Chasing Schrödinger’s Cat - A Steampunk Novel (7 page)

Chapter
XVII:

A
Mews – An Empty House – An Escape

W
e exited to
a dingy back lane where we saw a steam-powered caravan whose windowless side
panels sported the hand-painted words ‘The Amazing Doctor Hades’ in bright
curlicued
script.

“Get in,” Schrödinger said.
 
“We haven’t much time.”

He was right.
 
We could hear the clanging of fire bells as
we climbed in and seated ourselves on a small day bed.
 
Schrödinger closed the rear door and the van
started moving a moment later.
 
The
creaking of its wheels and the chuffing engine sounds made it impossible to
talk so I tried to amuse myself with Max the Cat who had appeared from
somewhere beneath the bed.
  
Max had
other ideas and spurned my advances for the warmth of Sarah’s lap where he
curled up contentedly and went to sleep.

The van came to a stop after we had
been travelling about ten minutes.
 
The
rear door re-opened and we found ourselves in an enclosed mews which I
recognized as being at the rear of
Newford
House.

“Why are we here?” Sarah asked.
“This is the first place the police will look for us.”

“They aren’t looking for you,” said
Schrödinger, who now had a large leather bag hanging from his shoulder.
 
“They are looking for me.”

“Because you’re a Fascist?”

“I am not a Fascist,” Schrödinger
said.
 
“I was pretending to be one on
Lord
Newford’s
orders. It was either that or face the
consequences of a minor indiscretion in Holland Park.”

“Hang on a second,” I said to Sarah.
 
“Didn’t you say your father asked you to
watch Schrödinger’s shop?
 
Why would he
do that if Schrödinger was working for him?”

“Why indeed?” said Sarah.
 
“Mister Schrödinger, why should I believe
you?
 
Where and when do you claim to have
met my father?”

“I never met him in person,”
Schrödinger admitted.
 
“I got my orders
through Alistair
 
Fox.”

“Why should he give you such orders
without official sanction?” Sarah asked.

“Where I come from they call it
plausible deniability,” I said, but they both ignored me.

 
“And that why you brought us here? To meet my
father?” Sarah said.

“I am beginning to suspect Fox is
playing some game of his own, one that involves ‘fitting me up’” Schrödinger
said.
 
“All the more reason for me to meet
with your father.
 
If nothing else, he
can confirm that my suspicions are correct.”

“What if he has never heard of
you?”

“Then I will have to ‘do a runner’
as they say in the East End and I am becoming
too old for such adventures.”

“If you wish me to admit you to my
house then I want you to do something for me in return.”

“And what might that be?”

“Use your magical powers to remove
these ridiculous manacles,” she said, shaking our conjoined hands.

“I believe I may be able to help,”
Schrödinger said.
 
“Allow me a moment.”

Schrödinger’s magical powers took
the form of a large pair of bolt-cutters taken from a tool chest in the rear of
his caravan.
 
The handcuffs were soon off
and Sarah went to the tradesperson’s entrance and tugged at the bell pull.
 
We could hear the bell clanging inside but
nobody came.
 
Sarah gave up after several
tries and retrieved a key from her handbag.

We entered to find the house
strangely silent.
 
There were no servants
in the corridors and the furniture was shrouded in white sheeting.

We eventually came upon Mrs. Willis
drawing the curtains in the sitting room.
 
She told us that Lord
Newford
had been taken
to HMIS headquarters at Amesbury
Park ‘for his own
protection,’ or that at least was what young Mister Fox had said.
 
For her part she wouldn’t trust that
jackanapes any farther than she could see him.

She had just finished her
explanation when there was a loud knocking at the front door followed by shouts
of “HMIS, open up.”

“We’ve been followed,” Schrödinger
said.
 
“Let’s get out of here.”

“I cannot speak for Mister
Liddel
, but I shall not accompany you,” Sarah said.
 
“I suggest you leave the same way we came
in.
 
You need to be well on your way
within five minutes.”

Schrödinger gave me the worn
leather bag he had been carrying, making a show of putting its strap over my
shoulder and patting my side in what I supposed was intended as a show of good
fellowship.
 
