Whitechapel Gods (21 page)

“Then don’t.” Missy’s look became harder.

“…but right now he’ll do us more good than otherwise. You should have seen his shooting, Michelle.”

“It might be better that I didn’t,” she said. “He’s an evil man, Oliver. That’s as clear as day to me.”

“I wouldn’t have chosen him, for certain.”

“Then kick him out. Let Heckler use that ghastly steam gun of his. He can’t be trusted; surely you can see?”

Missy looked to be in genuine earnest—no, in panic. He watched Missy’s jaw and lips tighten.

“He can’t be
controlled
.”

It’s the same expression as the last mission,
he realised.
She wore the same one just after she’d stabbed…Oh my.

“I think he can be,” Oliver said, trying to reassure her without exaggerating his chances. “I’m keeping an eye on him and I’ve got Hews doing the same. I think we can keep him in line. Besides, he wouldn’t give up his cannon willingly, I don’t think.”

Missy scowled. Her fingers fidgeted on her handbag. “There are other ways to get it away from him, you know.”

Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “What did that mean?”

A small gasp, and then Missy was all smiles and fluttering eyelashes. “Just a suggestion, Mr. Sumner, an attempt to be helpful. You were once a thief, were you not?”

Oliver smiled back, allowing himself to be led from the subject. “I know many people would have considered me one. This may be a different situation.”

“Well, there you are.” Missy gathered arms close to her stomach and tipped her head to him. “Just a suggestion, then. Well, please just…Well, watch him, would you?”

“I said we would keep him in line.”

“Then, my gratitude, Mr. Sumner.”

“Anything for a pretty face, Miss Plantaget.”
A very pretty face indeed.

She smiled at him, then strode into the foyer as if she had somewhere very important to be.

Dismissing Missy’s strangenesses for the time being, Oliver stowed the
Summa Machina
on his bedside table. The language made perfect sense to him even though he had never so much as looked at it before. This oddity had been accompanied by a burning in the back of his skull, identical to when he had sighted the ghosts on the rusted stair.

He hurried down the hall to one of the unused chambers that Dr. Chestle had converted into a sickroom.

Oliver swung the door open and flinched at the smell of alcohol and the greasy odour of Tom’s sweat. Thomas lay shirtless atop the covers of the room’s single bed. The doctor sat on a short oak stool to the right, sewing shut the new gaping hole in Tom’s stomach. Jeremy Longshore lay curled in one corner like a dog.

“ ’Hoy there, Chief,” Tom said with a wave.

Dr. Chestle calmly pressed Tom’s arm back to the bed. “Please try not to move, Mr. Moore.”

“Ah, the doc’s a bit grumpy this morning, Ollie. Seems he’s a bit miffed about me being shot. Imagine!”

Oliver walked up to the bed and inspected the wound. “Bigger than the last one, Tommy,” he said.

“Three inches side to side,” Tom said. “You could drop a shilling through me.”

Oliver laughed automatically, trying not to betray his trepidation. Black veins lanced across Tommy’s chest beneath the skin. They radiated from the flasher burns on his ribs and shoulder, like the tunnels of burrowing worms. Dark grey patches discoloured large portions of his arms and stomach. His chest was a patchwork of scars, notably the group of them over his heart.

“I am a right mess, aren’t I?” Tom said.

“No uglier than usual, chum,” Oliver said. Tommy’s face was a wreck as well. Chestle had patched some of the wounds closed with stitches and bandages, but the left eye was still nothing more than burned, burst flesh. The right watered constantly, but he seemed to be able to see from it, and that was a start.

“Bet my arm doesn’t seem so strange now, eh?” Tom lifted his mechanical arm to show the point where iron bones pierced out of malformed human muscle.

Chestle again pushed the arm down.

“Kindly lie still, Mr. Moore.” The doctor was sweating almost as much as his patient. Oliver detected the faintest tremble in the man’s hands.

“Best follow his directions, Tom,” Oliver said, “or I might have to shoot you again.”

The poor doctor’s eyes flared wide.

“The man is quite the disciplinarian, Doctor,” Tom said. “Of course, I would have shot him as well if my aim wasn’t so lousy.”

The doctor paused. “That’s appalling. That’s no kind of talk for civilised men to engage in.”

Oliver laid a pitying hand on his shoulder. “There’s not a word of it untrue, Doctor. Surely Hews warned you about us.”

