His Clockwork Canary

CHAPTER 2

LONDON OFFICES OF THE LONDON INFORMER

“Willie!”

Wilhelmina Goodenough, known socially as Willie G. and professionally as the Clockwork Canary, refrained from thunking her forehead to her desk due to the booming voice of her managing editor. She did, however, roll her eyes. She could always tell by the timbre of Artemis Dawson’s bellow whether she was being summoned for a good reason or bad. This was bad. Given her foul mood of late, this could mean a bloody ugly row.

As lead journalist for the London Informer, Britain’s most popular tabloid, Willie had earned a desk in close proximity to Dawson’s office. Lucky her—or rather him—as was public perception.

For the last ten years, Willie had been masquerading as a young man. Sometimes she was amazed that she’d gotten away with the ruse for so long. Then again, she was slight of frame as opposed to voluptuous. What womanly curves she did possess were easily concealed beneath binding and baggy clothing. Her typical attire consisted of loose linen shirts with flouncy sleeves, a waistcoat one size too big, and an American-cowboy-style duster as opposed to a tailored frock coat. Striped baggy trousers and sturdy boots completed the boyish ensemble. A vast selection of colorful long scarves had become her trademark, as she always wore one wrapped around her neck in a quirky style no matter the season. When outdoors, instead of a bowler or top hat, Willie pulled on a newsboy cap and tugged the brim low to shade her face. She’d chopped her hair long ago, a shaggy style that hung to her chin and often fell over her eyes. She was by no means fashionable, but she did have a style all her own.

And not a bustle, corset, or bonnet to her amended name.

Once in a great while she yearned for some kind of feminine frippery, but she was far more keen on surviving this intolerant world than on feeling pretty.

“Willie!”

Blast. “Best get this over with,” she said to herself, because no coworkers were within earshot of her somewhat sequestered and privileged work space, and even if they were, she wasn’t chummy with any of the blokes. Willie had two confidants in this world: her father and her journal. One hidden away and one locked away—respectively.

Out of habit, Willie checked the time on her pocket watch, then consulted the timepiece on her multifunctional brass cuff. Her preoccupation with time had prompted the “Clockwork” portion of her professional name, and was often a source of unkind jest for fellow journalists. Their assessment of her peculiar habit meant nothing to her, whilst knowing the precise time and how much time had passed between certain events was of vital importance.

Abandoning her research on significant technological inventions, Willie pushed away from her scarred wooden desk. Her home away from home, the desktop was crowded with stacks of books, piles of documents and files, scores of pens and pencils, her typewriter, her personal cup and teapot, and a working miniature replica of Big Ben, otherwise known as Clock Tower. Dawson often wondered how she found anything, but she did in fact know the precise whereabouts of any given item. Organized chaos: just one of her many gifts.

On the short walk to her boss’s office, Willie breathed deeply, seeking solace in the familiar scents of the newsroom—ink, paper, oil, cigarette smoke, sweat, and assorted hair tonics. Scents she associated with freedom and security. This job enabled her to pursue her passion as well as provide for herself and her addle-minded father. Forsaking her gender and race had seemed a small price to pay in the beginning. But lately she teemed with resentment. Bothersome, that. She had no patience for self-pity.

To her own disgust, she strode into her boss’s office with a spectacular chip on her shoulder. “You bellowed?”

Dawson looked up from his insanely neat and orderly desk. “Where’s the story on Simon Darcy?”

Bugger.

Certain her palms would grow clammy any second, Willie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her trousers and slouched against the doorjamb. “What story?”

Dawson’s eyes bulged. “The story I asked for days ago. The story that’s late. The interview with Simon Darcy regarding the collapse of Project Monorail!”

“Ah, that.”

“Yes, that.”

“The timing seemed off.”

“Off?”

“He’s been away, attending his father’s funeral, comforting his family.”

“Yes, I know, Willie. The father who blew himself up whilst building a blasted rocket ship! Two Darcys suffer ruin due to two fantastical projects one day apart. One week before a global race is announced that promises to stir up interest in outlawed inventions, if you know what I mean—and I know that you do!

