Chasing Schrödinger’s Cat - A Steampunk Novel (9 page)

Chapter
XXIII:

In
Pursuit – At The Emporium – A Confrontation

I
t was well
past midnight and there was almost no traffic on the hard-packed dirt road
leading to London.
 
We chuffed our way through silent villages
lit only by the light of the full moon.
 
Sarah
fell asleep with her head resting on my shoulder.
 
To my surprise it felt right.

It was starting to get light when I
spotted
Schrödinger’s brightly-painted caravan
on the road ahead of us.
 
I gave Sarah a
nudge.

“What is it?” she said
sleepily.
 
I pointed to the fleeing van and she sat up.
 
“Can’t you go any faster?” she asked.
 
“We need to overtake him before he reaches London.”

I did my best but Lord
Newford’s
tricycle was giving me all it had.
 
The houses and shops were becoming more
numerous and we were no closer to catching up with
Schrödinger.

We were just approaching a level
railway crossing when an iron-wheeled delivery wagon turned in from a side
street ahead of us.
 
Its driver took the
turn too wide and got his left rear wheel caught between the tracks on the
other side of the road.
 
We could hear a
train coming in the distance so I had no choice but to play the good Samaritan
and help him push the wagon forward.
 
Schrödinger’s caravan was nowhere to be seen
by the time we were done.

W
e drove
to Schrödinger’s shop.
 
What else could
we do?
 
We went through the usual
pointless exercises - rattled the front door, peered in the windows.
 
I even looked under the doormat to see
Schrödinger might have left a key.

We were just about to leave when the greengrocer next door waved us
down.
 
“You just missed him,” he
said.
 
“Picked up his mail and
scarpered.”

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked.

“Not bloody likely.
 
He keeps to
himself, that one.”

“What now?” I asked Sarah.

“I want to go home,” she said.
 
“I
need a bath, a sleep and a change of clothing and I expect you do too.
 
We can discuss what to do afterwards.”

W
e never
did get a chance to freshen up.
 
The
first thing we saw when we got to
Newford
House was
Schrödinger’s van parked in the mews.
 
Sarah
looked at me in anticipation and I could see she was expecting me to repeat my take-charge
guy routine.

What the hell.
 
Never let me be
accused of disappointing a lady.
 
Well truthfully,
I have often been accused of disappointing a lady, but that was then and this
was now.

I decided the direct approach was best.
 
I stuck Lord
Newford’s
big revolver in between
my belt and the small of my back and marched up to the back door of the van
which I opened only to find myself looking down the six barrels of a small
caliber pepperbox pistol.

“Please put your hands up and tell Lady Sarah to come over here,” said
Schrödinger.
 
The man looked
terrible.
 
His eyes were red as though he
hadn’t slept in a week and his hand was shaking so much I was afraid he might
shoot me by mistake.

“Put that down before you put someone’s eye out,” I said.
 
“That’s about all the damage you could do
with that toy gun.”

“My pistol may be small but it shoots better than yours since you have
none.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said, pulling out Lord
Newford’s
massive revolver.

One look at the Adams’
Navarone
-sized barrel was enough for Schrödinger who
dropped his weapon with an expression so despondent I almost laughed.

“Why don’t we go inside and talk this over,” I said.

Chapter XXIV:

Schrödinger’s Story

“W
as anyone
ever so victimized?”
Schrödinger
said.
 
“First I am duped by Alistair Fox
and now I am being held captive by a woman and a colonial bumpkin.”

“Easy with the bumpkin and tell me how Alistair Fox fits into all this,”
I said.

We were sitting at a long wooden table in the kitchen of
Newford
House.
 
Mrs.
Willis had just finished making tea and had left us only after repeated
assurances there was ‘nothing else we required.’
 
We had previously relieved Schrödinger of his
pistol which Sarah had deposited into the seemingly infinite depths of her
handbag.

“Fox wanted to embarrass your father,” Schrödinger said to Sarah.

“And after all Father has done for him,” Sarah said.
 
“That is what comes of elevating people above
their intended station.”

“Fox does not see matters in that light.
 
He says that Lord
Newford
is an amateurish old
booby who needs to be put out to pasture.”

“So what does that have to do with setting you up in a shop in East End
London?” I asked, as much to keep Sarah from exploding as to get an answer.

“Someone had stolen the dimensional translator from Amesbury Park and
suspicion seemed to fall on the Fascists. I was up on a charge of gross
indecency and Fox said he could get me off if I agreed to act as bait.
 
He planted an article under
my name
in
The Journal of Scientific Progress
which made me out to be an
expert in contacting other worlds.
 
Fox
said the Fascists would contact
me to
find out how to use the device.
 
Little
did I know he was playing me for a fool.”
 
He sighed deeply, as if contemplating life’s many vicissitudes.
 
“I say, is there any chance of something to
eat?” he asked.
 
“I’m absolutely
famished.”

The next few minutes were taken up watching Sarah preparing eggs and
bacon for the three of us on a cast-iron stove only slightly smaller than the
USS
Nimitz
.
 
I was impressed by her competence,
especially in light of her stated dislike of manual labor.
 
The resulting meal was delicious.

“I still don’t get what the shop was for,” I said, after I finished
eating.
 
“What was the point?”

“I think at first Fox was just hoping Lord
Newford
would overreact and embarrass himself,” Schrödinger said, wiping the last egg
drippings from his plate with a slice of bread.

“Father is not impetuous.
 
He would
never take action without first considering all the ramifications.” Sarah said.

“Your father is nobody’s fool,” Schrödinger conceded.
 
“His only mistake was to use you as an
observer.
 
Fox arranged to have you
arrested in my shop on suspicion of being a Fascist supporter, an accusation
your suffragette activities seemed to make plausible.”

