The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle) (21 page)

‘Don’t tell that to Mister Lyle,’ murmured Moncorvo. ‘He sees everything in black and white.’

Lyle stood, looking as if someone had merely assembled his limbs in a Lyle-shaped bundle and forgotten to animate them. He suddenly looked very small and tired. ‘Miss,’ he murmured, ‘I do not, and never will, trust you.
Never
. I hope we understand each other.’

‘Absolutely, Mister Lyle,’ she replied calmly.

‘Right.
You
watch
him
,’ a finger jabbed from Lin to Moncorvo, ‘and somewhere a long way from here, we’ll sort out this whole bloody mess.’

CHAPTER 11

‘Thomas! Tess!’

Lyle had the tone that Tess associated with bathtime - an unstoppable command that made all cringe before it. He strode out of the darkness towards the waiting carriage, and stared straight at Thomas.

‘Thomas, I need you to take Tess home immediately.’

‘Is something wrong, Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes, very; now please do as I ask.’

‘What’s happened? Did you find the Tseiqin under the prison?’

‘Yes, and things are very wrong.’

‘You gettin’ us . . .’ Tess’s words disintegrated into a yawn, then re-emerged at the other end ‘. . . out of the way so as we’re not causin’ trouble?’

‘I think it’s a lot past your bedtime, Teresa, and I’m afraid I don’t have time to argue this .’

‘What’s the matter? There ain’t . . .’ Tess saw something move in the shadows, and heard that
voice
, that voice she was never going to forget, even though she couldn’t see the face, that voice like black leather if it could speak, that voice like the flow of oil across a still surface in the moonlight, that voice that said . . .

‘I see you keep your pets, Mister Lyle.’

Tess looked at Thomas, and saw how pale he’d gone. Lyle grabbed Thomas by the shoulders and gently shook him. ‘Thomas, now is not the time.’

‘My God,’ whispered Thomas, ‘she
did
bewitch you, didn’t she? It’s all gone wrong!’

‘This is
me
, I swear,’ hissed Lyle. ‘This is me from top to toe, I know what . . . well, no, I’m working out what I’m doing as I’m going along. Please, Thomas, I can’t deal with all this now. Get Tess back to your father’s house,
please
. I’ll send someone as soon as possible.’

Thomas didn’t seem to see, his eyes burning into the darkness. ‘
Him
,’ he hissed. ‘He did it, he’s . . .’

Moncorvo drifted into the light of the carriage, directed a humourless smile at Thomas and said, ‘Master Elwick, I am pleasantly surprised to see you endure.’

Thomas gabbled, ‘Mister Lyle, you’ve got to make this stop! He’s evil, he’s the enemy, he’s everything that’s wrong with
them
. Please, you’ve got to go back, we can’t let him out! Not
him
!’

‘I know, lad,’ muttered Lyle. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? He will burn everything! Please, you’ve got to ... you can’t . . . he said that . . .’

‘This is what has to be done.’ Lyle’s voice had that firm edge to it again. ‘Thomas, please understand, this is what is
necessary
.’

‘Must we wait here much longer?’ asked Moncorvo. ‘I do believe the police will come
eventually
.’

Thomas sagged, and looked wearily at Tess. ‘Are you ready to go home, Miss Teresa?’

‘Very!’ squeaked Tess, her wide eyes not having moved from Moncorvo’s smiling face. ‘Very, very now, please!’

‘Then let’s go,’ he murmured, turning away. ‘There’s nothing more to be done here.’

Lyle watched them drive off into the night.

 

Dawn across London in early spring. The still, dead time when the morning shift of factory hands is still sparse enough to comprise just the odd face here and there where later there will be bustle, and when that face, being anomalous, is more sinister for its passage down the empty street. The sun, when it rises, hardly warms, hardly illuminates, merely dispels the dimness to a paler form, without ever bothering to cast colour into it. It sends thin shadows from chimney stacks across dull slate roofs, catches thick smoke and lets it blend into the heavy clouds. It tickles the edge of the silvery fog, weighed down by smoke above and now nudged by dew below, trying to rise in the morning light. At this hour, the sounds that are usually never heard, become bigger - the murmur of pigeons perching in the gutters, the slamming of a distant door, the whistle of a train, the bell of a ship coming up the estuary and the
sloshsloshslosh
of its paddles, the dripping of the broken water pump down on the square, the coughing of the sleepy cab horse in its mews, the rattling of beer barrels being rolled down the street.

