Lempriere's Dictionary (36 page)

‘Your mother? I have never met your mother. Where is she?’

‘Upstairs. She never attends these affairs, not since father died. Truly, I am as much in the dark as you. She is very old you know.’ The earl kept looking over his shoulder as he said this then abruptly his explanations came to an end. ‘John, I must announce the display. Monsieur Maillardet seems ready at last. Forgive me, we will talk afterwards. It’s all rather silly, I know….’ The earl was sidling off, in the direction of the little man who had taken up a position with his paraphernalia at the far side of the hall nearest the double doors. Lemprière launched a shot into the dark.

‘Mister Chadwick!’ he called after Edmund and the earl turned, his face showing bewildered recognition at the name. ‘Mister Chadwick is why I am here!’ Lemprière repeated with more emphasis and knew that he had scored a hit. He had no idea why.

‘Later John,’ was the best the startled earl could manage as he struggled through his guests to reach Monsieur Maillardet who was now kneeling with his head inside the box doing something with his screwdriver.

‘It’ll never work,’ said a soft Scots voice and Lemprière turned to find himself addressed by a tall man with a mat of jet black hair.

‘Mister Byrne’ he introduced himself, and Lemprière reciprocated.

‘Maillardet’s a bloody toymaker; brilliant mechanic, but he wouldn’t know a command-structure if it hit him in the face.’

‘Yes, I suppose.… I don’t know.’ Lemprière began but was interrupted by a loud banging sound. The earl had climbed on a chair and was begging silence of the company.

‘A merry Christmas to you all,’ he began rather oddly, and, having taken this initial wrong turn, the speech never really recovered. After long rebuttals and qualifications of things he had already said, long embarrassing pauses and fake stops and starts, he waved his glass about in happy confusion while his audience made appreciative noises or murmured “Hear hear!” at various junctures.

‘Much improved,’ said a familiar voice in Lemprière’s ear. It was Septimus. Marmaduke and Mister Byrne nodded their hellos. ‘Last year was far worse. Went on for hours.’

‘… and far be it my intention not to wish to deny, rather
wish
to deny, on the contrary that is, until we are ready …’ the earl was saying, ‘which, I would hope, there is no doubt surrounding, we are.’ The last word was emphasised, prompting affirmative grunts from those sections of the audience construing his sentence in the positive, while others, believing the opposite to be the case, mumbled “Not at all” or “Have no fear”. Then, when no more was forthcoming, both camps raised the pitch of their support in the belief that the speech was ended and a polite shouting match ensued. In the middle of this, Edmund resumed his sentence, most of which was lost in the hubbub until his audience realised he had started up again. They stopped in time to hear ‘… Monsieur Maillardet, and thank you all,’ which really was the end. There was some confused clapping. Cappadocian, thought Lemprière.

‘Right as ever Mister Praeceps,’ Mister Byrne was saying. ‘A markedly better effort.’ Something was happening at the front. The little man with the moustache was speaking through the horn Lemprière had earlier seen the earl carrying, squeezing alien vowels through its funnel and firing them up into the roof where they crashed about and returned as a jumbled echo. Then he stopped.

‘Shall we move nearer?’ Mister Byrne entreated the other three and they followed him as he wormed his way through to the front of the crowd who were watching Monsieur Maillardet, now assembling his machine. ‘What is it?’ asked Marmaduke.

‘A demonstration,’ said Septimus.

‘Rank amateurism,’ added Mister Byrne. ‘I’ve built machines which
could design a better toy than that.’ Lemprière raised his eyebrow at Septimus. ‘A rival,’ whispered Septimus. ‘He gave the demonstration last year.’

Monsieur Maillardet raised his horn again and spoke briefly, pointing to his contraption. It was a chest upon which a life-sized doll dressed in the uniform of a French soldier knelt. In front of the doll was a desk with writing paper on it. One of its arms hung down at its side, the other was raised and crooked at the elbow as if warding off a blow.

‘Rather wonderful, don’t you think?’ said Marmaduke.

‘No,’ said Mister Byrne.

A small group of men in their sixties, naval types by their bearing, shuffled forward to take a closer look.

‘What is it?’ asked Lemprière.

‘Part of you and I,’ said Septimus.

‘An automaton,’ Mister Byrne answered him. ‘A moving statue. An imitation of humanity.’

