His Clockwork Canary (29 page)

“As am I,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Simon reached for the platter of half-eaten chicken, then paused upon noting Willie’s
queer intensity as she stared at their dirty plates. “What are you doing?”

“Testing my supernatural ability on the off chance that it has manifested in a way
that would please Fletcher.”

“Telekinesis.” Simon’s lip twitched. “In which case these plates would now be flying
across the room and into the sink.” He raised a brow. “Doesn’t seem to be working.”

“No,” she said, her kaleidoscope eyes sparking with a hint of humor. “Pity.”

J
ANUARY
26, 1887 Q
UEENSLAND,
A
USTRALIA

An entire day and night had passed since that bastard mercenary guide, Austin Steele,
had abandoned Bingham in Cunnamulla. Since “the Rocketeer” had taken Renee with him,
Bingham had been left without a confidant. He wasn’t about to engage the bodyguard
who’d failed to protect him from getting “gutshot” in conversation regarding sensitive
information. Nor could he discuss his thoughts and concerns with the doctor or nurses
who’d been attending to his god-awful wound. He’d dispatched his Mod Tracker, Crag,
to infiltrate Merriweather’s compound and to determine the status of the professor
and his daughter as well as the damnable meddling Jules Darcy.

Crag’s findings had been disappointing, not to mention perplexing. The compound had
been deserted. No sign of a living soul. Nothing of value left behind, yet no trace
of evidence explaining how or when the trio had escaped. It made no sense and Crag’s
ineptitude only enraged Bingham more.

We’ll just have to wait until one of them slips up and shows his face,
Crag had said.
I tracked Merriweather before, I’ll track him again.

Meanwhile time was ticking, and for all Bingham knew, Jules Darcy had already coerced
Merriweather into re-creating a working time machine. Question was, what did Darcy
intend to do with the outlawed vehicle?

“Damnation!”

Impatience ripped through Bingham like a firestorm. He had not traveled this far,
nor taken such risks, to be outfoxed by one of Reginald Darcy’s offspring. How was
it possible that the dotty old inventor had sired three highly industrious and intelligent
spawns? Yes, Bingham had hoped one of the three would ferret out pertinent information
or an actual device as created by their distant cousin, but he had also counted on
snatching that data or device from their clutches. Thus far, events were unfolding
in a most displeasing way.

Amelia Darcy had failed to produce an invention that would further Bingham’s cause.
Jules Darcy had quite possibly stolen Merriweather’s knowledge and intellect from
beneath Bingham’s nose. The unknown variable this moment was the other son, Simon.
Desperate to know the civil engineer’s progress, he tried his telecommunicator for
the hundredth time this day.

Still dead.

Blast!

He knew not whether the device was malfunctioning, or the area was simply too remote
to support the requisite signal. Just as he was ready to throw the blasted gadget
against the wall, someone knocked, then stepped inside.

“Captain Northwood,” Bingham said. “Thank God.”

Within the hour Bingham had left that wretchedly primitive hospital in the dust and
had boarded his beloved
Mars-a-Tron
. Once in the air and back in charge, his mind cleared, as did radio transmissions.
He waded through several coded messages, adrenaline surging when he spied news from
Wilhelmina Goodenough.

Bingham smiled. He should have known the engineer would have sought out the Aquarian
Cosmology Compendium. No doubt Miss Goodenough had played a major role in the recovery
of the elusive journal. After all her mother had been an original Peace Rebel, a specialist
in matters of security.

“Good news?” Northwood asked from his console.

“Excellent news from London.”

“Should I set a course for home, sir?”

“Continue as instructed.” Bingham could not leave without inspecting Professor Merriweather’s
compound first. There was, after all, a possibility that Crag had missed some clue.
Meanwhile, England was several days away and Bingham worried that Goodenough might
bobble the deed, allowing Simon Darcy to submit the ACC to the Jubilee Science Committee.
As the anonymous benefactor, Bingham had commanded a first look at all submissions,
but he was out of the country and he did not trust the committee’s director to sit
on such a momentous discovery. P. B. Waddington had proved to be a competent subordinate
thus far, but he was also a man of science and a loyal subject to the Crown. At this
point, Bingham trusted no one. But there was someone he could count on to procure
the ACC from Miss Goodenough and to keep it hidden and safe until Bingham’s return.