“Be a good chap and throw
this in the dustbin,” he said.
 
“If they
find it in my possession, my goose, as they say in your country, will be
cooked.”
 
He was gone a moment later and
we soon heard the chuff-chuff sound of his caravan’s engine.

Sarah retrieved a small pocket
watch from a case in her handbag and opened its
filagreed
silver lid.
 
The banging on the front
door increased in volume as we waited for five minutes to pass.
 
Sarah returned the watch to its case after
what seemed like an eternity and turned to the housekeeper.
 
“Mrs. Willis, would you be so good as to
inform the gentlemen at the front door that Mister Schrödinger has left by the
mews entrance?” she said.

A moment later we heard the shrill
of police whistles followed by the sound of booted feet running away from the
front entrance.

“What now?” I said.

 
“For my part, I am going to Amesbury Park,” Sarah
said.
 
“I can testify that I never saw
any sign of fascist activity at
Schrödinger’s
nasty little shop.
 
The sooner my
father’s name is cleared, the sooner life can get back to normal.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“You may do as you wish,” Sarah
said.
 
“The worst that can happen is they
will send you to America.”

I was still aching from my previous
day’s encounter with Arthur Flowers and wasn’t so sure.

Chapter
XVIII:

At
the Station
 
– A Bunsen Burner – A Human
Fly

S
arah condescended
to allow my continued presence on the condition I carry her overnight bag
which, by chance, was already packed in preparation for an upcoming weekend in
the country.
 
What she described as a
‘bag’ was in fact a small trunk which, by its weight, appeared to have been
filled with curling rocks.

I was sweating like a swamp donkey
by the time we got to Waterloo Station and looked around for a way to ease the
rest of the journey.
 
The answer came in
the form of porter who had left his wooden trolley unattended outside the men’s
washroom.
 
Serve the slacker right for taking time off to pee
I thought, as I
loaded Sarah’s bag onto his cart.

“Now I suppose you expect me to pay
for your train ticket,” Sarah said, as we got into line at the wicket.

“Not if I can think of a way to
ride for free,” I whispered.
 
“We need to
make your money last.”
 
It was at this
point that I felt someone tap me on the shoulder from behind.
 
I turned to see a plump man in a clerical
collar accompanied by an equally well-fed woman who had to be his wife.

“Excuse me my man,” the vicar
said.
 
“Would you be so good as to assist
us when you have finished helping your current client?”

“My pleasure, Guv’,” I said.
 
“Be right back in a
mo
’.”

“Why are you talking in that
ridiculous manner?” Sarah whispered.

“That’s my cockney accent,” I
whispered back.
 
For once Sarah said
nothing but merely snorted.

I
had no
trouble getting access to the platform, thanks to the porter’s trolley.
 
I soon had Sarah installed in an empty
compartment and turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked

“Back to get the Reverend’s
baggage,” I said.
 
“We need the money.”

I
f anything,
the clerical couple’s luggage was heavier than Sarah’s.
 
Good thing for these people nobody had yet
invented passenger aircraft.
 
The excess
baggage charges would have bankrupted them.

I finally got the Reverend and his wife
settled into the compartment next to Sarah’s and stood waiting for my tip.
 
The Reverend reached into the breast pocket
of his coat, but instead of coming out with his wallet, he held an illustrated
tract titled
A Young Man’s Guide To
Self-Control
which he handed to me with great solemnity saying, “This will
benefit you far more than money which you would no doubt spend on drink.”

Lucky for him I didn’t want to draw
attention to myself or he would have found out a few things about the limits of
my
self control
.

“Is that the bag that man Schrödinger
gave you?
 
You were meant to throw it
away,” Sarah said when I get back to her compartment.
 
“Whatever can it be?”

I realized I still had a leather
bag hanging from my shoulder.
 
“I don’t
think so,” I said.
 
“His was heavier.”

There was a small brass key
protruding from the bag’s clasp.
 
I
turned it and looked inside to find a black shirt, a clerical collar and a
well-thumbed paperback novel titled
Girls
in Tunics
.
 
