Hounds of Autumn (8 page)

Chapter 12

T
he next morning, Chloe had
spent a few hours working on the steamcycle in the carriage house. When Ambrose had gotten it back from town, she found that one of the steam valves was not making a proper seal. A shadow passed over her and she looked up to find her husband in the doorway. She flipped her notebook to the front cover, turned a few pages, then flipped back to a spot held by her finger and wrote a few lines. Ambrose lowered himself beside her. She held up one finger while she finished, and then closed her notebook.

“I received this after breakfast.”

After she cleaned her hands, he handed her an envelope. Inside, was a card with pinched script.

Mr. Sullivan,

Thank you for your kind letter and your condolences. If you are available, you and your wife may call upon me at my residence for a brief visit today from one thirty until two o’clock in the afternoon. At this most difficult time, I would request your indulgence in limiting the duration of your call. Unless I hear otherwise, I will expect you both at the time indicated above.

“Not the most gracious invitation we’ve ever received,” she said. “And at that time of day, he wouldn’t even have to serve us tea or biscuits.”

“It is the very model of efficiency. I thought you, of all people, would appreciate it.”

“Don’t tease.”

“Very well.” He folded the card and inserted it back into its envelope. “You can find me in my temporary study after lunch, and we can proceed. I will arrange the carriage.”

“Do you think he knows?” she said. “About my visit to the laboratory?”

“This may be his typical way of addressing people. I only know the man by reputation, and even the ever-amiable Alexander has hesitated to say much about the man. I gather he’s a taciturn sort.”

“So you have no idea.”

“None.”

“Ah, well. Faint heart never won fair lady’s schematics.”

“Indeed.”

They stepped out of the carriage in front of the Granger house. Giles bounded out behind them and followed them up the walk. It was a calculated risk to bring him. Ambrose had thought it a good idea, saying that if Mr. Granger was grieving, making Chloe seem as similar to his wife as possible may work to their advantage. Also Giles would show Mr. Granger that Chloe was not a mere dilettante, but a serious inventor, capable of understanding and utilizing all of Camille’s designs.

The Granger house seemed larger this time, with no people filing in through the door and loitering on the front walk. There were no pots of colorful plants this time, only the clean-swept front yard. A burning smell floated in the air, most likely from a groundskeeper burning piles of leaves out back. Ambrose rapped the doorknocker. Chloe looked down to see that Giles had a wet piece of leaf in his mouth. He was chewing it, his head tipped sideways.

“Drop it,” she said.

Giles blinked and stared. She heard footsteps and quickly pried the leaf loose and tossed it aside just as the door opened.

The butler admitted them, placed their coats on a doorway mechanical and led them through the house. The hall was still adorned in black crepe, though it smelled pleasantly of the flowers that still filled the front parlor. It was so much quieter without hoards of neighbors crowding and chatting. It was a large house, and now with only Mr. Granger living there, Chloe thought that it must feel so empty.

The butler opened the door to a sitting room, announced them and allowed them to enter. Mr. Granger was seated in a large armchair, his back to the window. The room was small but pleasant, with patterned blue wallpaper and a bird cage in one corner. The bright-plumed bird inside was silent and completely still. Chloe had to glance at it a second time before realizing that it was mechanical. Camille had covered the little creature in real feathers. It even had small seed and water dishes attached to the bars.

Ambrose and Mr. Granger made their introductions and Mr. Granger took his seat. The chairs near him were a bit lower than his, Chloe found, after seating herself beside Ambrose. The table before them was bare, and no fire burned in the grate. Even the curtains were closed. Well, there was no danger of them becoming overly comfortable.

Giles settled near her feet, and she moved her toe to touch him. If he moved, she would know it before he caused any trouble. Mr. Granger glanced at the cat before turning to Ambrose.

“We want to convey our deepest condolences on the loss of your wife,” said Ambrose. “Mrs. Sullivan was quite fond of her. Very fond. And I am greatly saddened that her life was cut short in the bud of youth.”

Camille was over forty, and thus a few years past the bud of youth, Chloe thought. But it was a kind thought and well expressed. Ambrose paused, giving Mr. Granger the appropriate time to reply. Mr. Granger nodded his acknowledgement but did not speak.

