Clockwork Souls (17 page)

The steam plow was still up on its sledge. The gardeners had
just finished stoking its great brass boiler. Whiddimore clambered onto the
sledge and then up into the saddle to fuss with the dials and levers. Gradually
the engine took up the load and the treads began to creep around. The helpers
scurried to steady the ramp that allowed the vehicle to trundle down to the
ground.

Even through my grief I could appreciate the cunning of the
artifice. A wide flat steel shovel was clamped to the front of the vehicle. In
happier times this doubtless facilitated the transport of heavy potted plants
or small trees. Now the metal treads could creep safely across the hot unstable
rock. A couple of the boldest Sicilians stood on the shovel blade, pointing
ahead and crying directions up to Whiddimore. Theodore’s footprints were still
visible in the gray ash that dusted the cooled lava.
At all costs, my boy, I will claw you back from the abyss
!

Beside me Mrs. Whiddimore called, “Don’t stall out, Samuel,
whatever you do!” He waved his handkerchief at her and then mopped his brow
with it. Even here at the edge the heat of the scarce-cooled rock struck right
up through a leather boot sole. Out where the upwelling lava was newer it must
be unbearable.
Oh my boy! Was this a way
to die
?

A distant yell and babble brought my heart up into my
throat. Could they have found him? The sulfur stench of the volcano made me
sick and dizzy. As the steam plow thumped and clattered back, Whiddimore waving
triumphantly on top, I saw a log on the shovel blade in front, at the Sicilians’
feet. It was scorched black. Only one shirt cuff and the curly pate was
recognizable. When I fell to my knees, wailing, the hot rock against my flesh
was not so painful as my heart’s agony.

Oh, my boy
!

Every block of ice in Sicily was brought to the consulate
cellar; my grandson lies on a bier that an emperor would envy. But with the
last wagon-load Whiddimore brought me more bad news from the local church. “We
are Protestants, sir!” I cried. “This is an outrage!”

Whiddimore shook his head. “This is a profoundly Catholic
island, Laurence. Even the Anglican expatriate cemetery cannot accommodate a
suicide.”

At this last word I could not help flinching. “Now, Samuel.”
Mrs. Whiddimore frowned at her husband’s plain speaking. “Mr. Laurence, we know
of another solution, if you will consider it. The recent cruel War Between the
States has brought only one benison to the grieving parent.”

“Yes, yes,” Whiddimore broke in. “That new alchemical art.
They call it embalm-ment.”

When Whiddimore explained this downright Egyptian procedure
I was appalled. “Chemicals? Into his very veins? How is this less a violation
than reanimation? Or even soul-transfer?”

“Here? In Europe?” Whiddimore’s jaw dropped, and Mrs.
Whiddimore’s eyes went so wide that I apologized immediately, pleading the
disorder of grief. But when they left me to recover, I took time to reflect on
my own words.

The good citizens of Concord do not know how our family made
its fortune. Because I have kept my counsel, the assumption is that its
foundation is tainted: slavery. Little do they know! A fortune founded on the vile
Triangle trade would be sweet as the perfumes of Araby, compared to the facts.
But now? Now that Laurie lies dead and cold, I will dare to call on my father’s
old knowledge: the lore of the Poet King.

Old Sir Willoughby would have been the man for the job. He
was last heard of in 1863 in Siam. But fortune was with me. Charles Fanshawe,
his chief artificer, parted brass-rags with Willoughby over some political
issue, and returned to Europe to work at a laboratory at the University in
Heidelberg. And I must say, stimulated by my massive payments, he made a superb
job of it! Purloining parts from Sir Willoughby’s secret workshops is merely a
venal sin—I can easily settle accounts with W. upon his return—but the
transfer of Theodore’s soul into the mechanical man is indeed a crime in
Europe. I fear I have given Fanshawe a hold upon me.

But oh! When the metal eyelids fluttered for the first time,
and Teddy himself looked out of the Murano-glass eyes! It was worth every cent,
to have my boy back again!

Christmas Day, 1868
Hotel d’Angleterre, Nice

Amy March was late in paying her duty to old Mr. Laurence
because her dance card was so full, but at length she had to sit down to rest
her feet. She was too well-mannered to remark upon how her old neighbor had
changed. Perhaps travel really did bear harder upon the aged? His countenance,
always reserved, now seemed ravaged and gray—a locked and shuttered house
shattered by gunpowder and shot. He now used a gold-headed ebony cane to
support his ageing step. But it was always safe to ask about his grandson. “So
Teddy is still studying eidolonic mechanismics in Rome. Fancy! He has quite
turned over a new leaf then, to be in his laboratory over Christmastide.”

“He has progressed amazingly,” Mr. Laurence said.

Mrs. Carrol, chaperoning the two girls, chipped in. “His
delightful Christmas present has created quite a stir.”

“It is rather a present to us girls” Amy declared. “So sweet
of Teddy! As soon as Flo’s waltz is done I mean to have another turn.”

The American hosts had taken the largest
salle à manger
at the hotel, the one
hung all down one wall with mirrors. Candelabra set against each one doubled
the light and made the room merry and bright. The automaton was impeccably
turned out in a black swallowtail. Its steel face and hands glinted in the
multiplied candlelight as it twirled and stepped. For her part, Florence Carrol
in his arms looked pleased but surprised. A robot dancer of this dexterity was
an incredible mechanismic leap.

“It is the best dance partner you could conceive of,” Amy
said. “It never misses a step and never gets tired.”

“No conversation, though,” Mr. Laurence said.

Amy smiled. “Silence is less a flaw than you might imagine,
when you consider the insipid chatter of the usual ballroom partner.”