I opened the book
randomly and read ‘Melissa writhed sensuously to the rhythm of the
Headmistress’ caresses until she gushed forth a stream of womanly love
cream.’
 
I took a second look at the bag
and saw the name
Reverend E. Bunsen
embossed on the side.
 
“You naughty
Reverend,” I said.
 
“I bet they called
you Bunsen burner back at the seminary.”

I relocked the bag and was putting
the key in my pocket when the train lurched forward, causing me to fall into
the seat next to Sarah.
 
“That’s funny,”
I said, feeling around in my pocket.

“What is?”

“The American passport your chum Alistair
Fox gave me.
 
I could have sworn I left
it there.”

I was rummaging through my other
pockets when we heard the conductor coming down the corridor checking for
tickets.
 
I had to do something
fast.
 
The last thing I wanted was to get
thrown off the train in the middle of God knows where.

There was nothing else for it.
 
I opened the side door, stepped out onto the
outside footplate and scrunched down below the window hanging onto the door
handle.
 
It looks exciting when you see
someone do it in an old spy thriller but trust me, hanging on in mid-air with
railway ties speeding past your feet at sixty miles an hour is no fun.
 
I tried to get back in as soon as the
conductor was gone, but the handle was stuck.
 
What now?
 
If I got Sarah to push
the door open, there was a good chance I would get thrown off onto the
tracks.
 
Then I noticed the window in the
next car forward was open.
 
I stretched
sideways and was just able to reach its handle.
 
I inched along the side of the car trying to ignore the smoke and
cinders blowing into my face and pulled myself in through the window where I
was confronted by the indignant Reverend Bunsen who got up to call the
conductor.

“I wouldn’t do that Rev,” I
said.
 
“I might be tempted to tell your good
wife about the girls and their tunics.”

The Reverend’s face became beet red
and he sat down heavily.
 
I noticed
Schrödinger’s bag in the overhead rack, took it down and opened the door
leading to the corridor.
 
The Reverend’s
relief at seeing me go was evident but even so, he had to try for the last
word.

“Blessed is the man that
endureth
temptation; for when he is tried, he shall receive
the crown of life,” he intoned.
 
“The
general epistle of James.”

“The only way to get rid of a
temptation is to yield to it,” I replied.
 
“Oscar Wilde.”

Chapter
XIX:

Schrödinger’s
Bag – A Disguise – A Honeymoon – An Overheard Conversation

I
opened
Schrödinger’s bag when I got back to Sarah’s compartment and sure enough, there
was the dimensional translator.

“What is it?” Sarah asked.

“My only contact with the real
world,” I said, as I examined the device that had caused me so much trouble.

I
was glad
when the train got to Wiltshire.
 
At
least now I had a purpose.
 
Cruikshank,
the lawyer, had said that the dimensional translator had been stolen from HMIS
headquarters in Amesbury.
 
If Sarah’s
father could tell my how the device worked, it might show me a way to get back
home.

But nothing in this life is ever
easy.
 
The station at Amesbury was
swarming with police, uniformed and otherwise, who no doubt were on the lookout
for a well-dressed peeress accompanied by a slovenly American.

“Do you have a scarf in that trunk
of yours?” I asked Sarah.

“I may do.”

“Well wrap it around your face and
walk with a limp,” I said, as I reached for Reverend Bunsen’s bag.

A
nd so,
dressed as the Reverend Bunsen and his invalid mother, we ran the gauntlet of
watching police, one of whom was even so kind as to help me lift Sarah’s trunk
into a waiting cab.
 
I knew it would be
poor form to offer him money for his services so I presented him with Bunsen’s
copy of
A Young Man’s Guide To
Self-Control
and waved a genial blessing at him as we drove away.

A
s expected,
Sarah kicked up a major fuss about the notion of sharing a hotel room but I was
in no mood to listen to her ‘of all the
effronterys
’
and ‘If you think I am going
tos
.’

“For a suffragette you seem
surprisingly willing to assume the role of the persecuted maiden,” I said,
cutting her off in mid-sentence.
 
“Over
the last two days I have been arrested, beaten, arrested again, publicly
humiliated and forced to play Spiderman on the side of a moving train.
 
