Moonlight & Mechanicals (8 page)

“Welcome, welcome!” He pumped Connor’s hand. “To you and your beautiful lady. But where is the mechanic you said you were bringing?”

“Right here.” Connor put his arm around Wink’s waist and introduced her to Mr. Smith, the owner of the carnival. “Mr. Smith’s roundabout isn’t working, and I thought perhaps you’d like to have a go at fixing it.”

Wink felt the grin spread across her face. “You brought me to a carnival to repair something?”

“You don’t have to—it’s entirely your choice.” His expressive face showed an odd mix of nervousness and hope. “But it’s the only one in this part of town all summer, and lots of children were disappointed about the galloper.”

Not just children,
poor
children. That’s what he didn’t say. This wasn’t a high-priced troupe. Wink looked over at the crowd, clearly made up of the working class, not the moneyed elite of Mayfair society. This might be the only fair or carnival some of these children ever attended, or at least for another year or two. While the adults might prefer the sideshows or the other performances that went along with a fair, riding the galloping horses of the carousel had certainly been the highlight for Wink as a child—and back then it had been turned by a draft horse, rather than a steam engine, so it hadn’t been nearly as fast nor smooth a ride.

Wink couldn’t resist hugging Connor. “How utterly brilliant. Unfortunately I didn’t bring my tools.”

Connor patted her shoulder as he stepped away. “On the other hand, I did—with a little help from your aunt.” He gestured toward his footman, who stood beside the coach with Wink’s heavy wooden toolbox in his hands.

“Well then, gentlemen.” Wink turned back to Mr. Smith and rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “I’ve never gotten my hands on a roundabout engine before. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Along with Wink’s tools, Aunt Dorothy had sent a long smock, work gloves and goggles. Wink left her kid gloves and silk bonnet in the coach and donned her working gear. She’d have preferred trouser-style coveralls for crawling around a carousel, but the smock would do. With Connor in tow, she set out across the field with Mr. Smith, leaving the footman to wait with the driver and George in the carriage. Smith led them through a side gate, bypassing the ticket booth, and the salutes he garnered from the various workers reinforced Wink’s impression that he was the man in charge.

“So tell me, what exactly is the problem? Does the machine work at all?” She studied the structure as they approached the striped tent that housed the roundabout, its cheerfully painted horses roped off. “Does the same steam engine run the organ?”

“The organ you hear is our old one.” Mr. Smith lifted the rope and ushered her up onto the carousel. It was a small one, with only sixteen horses, two abreast on each of eight floor panels. “This organ still works, but the roundabout, it doesn’t turn as it ought. We shut down the fire this morning so it wouldn’t be too hot for you to look at.”

“Perfect. Who normally takes care of the engines?” Wink studied the visible components of the carousel—the horses on their poles, the pie-shaped floor trolleys. The center pole of the tent held both the smokestack and main support shaft for the mechanism—that much she’d gleaned from other visits to carnivals.

“The roundabout is new to us,” Smith said. “My older brother, he had his own circus, but no sons living to take over his troupe. When he died, he left this to me, but the man who operated it has retired to his home in France.”

Wink gazed at the steam engine like she imagined an artist might study a Michelangelo. It was small, but beautifully made, resting in the center of the platform, behind a brightly painted screen. She pulled off a glove and laid her hand on the shining brass plate on the top, imagining it at work, puffing away as the horses danced around it, the organ playing a happy tune. Whatever was wrong, she was sure it was something minor. How she knew that, she simply couldn’t tell. Sometimes, though, machines almost seemed to speak to her. “If the organ works, then the engine is probably fine. Mr. Smith, can you get me a ladder?” Hopefully the problem wouldn’t be below the platform—it would be awkward to crawl underneath in skirts.

“Of course.” Smith snapped his fingers and a boy of perhaps sixteen came running over from his position beside the horseshoe booth. “My grandson, Anton. He is good with machines, but has little knowledge of ones this large. Perhaps he can assist?”

“Wonderful. Maybe he can learn to do some basic maintenance. The engine looks good, but the oil needs changing.” While Smith snapped out instructions in Romany, Wink stepped around and knelt to investigate the organ. Although it was powered by the roundabout’s steam engine, the instrument operated under the control of a small, ticker-tape Babbage engine. Wink eyed it in appreciation. Not the newest technology, but no more than a decade old. Sorting it out ought to be a walk in the park. “Connor, help me lift that panel covering the boiler.”