A mercenary Freak ruled by greed and vengeance. A young man who’d been manipulating
the weather to advance the plundering exploits of the Scottish Shark of the Skies—compliments
of Bingham. Considering Captain Dunkirk had failed Bingham in a monumental way and
knowing the man would welcome a chance to benefit again from Bingham’s power and wealth,
Bingham sent a tantalizing directive, engaging the infamous sky pirate and his secret
weapon—the
Stormerator
.

G
REATER
L
ONDON

Willie had spent the last day and a half on pins and needles awaiting word from Rollins.
Oh, how she wanted to revisit Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities, but Simon had
thought it best not to pressure the old man.

He promised to intercede,
Simon had said,
on behalf of his fellow Houdinian and old friend’s daughter. He said it could take
a couple of days. Patience, sweetheart.

Yet Simon had been equally tense, poring over various sketches of his inspired designs
in order to distract himself from thoughts of the Triple R Tourney as well as his
brother’s mysterious circumstances. To Willie’s dismay, he had shut away his sketches
of Project Monorail, deeming that idea dead in the water. A failure. She did not agree,
but she did not press. Not now. Not when he was so worried about his brother. In addition,
though he’d been told his sister and mother were in London, he had not been able to
locate them, nor had they phoned or stopped by. Aye, they thought he was aboard the
Flying Cloud
and in pursuit of a legendary invention. Still . . . not to check in with Fletcher
in hopes of obtaining news of Simon’s progress and safety? Unfortunately, Willie understood
her husband’s concern.

Meanwhile Phin kept in touch, also awaiting the news from Rollins that would alert
them as to their next step.

Willie relied on her acting skills to present a strong and confident front, although
she was most certain Simon and perhaps even Phin saw through her facade. In truth,
she was scared spitless. She had sent a message to Strangelove informing him that
she was in possession of the ACC. She had not heard back. Did he not believe her?
Had the transmission failed? Was he at this moment en route to meet her face-to-face?
Surely he would not do so without warning. He would not want a confrontation with
Simon. He would simply want the priceless, legendary compendium.

This moment, she had taken sanctuary in Simon’s library . . . along with Simon. Fletcher
had made his opinion known regarding Willie’s “organized chaos” and was in the process
of putting the master bedchamber to rights.

Let us keep the chaos to the library, shall we?
he’d said with a sniff.

Whilst Simon sat at his desk tinkering with her Thera-Steam-Atic Brace in an attempt
to make it even more effective, Willie pored over her journal trying to pen an exhilarating
yet tasteful version of their adventure thus far. If they did not win the Triple R
Tourney prize, she wished to contribute to their financial standing in her own way.
Chronicling a tale that would captivate the whole of Great Britain might well ensure
her job with the
Informer
, even after she disclosed her true gender and race. A long shot, but as a way of
advancing a more utopian future, she had made a personal pledge to adopt a more optimistic
outlook.

The telephone rang and Willie nearly catapulted from the pillow-laden sofa. She had
provided Rollins with Simon’s telephone number as well as his address, although she
had not mentioned Simon by name.

“Hello?” Simon said into the mouthpiece—ambiguous as they had discussed. “Miss Goodenough?
Yes. Hold on.” Brow raised, he passed the receiver to Willie.

Holding Simon’s supportive gaze, she willed her hand not to tremble. “Miss Goodenough
here.”

“Thimblethumper calling.”

“I’m glad. Good news?”

“There’s a skytown hovering southeast of London. Ask around for specific coordinates.
Meet me at nine p.m. in the Vulcan Grogshop aboard the USS
Enterprise
.”

“Aye, but—”

“Don’t be late.”

•   •   •

“Eight oh five,” Phin said as he steered the
Flying Cloud
toward a pier floating alongside their appointed destination. “Unfashionably early.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Willie said, noting her dual timepieces. “Rollins sounded
nervous and he was most adamant about punctuality.”

“Feeling anxious myself.” Simon squinted through his goggles at the transient skytown
and the banner that declared this airborne mecca as
The Milky Way
. “I’m not crazy about you going into that pub alone.”

“The USS
Enterprise
is famous for its international captain and crew,” Willie said as she studied the
collection of rigged airships. “Somewhat like the crew of the American courier ship
the
Maverick
.”

“Captained by the Sky Cowboy,” Phin said as he docked. “Didn’t you interview him once?”

“I did,” Willie said, hugging herself against the frigid air.

“Tucker Gentry is a fugitive from justice,” Simon said, cringing at the thought of
Willie mixing with a murderer.

“He’s an innocent man wrongly accused of a hideous crime.”

“How can you be certain of his virtue?” Phin asked.

“I traced his memories.”

