Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

Willie collapsed against the cool stone of an aboveground crypt. So. Strangelove had done something to prove he could and would crush her should she fail him. She didn’t need to telephone Dawson to establish the damage, but she would. Eventually. For now she accepted on faith that Strangelove was a motivated bastard. Motivated and perplexing. Astonishing that the man had such unflinching faith that Simon would indeed locate and procure an invention of historical significance. The mystery hoodlum was fast becoming a source of intense vexation. Had he conspired against other Triple R entrants in this manner? Was he a rabid and slightly mad appropriator of rare antiquities? Did he mean to steal away famous artifacts for a private collection or perhaps to sell them upon the black market? Or was he simply after the monumental prize money and global glory? Surely he had not set his sights upon Simon alone. Surely he could not know for certain what invention Simon sought.

Or could he?

Willie massaged her aching heart, wishing she’d never buckled under Strangelove’s threats. Yearning to come clean with Simon, but fearing he would never forgive her for setting out to betray him, no matter the reason. One thing was certain. He would never trust her again. Whatever it was between them that burned so bright would be forever dimmed.

She could not bear it.

At sea with her quandary, she caressed the wings of a stone angel. In a desperate plea for guidance, Willie prayed to someone, anyone, for direction.

One word, one name, flashed in her brain, a divine intervention. Heavenly direction.

Thimblethumper.

Stiffening her spine, Willie typed her coded reply into Strangelove’s telecommunicator.

EXPEDITION FRAUGHT WITH MYSTERY. ATTEMPTING TO SOLVE.

A message meant to intrigue and pacify, affording her precious leeway. Strangelove had demanded an invention of historical significance. And that’s what he would get. Somehow. Some way. But not the time-traveling engine.

A heartbeat later, Phin and Simon joined her aboveground. Their coats were smudged with grime and they smelled of dirt. Their dour expression spoke of yet another failed venture into yet another catacomb.

“Willie,” Simon said.

She grasped and squeezed his hand. “I have a plan.”

• • •

“I don’t like it.”

“So you said.” Phin dropped a sugar cube into his coffee, looking annoyingly relaxed now that they’d emerged from the dank crypts and rejoined the living.

Simon, on the other hand, still bristled with ill humor. His own chipped crockery sat before him, the steaming bitter swill untouched. When they’d entered McSteam’s Coffeehouse, Simon had requested a table near the window, where he could have a clear view of Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Willie was just now entering the cluttered store and Simon hated that he wasn’t with her.

“Listen, good man, feeling protective of your wife is natural, but this need to be at her side twenty-four hours a day borders on obsession.”

“Less than two weeks ago,” Simon said, his gaze intent on the storefront across the street, “someone o’blasterated Willie.”

“Yes, well, we’re not down in the tunnels now.”

“Two days ago she was mocked for being a Freak.”

“Today she’s wearing corneatacts,” Phin reminded him whilst lighting a cigar. “She looks like any other Vic woman strolling the streets of London. If anyone bothers her, it will be to ask for the time. I’ve never seen so many bloody timepieces on one person.”

“She’ll need those if she time-traces Thimblethumper.”

“I personally hope that she does,” Phin said. “If she can glean more intelligence on Filmore and his habits, anything at all having to do with the Houdinians, then it could increase our chance of locating the man and the engine in a timelier fashion.”

“I agree with the intent and goal,” Simon said, ruffling his hair in agitation. “I simply wish I was with her.”

Phin blew out a heady stream of smoke, whilst skimming a complimentary newspaper. “We’re only across the street and she is armed with a stun cuff. Willie’s a resourceful sort and damned smart. Give her some credit. I think her assessment of the situation was bang-on. From what you both said, Thimblethumper associates you with your brother and for whatever reason he feels hassled by the Mechanics. She stands a better chance of garnering information on her own using her tried-and-true methods.”

“Maybe,” Simon said, finally indulging in the piquant brew. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with Willie. Something beyond her anxiety regarding her mother and the Houdinians. It made him question her judgment. Made him suspicious and restless.

“What a pungent and appallingly frowsy establishment,” came a pinched, feminine voice.

Simon glanced up, saying, “Dr. Caro,” at the same time Phin said, “Bella.”

Never mind that Simon was surprised by the Freak doctor’s personal visit, the informality of Phin’s greeting was doubly intriguing. “You know one another?” Simon asked as he stood to greet the woman.

“Unfortunately,” Caro said with a tight expression.

She looked exactly as she had when she’d visited Simon’s room in Edinburgh. Ghostly complexion, bold red lip stain, glossy ebony hair twisted into a severe and complex knot. Purple-tinted spectacles shielded her kaleidoscope eyes, her riding hat sat a jaunty tilt, and she was buttoned neck to ankle in that black leather duster with the gleaming brass fasteners. Hauntingly beautiful, Simon thought, in a severe and repressed way.

Although with a delay, Phin stood out of respect as well. “Should have known you were Simon’s contact within the agency.”

“Indeed,” the young woman said. “Then again, you were always slow at putting together two and two, Phineas. May I join you, Mr. Darcy? My time is limited.”

Since Phin was Jules’s closest friend and since Caro had been Jules’s personal surgeon, it made sense that they’d met at some point, Simon supposed. The white-hot tension between them, however, was baffling. Although Phin offered her a seat, she instead chose to sit on the same side of the table as Simon.

Whilst those two traded steely glares, Simon glanced over to Thimblethumper’s, his mind on Willie even though he was anxious for news of his brother. “I didn’t expect a personal report,” Simon said honestly as he moved in beside the stiff-backed woman. Much as Phin had advised Simon to trust that Jules was in control of his situation, he’d been unsettled by his inability to contact his twin via the tele-talkie. Yesterday Simon had buckled under an intensifying discomfort and had, after consulting the calling card she’d given him, telephoned Dr. Bella Caro.

She’d answered on first ring. “Dr. Caro.”

“It’s Simon Darcy.”

“Who’s dying?”

“I’m worried about Jules.”

The woman’s tone had been as cold as ice, but the mention of his brother’s name had snagged her interest. Simon had asked whether she’d heard from Jules. If she knew where he was and if he was on official business. Simon had mentioned the tele-talkie and the fact that there’d been no response to his emergency calls in close to ten days. She’d said she’d be in touch. He’d expected a call, a telegram, or a Teletype. Now here she was in all her chilling arrogance.

“Would you like some coffee?” Simon asked.

“And risk contracting gastroenteritis or hepatitis?” she asked whilst frowning at the bare-armed, stained-aproned attendants and the dingy, battered surroundings. “No, thank you.”

Simon noticed then that she was still wearing her gloves and seemed averse to touching even the tabletop.