Marie O'Regan - The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

“The girl, Mattie,” Gairden said, to Esther’s portrait that night, “had a soft spot for young Mr Wishart. Now, a bludgeoning . . . that’s not a woman’s murder, as a rule. But she’s a strong lass. And got a temper, too, you could see it. Enough of one to stove his head in, though? For love? Is that love, Esther?

“And what about Lassiter? There’s something going on there; the way he pokered up. I think I shall be looking at some old reports tomorrow. And the watch . . . I’ve a thought about the watch, Esther. We shall see. That poor boy . . . what a lonely life, and a dreadful end. If he was dancing with someone, I hope he enjoyed it.”

After another day of fruitless enquiries at theatres, and the reading of dusty crime reports in faded handwriting, and damp feet, and frustration, Gairden was wrapping his scarf about his throat prior to leaving the station, the rain having given way to fog thick and chilly as ectoplasm. There was a commotion at the door, and Mattie Drewrey, the curls that escaped her scarf dewed with droplets, her cheeks flushed, was waving at him over the head of the duty sergeant.

“Miss Drewrey?”

“Oh, Inspector, you’ve got to come! There’s been such things going on!”

“Now, Miss Drewrey, why don’t you come into my office and tell me what you mean?”

“I can’t, sir, it might have stopped by the time we got back – soon as I realized it was something out of the way, I ran straight out to tell you!”

“To tell me what?”

“It’s Jamie . . . Mr Wishart . . . He’s been making ever such a fuss.”

Weariness retreating, Gairden followed Mattie Drewrey through the fog-drifted streets.

The gates were open; the workers coming off shift milling and chattering with those coming on. Outside the entrance doors to the building, the crowd swirled, paused, like water caught in an eddy. Lassiter, the foreman, was standing by the doors; his voice carried clearly over the chatter. “Now, come on, just be patient, it’ll be sorted out. Those of you about to start your shift, you might as well come in and wait in the warm.”

Gairden realized, finally, what was different; though until now it had seemed of a piece with the weather.

It was quiet. The churn and rumble of a passing velocipede underlined the silence; the paving stones lay quiet beneath his feet. No wonder he could hear Lassiter so easily: the machines were not running.

He excused himself and pushed through the crowd, conscious of eyes on him as he worked his way to the front. “Trouble, Mr Lassiter?”

“Oh, Inspector.” Lassiter ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry, sir, I don’t know if anyone’ll be able to speak with you just at the moment, we’ve a bit of a problem.”

“So I see. Can you tell me what exactly has happened?”

“Bloody sabotage! That’s what’s happened!” Rheese appeared behind Lassiter. His face was flushed, and a distinct odour of brandy was now incorporated with those of cigars and pomade.

“Perhaps I could take a look, sir?” Gairden said. Mattie was still beside him, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes darting from one man to the other.

“You have any knowledge of machines, Inspector?”

“No, sir, but I’ve dealt with a saboteur or two, in my time.”

“Hah. You’d best come in, then.”

“What, exactly, happened?” Gairden asked, walking among the machines.

“Nothing, that’s the thing of it, sir,” Lassiter said.

“It’s not nothing if the damn machines stop!” Rheese said. “Do you know how much this is going to cost me?”

“What I mean, sir,” Lassiter said, with a deference tinged with weariness, “is that we can’t find a reason . We can’t find a slipped gear or a thrown cog, not a thing that would account for it. And even if there was, for one set, it wouldn’t affect the rest. All the machines have stopped.”

“When did this happen?” Gairden said.

Lassiter glanced up at the great clock on the wall. “About forty minutes ago, sir. Just on six.”

“And was anything happening at the time?”

“No, sir. I was just talking to Mr Rheese about what we should do for Jamie’s funeral.”

“There are arrangements for that kind of thing, aren’t there?” Rheese said. “Wouldn’t you fellows sort that out?”

“We can do, sir,” Gairden said, “if, as you say, he had no one else to do the thing decently.”

Rheese nodded, and turned away.

Gairden prowled among the silent machines. There was nothing here; nothing but mechanism, waiting with donkey patience to move again. Cautiously, he ran his fingers over rivets and pistons. There was a suggestion of warmth in the metal; the room itself was still warm with the motion now stilled. Yet why, with donkey stubbornness, had it stopped? He could see nothing, feel nothing, that suggested the fury or the calculated disruption of the saboteur. The great levers stood poised above his head like guns at the salute.

“Nothing,” he said, returning to the others.

“It’s Jamie,” Mattie Drewrey said stubbornly. “He’s trying to tell us who murdered him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, girl!” Rheese said; but he glanced about him uneasily.

“He’s not going the clearest way about it, then,” said Gairden.

Even as he spoke there was a great hissing sigh, and a creak, and a rumbling, and the levers began to move.

“Well!” Lassiter said. “There’s a turn-up. Shall I get the workers started, Mr Rheese?”

Rheese was staring at the machines with a kind of glum fury. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Get them working while they can. Who knows when everything will stop again?”

“When you’re done, Mr Lassiter,” Gairden said, “I’d like a word, if you please.”

“Of course, sir.”

The wall clock, which, unlike the machines, had kept going, chimed the hour. Gairden looked at it, and frowned.

Lassiter came to the wages office as before. He looked tired, the deep lines either side of his mouth pulling it down. Gairden realized that the man was younger than he had first thought – it was those lines that made him look more than his age, and a sort of weary watchfulness.

“Now, Mr Lassiter,” Gairden said. “I was going through old reports today, and I found something that troubled me.”

“Sir?”

“Yes. You used to be one of the Children of Lud.”

Lassiter sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I did, sir, yes.”

“You were arrested for vandalism. Attacking a steam loom.”

“I was.”

“And now you’re a foreman in a leading manufactory. Explain this to me, if you please.”

“What’s to explain, sir? I was young. I lived in the country; I knew a lot of folks being put out of work by the machines; there was a deal of excitement about it all, a deal of revolutionary talk. Then I got myself in that bit of trouble. My mother bailed me out, it took most of her savings, then she sat me down and, oh, did she ever give me a talking to.” His mouth tilted upwards, briefly, at the memory. “She said she was never wasting good money on such foolishness again, so I’d better sort myself out. I had a good think. I realized the world was changing, Inspector. If I wanted to be any good in it, I needed to swim with the tide, not against it. I couldn’t stop the machines, but if I worked, I could learn about them. And where I am now, I can do a bit of good; work on safety improvements, do my best to get the workers treated decently. The world’s changed. You can’t go backwards, sir.”

“That seems a very solid turnaround, Mr Lassiter.”

“It was make my way or starve, sir, I decided to make my way the best I could.”

“You’re very concerned for the safety of your workers.”