“The timing, dear boy, is perfect! Pick Simon Darcy’s brain whilst he’s vulnerable. Get the scoop on his failed project and his father’s bungled invention. Probe deeper and dig up buried family secrets. Go where no man has gone before and ferret out never-disclosed-before details regarding Briscoe Darcy and his time machine. If anyone can do it, you can!” He pounded his meaty fist to his desk to emphasize his point.

Willie felt the force of that blow to her toes. Her temples throbbed and her pulse stuttered. Aye, she could do it. But she did not want to. The subject of their discussion was too close to her well-guarded heart. Though she said nothing, Dawson clearly read her reluctance due to her obviously not-so-guarded expression.

Narrowing his bloodshot eyes, the portly man braced his thick forearms on his desk and leaned forward. “Close the door.”

Gads. This was worse than bad.

Willie did as the man asked, then slumped into a chair and settled in for a lecture. She resisted a glance at her cuff watch. As long as she didn’t make physical contact with Dawson, time was irrelevant. Meanwhile her keen mind scrambled for a way to get out of this pickle.

“The Informer is no longer the most popular tabloid in the country. We’ve been edged out by the Crier.”

“The City Crier? But that’s a Sunday-only paper. We are a daily. Not only that . . .” Willie tamped down her pride, snorted. “You’re jesting.”

“Our investors are not happy,” Dawson went on, grave as a hangman. “The publisher and executive editor are not happy. Which means . . .”

“You are not happy.”

“Get the dirt on Darcy or dig up something even more titillating.” He jabbed a finger at the door. “Now get out.”

Although Dawson could be a curmudgeon, he’d always had at least a sliver of good humor hiding beneath the guff. Willie sensed no humor now. The pressure from above must be severe indeed. Pausing on the doorstep, Willie voiced a troubling notion. “When did I stop being your favorite?”

“When you went soft on me. That original piece you typed up on Ashford’s death was fluff. And the revision wasn’t much better. Our readers want sensational, Willie, not respectful. They can get that from the quality press.” After a tense moment, Dawson sighed. “You’ve had a good run at the Informer, Willie. Some people think you’ve gotten too comfortable. Too arrogant. Most people don’t know you as well as I do, and even I don’t know you that well. But I do know that you have a special gift. I’d hate to lose it.”

Sensing freedom and security slipping away, Willie spoke past her constricted throat. “You’ll get your story.”

SOUTHEAST OF LONDON PICKFORD FIELD

“Rough landing.”

An honest observation, not a criticism. Still, Simon bristled at his brother’s greeting. Jules had taken the train from Ashford to Pickford Field—a private aeropark outside of London where they’d agreed to rendezvous. Simon had commandeered the ramshackle airship designed by their father, a small boat modified with a hot-air balloon and steam engine components enabling the vehicle to fly—albeit without great altitude or grace.

“The engine stalled twice and the steering mechanism seized,” Simon said whilst descending the splintered gangway. “It is fortunate that I landed at all. I anticipated crashing every five minutes of that two-hour flight, which, by the way, should have taken but an hour.” Adrenaline pumping, he wrenched off his goggles and stalked toward the aero-hangar owned by their mutual friend Phineas Bourdain. “Considering Papa’s shaky design and my mediocre piloting skills, you should be applauding my wretched arrival.”

He realized suddenly that Jules was not on his heels but lumbering behind. Damn the injury that had left his brother with a stilted gait. Pretending not to notice, Simon paused and jammed a hand through his wind-ravaged hair. “The Flying Cloud is a flying death trap.”

“Yet Amelia would have utilized that death trap in order to join in the race without a second thought.”

“The only reason I took the damned thing.”

Jules clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man.”

Simon’s conscience twinged. Their father was dead due to his arrogance. How good could he be? “I’m a lunatic, clearly. But at least Amelia is grounded and safe at Ashford with Mother.”

“Let us hope she stays there.” Jules squeezed past him and into the cavernous hangar.