In the suburb of Hammersmith, the butler in his nightrobe opens the door to young Master Thomas, and gapes with astonishment. ‘Sir! What are you doing up at this -’

‘Not now,’ says Thomas. ‘There’s a young lady asleep in the carriage. Please see that she is put to bed. Preferably without disturbing her.’

 

Horatio Lyle stared across the Thames as the sun began to rise, and tried not to yawn.

‘All right,’ he said grimly. ‘Tell me how much worse today can get.’

‘You could sleep, Mister Lyle,’ suggested Lin.

‘I’m not letting
him
out of my sight.’ Lyle glaring at Moncorvo. ‘No thank you very kindly.’

‘We’ll not let him do any harm,’ insisted Lin.

‘I’m not being used and discarded like a snotty handkerchief! I’d like answers or . . .’

‘Or what, Mister Lyle?’ demanded Moncorvo. A smile twisted at the corner of his mouth. ‘How exactly will you threaten us now?’

Lyle leant back against the cold stone of the Embankment wall. ‘Well . . .’ he said carefully, ‘it seems that what you lot are dealing with is a machine designed to kill by magnetism. So . . . whatever this device is, however it works, it’s going to be using either a lot of magnetic material, or a lot of electricity, or a lot of both, neither of which you people are exactly equipped to deal with.

‘
Sooo
... it further seems to me - and I want you to know that I’m very tired and this is all good stuff considering how little sleep I’ve had - it further appears that no amount of knowledge about the Machine is going to help you, unless you have someone else willing to help you. Someone with a good understanding of electricity and magnetism and other unusual forces. And no allergy to iron and all its doings. What do you think?’

Lin beamed. ‘Mister Lyle,’ she declared, ‘have I mentioned that I’ve always respected your work?’

Lyle gave an empty smile. ‘Miss Lin,’ he said, ‘I never knew you cared. Go on, my lord, say something useful, that will make this farce worth my while.’

‘Oh, Mister Lyle,’ sighed Moncorvo, ‘how have you made so much of such a little, scuttling life?’

‘Come on,’ snapped Lyle, ‘out with it.’

Moncorvo glowered at Lyle, then glanced more nervously at Lin. ‘I know you know Augustus Havelock. He is a gentleman of ... influence. The essence of “having friends in high places” - friends, patrons, employers, supporters, call them what you will. There are those who believe that my kind are a dying species, that we are somehow . . .
less
than these monkeys who currently lord it over the earth.’

‘See how I don’t hit you?’ murmured Lyle. ‘I’m becoming wiser each day I live.’

‘It came to my attention,’ stated Moncorvo with a show of patience, ‘that certain parties within Her Majesty’s Government who were . . . hostile . . . to my people, were attempting to construct a device capable of causing my kind great harm. I investigated further, and found that the mandate for this construction had been given to Augustus Havelock.’

‘Given? By who?’

‘“Whom”,’ corrected Lin with a smile.

‘What?’

‘“Whom.” Good grammar is important’ - she intoned the words like a chant - ‘as it allows easy blending with the most hostile of environments for successful completion of your aims.’

‘My God,’ muttered Lyle, ‘that’s told me. What was the question? ’

‘By whom?’

‘Oh yes, right. Who exactly gave this “mandate” to Havelock?’

‘Among others, Lord Lincoln.’

‘Lord Lincoln is involved in this? A royal aide?’

‘Of course. He is one of many who believe that my kind are . . .’ Moncorvo twiddled his fingers in the air, as if trying to pluck the correct sentiment out of nothing, ‘. . . abominations, I suppose, will serve. Surely you must have deduced this in your many dealings with his lordship?’