“I’m sure you are wondering about the purpose of our call, so I will be brief.”

“That would be a kindness,” said Mr. Granger. “I am weary and grieved, and I am not in the habit of receiving visitors with whom I am not personally acquainted. I made an exception in your case because of the police.”

“The police?” Ambrose said.

“Your wife spoke with them, I trust you know?” Mr. Granger’s face held the first sign of pleasure Chloe had seen.

“When we went to retrieve our crates,” said Chloe and Ambrose nodded and relaxed.

“Yes, she spoke to them about the design of Mrs. Granger’s mechanical hound. She explained as much to them as she was able.”

“Much of Mrs. Granger’s designs were beyond what I understood,” said Chloe. “Part of my hope of calling on her was to have her explain them to me.”

Mr. Granger ignored her and spoke to Ambrose. “As much as she was able? I thought she was my wife’s equal. Inspector Lockton said that she understood the schematics down to every detail. How disappointing.” He eyed Chloe with what looked like faint disgust.

The audacity! Hot anger bubbled up and then she had a tiny flash of understanding. Mr. Granger was not merely a deeply rude and unpleasant man. This was calculated to throw both Ambrose and her off their guard. But why? Her anger surged at discovering the manipulation, but she tamped it down. She needed a cool head if she wanted to obtain her goal. She relaxed her face into a look of pleasant feminine obedience, or what she imagined to be such a look, and folded her hands in her lap.

Ambrose hesitated. “She is well able to understand the schematics if she had all of them. The police did not have the complete set. If they had, I’m certain she would have been able to comprehend and explain them.”

“Perhaps. But it is now moot. The hound is being hunted as we speak, and will be destroyed. The police have concluded the obvious: that the creature murdered my Camille.” The last words were uttered with unexpected tenderness.

It gave Chloe pause for only a moment. “There is no possible way the hound could have harmed her. That was the whole point of my conversation with Inspector Lockton. The center of gravity, the impossibility of it generating enough velocity—”

“But you had never seen the creature,” said Mr. Granger. “I have. And it was no pleasant little plaything like your animal there,” he pointed at Giles. “The hound could be given behavior spools to become a guard dog. And we all know that guard dogs can turn on their masters.”

A glint of satisfaction was in his eye as he turned back to Ambrose. “The thing is a monster.”

“Even if the hound was dangerous,” said Ambrose, “there are other things that Mrs. Granger created that could be of benefit to society, if they were developed. For example, my wife has mentioned some battery designs.”

Mr. Granger leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid not.”

“I’m sorry?” said Ambrose, uncomprehending.

“You may not have them. Not now, not ever.”

“But, but why? What possible use do you have for such things? They are only useful in the hands of someone who can understand them.”

Comprehension dawned for Chloe. “Do you plan on sending them to a university?”

“No. They won’t be going anywhere.”

Chloe glanced at Ambrose, but he was equally dumbfounded. Mr. Granger sat back and steepled his fingers, watching them both.

“I had them burned this morning. All of them. Everything.”

Chloe gasped and the room swam for an instant.

“Every notebook. Every blueprint. Every scrap of paper. And the gears and wires and strange mechanical limbs and anything else that wouldn’t burn has been smashed and thrown in the rubbish heap, to be hauled away.”

Chloe stared at the empty table. All of it, gone. All that information, all that genius. The work, the years of labor and imagination. Her friend had been murdered twice.

“Why did you do this?” Ambrose’s voice was so soft that it broke Chloe out of her shock. His expression was so sad. It took her a moment before she understood. He imagined that Mr. Granger had destroyed everything in the depths of his grief. She wondered if Ambrose would do the same to her things if the situation were reversed.

“No other monstrosities will ever be created from her designs. That infernal creation out there is the only thing left, and the police will destroy it. Good riddance, I say.” He sat forward and slapped his knees. “And if any other things from my wife’s laboratory were still in existence, I would demand that they be destroyed as well.” He looked straight at Chloe and stood, towering over them.

Immediately, Ambrose rose to face him, and she thought for an instant that the men were going to fight.

“Thank you for your time. You have been most hospitable.” Ambrose’s voice held no sarcasm, though his meaning was clear.

“Good afternoon,” said Chloe. Ambrose placed his hand on the small of her back and they left the room, Giles trotting behind.

