His Clockwork Canary (2 page)

G
REAT
B
RITAIN,
1887 K
ENT—THE
A
SHFORD ESTATE

Since the day he’d been born (three and a half minutes later than his twin brother),
Simon Darcy had been waging war with time. He had either too much of it or not enough.
Somehow his
timing
was always off. Bad timing had cost him much in his thirty-one years. Most recently,
his father, Reginald Darcy, Lord of Ashford.

The proof was in his pocket.

Simon didn’t need to read the abominable article—he had it memorized—yet he couldn’t
help unfolding the wretched newsprint and torturing himself once again. As if he deserved
the misery. Which he did.

The London Informer

January 5, 1887

MAD INVENTOR DIES IN QUEST FOR GLORY

The Right Honorable Lord Ashford, lifelong resident of Kent, blew himself up yesterday
whilst building a rocket ship destined for the moon. Ashford, a distant cousin of
the infamous Time Voyager, Briscoe Darcy, was rumored to be obsessed with making his
own mark on the world. Fortunately for the realm and unfortunately for his family,
Ashford’s inventions paled to that of Darcy, earning him ridicule instead of respect,
wealth, or fame.

Simon’s gut cramped as he obsessed on the article that had haunted him for days. For
the billionth time, he cursed the Clockwork Canary, lead pressman for the
Informer
, as heartless. The insensitive print blurred before Simon’s eyes as his blood burned.
Instead of tossing the infernal sensationalized reporting of his father’s death, he
had ripped the article from the London scandal sheet, then folded and tucked the announcement
into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, next to his tattered heart.

For all his guilt and grief upon learning of his beloved, albeit eccentric, father’s
demise, Simon had stuffed his emotions. His mother and younger sister would be devastated.
Especially his sister, Amelia, who shared their papa’s fascination with flying and
who’d lived and worked alongside the old man on Ashford—the family’s country estate.
For them, Simon would be a rock. As would his ever unflappable twin brother, Jules.

Simon had made the trip from his own home in London down to Kent posthaste. He’d remained
stoic throughout the constable’s investigation of the catastrophic accident, as well
as through the poorly attended funeral. He’d even managed a calm demeanor whilst listening
to the solicitor’s reading of the will—unlike his dramatic and panic-stricken mother.
Although upon this occasion, he could not blame her for the intensity of her outburst.

The Darcys were penniless.

Simon and Jules had their personal savings and fairly lucrative careers, but the family
fortune was gone, and as such, Ashford itself was at stake.

Even after sleeping on the shocking revelation, Simon couldn’t shake the magnitude
of his father’s folly. His mind and heart warred with the knowledge, with the implication,
and with the outcome. Because of Simon’s ill timing and arrogance, his mother and
sister were now destitute.

“Do not assume blame.”

Simon breathed deeply as his brother limped into the cramped confines of the family
dining room. “Do not assume to know my mind.”

“Has grief struck you addle, brother?” Dark brow raised, Jules sat and reached for
the coffeepot. Like their father, the Darcy twins had always preferred brewed coffee
over blended teas.

Simon flashed back on one of his father’s quirky inventions—an electric bean-grinding
percolator—which might have proved useful, except, as a staunch Old Worlder, their
mother had refused to allow Ashford to utilize electricity.

Destitute and living in the Dark Ages.

Riddled with emotions, he pocketed the blasted scandal sheet and met his twin’s steady
gaze. But of course Jules would know his mind. The older brother by mere minutes,
he always seemed to have the jump on Simon. Even so far as guessing or knowing his
thoughts. Simon was often privy to Jules’s notions as well, and sometimes they even
had what their little sister referred to as “twin conversations.” Whether spurred
by intuition or some bizarre version of telepathy, they often finished each other’s
sentences. It drove Amelia mad.

“I could’ve been working alongside my mentor on Tower Bridge,” Simon said. “Instead
I chose to pursue my own
brilliant
idea.”

“You doubt the merit of a public transportation system high above the congested streets
of London?”

“No.” Simon’s monorail system inspired by the Book of Mods would have eased ground
traffic and air pollution caused by the rising population and number of steam-belching
and petrol-guzzling automocoaches. It would have provided an affordable mass transit
alternative to London’s underground rail service.

