The Sunken (38 page)

His stomach tightened as desperation sank in. “Annabella,
please,
remember when Byron left and I—”

She waved her hand in the air. “That was different. In the public eye, I was the victim of Byron’s lust. Your support for me opened doors for you. If I support you now, do you think it will open doors for me? Do you think—”

“Is that the Difference Engine?” Ada asked, cutting off her mother mid-sentence.

Annabella frowned, but Babbage was secretly delighted. He was sensing himself dangerously close to falling upon his knees and begging this sour woman for her help. He needed to step away, to collect himself and plan his next move. With a smile, he sat Ada on a stool next to the machine and explained to her how it worked.

“Ada, can you tell me what finite differences are?”

“Adding and subtracting simple equations in sequence to produce new sequences, like square roots or prime numbers. Mathematical tables are computed using finite differences, although sometimes I find mistakes,” Ada explained in a breathless rush.

“That’s right. You have a keen eye to find those mistakes. They occur because the people who write out the tables, the computers, aren’t mathematicians like us. They use the simple method of finite differences because they don’t understand anything else, and sometimes they make mistakes. And even if they calculated the numbers perfectly, typesetting errors creep in at the printers. But what if you could use a machine to calculate
and
print the tables?”

“The machine won’t make errors. The tables would be perfect.”

“Precisely. One of the great advantages which we may derive from machinery is the check which it affords against the inattention, the idleness or the dishonesty of human agents.”

“Can a machine really compute finite differences?”

“It can, and more. Watch.” Babbage cranked the handle. The figure wheels wound and dropped and produced the first result.

“Two,” Ada read off. Babbage cranked the handle again, producing a four, then a six, then eight, ten, twelve … Ada read off each number with enthusiasm, enthralled with the idea of the machine performing this simple calculation.

When the machine reached fifty, it suddenly jumped up to ninety-two.

“Oh, no!” cried Ada, frowning at the erroneous number. “It’s broken.” Annabella frowned at him, concerned Babbage had been teaching her daughter on a flawed machine.

Babbage smiled. “It’s not broken at all, Ada. You see, I programmed the Difference Engine to add in multiples of two for twenty-five rotations, then to add forty-two before continuing to add in multiples of two.”

Ada clapped her hands in delight. Even Annabella, usually severe to the point of indifference, appeared impressed. Babbage, smitten with the child, offered to show her around his workshop.

Having lost his rooms in the Engine Ward, he’d converted the drawing room at the rear of the house into his workshop. Francesca had begged him to give up on the engine after he was thrown out of the Royal Society. “It’s over, Charles,” she’d said, gently clasping his shaking hands. But he could not let it go.

The few tools he’d salvaged from Clement lay neatly on the bookshelves. His desk remained hidden, buried beneath a mountain of paper — his notes, designs and journals. Academic periodicals — their pages dog-eared and notes and corrections scribbled in the margins — lay stacked in every corner.

Ada went about the workshop in a curious frenzy, her deft fingers tracing the outlines of the counting rods on his plans. She climbed up on his chair and stared at the drawings on his desk.

“What’s this? It’s not the same as the Difference Engine?”

“That’s right. You are really very clever, Ada. This is the Analytical Engine. While the Difference Engine calculates finite difference, the Analytical Engine can calculate many different types of equations.”

“How?” Ada picked up the drawing and turned it upside down.

He spread out some plans on the table. “The key is that the machine can remember sequences of numbers and apply them to equations at a later point. Here are the banks of number wheels which function as the machine’s memory, and here’s the printer that produces the tables. With this technology a machine could perform any number of complex mathematical equations.”

“It could do other things, too,” said Ada. “It could store information, as a kind of code. You could assign tasks to certain combinations of numbers, and the machine could produce anything you wished.”

Babbage, who’d never thought of such a possibility before, couldn’t help but be enchanted by the girl, her tiny bonnet bouncing about as she scribbled some notations on a blank leaf, folded it, and tucked it into her dress.

“I shall call on you again next week,” she declared, “after Mother has had her fill of Walls and lectures, and you shall explain to me the inner workings of this extraordinary machine.”