The doctor cleared his throat and admitted, “He did not praise your good sense.”

Oliver rubbed his own jaw, where the stubble had progressed to the soft beginnings of a beard. “‘Good sense’ is a relative term, I’m afraid.”

The doctor finished the final stitch and cut away the excess string with a penknife. “Good sense is good sense, Mr. Sumner. I’m advising that Mr. Moore stay confined to bed for now. He may have whatever food bolsters him but should refrain from imbibing for the time being.”

“I’ve always wanted to try teetotalling,” Tom said.

“I would see you outside, Mr. Sumner,” said the doctor.

“I’ll be there presently,” Oliver replied.

Dr. Chestle packed up his equipment and left to wash his hands.

As soon as the door shut, a groan tore out of Tom and he curled his hands over his belly.

“Easy, Tommy, easy.” Oliver fetched a cloth and dabbed at the big man’s leaking eye.

“Bloody, I’m all right. Just feels like a rat eating my liver, is all.”

Oliver’s guts had long since knotted irretrievably. He tried to speak and found his mouth dry.

Tom scowled at him.

“Now don’t you dare go and tell me you’re sorry for dragging me out on business last night. I had to be there in case things went sour, and we both agree it’s a better thing that I got shot than someone else.”

“Ah, Tom…” Oliver felt tears coming to his eyes and blinked them back.

“I’ll go out again, Ollie. Often as you need.” Tom gestured after Chestle. “I’m a walking dead man, and the cutter knows it. I’d rather spend my last days pounding on cloaks than lying in bed like a grandma.”

Oliver clasped him on the shoulder, trying to smile. “That’s my lad.” Oliver jabbed his thumb at the doctor’s bag. “Don’t think he’d mind.”

Oliver left the room as Thomas stole himself some brandy.

He found Dr. Chestle in the bathroom, drying his hands with a frayed towel that had been in the building since Oliver purchased it. Grey and red wisps swirled in the large bowl that stood in for a proper sink. The tub was half full, it being the crew’s only way of storing water; plumbing was reserved for Aldgate and Cathedral Towers.

The doctor looked half dead himself: pale skin, unkempt moustache and hair, eyes sunk deep into the head. Oil and blood stains marred his white shirt and vest.

“Tommy seems to be under the impression that he hasn’t long to live,” Oliver said.

Chestle’s sigh was like the gurgle of air escaping a punctured lung.

“I’m unable to tell you how much time he has, Mr. Sumner.” The doctor finished with the towel and hung it over a bent iron drying rack nearby. “I had one patient die on me in a matter of days. Some are still holding on despite all sense. Once the disease turns, there’s no way to know.” The doctor began absently rubbing his left hand where brass nibs poked through the skin.

Oliver crossed his arms. “Don’t figure there’s a cure.”

The doctor spent a minute smoothing his moustache. “I’ve spent most of my career studying this ailment, Mr. Sumner. So have my colleagues. We’ve yet to determine a viable cause, much less a cure.”

Oliver knew the cause—not that a man of science would believe it. Oliver offered his hand and the doctor took it.

“Thank you for your help, Doctor. The Underbelly could use a man of your talents.”

Chestle smiled at that, but shook his head. “I have patients in Bishop’s Gate and Fenchurch who need me, Mr. Sumner, but your offer is appreciated.”

“Then how about the offer of a few hours’ rest? We’ve an empty room if you’d like to make use of it.”

“Your offer is very kind. I may.”

Oliver escorted him back to the sickroom and left before the doctor realised his brandy was missing.

He detoured to Heckler’s room briefly to check his progress.

The young American looked up from the tiny desk they’d acquired for the work of translating the tape. He set his fountain pen aside and mopped his brow with a well-used kerchief.

“What can I do for you, suh?”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Jus’ about done, suh.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But Ah got some bad news.”

“I’d say I’m getting a taste for it,” Oliver said, then gestured for him to continue.

“Well, suh”—Heckler showed a few of his translated pages, coated in scribbled notes and freehand diagrams—“Ah’m almost done with the translation, but there ain’t no way Ah can build this here contraption.”

“Why not?”

“Ah don’t have the tools it’s gonna need, suh. I don’t have the materials. And…” He placed the papers neatly back on the table. “Ah just wouldn’t know how, suh. This ain’t no gun and ain’t no trap neither.”

Oliver sighed. “Finish it anyway. At least that much will be done.”