It would have afforded Simon the recognition and respect he craved.

“I regret that I boasted prematurely about my project. Had I not bragged, Papa would
not have invested the family fortune.” Sickened, Simon dragged his hands though his
longish hair. “Bloody hell, Jules. What was the old fool thinking?”

“That he believed in you.”

“When the project failed, I Teletyped Papa immediately. Railed against the injustice
of political corruption. Wallowed in self-pity. What was I thinking?”

“That he would damn the eyes of the narrow-minded and manipulative Old Worlders. That
he’d side with you. Ease your misery.” Jules looked away. “He excelled at that. Building
us up. Making us believe we were capable of whatever our hearts and minds desired.”

For a moment, Simon set aside his own heavy remorse and focused on his brother, who
had always been darker in coloring and nature than the more fair and frivolous Simon.
Though presently residing in London, where he worked as an author of science fiction
novels, Jules Darcy was retired military, a decorated war hero. Details revolving
around the skirmish that had mangled his legs and left him with a permanent limp were
classified. The period of rehabilitation had been extensive and also shrouded in secrecy.
Even Simon was clueless as to those peculiar days of Jules’s mysterious life. Although
he was often privy to his brother’s moods and inclinations, he’d never been able to
read Jules’s mind regarding the covert nature of his service to the Crown.

“Coffee’s bitter,” Jules said, setting aside his cup and reaching for the sugar bowl.

Everything had tasted bitter to Simon for days, but he knew what his brother meant.
“Eliza made the coffee. Be warned—she cooked as well.”

Frowning, Jules glanced toward the sideboard and the steaming porcelain tureens. Though
an excellent housekeeper, Eliza was famously ill equipped in the kitchen. “What happened
to Concetta?”

The skilled though crotchety cook had been in their mother’s employ for months. “Mother
dismissed her this morning. Said we could no longer afford her services.”

“Did she not offer the woman a month’s notice?”

“She did. Along with excellent references. But Concetta’s prideful. She ranted in
her native tongue, and though I’m not fluent in Italian, I understood the intention.
She’s leaving today.”

“Damnation,” Jules said.

In this instance, Simon knew the man’s thoughts. Things were indeed dire if Anne Darcy,
a conservative woman obsessed with old ways and upholding appearances, had resorted
to dismissing servants. Another kick to Simon’s smarting conscience.

Just then Eliza’s husband, Harry, appeared with two folded newspapers in hand. “As
requested,” he said, handing the
Victorian Times
to Simon, then turning to Jules. “And the
London Daily
for you, sir.” The older man glanced at the sideboard, winced, then lowered his voice.
“I could fetch you fresh bread and jam.”

If anyone knew about the poor quality of his wife’s cooking, it was Harry.

Simon quirked a smile he didn’t feel. “We’ll be fine, Harry.” The man nodded and left,
and Simon looked to his brother. “We’ll have to sample something, you know. Otherwise
we’ll hurt Eliza’s feelings.”

“I know.” Distracted, Jules seemed absorbed by the front page of the
Daily
.

Simon immediately turned to the headlines of the
Times
—a respectable broadsheet, unlike the
Informer
.

The Victorian Times

January 10, 1887

ROYAL REJUVENATION—A GLOBAL RACE FOR FAME AND FORTUNE

In celebration of Queen Victoria’s upcoming Golden Jubilee, an anonymous benefactor
has pledged to award a colossal monetary prize to the first man or woman who discovers
and donates a lost or legendary technological invention of historical significance
to Her Majesty’s British Science Museum in honor of her beloved Prince Albert. An
additional £500,000 will be awarded for the rarest and most spectacular of all submissions.
Address all inquiries to P. B. Waddington of the Jubilee Science Committee.

Simon absorbed the significance, the possibilities. “Blimey.”

“I assume you’re reading what I’m reading,” Jules said. “News like this must have
hit the front page of every newspaper in the British Empire.”

“And beyond.” Simon fixated on the headline, specifically the words
FAME AND FORTUNE
. He wanted both. For his family. For himself.