Simon glanced over his shoulder, noted the murky silhouette of the city’s edge, the buildings cloaked in a wintry gray and the persistent haze from the countless smokestacks and culminating fumes of ground transportation and industrial factories. Had Project Monorail flourished, pollution would have diminished by at least a third. Resentment churned as he turned away from his failed vision.

Moving into the aero-hangar, he noted two sizable dirigibles, one in complete disarray. He expected their friend to emerge from behind the exposed steam engine, tools in hand, grease smearing his face, but there was, in fact, no sight or sound of the crack machinist. “Where’s Phin?”

“Somewhere over Yorkshire,” Jules said as they sidestepped scattered engine components and cluttered work areas. “Last-minute booking.”

Retired military, Phin was not only a skilled machinist but a bloody impressive pilot. He’d been operating a private aero-repair and charter business for two years, and making a damned fine living. Simon followed his brother into the man’s cramped but tidy office. Shoulders tense, Simon shrugged out of his greatcoat whilst Jules helped himself to Phin’s brandy and poured them both a glass.

Simon drank to warm his chilled bones. He assumed Jules indulged to subdue his chronic pain—not that the proud man ever admitted the need for medicinal spirits. Instead Jules allowed his friends and acquaintances, as well as their mother, to believe his fondness for liquor and various drugs was rooted soundly in hedonism. As he was a novelist—a science fiction writer no less—no one questioned his eccentric ways or decadent lifestyle. Indeed, they expected such folly from an artist. Out of respect for his brother’s dignity, Simon supported the illusion.

“I could not speak freely at Ashford,” Jules said.

“Because of Amelia?”

“Because of anyone.” Jules poured more brandy, then leaned back against the weathered chair, glass in hand. “You said you had information pertaining to the clockwork propulsion engine.”

“Not precisely. But I know where to find specific instructions on how to build the clockwork propulsion engine.”

“The Aquarian Cosmology Compendium?”

Simon nodded. The sole and elusive journal that included designs and notes compiled by the scientific faction of the time travelers, known as Mods. “Amongst other scientific data, that compendium supposedly contains details regarding the dimension-hopping heart of Briscoe’s time machine, as well as the Peace Rebels’ Briscoe Bus.” The vehicle that had enabled the Mods to time travel.

“So you intend to find the legendary compendium and replicate the engine? Your engineering skills are exceptional, Simon. I’ve no doubt that, presented with the design, you could construct a working model, yet—”

“It would be a replication, not a historical find. Hence my plan.” Simon leaned forward and lowered his voice even though they appeared to be alone. “If I build the clockwork propulsion engine to Briscoe’s specifications, I can test it. Utilizing a time machine of my own construction, I’ll travel back to 1856 and pinch the Briscoe Bus’s original clockwork propulsion engine and then return to our time to collect our due fame and fortune. Other than Briscoe’s time machine, surely the Peace Rebels’ time machine is the invention of unparalleled significance and will therefore win the Triple R Tourney.”

“That is your plan.”

Sensing skepticism in his brother’s voice, Simon frowned. “I confess it is not without challenge. Locating the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium—”

“—would be a damned miracle.”

“I realize no Vic has ever laid eyes on those notes,” Simon said, using the Mod term for the rightful citizens of Queen Victoria’s England. “But the compendium is referred to in the Book of Mods. Therefore it must exist.”

“Searching for the ACC is a waste of your valuable time.”

“You have a better idea?”

“I do.” Jules swilled the remnants of his glass, then leaned forward as well. “According to my sources—”

“What sources?”

“Government sources.”

“You’re retired.”

“But still connected to people in high places. What I’m about to tell you—”

“Is highly confidential.” Simon had long suspected his brother still dabbled in stealth campaigns, but he’d never known for sure or in what capacity. Just now his senses buzzed with curiosity and a hint of danger. Pretending nonchalance, he raised one cocky brow. “Fascinating. Do tell.”

“It is possible that the Mods’ clockwork propulsion engine was not destroyed along with the Briscoe Bus, as reported, but that it was whisked away and hidden. There’s reason to believe the knowledge of the secret location is guarded by three reclusive Mods known as the Houdinians.”