Babbage smiled in delight, thinking that another week would give him time to come up with a new strategy for winning Annabella’s support. Annabella frowned at her daughter’s forthrightness and ushered her away, back into the reception room. Francesca kept the conversation flowing, while Babbage mused silently, turning over Ada’s observations in his head.
There are so many possibilities … so many avenues of inquiry I have yet to explore …

“Who would have thought,” Babbage mused to his wife as she put away the tea settings after Annabella and Ada left. “The only person in all the world to understand the use of my machines would be Lord Byron’s fifteen-year-old daughter.”

Brigitte awoke to find herself in that same soft bed covered in thick blankets. The dim light that marked a London morning peeked through the curtains, and a mug of tea sat beside the bed, steam still rising from the cup.

“Ah,” a gentle voice said. “You’re awake.”

She jumped. Nicholas laughed. He sat in the corner of the room, his tall frame reclining in a faded easy chair, his long legs stretched across the rug. He had dressed himself, and combed his hair, and neither his face nor his demeanour showed signs of the copious consumption of brandy from the night before. “Drink your tea,” he said.

She sipped, her mind — fuzzy from tiredness and the effects of the brandy — drifting back to what she could remember of the previous two nights. The King’s erratic manner, the Sunken tearing at their cages and chasing her through the cellar, the tavern, her arrival at Nicholas’ house, the men, the drink, and someone carrying her to bed. Panic seized her.

“I— I can’t remember—”

He reached over and flicked her hair from her face, his touch like fire on her skin. “I slept in the guestroom downstairs, if that is your concern.”

She nodded, taking a gulp of tea. She glanced out the window again. Voices called from the street. “What time is it?”

“Nearly midday,” he replied. “I wanted to let you sleep. I’ve had Isabella — that’s my maid — prepare lunch for us. James and Aaron will be joining us. You remember Aaron from last night?”

She nodded.
The sullen one.

He stood, his fingers tracing the outline of her jaw, lingering over her lips before reluctantly receding. “I shall leave you to dress. Come downstairs when you’re ready.”

She glanced across the bed. Someone had laid out clothes for her — a beautiful dress and woollen coat in dark burgundy, lined with black lace along the sleeves and bustle. She held the fabric to her nose and sniffed. It smelt fresh, clean.
Brand new.
She’d never worn a brand new dress before. She pulled her threadbare maid’s dress over her head and stepped into the skirts, fastening the buttons along the front before struggling with the lacings. She finally managed to tie a crooked knot at the back of the bustier, slipped into her shoes, and went downstairs.

She found the men in the kitchen, sipping tea and picking at the selection of bread, meats, and cheeses laid across the table. Nicholas smiled when he saw her, and she blushed.

“I take no credit for that dress,” he said. “Holman picked it out.” The blind man nodded at her from over his sandwich.

“You have fine taste,” she managed, balancing delicately on a stool and surveying the table. Nicholas gestured that she should eat, but she felt awkward, as though she was an intruder on this pleasant world of masculine affairs.

“Look at this.” Aaron — the dark-haired man with the penetrating eyes — gestured to an article in the paper. Nicholas leaned across to read over his shoulder, but Holman and Brigitte waited to be told of the contents.

“The King has announced he’ll be moving the royal residence to Buckingham Palace,” Nicholas declared.

Holman leaned forward. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“That’s because you’re hardly ever a resident at Travers, James. If you spent half as much time fulfilling your knightly duties as you did studying medicine, gallivanting across the city, and drinking all my brandy, you’d have a better ear towards court affairs.”

“Maxwell said this would happen,” Brigitte spoke up. “He said the King would run out of room to house his lead-soaked children. But how will he move them?”

“By locomotive,” Aaron burst out abruptly. Brigitte jumped at the harsh tone in his voice. “Brunel has had me working in secret for the last two weeks on an underground London/Windsor line, running from the castle right into the heart of Buckingham Palace.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this last night?”