The boiler proved intact as well. Connor flung himself into the role of assistant with cheerful abandon, greeting young Anton and helping him set up the ladder along the center stack. Ah, but this was a magnificently simple mechanism. A round beveled gear sat motionless atop a post running up the middle of the smokestack. Each of the eight rods extended outward, each with hooks supporting two horses. As the floor panels revolved, the rods rotated on the teeth of the gear, moving the horses up and down and back and forth.

“Can you work the crank so I can see if the platform spins?” Wink held on to the smokestack so they could let go of the ladder.

Smith showed Connor the hand-crank mechanism used to turn the machine during setup and emergencies. Though it was designed for two operators, Connor rolled up his sleeves and turned the crank on his own, his impressive muscles displayed to fine advantage as he worked. Wink barely spared him a glance as she watched the mechanism spin. Even the floor panels moved, as well as the horses. The problem wasn’t in the structure of the carousel itself.

Wink clambered down. “No problems up there. Anton, do you help set the carousel up?”

The boy nodded.

“You might want to clean and re-grease the gear next time, but it should be fine for now. Just check it when you put this up and take it down.” Wink peered down the stack toward the main drive gear.

“The axles seem to be working, so it must be the connection between the engine and the platform.” She gave Smith a rueful grin. “I’m afraid we need to pull up the floor panels.”

Smith nodded at Anton, who obligingly removed two, creating a ninety-degree arc for Wink to see the connection between the engine’s drive shaft and the main gear.

“Ah, here’s the problem.” Wink reached through the workings of the carousel for the nut and bolt that had fallen through to the dirt below. “See, Anton. This can look fine when you put it together, but if it’s even a little loose, the action of the motor will loosen it to the point where the nut falls off and the bolt wiggles free. One thing you can do is drill a little hole in the bolt and put a pin through it, to hold the nut firmly in place.”

“Thank you, miss.” The lad hung his head. “I should have found that when it first stopped working. I’m sorry, Grandfather.”

Smith clapped Anton on the shoulder. “Now you know. And if Marco doesn’t return, this will be your full responsibility. Are you ready for it?”

The boy’s smile was as wide as the Thames. “Yes, sir.” After a moment, though, his face fell. “Though I don’t understand what happened to Cousin Marco.”

Smith shrugged. “No idea. It happens sometimes. Man gets tired of traveling and finds a pretty girl. Odd, though, that we lost two men just this week.”

Wink wiped her spanner and laid it carefully in the toolbox. “When did these men disappear? And where?”

“One maybe four nights ago. Three mates went out drinking but only two came back. They’d separated, they said, so we didn’t realize until morning that my wife’s nephew Marco hadn’t returned. Always a bit of a wild one, that Marco. He’s vanished before. But Nicky?” Smith shook his head. “Nicky was a good boy. He went to the market for his mother, our fortune teller. We haven’t seen him since.”

Wink and Connor exchanged a glance. “We’re right across the river from Wapping,” she said.

“Aye.” Connor nodded. “Have you told the constables?”

An odd look passed between the two men and then Smith shrugged his shoulders. “No. Even a good constable would be able to do nothing about a full-grown man who walked away from the life of a gypsy carnival.”

“He’s right.” Connor sighed deeply and pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Tell me, Mr. Smith. Have any of your people seen anything that looks like this?”

Wink peered over Smith’s shoulder at the photographic copy of a drawing. It appeared to be an automaton, in the shape of a man. The stance and movement were more lifelike than almost any she’d seen, save perhaps George.

“I haven’t heard of any such thing, but I will ask,” Smith said.

“What is that?” Wink laid a hand on Connor’s arm. “Or should I say who? Is it a mechanical, or a man in a clockwork suit?”

Connor turned to her. “I was hoping you could tell me. I stopped by the Yard earlier today, and Liam gave me this. A girl in Wapping drew a sketch of the thing she claimed tried to abduct her.”

“I see.” Wink bit her lip. Again it came back to Wapping. “She’s quite skilled. Mr. Smith, did you say one of the men was lost just last night?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get me something of his—something personal? A piece of worn clothing, preferably? My dog can track by scent.”