“An odd and unfamiliar title.” Simon frowned. “Who are these Houdinians? And why have I never heard of them?”

“Because they are a closely guarded secret.”

“Yet you’re privy to this secret.”

“I’m privy to a lot of secrets.” Jules checked his pocket watch. “Time is of the essence.” He passed Simon an envelope. “Three Houdinians. Three names. There is a curiosity shop in Notting Hill. It’s run by a retired Mod Tracker, although few are aware of his past vocation.”

“You’re one of the few.”

“I am.” Jules corked the liquor bottle. “If anyone can give you a location on a Houdinian, it’s Thimblethumper.”

“Queer name.”

“Bogus name.”

“Why am I talking to this Thimblethumper? Why not you?”

“Because I’m increasing our chances of success by going after another clockwork propulsion engine.”

“Not—”

“Yes.”

“But the original device—”

“Is trapped in the future. I know.” Jules reached inside his coat and passed Simon a palm-sized gadget with a hinged cover. “It’s an experimental tele-talkie. Agency restricted. Show it to no one and only use it to communicate with me in times of dire need.”

Simon thumbed open the cover and marveled at the intricate mechanism.

“Point-to-point verbal communication. Earphone, microphone, antenna,” Jules said, noting various and curious components. “Power button and toggle. Left to transmit, right to receive.”

“No cords?”

Jules shook his head. “It’s a hybrid of the Mods’ walkie-talkie. A personal two-way radio device.” He produced a matching silver and bronze tele-talkie and thumbed the power button, causing Simon’s device to squawk, then squeal.

Simon winced at the high-pitched sound as Jules limped out of the office and a goodly distance away. Suddenly, he heard his brother’s voice as clear and loud as though he were still in the same room. “Good God,” Simon said, toggling left to transmit. “Can you hear me as well?”

“Ingenious, is it not?” Jules asked. “Powering off to conserve energy.”

Simon powered off as well and joined his brother in the cavernous work area. “How—”

“No time to explain, and as I said, it’s experimental and—”

“Agency restricted.” Simon angled his head. “What agency would that be precisely?”

Jules paused as if deliberating the wisdom in sharing that information, then slipped the tele-talkie into a leather pouch attached to an intricate harness worn beneath his greatcoat. “The Mechanics.”

Simon absorbed the name and significance. He knew his brother traveled in scientific and fantastical circles, but the Mechanics were so fantastical and mysterious, many thought them an urban legend. “You’re telling me that you have personal connections with Her Majesty’s Mechanics?”

“I am a Mechanic.”

Highly trained, highly covert agents who “fixed” sensitive and controversial matters for the British government and its sovereign. It’s not that Jules didn’t have the keen intellect and military training. “But—”

“My leg.” Jules quirked an enigmatic smile. “I manage.”

Blimey. Simon could scarcely believe his ears. “How long—”

“Since my recovery.”

“Then you are not retired.”

“Oh, but I am. Officially.”

Simon shoved a hand through his hair. “If you were recruited upon techno-surgical recovery, then you have been operating undercover for six years. Why did you not tell me?”

“Because it was not sanctioned.”

“And now?”

Jules thumbed a switch on the knob of his cane and Simon watched, fascinated, as the walking stick retracted to the length of a screwdriver. “Although I consider myself fairly invincible, I am not a magician. Should I fail upon this mission, I shall be stuck in the 1960s along with our not-so-dear and troublesome cousin Briscoe.” Jules’s expression darkened. “Papa died believing me to be a struggling writer, racked with demons and wrestling with addictions. If I do not return . . . I’d prefer you, Mother, and Amelia to remember me in kinder regards.”

Simon struggled to make sense of his brother’s words.

“Professor Maximus Merriweather holds the key to my futuristic voyage,” Jules said, whilst buttoning his coat. “And he, I have learned, is in Australia. Should there be a dire reason, you can reach me using the tele-talkie.”

Simon glanced at the advanced device burning a hole in his hand and his ever-curious mind. “A wireless signal that transmits over fifteen thousand kilometers?”

“Lest you forget, the Mods put a man on the moon.”

