The Doomsday Machine (Horatio Lyle) (22 page)

‘That’s because Mr Thackrah is the son of a dead Yorkshire convict, and a Jew.’

Lyle sucked in a long, unhappy breath. ‘
Oh
. I see.’

Lin looked bemused. ‘I don’t.’

‘You’re new in this place, aren’t you?’ said Moncorvo, not kindly.

‘It can be . . .’ Lyle looked awkward, ‘
difficult
being Jewish in some areas. Not least if your father wasn’t renowned for good behaviour.’

‘Why?’

‘Well . . . because . . .’ Lyle hesitated, looked surprised. ‘You know, I’m not entirely sure. I think it has something to do with theology.’ He spoke the words in the awed tone of someone aware that here were mysteries beyond his comprehension, and best left that way. ‘But I still don’t
entirely
see how this helps us.’

‘Thackrah works at the Royal Institute, ostensibly as an assistant librarian, although in practical terms he is more likely to be found experimenting, on Berwick’s authority. He is a trusted confidant, a friend and ally of Berwick, and, moreover, he has links in parts of the city where a man might wish to take shelter, should he not want to be found.’

‘You think Berwick would go to him for help?’

‘I do.’

‘And you think Havelock . . . what . . . wouldn’t notice something like that?’

‘I do.’

‘Why
, exactly?’

‘Because, Mister Lyle,’ replied Moncorvo, ‘you know as well as I do that Augustus Havelock does not have the imagination for details.’

Lyle opened his mouth to say ‘Yes, but that doesn’t matter in the least. Just because he doesn’t notice anything that isn’t immediately relevant to him, it doesn’t mean he’s stupid, just . . .’ and stopped himself. He thought about it. ‘. . . just ignorant.’ He shrugged. ‘All right. Why not? It’s something, it’s more than anything else, why not! Let’s find this Thackrah!’

‘I knew we could rely on you, Mister Lyle,’ Moncorvo said, in a voice that sent a shudder down Lyle’s spine.

 

Tess, Thomas and Tate sat in Lord Elwick’s dining room, around lunchtime, eating breakfast.

‘Bigwig?’ said Teresa.

‘Yes, Miss Teresa?’

‘You think Mister Lyle is bewitched?’

‘I don’t know, miss. He seemed to be behaving normally - for Mister Lyle - last night. But then, why did he break
him
,’ the hate was obvious in Thomas’s voice, ‘out? I just don’t know.’

‘Bigwig?’

‘Yes, Miss Teresa?’

‘What are you going to do if he is bewitched?’

‘Me?’

‘You’re oldest, you gotta do something,’ she said smugly. “Cos of how I’m the lady an’ all.’

‘I’m honestly not sure what I could do if . . .’

‘Only it seems as how,’ went on Tess coyly, ‘if Mister Lyle is bewitched or confused or dead or missin’ his brain or anythin’ like that, then I ain’t goin’ to have nowhere to go, so I might as well stick ’round here, if that’s all right with you, bigwig.’ Thomas turned white. Tess grinned an indescribably evil grin. ‘So . . . whatcha goin’ to do about it, bigwig?’

Before Thomas had a chance to respond, the answer came through the door for him, and the answer was angry. Or as angry as anyone chiselled from an iceberg could be.

 

The Royal Institute was situated in a part of London that was, in every sense, ‘royal’. Kensington Palace sat just across Hyde Park from Buckingham Palace, which in turn looked down the Mall, used for royal processions, to St James’s Palace, by the park of the same name, where the common people queued to catch a glimpse of the reclusive, widowed queen. Nearby on Piccadilly the great of several nations visited the Royal Academy, and the area’s elegant shops sold goods that only the most indulged of princes could afford, and every watchmaker was by royal appointment.

Among all this, at the boundary zone where the arched arcades and flush carriages began to be displaced by the tighter passages of southern Soho, and the bobbies dared not venture in groups of less than four, was the pillared front of the Royal Institute. Horatio Lyle always felt out of place in the Institute. Although technically he was a member, his ideas were sometimes too radical for many wealthy members who saw science as a hobby rather than a means of advancing mankind, and whose enthusiasm, at least to Lyle, didn’t always make up for an absence of experimental method. A glance at the lecture notices for the week produced in Lyle a mixture of awe and contempt; his eyes lit up to see ‘
Darwin - the debate rages!
’ while his face fell in response to ‘
Newton and Hooke - the particle model is the
only
model!
’ and ‘
Miasma and the ether - a radical reassessment of the airborne inter-spatial medium
’
.