‘Certainly Lord Lincoln would appear to be chiselled from an iceberg. I could see how he might be less than sympathetic. So there’s government involvement?’

‘Of course. Indeed, it was largely through the support of some of Her Majesty’s Government that, as I learnt, Havelock was enabled to construct some sort of machine underneath the city.’

‘Underneath? Where?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wonderful. Let’s limit the story, then, and get to what you
do
know.’

‘My attention was somewhat occupied during this period, you understand . . .’

‘Yes, yes, I know, with a scheme for domination and demigodhood, I was there,’ muttered Lyle, waving his hand dismissively. ‘What exactly do you know?’

‘Havelock employed Berwick to design the Machine. That was almost five months ago, shortly around the time of my . . . arrest. I became aware of Berwick’s involvement: I had men dispatched to follow him, and I knew that Havelock had turned to him because there was something missing, a component in the Machine that they couldn’t get right but that he hoped Berwick would be able to supply. I also knew that Berwick was eagerly working to achieve this aim. I had his friends, his movements, everything about his life monitored, in the hope that it would lead me to the location of the Machine itself - but unfortunately, it did not. He was not, it seemed, working on the Machine site directly, but at a laboratory underneath Baker Street Station which was guarded night and day by . . .’

‘Yes, yes. Where’s Berwick now?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No,’ said Lin quietly. ‘He vanished a few days ago.’

‘But Havelock’s looking for him,’ added Lyle. ‘And Old Man White has said the Machine is almost ready to do . . . whatever it does.’

‘I see.’

‘A bad answer, my lord,’ said Lyle. ‘It means you’re thinking something you don’t want me to know, because you are buying time to consider and contrive something evil; sorry to be morally crude about it. But the only reason you’re out of prison is to help us find Berwick before Havelock does, so please stop now.’

‘Berwick is the key to the Machine; yes,’ murmured Moncorvo, although not apparently to anyone else. ‘The Machine works by somehow . . . exploding magnetism. Does that sound plausible to you, Lyle?’

‘Exploding magnetism? No, not really. Most of the time magnetism is just a field, an area of influence . . . you can strengthen it, although, like gravity, it is theoretically infinite if infinitesimal over a distance, but “exploding”? Exploding implies
poof !
There and gone in an instant. I suppose a single burst of current could produce that effect, but only through massive,
massive
, unthinkable amounts of energy. As for changing the field, making it a weapon - that would require something spectacular, a . . . I don’t know . . . a small volcano or artillery barrage or thunderstorm or a bomb . . .’ He trailed off.

‘Lyle?’ Moncorvo’s eyes were bright.

‘What exactly,’ Lyle’s voice was distant, his gaze fixed on the vague eastern horizon, ‘was Berwick’s contribution to this project? ’

‘I don’t know. But I understood it to be significant.’

‘“Significant”,’ repeated Lyle, who liked to believe in scientific precision. ‘What exactly does “significant” mean when it’s not hiding in the dictionary between “signature” and “silence”? I mean,
huge
amounts of energy, you’d have to . . . build up a charge, we’re talking . . . miles and miles of ... but then if it’s underground, have to be in a Faraday cage to keep it in and then . . .’

‘What are you thinking, Lyle?’ asked Moncorvo quietly.

‘You said you could find Berwick. How?’

Moncorvo hesitated, but only for a second. ‘When we were watching him, we built up a coherent view of all his comings and goings, who he deals with, who he doesn’t - and in the process we learnt an intriguing thing.’

‘Mmm?’ Lyle’s voice was hardly there; his eyes still roamed some other world.

‘Have you heard of a man called Stephen Thackrah?’

‘No.’

‘He co-authored a number of Berwick’s papers, particularly those relating to explosives.’

‘Don’t be absurd. Berwick never worked with anyone.’

‘He did with Thackrah. That gentleman’s expertise is, interestingly, in explosives.’

‘I’ve never seen his name anywhere.’