‘Ernst should see this,’ Lemprière whispered to Septimus. ‘It fits all his theories.’ Septimus laughed noisily at this, drawing an angry look from Monsieur Maillardet.

‘Pipe down there,’ said one of the naval company, who was paying close attention to the goings-on.

Lemprière looked back to the automaton and its maker who was kneeling at its back, winding something and muttering to himself. It seemed he was ready to begin. A few more turns and he stood to one side, quite near to Mister Byrne, who was studying his fingernails. Everyone else watched the automaton. A few seconds passed in which nothing happened, a slow smile spread across Mister Byrne’s face, then suddenly, a shrill squawk was heard from one of the women. The automaton was moving. Monsieur Maillardet gave Mister Byrne a look which suggested he had only just noticed him. The head swivelled sideways and looked up into the faces of the crowd. Its false hair was black under its helmet and its eyes an unnatural blue. A fixed smile was carved on its face. The doll looked down at the paper on the desk and its arm jerked, stopped, jerked again then moved slowly down, the fingers opening then closing with a snap on the pen. Lemprière noticed that the position of the pen was marked exactly on the desk. Towards the rear of the crowd a few individuals clapped. When they fell silent Lemprière heard a low whirring sound interspersed with irregular clicks. As the demonstration proceeded these were joined by several muffled reports from within the chest, less frequent than the other sounds. ‘Didn’t even damp the cam-sets,’ whispered Mister Byrne in his ear.

Within the machine, control passed to and fro between the drive and
servo-motors as the index-wheels regulated the programme cams and fusees passed coded power through the gears to jointed levers moving silently inside the automaton’s limbs. Dipping its pen in the inkwell the doll went through a series of tiny mechanical shivers, before its arm moved down to write and the information-flow was resumed. The arm seemed to move very stiffly but Lemprière noticed the pen itself gliding smoothly over the paper. After twelve or fourteen lines of script, Monsieur Maillardet removed the sheet and handed it to a woman who was standing near the front.

‘A love poem! Oh, mon amour!’ she hammed to the machine. Her companions laughed and clapped their hands together. Monsieur Maillardet accepted these compliments on behalf of his creation. The doll itself stared fixedly ahead. The performance was repeated twice more, each time to similar delight with the ladies comparing the automaton’s efforts, and vying with each other for a place in its affections. After this, Monsieur Maillardet held up his hands for quiet and spoke through his horn as incomprehensibly as before. Then he replaced the pen and paper and rewound a crank behind the chest. Everyone watched in silence. The machine began to move, more quickly this time, the internal clicks and hums louder than before.

‘He’s geared the motor too high,’ said Mister Byrne to Lemprière. The automaton was producing an image with quick slashes and jerky stabs of its pen. It was a ship, a three master with all its rigging and every detail down to the rail-stanchions and the join of the stem-pieces. The naval men edged closer to gain a better view, one in particular moving right up to the machine, obscuring Lemprière’s view. He had a weather tanned face which looked as though it were not much given to extravagant expression, but now, as the man peered down at the emerging image, his look was one of astonishment. Monsieur Maillardet moved protectively towards his creation as it put the last halyards on the ship.

‘Good God!’ the man exclaimed. ‘I tell you I know that ship!’ And with that he reached to snatch the paper just as the doll started inscribing the name on the ship’s bow.

‘Monsieur!’ remonstrated its inventor. He was too late. As the man’s hand closed about the paper, the doll brought over its left arm, the hand opened and closed tight about the man’s wrist. The left side of the machine seemed to freeze as the man tried to prise himself free.

‘Damn,’ he muttered, then suddenly shouted loudly as the right arm descended deliberately and with the pen inscribed the name of the ship in the soft skin of his palm. A mess of blood and ink welled up.

‘Good Christ, get it off!’ shouted the man, shaking the thing furiously. His companions were pulling at the metal arm.