“I wasn’t sure how it related to the trouble at the castle ’till now,” Aaron replied. “Besides, Isambard swore me to secrecy—”

“But why Buckingham?” Nicholas said. “Surely Windsor is a larger castle, and more ideally situated for whatever debaucheries the King wishes to indulge in next?”

Aaron slammed his fist on the table. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier. The King
wants
the Sunken in the city. He intends to house them inside the Wall.”

They fell silent as each pondered the implication of this announcement.

“It would explain why he chose Brunel’s competition entry, despite its audacious nature and insurmountable cost. It would explain his insistence in simultaneously constructing the London/Windsor railway and the Wall. He knew Brunel was the only engineer clever enough to build both so quickly and with such secrecy.”

“And he knew Isambard would be so grateful for the promotion he would not question the King’s motives,” Holman added.

“But why the hurry?” asked Nicholas. “Why constantly push forward the completion date?”

“Perhaps he is losing control of his children,” said Holman. “He has made too many of them, and he needs to move them for his own safety. They have no familial feeling remaining — he knows if they were to escape their cages, they would devour him, same as any man. Perhaps his own condition is deteriorating faster than he realised, and he wants to remain in control of himself so he can partake of the carnage.”

Brigitte felt sick. The men nodded to each other.

“What can we do?” Nicholas asked.

“Probably nothing,” Aaron replied. “I’ll return to the Engine Ward and see if I can’t get Isambard to divulge something. He’s bound to be privy to this decision.”

“I have inspections to carry out on the Wall today,” said Nicholas. “Perhaps I may find some clue in the structure itself.”

“And I’d best return to Windsor,” said Holman, “lest my knightly station be wrested from me in my absence. I shall send word as soon as I know more details.”

“Tell no one you’ve seen me!” Brigitte cried. Holman squeezed her hand and smiled in reply.

“Don’t go investigating, blind man,” Nicholas warned. “I know you. You’ll want to see the Sunken with your own unseeing eyes. I’m warning you — don’t go inside the castle, or we’ll never see you again.”

“Nicholas, I’m shocked.” Holman clutched his stick to his chest and trembled his lip in mock-hurt. “To suggest that I, a most honourable Naval Knight of Windsor, could be so villainous as to break my sacred vows and enter the palace of my king with the sole intention of proving the existence of flesh-eating lead monsters.”

“Just don’t do it,” Nicholas said. “If what we suspect is true, we’ve trouble enough ahead without worrying about rescuing you, too.”

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

Nicholas was right, of course. I intended to break into the castle and see what I could uncover.

I returned to my lodgings by lunchtime to find the usually quiet boarding rooms a hubbub of activity. The other Naval Knights paced about the common room, wringing their hands and yelling over each other while the maids packed their suitcases and straightened their rooms. No one could tell me anything, save that the whole royal household would move within the week, and until then we would not be allowed out of the castle grounds.

The complaints of disagreeable old men grew tiresome, so I slipped away to my private rooms. Far from fearing the task before me, my mind raced with the pleasure of anticipation. Imagine — a secret army of maniacal lead men created by King George III, the mad Vampire King! And me, the Blind Physician, right in the thick of it!

I began my investigations that very evening by donning my walking shoes, gripping the metal tip of my stick firmly, and beginning the slow, arduous ascent of the Hundred Steps. The chapel stood at the top of the steps, away from the main castle, which we were forbidden to enter. Even I, curious as I was, had always obeyed that rule.

The chapel had — like every other religious building in the King’s possession — been remodelled to reflect the new Industrian pantheon. The traditional Christian altarpiece had been torn down and replaced with ten niches, each holding a statue of one of the Gods of Industry. I settled into my stall overlooking the altar, pushing aside the knightly miscellanea — swords, helmets, and wreaths that had accumulated there over the centuries — so I could sit down. The high priest began the usual mass, but I was surprised to hear him joined by the booming voice of the King.

George III had not come to any services for several weeks, and after hearing of his deplorable condition from Nicholas and Brigitte, I could understand why, so to hear him read the prayers in a clear, forceful voice caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. This was a man in possession of his own mind, in complete control of his body, and far more dangerous than the erratic madman he’d been mistaken for.