Once in the carriage, Chloe bit back her fury and disappointment. She stroked Giles, which helped calm her. She needed tea, hot tea. And a pillow to slam her fists into.

“He knew,” she said. “He knew exactly why we were there. And he was playing with us.”

“He is grieving. There’s no telling what a man will do when in that state.”

“Yes, like playing cat and mouse with us. It was hateful.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t himself.”

“You are too generous, my love. He knew all along why we were there, and he was toying with us.”

“But judging from his countenance, he derived little pleasure in the exercise.”

“Just because he’s a miserable old blighter doesn’t make him pitiable. Though he was pitiable, I suppose. A little. Even so.” She looked out the window. Somewhere out there was Camille’s hound. “I think we need to take a little stroll this afternoon.”

Chapter 13

A
fter a brief stop by
the house, they set out. The walk to the crossroads was almost two miles. Chloe wished they could have taken the steamcycle, but it was sitting partially disassembled in the carriage house.

They walked together down the road toward the crossroads, pausing only twice for Ambrose to examine a plant or bit of bluish moss. At last, they reached the crossroads.

“Why don’t you go around in that direction,” Ambrose pointed. “And I’ll circle around the other way.”

“A sound plan.”

“Oh, and do be careful.”

Chloe plunged into the green and purple moor grass, lifting her skirts and looking for the signs of dangerous ground, just as Ambrose had taught her. Bogs could be disguised, and even the sure-footed native ponies slipped into them on occasion.

The bog in which Camille Granger’s body had been found was covered in smooth moss and edged with waving reeds. Its scent was not unpleasant, a combination of rich mud and composting plant life. She had not noticed when she had seen Camille’s body, but it did not stink of death or stagnation. At the far side of the bog, nearest the crossroads, was the bank of stones that looked like a half-cairn.

She picked her way around the bog, eyes on the ground, scanning. The grasses hissed in the wind, and her skin prickled in the chilly breeze. She decided to circle the bog and end her circuit near the crossroads. She would have to step over a small stream that trickled out of the bog, but she thought she could manage it.

She arrived at the base of the bog, but there was nothing but grass, scrubby plants and rocks. She lifted her skirts to hop across the trickling stream, where a few rocks shone slick and moss-green in the water. Her shoes were muddy, but they would dry on the walk home and she could scrape them clean before going into the house.

Ambrose was taking the opposite direction around the bog from the one she had taken. He would arrive at a point near the topmost edge of the bog when she did. They could then go on to the bank of rocks together. She waved to him, but his eyes were intent upon the ground.

“Ah! There we are!” cried Ambrose. “Footprints from the hound again. And fresh!”

She hurried over and examined them. They were in the same place as the ones they had noticed when they saw Camille’s body. Only now, there were more of them. Both of them tried to discern a pattern to the hound’s movements, but the prints circled back over themselves repeatedly. They got fainter, and then vanished altogether in the bracken and grass.

“Why would it be circling? Perhaps its directional controls are damaged?” She squinted at the prints, willing them to provide her information.

“I don’t see a discernible pattern,” said Ambrose.

Chloe headed for the stone bank. She was feeling more sure-footed now that she was farther from the bog. The ground felt more steady here, and dryer. Ambrose was behind her.

The rock bank rose before them. It seemed larger now that they were closer. It had seemed waist-high from a distance, but now proved to be as high as her neck. It was twice as wide as it was high, and the stones were large and moss-covered on one side. She passed in front of it slowly, looking into the little black crevices, but only saw the shadows of more rocks inside. She turned away from it, put her hand up to shade her eyes and scanned the landscape.

“Where could it be?”

“If those tracks are any indication, it’s probably malfunctioning and wandering around without direction or purpose,” said Ambrose.

“No. It circled, but it’s not aimless. It visited the churchyard, you recall. I think it is still functional.”

“Grim thing to do,” he frowned. “It’s as if it wanted to see her buried.”

“What do you mean?”

“If it visited the churchyard, you have to wonder why. It acted in anticipation of her burial. The thing can think, Chloe.”

Perhaps its visit to the churchyard was by chance. But no, there were hundreds of square miles of moor, and the likelihood of it arriving in the town was small.