‘Messieurs! Please!’ cried Monsieur Maillardet. Mister Byrne acted. Walking over to his rival, he snatched the screwdriver which was still in his hand. He knelt behind the automaton, braced himself, then drove the screwdriver in at the back. Instantly, both hands splayed their fingers, releasing the man, and a shrill, ear-piercing whine started up within the machine. The arms flew apart, then slowly, very deliberately, the left hand came over, took hold of the right and twisted. The hand came off at the wrist. Several people looked away. Little brass levers twitched inside the stump. Then the same hand rose up as if to touch its nose. Lemprière watched as the movement simply continued and the automaton drove five fingers through its plaster face. The hand tightened on something inside the head and the arm began to pull back. There was a tearing sound then a loud snap and the head broke off at the neck. The motors inside were screaming, the cams clacking furiously, but the automaton’s movements showed no lack of control. It sat there with its smiling head dangling from its hand, and began to bang the head on the desk, once, twice, three times. The motors screamed louder as the unseen machinery pulled itself apart. The automaton twitched violently and then it was still. The head dropped from its fingers and rolled across the floor. Attention turned to Monsieur Maillardet who was standing theatrically with his hands over his ears and who now rushed to his stricken creation. He picked up the head and hand, then slumped to the floor in despair. The headless automaton had fallen forward, face down over the desk.

‘Why?’ cried Monsieur Maillardet to the company at large, then ‘Why?’ again, louder at Mister Byrne who was handing him back his screwdriver.

‘Things fall apart,’ said Mister Byrne in laconic tones. ‘It’s scientific’

The show was over. The earl’s guests looked about for the next spectacle. The injured man was surrounded by a small group of his companions, dabbing at his hand with a handkerchief.

‘Damn it, that damn ship. I
know
that ship,’ he was saying, still shaken by his encounter with the wrecked machine.

‘Pipe down, Eben,’ said an elderly lady in imperious tones.

‘I tell you, it’s moored right here,’ the man was protesting. ‘Here in the Thames.’ He was sixty or more with steel grey hair and solidly built. Solicitous advice began to pour down on him from all sides as the guests transferred their attentions to his plight. Some of the younger fellows were nudging each other. It was agreed that the hand should be cleaned and dressed. Eben suffered himself to be led away behind a serving girl, still muttering about ships and shocks of recognition, but more quietly, aware perhaps of the spectacle he had provided.

‘It’s the
Vendragon
, I tell you, the damn
Vendragon
…’ he was saying as he passed Lemprière.

‘Why?’ asked Monsieur Maillardet from the floor again. No-one answered him.

‘John?’ It was the earl and Lemprière’s thoughts turned forensic once more, remembering the earl’s shocked expression at the mention of Chadwick, his own doubts and a hundred other questions he wanted to ask.

‘My mother expressed a wish to see you,’ said the earl. Mister Byrne had joined Maillardet on the floor. Together, they were retrieving tiny brass screws, washers and pieces of motor-housing. The weather-beaten face of the injured man was disappearing through one of the doors to the side of the hall. Septimus was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Casterleigh, Lemprière noted. Nor his daughter. ‘Did you like Monsieur Maillardet’s demonstration?’ asked the earl, to which Lemprière replied that he thought it unique.

The two of them made their way to the back of the hall. The earl seemed boisterous, passing comments back and forth with his guests, laughing a little louder than they did.

‘This way,’ he said and the two of them passed through a door into a long corridor. The racket from the hall died away and their footsteps were the only noise.

‘As I said, she
is
very old.’ The earl talked over his shoulder as he led the way. ‘She wants things just so. You understand me?’ Lemprière shook his head. ‘She wants things as they were, or how she imagines they were.’ They climbed a staircase and moved through a long room with chipped stucco work depicting various mythological scenes, hydras and men with swords, women in towers. The room beyond it was lined with empty shelves. They were moving back through the house, its geography becoming piecemeal and more confusing. Oddly shaped rooms, rooms without windows and innumerable short flights of steps argued a haphazard plan as if it had accreted rather than been designed. Edmund kept up a running commentary as they passed through, explaining to Lemprière that the original building had been built by Thomas, the fourth earl, in Elizabeth’s time with money from his trading interests.

‘But, of course, you would know all this….’ he was saying as Lemprière thought of the agreement with Thomas’ name upon it, and François’.

‘Tell me more,’ he said but the earl only resumed his domestic travelogue, telling Lemprière of the later additions which seemed not to match the scale or grandeur of the original house, bits and pieces bolted on as necessary through the intervening centuries, the shoddiness of the workmanship evident in some parts of the building. Nevertheless, Lemprière felt compelled to pass appreciative comments as they moved through its interior.