“Are you saying the Mechanics have recruited an original Peace Rebel? A twentieth-century scientist? An engineer? Someone from NASA? The GPO? Wait. You are traveling to speak with Professor Merriweather? The Professor Merriweather?”

“A difficult man to track and even more difficult to engage.”

Simon bristled with envy. Merriweather was a legendary physicist and cosmologist. A Mod who’d preached about the wonders and downfalls of the future before disappearing with his young daughter in a bid for safety and anonymity. Someone who would understand, support, and—given his education and origin—possess the knowledge to perhaps advance and enhance Simon’s Project Monorail. “What I wouldn’t give for an hour alone with that genius.”

“Yes, well, I require more than an hour,” Jules said, “and should Merriweather slip my grip, you will have a Houdinian at your disposal.”

Before Simon could remark, Jules pushed on. “The tele-talkie should function for as long as I’m in this dimension. After that . . .” He grasped Simon’s shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. “I suppose we shall have to rely upon our twin sensibilities.” He smiled, then stepped back. “Good luck in your quest, brother.”

A thousand questions crowded the tip of Simon’s tongue, but he stood speechless as Jules disappeared before his very eyes.

LONDON

He appeared out of nowhere, pushing in behind Willie just as she unlocked her door, forcing his way inside her lodgings before she could engage the customized clockwork safety lock.

On instinct, she grabbed the first weapon within her reach and whirled.

The intruder blocked her swing, and the bronze Buddha with the clock in his fat belly flew out of her hand, crashing into her new electric table lamp. The glass shade and incandescent bulb shattered, time stopped, and Willie’s bravado wavered. Physical contact had been brief. Not long or focused enough to effectively time-trace into his past, but enough to catch a glimpse of a memory. A group of men convening in a darkened room and the whisper of two disjointed words—assassination and Aquarius.

Heart pounding, Willie scrambled back, assessing the situation.

She’d been walking off her frustration. Ruminating Dawson’s order to get a story on Simon Darcy or to hit the proverbial street. She’d been lost in thought, lost in the cold fog rolling in with the depressing dusk. She knew not if this odious thug had been following her or perhaps lurking in the shadows of the meager lodgings she rented near Blackfriars Bridge. What she knew was that she was now trapped inside her dimly lit parlor with a dangerous masked stranger.

“I mean you no harm,” he said as if reading her mind. “If I did, the deed would be done.”

“Comforting,” she snapped.

“Cheeky,” he replied. “Indeed, I find your fighting spirit . . . stimulating.” His lip twitched as his gaze landed on her newsboy cap, then dragged south to her worn boots. “The name is Strangelove.”

Willie forced her knees steady and willed her tone not to spike in pitch. “I’m not partial to blokes,” she said, assuming Strangelove had a predilection for young men.

“Neither am I.” Still smiling, he gestured to her worn and faded chaise. “Do sit, Miss Goodenough.”

It was, in fact, good advice, as her legs fairly buckled at the mention of her real name. Practiced at pretending and desperate to maintain her guise, Willie slouched against the chaise in her lackadaisical boyish style, whilst contemplating potential weapons within her reach. “I’m afraid your eyesight’s impaired by that mask, sir. The name’s Willie G. and I’m a chap same as you.”

“Spare me the pretense. I’ve neither the time nor patience.” Strangelove sat in a chair with the grace of a titled gentleman. His dark clothes, cape, gloves, and top hat were of fine quality, his speech and manner refined. “Wilhelmina Goodenough,” he said, leveling her with a narrowed gaze meant to intimidate. “Daughter of Michelle and Michael Goodenough, a twentieth-century security expert and a nineteenth-century merchant. A Mod and a Vic. Which makes you, Miss Goodenough, aka Willie G., aka the Clockwork Canary, a first-generation Freak.”