“So how did you come to have the dimensional translator?” I asked.

 
“Fox had left it with me without saying
what it was.
 
I assumed that it was just
another of the curios in the shop.
 
I
only discovered what it was when I came upon some notes hidden inside the lining
of its case.”

“So if you were found in possession of the translator, you must have
stolen it,” Sarah said.
 
“And since the Fascists
stole it you must be a Fascist.
 
And
since I was in your shop, I must be a Fascist.”

“Full marks,” Schrödinger said.
 
“Fox had us both fitted up like a bespoke suit.”

“Let’s go back a bit,” I said.
 
“You mentioned something about finding notes hidden in the case.
 
What kind of notes?”

“They were by a chap named Tesla.
 
I didn’t understand it all but they seemed to deal with previously
unknown functions and capabilities of the translator.
 
I made the mistake of leaving them in the
shop when I fled the scene of your arrest and that is why Fox sent me to find
you.”

“Come again?” I said.

“Whatever was in the notes has aroused Fox to a frenzy.
 
I told him I had left the translator with you
when I stole your passport.”

“That was you?
 
Why would you steal
my passport?”

Schrödinger had the grace to appear slightly embarrassed.
“I
thought I could establish a new life for myself in America,” he said.
 
“How was I to know every customs agent on the
docks was looking for Bob
Liddel
?
 
I was arrested the moment I tried to book
passage.”

“So what are your plans now?
 
Because you can forget about taking the
translator back to Fox.”

“What use is it to you?
 
You have no more idea of how to operate it
than I do.”

“True enough,” I agreed.
 
“I figured I might start by finding this guy,
what was his name?
 
Babbage.
 
Sarah’s father said he’s somewhere in Devon.
 
How far is
that?”

“Farther than we can drive in a
day, although I expect Miss Trelawney would let us spend the night at Bishop
Jewel,” Sarah said.
 
“It’s on the way.”

“Bishop who?” I said.

“My old school.
 
I was head girl there.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I
said.
 
“I hate to do this, Mister
Schrödinger, but we’re going to need your
van.
 
You can have it back when we’re
done.”

“What am I to do in the meantime?”

“You can remain here,” Sarah said.
 
“I will instruct Mrs. Willis to find a room for you.”

“Ask her if she knows where there’s some paint while you’re at it,” I
said.
 
“We need to cover up Schrödinger’s
name on the side of the van.”

Chapter
XXV:

Salamander
and Sons

“H
ave you
any plan other than going to Devon?” Sarah
asked.
 
“It is a very large county.
 
One of the largest in England.”

“I do, but I didn’t want to talk
about it in front of
Schrödinger,” I
said.
 
“The less he knows the
better.”
 
I held off saying it was too
bad she had mentioned staying at her old school.
 
I didn’t want to start a quarrel, especially
when I had my hands full trying to maneuver Schrödinger’s van through South London’s crowded narrow streets.
 
“The last time I looked at the dimensional
translator I noticed a manufacturer’s name on one of the components,” I
said.
 
“Why don’t we start there?”

A
half hour
later we were in front of a red brick building sandwiched between a pawn shop
and a used clothing store.
 
Peeling gold
letters over the door read simply ‘Salamander and Sons.
 
Scientific Apparatus since 1877.’

The shop’s mullioned windows were
protected by a heavy iron grate which had once been collapsible, but was now
rusted in place.
 
The only item on
display was a mannequin wearing a deep sea diving suit topped with a bulbous
copper helmet.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere
inside when we opened the door.
 
We found
ourselves in a long, narrow shop whose walls were lined with bookshelves and
shadowy, glass-cased displays of everything from microscopes to something
called a
Patho-Neurometer
.

I was examining this latter device
which seemed to consist mainly of two copper electrodes attached to a voltmeter
by flexible cables when the worn hardwood floorboards creaked beside me.

“The gentleman has an eye for unusual
instruments,” said a spindly man, whose rimless spectacles shimmered like the
windows of an abandoned house.

“What does this do?” I asked.

“The device measures galvanic skin
response.
 
The manufacturer claims it can
evaluate a subject’s mental state by assessing the electrical conductivity of
his or her skin.
 
I cannot say whether or
not the claim is true.”

“So you didn’t make this
yourselves?”

“Oh heavens no. We are merely
distributors, not a manufacturing facility.”

“Well then,” I said, placing the
dimensional translator on the display case.
 
“Perhaps you can tell me who made this or, even better, who bought it.”

“N
ow this
is an item I never thought to see again,” the man said, running his fingers
along the translator’s rosewood case.
 
“Dare
I say it, ours is a relatively
humdrum enterprise.
 
We serve a small clientele whose needs seldom
change.
 
But this instrument was
something out of the ordinary.
 
I would
love to know the story behind it.”

“So it was custom built?”

“Indeed it was, and to very
exacting requirements.
 
The customer
provided the electrical components, along with highly detailed specifications
and drawings.”

“Who was the customer?”

“Alas, I cannot tell you.
 
No invoices were sent.
 
The gentleman paid in cash.”

“You say the buyer supplied the
electrical components.
 
What else needed
to be done?”

“The clockwork requirements were
demanding.
 
The gentleman said he didn’t
think a normal clockmaker would be able to meet the necessary tolerances.”

“But you were able to provide
someone for the job?”

“Of course,” the man said, drawing
his emaciated frame erect.
 
“We at
Salamander’s pride ourselves in our many connections among London’s craftsmen.”

“Do you think you might come up
with the name of the person who worked on this?
 
For your usual fee, of course.”

“Normally I would say no.
 
Our clients expect discretion.
 
But I suppose we could make an exception
since you already possess the item.”