‘Amateurs,’ he muttered, marching up the steps.

‘You have better theories, I suppose?’ Moncorvo demanded.

‘I just don’t like the idea of everything being explainable by a big intangible wobbly “ether” that I can not examine! It’s as bad as saying that there’s . . .’ Lyle cut himself off, but it was too late.

‘Magic?’ suggested Moncorvo, raising one eyebrow, a trick Lyle had never quite managed, even in front of the mirror.

‘Pretty much.’

Lin said, ‘You know, things could be worse!’ She ignored the glares that descended on her like fiery meteors. ‘Think what an opportunity this presents us for reconciliation and understanding! A chance for two bitter, angry, life-long, pig-headed enemies to work together for a common cause!’ She beamed. ‘Isn’t that nice?’

‘
Nice?
’ hissed Lyle.

‘Well,’ she went on, ‘it’s far better that you work together out of your common desire for reconciliation and understanding than that I bang your heads together until you cry.’

They considered this. ‘You are a traitor to your kind and will die in your own pitiful loneliness,’ replied Moncorvo.

‘You’re a bit odd, miss,’ admitted Lyle.

‘See! The two of you practically agreed there!’

And, in fairness, the scowls that greeted her were almost identical.

Lyle pushed back the doors to the Royal Institute, stepped into the hall, and said, ‘If we’re going to find Thackr—’

A voice to one side of him boomed, ‘Young man, could you please help me with this?’

Lyle turned, with the words, ‘Sorry, sir, in a bit of a rush -’ on his lips - and deflated mid-mumble.

The man who’d spoken was shortish, sported huge grey side-whiskers, and had a wrinkled old face that looked out from under an enormous pair of eyebrows.

Lyle stood and gaped while Lin peered over his shoulder. Moncorvo drummed his fingers.

The old man, sensing something amiss, said, ‘If you would be so kind, sir; my man appears to have abandoned me . . .’ and indicated a large box at his feet, wrapped in brown paper.

A nod, and a tiny squeak that might have been a word was evidently the only answer Lyle could give. He edged forward and struggled to lift the unwieldy box. The man smiled thinly and said, ‘Please be careful, there’s some very fragile equipment in there . . .’

‘Lyle,’ snapped Moncorvo, ‘we hardly have the time.’

Lyle shot Moncorvo a glare. Lin peered at the box and said, quite reasonably, ‘What exactly is it?’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the old man with a widening smile. ‘A young lady with an interest in science! Are you aware of the wave-particle debate?’

To Lyle’s surprise, Lin said, ‘Yes.’

‘Excellent, excellent. And I don’t suppose by chance you are familiar with the current work in the field of electromagnetism on the debate as to whether the flow of electricity, the current down a wire, is in the form of particle movement or waves?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well!’ The old man looked as though he could have danced on the spot. ‘This device - careful, dear boy, careful -’ gesturing urgently at Lyle - ‘is part of an attempt to determine the very nature of electricity, whether it is merely a charge on mass, or a free-flowing wave, part of a field, to attempt to determine, if you will, the very stuff of ... of stuff. To understand the properties of mass through an analysis of current, voltage, drift, charge, and so forth, and thus break more ground in the great particle-wave debate that for so long we have been unable to reconcile and ... do be careful! It’s very, very fragile! If you’d put it here ... very gently ... thank you, dear boy, you are a saviour.’

‘Can we get on?’ demanded Moncorvo.

Lyle ignored him, and went on staring. The old man shuffled nervously in the face of Lyle’s gape. ‘Can I help you with something, young man?’

‘You’re . . .’ whispered Lyle. ‘I mean, you’re . . . you’re . . .’ The old man waited patiently for Lyle to find the words.

‘You’re . . . the most . . . the work is just . . . everything about . .. there wouldn’t
be
modern science without . . .’ squeaked Lyle, flapping his hands uselessly in front of him. ‘I mean, you’re . . . you’re . . . you’re
him
!’

‘Yes . . . I suppose I am. And who are you?’

‘Lyle, we don’t have the time!’

‘I’m . . . I’m your most . . . I mean, I admire . . . the work you do is just ... I mean ... I really think that you’re the most ... everything is just . . .’ Lyle gave up. ‘You’re just . . . very good, sir.’

The old man beamed. ‘Why, thank you. It’s always nice to hear that sort of compliment, particularly at my age.’

‘Well, it ’s ...’ He shrugged uselessly. ‘You must hear it all the time, sir, but I just think it ought to be said.’