She sat frozen, her lungs convulsing in trepidation. He knew who she was and, worse, what she was. Born of parents from two dimensions, all Freaks possessed various supernatural abilities that magnified and sharpened with age. Feared and/or shunned by polite society, her altered race was denied numerous rights, ofttimes including the opportunity to pursue the profession of their choosing. Hence her ten-year ruse. Strangelove knew she was a woman, knew she was a Freak. Did he know about her time-tracing skills? Did he mean to exploit her gift of tapping into people’s memories? His intent was clearly nefarious. At the very least the wretched toff had the ability to shatter her sculpted world. “If you mean to blackmail me—”

“I do.”

“Pressmen make very little money.”

“Obviously.” Strangelove glanced around the clean but cramped and cluttered living space Willie called home. “I’ve no need of your exiguous finances, Miss Goodenough, but I do require your time and skills. I have it on good authority that Simon Darcy is joining the Triple R Tourney. I want you to join him on his quest and to report to me the moment he’s acquired whatever historical technological invention he seeks.”

Willie stared. Yet another person intent on pushing her into Simon’s world. The timing was surreal, if not suspicious. “What makes you think—”

“You had an illicit affair with Darcy when you were but sixteen,” he persisted. “Surely you can charm your way back into his life. Although I suggest a gown instead of trousers. And your hair—”

“I have no intention of revealing my true identity,” she blurted. Never mind serving up her heart on a silver platter. Her gaze skipped to a sentimental keepsake propped upon a fringed pillow on the corner chair, the only girly item in the room. A doe-eyed china doll given to her by Simon. The only evidence that he’d ever been part of her life. How did Strangelove know about the brief but torrid love affair that crushed her soul? No one, aside from her parents and brother, knew.

Or so she’d thought.

“Then concoct a ruse as the Clockwork Canary. I care not how you follow and report on Simon Darcy. Only that you do.”

Willie met and held the man’s steady and unsettling gaze. A man of purpose. A man of power. She tested her limits. “And if I don’t?”

“I will obliterate your ruse, Miss Goodenough. Rob you of your reputation and livelihood, your journalistic means of perpetuating the Freaks’ emancipation, as well as your ability to support your father and to shield your rebellious brother from harm’s way.” He smiled when she tensed. “Ah, yes. Your Freak brother, Wesley. Did I fail to mention my knowledge of his gift and crimes?”

Who was this man? How was it that he knew so much about her and her family? If she could touch him and focus, she could time-trace into his past, experience his memories as though she were an invisible bystander. Learning pieces of his life, his secrets, his deeds, might help to reveal his true identity and purpose. Why was the word assassination tied to one of Strangelove’s memories? Was this a past transgression or a plotted crime? She stole a peek at her cuff watch.

One focused touch . . .

But the man kept his distance, even as he tossed her a shiny rectangular device. “This is a telecommunicator. I will brief you on the practical use and codes. It is a direct line to me. Show it to no one, especially Darcy.”

Her pulse flared. The Darcy family was famous for their association with the Time Voyager. Simon himself had garnered a fair amount of attention regarding Project Monorail. He was, in fact, quite unpopular with Old Worlders. Gaze fixed on the futuristic device, Willie feigned nonchalance. “Do you mean Simon harm?”

“Only if he stands in between me and a certain invention. You can assure Darcy’s safety by using your wiles, your gift, and my telecommunicator, Miss Goodenough.”

Oh, how she wished he’d stop calling her that. How could so much misfortune rain down upon her in one blasted day? First Dawson had threatened her job if she did not get a story on Simon, and now this man, this Strangelove, threatened her reputation, the safety of her father, her brother, and the man she had once loved.

Willie balled her fists, damned fate, and searched her soul. She would do anything to protect her father and brother. As for Simon, as much as she resented him, she did not wish him harm. Putting her heart at risk seemed a trivial sacrifice. But she was not a pawn. Never a pawn. Perhaps she could protect all those at risk and advance her own interests as well. “I’ll do as you ask, Strangelove, but considering it means a sabbatical from my regular job at the Informer, I have a price.”

The vexing toff studied her at length. “You’re in no position to bargain, but I will do what I must to advance my goal. If you cross me, however—”

“You will crush me.”

“Cheeky and smart.”

Oh, but she despised the Vics who thought to manipulate her kind. In spite of her foul mood, Willie smiled. “Aye. I am.”