Smith nodded, his expression guarded but hopeful. She hoped he wouldn’t be too skeptical when he found out that dog wasn’t biological in origin. “Anton, run and fetch a shirt from Nicky’s car.”

Anton obediently tightened down the last floor panel and handed Wink back her tools. “I’ll be right back.”

“We’ll meet you at my car,” his grandfather said. “First though, we should start the boiler for the roundabout, perhaps?”

“Of course.” The carousel would be able to operate in twenty or thirty minutes as soon as it built up steam. She stroked a hand over the glossy painted mane on one of the horses. “I’d like a ride, if I may, once we get it going.”

“Of course. The first ride is yours, beautiful one.” Smith beamed. “Along with your handsome young man, of course.”

“We’d be delighted.” Connor leaned over and whispered to Mr. Smith. If Wink hadn’t been experienced in sleight of hand, she’d have missed the folded banknotes Connor slipped the older man.

“Wonderful.” Smith turned and called to one of his workers at a nearby booth. “The roundabout is free for all children for the rest of today, in honor of our gracious mechanic.”

“Now, shall we go get George and his marvelous nose?” While Smith’s back was turned, Connor cast a quick spell and lit the boiler. Then he hopped down from the platform and held out his hand to Wink, her toolbox in his other.

“Absolutely.” Wink leapt down without assistance, but let Connor hold her hand. “Mr. Smith, do you know which gate your employee would have used when he left? Or would he have gone directly from the train?”

“The train. He lives in a car with several of the other young men, but he left from his grandmother’s quarters, which is in the car right behind mine.”

Connor handed her off to the older man. “Go ahead. I’ll put the tools away and get George.”

Wink let Smith lead her to the train, where Anton waited with a shirt in his hands. An older woman stood beside him in a vivid purple gown, with wisps of white hair peeking out from under a silver spangled scarf.

Smith let go of Wink’s hand to wrap an arm around her plump waist. “Miss Hadrian, meet my old friend, Madame Zara. Her grandson Nicolas is one of our acrobats, and has been missing since last night.”

Wink held out her hand to the woman. The grief and worry in the black eyes reminded Wink uncomfortably of Mrs. Miller. “Pleased to meet you, Madame.
I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

“Thank you.” Zara bowed her head and clasped Wink’s hand in both of hers, which were spotted with age, but still strong. Wink had removed her dirty work gloves, so the fortune teller’s skin was warm against her own. “You will help find out who hurt my Nicky. He is gone, I know, but you—you and your young men will bring his spirit to rest.”

“Is his spirit here?” She hesitated, then said, “I know someone who may be able to speak with him, if he is.” Nell had a gift for that. Most of polite society would have laughed the woman’s words off, but most of polite society didn’t have a family like Wink’s. While she didn’t have any supernatural powers herself, she knew firsthand that they existed. Whether or not Zara actually had any was, of course, an entirely different question.

Zara shook her head. “The cards have shown me. He is trapped. Somewhere. You are the one who will uncover his murderer, but you must be very, very careful. If you make a mistake, you will lose that which you hold most dear.”

“I’ll be careful.” Wink wasn’t sure if the woman was really prescient, but she was absolutely positive that Zara believed every word she said. Right or wrong, this wasn’t a show to impress the toffs.

“Well.” Connor walked up and bowed to the gypsy woman. “Here’s George.”

“A mechanical dog?” Smith said. “How can he smell?”

Wink laid her hand on George’s head. “There are chemical receptors in his nose that are processed by the engine that acts as his brain. Honestly, even I’m not sure how he does it as well as he does, but trust me, it works. He helped rescue Connor’s sister when she was kidnapped in Scotland last summer.”

“He did. My entire family is in George’s debt.” Connor took the shirt from Anton’s hand and handed it to Wink, who held it beneath George’s black iron nose.

“Track, George. Find Nicky.” The analytical engine inside George’s skull was the most complex thing that Wink had ever built, and though she’d been steadily refining and improving it over the years, even Wink couldn’t explain how he could do all the things he did, including processing chemical traces and recognizing individual vocal patterns. To some extent, George, of all her creations, had simply evolved and developed more dog-like abilities on his own.