Lin put a polite hand on Lyle’s shoulder and steered him away, with a murmured, ‘I thought that was very nice of you.’ Glancing back, she nodded at the old man and said, ‘A pleasure meeting you, Mr Faraday.’

‘You too, miss.’

Lin led Lyle gently away.

 

Lord Lincoln. There was no really satisfactory way to describe Lord Lincoln, Thomas concluded, since the man spent so much of his time perfecting the art of nothingness. His face revealed nothing, his clothes said nothing about his character, his eyes reflected no emotion, his bag bore no badge, his shoes had no stains on them, his face was scrubbed to a perfect glowing cleanliness, his voice didn’t tremor more than a semitone around a single, flat, nothing note.

Thomas knew that, theoretically, the absence of distinguishing features should tell a good detective as much about a subject as two scars and a hare lip. But today, he wasn’t feeling at his objective best. Lord Lincoln didn’t so much sit in the chair at the end of Lord Elwick’s dining table, as fold himself into it like a paper doll, each limb crinkling up to form a new shape defined entirely by right angles, back as straight as a brick wall, hands folded neatly on the end of the table.

Lord Lincoln smiled. It was the smile the alligators use when watching their prey nibbling at the water’s edge.

‘I am glad to have found you both in good health,’ he intoned. Tess sidled closer to Thomas; Tate cowered in a corner. ‘Mister Lyle does not appear to be at home. I had hoped to find him here.’

‘We ain’t seen him!’ exclaimed Tess.

‘Indeed? When did you last see him, then?’

Thomas and Tess exchanged a look. She said quickly, ‘A few days ago. He were busy.’

‘Busy? Doing what?’

‘Didn’t rightly say, did he?’

‘Perhaps we can help you, my lord,’ offered Thomas.

‘Perhaps you can,’ murmured Lord Lincoln, his eyes moving from one face to another. ‘Last night there was an ...
incident
. . .’ the word forced itself between his teeth, ‘. . . at a local prison. Significant damage was caused, by systematic use of specialist equipment - fireworks, and smoke bombs that blinded the guards, as well as acts of assault by at least a dozen heavily armed individuals.’

Thomas and Tess swapped a look, and Lord Lincoln’s smile narrowed. ‘I don’t imagine you have any knowledge of such an event.’

Thomas shook his head. Tess said, ‘I ain’t knowin’ nothin’, guvnor my lord.’

‘I really don’t see how we could help,’ added Thomas. ‘Terribly sorry, sir.’

‘Naturally, the idea that either of you, or Mister Lyle, could be involved in such an activity is ... implausible. And yet - I hear rumours that Mister Lyle has not been himself these last few days. Acting irrationally, perhaps against the better interest of the public, hm?’ Only Lord Lincoln could make an inexpressive ‘hm’ sound so menacing, a tiny invitation to step into damnation, a polite request that you confess now before the knives come out, an inarticulate warning of nasty things to come.

Tess mumbled, ‘Ain’t knowin’ nothin’, sorry.’

Lord Lincoln sighed and sat back in his chair. For a moment he drummed his fingers, then declared in a harsher voice than before, ‘I know of few individuals who could produce the equipment used last night - certainly
They
never would.’

‘They?’ echoed Thomas.

‘I think we need no explanation as to who
They
are,’ snapped Lincoln, a little too quickly. ‘And Horatio Lyle is . . .’ He hesitated. As if trying to pluck a thought from nowhere, he gestured, a black iron ring the only ornament on his hand. ‘Let me rephrase. Horatio Lyle is a law-abiding citizen. The idea that he would participate in an attempt to free this . . . gentleman . . . from a prison is laughable. And yet . . . did he ever mention a man by the name of Berwick?’

The question came so suddenly that Tess almost answered. She bit her tongue to keep silent.

‘Berwick?’ mumbled Thomas, the tips of his ears beginning to burn.

Tess, more composed, leapt in. ‘Yes, he mentioned Berwick. Science type bloke, right, bigwig what his pa knew. I heard him mention Berwick.’

‘Recently?’

‘Nah, few months back,’ said Tess easily. Now she was getting into the swing of it; she was more relaxed, leaning out past Thomas and almost, but not quite, daring to meet Lord Lincoln’s eyes. Tess had learnt at an early age the secret of lying - to know just enough to be convincing, have just enough truth in her words to be persuasive and believable, mixed in so thoroughly with the lies, that only the best-informed of detectives could begin to disentangle the two. ‘Was he the bloke what was in the prison?’ Under different circumstances, she could have been wearing a halo, her face was so angelic.