“Bloody hell,” Simon mumbled. Gentry had been a former US air marshal. He’d wrangled
with heinous outlaws. The man was no stranger to mayhem and bloodshed. Surely his
memories mirrored a gruesome battlefield.

“I merely meant that the USS
Enterprise
fosters a mixed clientele even more so than other digs in various skytowns. The Vulcan
Grogshop is a popular watering hole for Freaks. I’ll be amongst my own kind.”

“Some of which could be the more dangerous faction of the Freak Fighters,” Simon pointed
out.

“No more dangerous than the rabble-rousing Vics who board these skytowns looking for
a hell-raising good time,” Phin said. “Don’t flash that piece I gave you, brainiac,
but remember what it’s for.”

Willie frowned up at Simon. “You’re carrying a gun?”

“A Disrupter 29,” Phin answered for him. “A peashooter compared to what I’ve got holstered
beneath my coat, but it’ll make a point. Give me your wrist,” he said to Willie.

“I see no need for a stun cuff,” she said.

“I do,” Simon said.

“You’re not going into that pub unarmed,” Phin said.

“Wear the cuff,” Simon said, “or I’m coming in with you.”

“In which case Rollins might spot you.” Scowling, she offered her left wrist to Phin.
“I won’t have the two of you scaring him off.”

“Rollins has never met me,” Phin said. “I’d just be another face in the crowd.”

“Phin’s right,” Simon said. “Change of plan. I’ll lurk outside as agreed, but Phin’s
going inside.” He raised a hand to cut off Willie’s counter. “Bend to reason, I beg
you, or we’re shoving off here and now.”

She huffed but nodded and Simon breathed easier. “Thank you.”

Together they disembarked and navigated the swinging gangway that led to the largest
of the five dirigibles—
Jupiter 2
. As usual on any skytown, they were met by a costumed greeter.

“Peace and love, dudes and dudette. Welcome to the Milky Way.”

Simon swiped off his goggles and squinted at the long-haired, cannabis-reeking hippie.
“Woodstock?”

“Gadzooks,” Willie said, pushing her sunshades to her forehead. “You’re right. What
are you doing here, Bear?”

“Which is it?” Phin asked. “Woodstock or Bear?”

“Both,” Simon and Willie chorused.

“Ohhhh . . . woooow . . .” Bear drew out each word as though operating in slow motion.
“The skittish fox and the uptight hound. Cooooool.” He pushed his tinted glasses up
his nose. “Edinburgh was a drag, so I thumbed a ride down to London. Hooked up a job
in this skytown for a spell. What are
you
doing here?” He looked from Simon and Willie to Phin. “Bored with the fidelity thing
and broadening your horizons?” He waggled his brows. “The more the merrier. That’s
my motto.”

Phin coughed.

Willie dipped her chin.

“Good God, man,” Simon said. “Could you just point us to the nearest coffeehouse.
Preferably one on this ship.”

“Sure thing, dude. Java Jupiter. One deck down. Fab bean juice. Bitchin’ band.”

“Right, then,” Phin said with an eye roll. “Off we go.”

“Which way to the USS
Enterprise
?” Willie asked.

“Three digs over, chick-a-doodle.” He gave them the two-finger salute. “Peace out.”

“Every time I step foot in a bloody skytown,” Phin said as they hastened belowdecks,
“I feel as though I’ve ventured into another world.”

“That’s because you have,” Willie said. “I rather like it.”

Simon tried not to fixate on all the times Willie had visited skytowns on her own
to mix freely with other Freaks. It wasn’t
her kind
that worried him, although he wasn’t happy about her scheming with Freak Fighters.
His deepest concern regarded the reprobates and outlaws that typically sought refuge
and recreation amongst these floating pleasure meccas. Outlaws like the Sky Cowboy,
to name one. Amelia used to hoard penny dreadfuls exploiting the adventures of that
Wild West air marshal before and after his fall from grace. He’d never understood
glorifying dubious personages—although that
had
been a specialty of the Clockwork Canary.

The smell of coffee grounds, whiskey, and marijuana wafted down the dimly lit corridor,
as did the blaring sounds of an electrified band. A style of music perpetuated by
the Mods—something called psychedelic or
acid
rock. As it happened, Simon was a fan. The complex song structures, artful rhythms,
and emotional lyrics were preferable to the other Mod genre—folk music. Growing up,
Amelia had latched on to that oddly cheerful antiwar tune, “If I Had a Hammer,” and
Simon and Jules had thought they’d go mad from their sister’s incessant singing.