble with an upset stomach, yes? Don't answer. I know you have. All these symptoms are side effects of ferrous sulfate, the main ingredient in jewelers rouge. You have either accidentally ingested some or it has been absorbed through your skin. And for that to happen, you really must have been using it for a long time indeed.”

Jenkins stared at Tweed in shock.

“And the dealer on George Street?” pressed the Queen.

“There was an accident in George Street last week,” said Tweed. “A cart carrying quicklime to a building site overturned, spilling the contents into the rain. The quicklime reacted violently with the rainwater. The slight redness around Jenkins's nose and eyes indicates healing from these burns. Plus, his shoes, although highly polished, bear discoloration from the quicklime. I deduce that Jenkins was on his way to the dealer when the accident happened. He was caught right in the middle of it. Isn't that right, Jenkins?”

Jenkins stared at Tweed, his mouth hanging open. Then he turned and bolted from the room.

The Queen watched him go. “Good job, Mr. Tweed. Looks as if you just might be as clever as you think you are. Excuse me.” The Queen walked to the door. “Stop that man!” she shouted. She waited a moment. “Good job! Hit him for me, if you will—not
too
hard! There. Thank you.”

The Queen closed the door and turned to Octavia and Tweed. “Remember, you work for me now. If I have need of you, you will attend me at once. Understand?”

“We understand,” said Octavia.

Tweed nodded.

“Good,” She smiled again, that brief smile that was gone almost before it appeared. “‘Sebastian Tweed and Octavia Nightingale, Consulting Detectives to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.’ It has rather a pleasing ring to it, has it not?”

She nodded at them both, then turned and left the room.

“So, how did you do it?” asked Octavia.

They were walking down the steps of Buckingham Palace, heading out into the late afternoon. The autumn sun was breaking through the clouds, limning the buildings around them with golden light.

“What do you mean?”

“Come on. It was a trick, wasn't it?”

“Not at all. I saw the evidence and I deduced the answer. I used
rational thinking
,” Tweed said, glancing at Octavia as he emphasized the words.

“I don't believe you.”

“Not my problem.”

The steamcoach was parked at the bottom of the steps. It hadn't been fixed after the events of the past week. Tweed couldn't afford the repairs. But maybe now, with this monthly retainer, he could send her in to a mechanic. The rather battered carriage was attracting a lot of disapproving stairs from the royal guards.

Tweed and Octavia climbed inside.

“Just tell me how you did it,” said Octavia.

“Stop being annoying,” said Tweed.

“You think
this
is annoying? Just wait. I'm going to keep going on about it until you tell me the truth.
Then
you'll see what annoying really is.”

“Fine! But it wasn't a trick. I thought I recognized Jenkins when we first arrived. I saw the burns on his nose, the discoloration of his shoes. Then I noted the stained teeth and the rash on his hands and deduced he had been using jewelers rouge. I remembered there was a rather shady secondhand dealer on George Street, and that's when I remembered where I'd seen him before. I was on the street when the quicklime spill happened. I saw Jenkins that night, carrying a package. When the accident happened he ran into the dealer's shop. But obviously not quick enough to avoid some ill-effects.”

Tweed pumped the handle and released the brake. “Satisfied?”