“Hold on a moment,” she said. “If the hound were attracted to light or buildings, it may have ended up there of its own volition. It wouldn’t need to anticipate a burial for that.”

“Perhaps not. But still …” He pulled his coat tighter around him and studied the bog.

“What are you thinking?”

“First, I am thinking that this isn’t a bog.” He brightened. “It’s a fen. See the stream going out? And note those sedges and rushes there? Bogs are acidic, but these plants couldn’t survive in such an environment.”

He was ever the naturalist. But she was in no mood for him to change the subject. “And second?”

“And second, I am thinking that it is possible that the hound killed her. Possible, I say. Not definite. That will be up to that inspector and the police to discover.”

“Yes, and if they are twice as competent as the imbeciles at Scotland Yard, they could have the Ripper himself murder ten women, and the townsfolk would be speculating about angry spirits or churchyard grims—”

“Or murderous mechanicals.”

“Precisely. Everyone is more concerned with this fearful mechanical than with a real killer. Whoever he is, be he Mr. Granger or someone else, he must be as pleased as Mr. Punch with all this ridiculous speculation.”

“You have to admit, it is a possibility that the hound killed her.”

She threw up her hands and spun around to face him, but before she could reply, her eye fell on a rock that was different than the others. What was it? She tried to focus, to calm her mind as she did when examining the innards of a mechanical. Then she saw. It had no thin covering of moss on its side as did its brothers.

“What do you see?” asked Ambrose.

She bent over the place at the edge of the cairn where there were only a few stones and the furthest ones lay buried in the grass. Two feet from the end of the bank sat this odd stone, resting on its edge against the others. It was shaped like a very jagged octagon, flatter than the others, and the diameter of a serving platter. She tried to pull it, but its base was deep in a groove in the dirt. The groove was a foot long, and the dirt was disturbed. Her blood ran chill. This stone had been moved recently.

She squatted and pulled up her skirts so as not to dirty them. She shoved the stone again, and it moved to the side, half-rolling and half grinding into the earth. Another push, and a hole behind it was revealed.

Chloe heard Ambrose grunt as he lowered himself to see, but she was already reaching inside. Within the hole was a wooden box lid about a foot and a half long. It was shoved back like a drawer, and she pulled it out.

Inside the lid were bits and oddments, three pieces of metal, some coins, colored glass, feathers, and some newspaper scraps. The scraps were not whole articles, but rather random samplings of pictures, text and edges. There was no order to them. It was as if a small child had torn them out.

“They’re new,” said Ambrose after picking up a scrap. “But they’re badly crumpled.”

“Do you see a date?”

“No, but they aren’t yellowed. The paper fiber is not even warped by the moisture. These are fresh.”

She rifled through cloth scraps, some smooth pebbles and turned over a coin. It was old and weathered and she could barely make out the face on it.

“Do you still think it cannot think?” said Ambrose.

“I don’t know. But if it can, then it’s all the more vital that I find it before the police do. They’ll only destroy it.”

“If it harmed her, then it should be destroyed.” His voice behind her was soft.

“But even if it harmed her, it cannot be held responsible. It doesn’t know right from wrong. It possesses no moral compass. And it isn’t like a vicious dog that must be destroyed because it will hurt someone again. It can be turned off, like Giles. And perhaps examined. That’s if the idiot police don’t smash it to bits first.”

She pushed the box lid back into its place and Ambrose helped her reposition the stone in front.

“The police may not destroy it,” he said. “Mr. Granger can demand what he likes, but they may not be a pack of destructive brutes, as you fear.”

“Then they would summon whoever runs the local mechanical shop. Then, when he cannot make heads or tails of the creature, they might send it to someone in Bristol or Exeter or maybe London. And then, it would rot in a box in the police evidence warehouse, or in some attic of a mechanical shop where no one understands it. Our only hope is that it might be sent to a university somewhere, where someone could work out how it operates.”

“Even then …”

“Yes,” she sighed. “It could take years. We would never hear of it.”

“You are the only person in all of Britain that could decipher the thing, aren’t you?”

She glanced at him, but his eyes were far of in the distance, where the shadows were lengthening and the wind was blowing the grass into undulating waves.

“I suppose that is why I must find it first.”