“Pardon the interruption, sirs.” Contrite, Harry had reappeared with three small envelopes.
“It would seem sorrow regarding the loss of Lord Ashford has muddled my mind. These
were in my pocket. I picked them up at the post whilst in the village this morning.”
He handed an envelope to each of the brothers, then placed the third near their sister’s
place setting. “This one is for Miss Amelia,” he said. “That is, if she joins you
this morning.”

Since their father’s death, Amelia had been grieving in private.

“We’ll see that she gets it,” Jules said. “Thank you, Harry.”

The man left and Simon struggled not to think of their young sister locked away in
her bedroom—mourning, worrying. Yes, she was a grown woman, twenty years of age, but
she’d led a sheltered life, and though obstinate as hell, Amelia was tenderhearted.
At least half of Simon’s worries would end if she’d relent and marry a good and financially
stable man. Alas, Amelia’s fiery independence was both a blessing and a curse. Frustrated,
Simon focused back on what appeared to be an invitation. “No return address.”

He withdrew the missive in tandem with Jules and read aloud. “Given your family’s
reputation as innovators, adventurers, and visionaries—”

“—you have been specifically targeted and are hereby enthusiastically invited to participate
in a global race for fame and fortune,” Jules finished.

“Royal rejuvenation.”

“Colossal monetary prize.”

“Legendary technological invention,” they said together.

“Is your missive signed?” Simon asked.

“No. Yours?”

“No.” He glanced from the mysterious note to the
Times
. “Apparently the anonymous benefactor thought us worthy of a personal invitation.
Do you think it is because of our association with Briscoe Darcy?”

“Yet again it’s assumed that because Papa knew the Time Voyager, he must have had
knowledge regarding Briscoe’s time machine.”

“Also natural to assume Papa would have passed along that information to us,” Simon
said. “Which he did not.”

“No, he did not. If he had any.”

“Unless . . .” Simon looked to the envelope next to Amelia’s empty plate.

“If Papa had pertinent information regarding Briscoe’s time machine, he would not
have burdened Little Bit with such knowledge,” Jules said. “Too dangerous.”

Indeed. No invention was more historically
significant
than the one constructed by their distant cousin Briscoe Darcy. A time machine used
to catapult Briscoe into the future (1969), which ultimately enabled a group of twentieth-century
scientists, engineers, and artists to dimension-hop back to the past (1856).

Intending to inspire peace and to circumvent future atrocities and global destruction,
those dimension-hoppers, also known as the Peace Rebels, preached cautionary tales
throughout the world, most notably in America and Europe. Unfortunately, a few were
corrupted and soon leaked advanced knowledge that led to the construction and black
market sales of modern weapons, transportation, and communications. The globe divided
into two political factions—Old Worlders and New Worlders. Those who resisted futuristic
knowledge and those who embraced it. The Peace War broke out and the nineteenth century
as it should have been was forever changed.

The Victorian Age met the Age of Aquarius.

For years and for political reasons Simon and Jules resisted the urge to explore anything
having to do with Briscoe Darcy or time travel. Not to mention time travel had been
outlawed. However, this Race for Royal Rejuvenation, coupled with their family’s unfortunate
circumstances, motivated Simon to break their childhood pact. “It is true Papa never
shared any secrets with me regarding Briscoe and his time machine, yet I do have an
idea of how to get my hands on an original clockwork propulsion engine.”

Jules raised a lone brow. “As do I.”

“Are we in accord?”

“We are. But first, let me Teletype this P. B. Waddington, as well as a personal contact
within the Science Museum. I want verification that this treasure hunt is indeed official.”

Simon’s pulse raced as his brother left the room. With every fiber of his being he
knew the response would be affirmative. His brain churned and plotted. Only one of
them needed to find and deliver the clockwork propulsion engine in order to avenge
their father’s name and secure the family’s fortune. But, by God, Simon wanted it
to be him.

L
ONDON
O
FFICES OF THE
L
ONDON
I
NFORMER

“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.”

S
OUTHEAST OF
L
ONDON
P
ICKFORD
F
IELD

“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.”