“I am told that the vox mechanica is still beyond Theodore’s
skill. Perhaps next semester.”

The waltz ended with a patter of polite applause. Florence
approached with the mechanical dancer on her arm.

Amy said, “It even has a look of Teddy.”

“It does, does it not?” Mr. Laurence agreed. “Something in
the way it holds its head.”

“Did Teddy give it a name?”

The automaton’s dark eyes were crafted of glass, unusually
expressive. Mr. Laurence’s left hand was in the pocket of his evening coat as
he spoke easily. “He left that to me. I named it Secundus.”

“Then shall we, Mr. Secundus?” She rose and held out a
slender hand. With silent gallantry the mechanical man bowed over it. As it led
her out onto the dance floor, Mr. Laurence glimpsed beyond the forming set a
hotel bellboy ushering in a short stout figure. Mrs. Carrol and Florence were
occupied with re-pinning an errant corsage. They did not look up as Mr.
Laurence rose to his feet with the aid of his cane. He moved discreetly toward
the terrace. Any conversation with Charles Fanshawe would go better out of
doors.

Even at the end of December, the Riviera was clement. White
and full, the moon swanned across the Mediterranean sky through a modest
drapery of high cloud. Fanshawe stared soulfully up at it and took off his
bowler hat. “Beautiful night, isn’t it, Mr. L?”

“What are you here for, Fanshawe? Could your business not
wait until after Christmas?”

“Bless you, Mr. L. Creditors don’t take no holidays. The bills
got to be paid.” He held out a sheet of paper closely written with numbers and
sums.

Mr. Laurence made no move to take it. “Our accounts are
settled, Fanshawe. Be off with you.”

“Sir Willoughby’s suppliers can’t be stiffed like that, Mr.
L.,” Fanshawe returned. “They’ll go complaining to him, see, and then he’ll
have to take it out of you. Better to get it over now, and then the boss don’t
have to get stuck in.”

“And you think he will enter the lists for you? Besides,
Willoughby died in Siam.” This last was a bow drawn at a venture. After all,
Siam was so far away, anybody there might die without being heard of.

But Fanshawe hooted at the suggestion. “Guess you haven’t
met him in a while, eh? We’re partners in crime, Mr. L. You can’t turn down a
pal, not when he could peach on you to the French police. I know you’ve
liquidated all your European holdings, but there’s word of a big house of
yours, in Yankee country.”

Mr. Laurence did not care to mention that he had already set
John Brooke, the family factotum, to mortgaging the mansion. Instead he
strolled deeper into the shrubbery, out of view from the hotel windows. “Be
off,” he repeated, “or it will be the worse for you.” He slid his left hand
into his coat pocket.

“Come now, Mr. L,” Fanshawe said with reproach. “You can’t
threaten the maker with his own creation. That’s a game for blood-and-thunder
novels. So you ring for the automaton—the aetheric controller works a treat,
don’t it? But I put him together.”

The tubby little man watched smiling as Secundus came down
the steps toward them. The moonlight silvered the machine’s metal so that it
almost could have been the fairest of human skin. In the pale light the worked
bronze could simply have been ruffled dark curls tumbling over the broad smooth
forehead.

“You made him well,” Mr. Laurence said. “Stronger than you
know. Secundus, if you would?”

With smooth speed the mechanical man seized Fanshawe by the
checkered tweed sleeve. Fanshawe sighed. “Downright shame, really.” He used one
booted toe to kick the side of Secundus’s knee. There was a small popping sound
and suddenly the automaton toppled sideways. It fell heavily onto the thick
turf, the metal hands not moving to break its fall. “Nothing to it, if you know
how the joints are riveted.”

“I’ve always been old-fashioned,” Mr. Laurence replied. He
gave the gold head of the ebony cane one twist, freeing six inches of steel
blade, and in almost the same motion stabbed it to the hilt into Fanshawe’s
back. Fanshawe fell to the grass in his turn, thrashing and choking out a
horrible gurgling cry. Mr. Laurence felt certain that no one in the ballroom
could hear it over the sound of the orchestra. He wiped the blade clean on
Fanshawe’s tweed coat and clicked it back into the cane again before addressing
the machine. “Come, boy. Sit up and let me see.”

Commanded, the automaton moved, rolling to sit up. Mr.
Laurence clicked his tongue at the split knee of the dress trousers. “No more
dancing for you tonight.” From his right pocket he produced a pocket knife with
half a dozen tool attachments. Stiffly he lowered himself to kneel on the
grass. It would be a simple job, to align the broken joint and then tighten the
connections properly. As he began the automaton put a pleading hand over his. “No
conversation for you,” Mr. Laurence responded. “It’s too dangerous in public.
Allow me to guess your questions, and offer a reply.

“Do you recall when we first discussed this trip, that my
original plan involved some business in London? Good. It would be pointless
now, to hide from you that our family’s financial affairs are closely wound up
with the estate of the allegedly late George Gordon, Lord Byron. I shall not
confide the details of the connection to you now, but suffice it to say that
when I needed a soul to be transferred into an automaton, the resources of both
money and knowledge were to hand.”

Mr. Laurence’s attention was fixed on the tiny hex screw he
was tightening in the steel kneecap, but he was aware of the fine fingers,
sensitive and quick though made of metal, tensing under the pressure of
unspoken questions. “No, my boy. This time I shall not fail. Never again will
you be at risk, for I love you too well. Your father ran off into disaster, and
you did the same. But now you will be safe forever—your soul securely housed in
an everlasting metal body. A body that I control. I swore I would drag you back
from the abyss, and I did.”