If you think I want anything more than a wash,
something to eat and a good night’s sleep, you overestimate your personal
attractions.”

I could see she had a lot more to
say about my many behavioral deficiencies but she seemed to realize that now
was not the time to say them.
 
She even managed
to come up with a surrogate wedding ring from somewhere in the depths of her
handbag and kept her mouth shut as we checked in at the Amesbury Arms.

 
“W
e run a respectable establishment
here, Mister and Mrs.
Liddel
,” said the beady-eyed
woman behind the counter.
 
“I take it you
can provide proof you are married.”

“Indeed I can,” I said, retrieving
the registry office license from my pocket.
 
“We were married today.”

“My congratulations,” she said, after
inspecting the document.
 
“We don’t often
get honeymooning couples in this part of the world.
 
Please let me know if there is anything we
can do to make your stay more pleasant.”

“All we want is peace and quiet,” I
said.

T
he room was
pretty much what you would expect.
 
Greeny
yellow wallpaper, worn hardwood floors and a brass
framed bed complete with knobby bits on the corner posts.
 
I was relieved to see it also featured wash
stand as well as a camel-backed settee that would serve as a second bed.

I filled the basin of the wash
stand from a cracked ceramic pitcher as soon as we were alone.
 
Sarah gasped when I stripped off my shirt and
I was expecting yet another lecture on propriety.
 
Instead she came over and began to examine purple
and yellow contusions covering my torso.

“These are serious injuries,” she
said.
 
“You say Alistair Fox had this
done to you?”

“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” I
said.
 
“That guy Flowers is a
professional.
 
He knows how to inflict
pain without causing any real damage.”

“I may have something that will
help,” she said.
 
She began to rummage,
yet again, in her handbag and came out with a tin of something called Featherstone’s
Zum-Buk
Ointment which she applied to my bruises with
surprisingly gentle fingers.
 
It was on
my tongue to ask what other surprises she had in that bag of hers, a baby grand
piano maybe, but I kept quiet.
 
This was
the first sign she had shown of anything resembling human feeling and I didn’t
want to spoil the moment.

I had thought I would sleep forever
but I woke up on the settee four hours later with a crick in my neck and an
Oxfam-sized hunger.

“I was beginning to think you would
never wake up,” Sarah said.
 
“The kitchen
stops serving at nine.
 
Are you hungry?”

“I could eat a buttered doorknob,”
I said.

S
arah had
gone for a walk to check out HMIS headquarters while I was sleeping and the
results of her scouting expedition were discouraging.
 
Not only was the place surrounded by an
eight-foot stone wall but it was ringed with surveillance balloons like the
ones we had seen in the newsreel back at the
Brompton
Road Kinescope.

Sarah seemed to be expecting some comment
on the situation and I suddenly realized my recent enforced exploits had given
her the mistaken notion I was a man of action.
 
I kind of liked the image so I washed down the last of my fish and chips
with a mouthful of dark ale and tried to look as though I was deciding among
several plans of approach.

It was at this point that I became
aware of a nearby conversation between two familiar voices.
 
Sarah was about to speak but I touched my
finger to my lips and rolled my eyes to the glass partition behind me.

“Is there any chance of another
pint?” said a voice from the next booth whose deep, sonorous tones could only
belong to Schrödinger.
 
“And possibly
some more of that delightful shepherd’s pie?”

“You should think yourself
bleedin
’ lucky you got anything,” said his companion.
 
I had only heard ‘Mister Flowers’ speak once
or twice but I was pretty sure it was him.

“It was good of you to provide
sustenance,” Schrödinger said.
 
“Especially after the trouble we had with my caravan.”

“If it was down to me, we’d ‘
av
left it,” Flowers said.
 
“But Fox says you’ll be needing it for what he has in mind.

“And what might that be?”

“Ask him yourself when we get
there.
 
Hurry up and finish that pint.”

I touched my finger to my lips one
more time and pointed to the side door.
 
We
were outside in the forecourt a moment later next to Schrödinger’s caravan.

“Do you think it is open?” Sarah
asked.

“Only one way to find out,” I said.