Heckler nodded and slipped the pages back into their proper place in the manual, then bent to work without another word.

The poor young man had been slaving on that one task for six hours now, though Oliver knew he was desperate to be part of the planning. Heckler was the only one among them who had any kind of mechanical aptitude. Except for Bergen, perhaps, but Oliver wasn’t about to let him lay hands on the tape.

“Suh?”

“Yes?”

“Is that really Bergen Keuper upstairs?”

Oliver looked at his young crewmate curiously. “I have no reason to doubt it.”

Heckler fiddled with his pen. “Ain’t that something else, eh, suh? Even back in Williamsburg, Ah’d heard of him. Is it true he took a lion through the eye at three hundred yards?”

“I have no reason to doubt that, either.”

“Hot damn—beggin’ pardon, suh. Do you think he would teach me if Ah asked?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Oliver. “But let’s just wait until after the ruckus dies down to ask him, eh?”

“Oh. Of course. Sure thing, suh.”

Oliver left him to his work and climbed the curly staircase about Sherwood’s trunk towards the lounge. He found Hews standing at the top, hand slipped into the pocket of his plaid vest, pipe smoking from between his teeth. His hair was roughly combed, his muttonchops ragged, his face downcast and sullen.

“Damnable shame,” he said. “I served with Bailey in Afghanistan. There’s never been born such a natural soldier as he.”

“You have my condolences,” Oliver said.

“Don’t pretend you’re too choked up, lad. You’ve hated the man since you were fifteen.”

Oliver sighed and joined Hews in silent contemplation of Sherwood’s random support beams. “I never hated him, Hewey, but I won’t pretend now that he treated me well.”

“I can’t fault you for your honesty, lad,” Hews said. “But he was a great man, and I’ll go to my grave saying nothing less. He took me for a collaborator at first, you know; couldn’t get past the fact that I owned a factory.”

Oliver smiled at memories. “You might have called it a poorhouse, or an orphanage.”

Hews shrugged. “I did my bit. The cloaks never caught on that my efficiency came from feeding my workers more than gruel and oil. Well, until recently.”

Oliver turned to search Hews’ face. “What do you mean?”

“A cloak came by last week,” Hews said. “Told me I’d have to join up and take my vows or step aside. I’d love to believe they’d let me take my retirement in the country, but we both know them better than that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The older man shrugged. “Nothing anyone can do about it. The canaries know me too well.”

“But Bailey might have been able to sneak you out on the airships. And we could still hide you here.”

Hews gave him a wise, fatherly smile. “After tonight it might not matter, eh?” He left the rail. “Shall we?”

They entered the parlour, finding Bergen brooding over the main table. Maps and lists carpeted the room, stealing spaces on chairs, end tables, and great expanses of floor, some pinned on the walls concealing the nameless portraits and their disapproving glares. The one on the main table was a detailed map of the Stack, specifically, the terraced rings of factories, train stations, and chapels that coated its outer skin.

Bergen acknowledged their presence with a nod. His midsection had been expertly repaired by the doctor. Bergen had hidden the bandages beneath a loose shirt and now affected perfect health.

Oliver greeted both of them, then planted his knuckles on the table and leaned over it.

“We found an entry, no doubt,” Hews said. “The Stack is actually fairly accessible. We’ve five entrances via cable car, four via rail, and walkways from Aldgate and Commercial Towers.”

“Your American says the device will work only from within the Chimney,” Bergen said.

Oliver nodded. He’d feared as much.

The map was bewildering in its complexity, a twisting maze of hallways, walkways, lift shafts, staircases, chambers, and rooms and massive engines, pistons, and constructions arranged in no sensible order. The Work Chamber dominated the Stack’s centre, at the base of the monstrous shaft from which the Stack took its name. There, in that dark place, the crows toiled endlessly on Mama Engine’s Great Work. The Chimney paralleled it on the south side, much smaller and fifteen storeys down from the Stack’s surface.

“Do we have an ingress yet?”

Hews traced a route on the map as he spoke. “I can get us to the freight lift that runs down the southeast edge of the Work Chamber. Only thing is, there’s a large gold chapel three storeys down, so we’re likely to be spotted.”

“We will go in disguise, then,” Bergen said from behind crossed arms.

“Won’t do us a mite of good,” Oliver said. “We can dress up all we please, but the canaries know their own.”