Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy) (38 page)

“
Thank you,” were her first words to him since the sun had set. She set the book on her lap, slung the blanket over her shoulders, and appeared to study him between sips of her toddy. Her lips half formed words that never escaped, as though she was torn between wanting to tell him something and clinging to her stubborn silence.

Derek had no such compunction, not when the girl he loved might be listening in, from however deep a well;
she would want them to talk, to at least make an effort to become friends. “Have you recovered from your injuries, Meredith? I heard you took a few knocks last night.”

“
It was nothing, just trampled, kicked around a little. I’m all mended now. And you?”

“
Same here. They told me I was out cold for twenty minutes. But I was right as rain after that, the moment I came to, apart from a humdinger of a headache.”

“
And the others?”

“
Let me see. Father had a nasty spill, suffered a concussion. They kept him in as a precaution, though he was none the worse when I left him. He’s a tough old cat. Uncle Rufus suffered a couple of cracked ribs—deserved more, if you ask me. He’s got a lot to answer for. Then there were three or four who needed multiple stitches. Brunnie’s friends copped the worst of it, I think. The rest were either bruised or shaken up. Kingsley told me a couple of his friends are still in the hospital?”

“
Yes, Nickson still hadn’t come round when we left him. That was this morning, though—I mean yesterday morning—so he’s likely awake by now. I’ll telephone at first light. Then Mears, poor lad, suffered two breaks.”

“
Two? My word.”

“
Wrist and hip. He fell awkwardly on his side, screamed when he tried to walk it off.”

“
I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“
Me neither.”

Derek leaned in close to Sonja, dabbed her brow with a damp cloth as she turned her head toward him. “
She isn’t shivering as much. Her breathing seems a little easier. What do you think?”

After taking her sister
’s temperature with the thermometer, Meredith grimaced. “She’s worse, not better. Oh, Sonja, you have to fight harder than this.” She settled her own head on the pillow beside her. “If you can hear us at all, I want you hit this thing with everything you’ve got. Every cannon, you know, a triple-deck broadside—no, what’s that other one...rake...I want you to rake it for us, mean as you can. Derek’s right here. Here’s been here all the time, and he wants you to fight with all you’ve got. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare give in to this thing. Father’s on his way home, so is Aunt Lily. They’ll be here for your big day, and it’s going to be the biggest wedding Southsea has ever seen. Sorensen cousins not invited, of course. But we’ll all be there, cheering you on, and when you reach that altar, you can bet Mother will be watching too.”

Meredi
th sat up, mouthed a prayer, then returned to reading her book, leaving Derek alone in his grief once again. An uncommon tiredness came over him as he watched the candlelight waver across Sonja’s ivory locks, subtly pulse over half her face, as if tugging at the shadow half, trying to rouse life from it. He watched until his eyelids grew heavy, then he laid his head beside her and clasped her hand to his cheek. Her fingers stirred, giving him hope. Then she was still again. Soon the fever raged more ferociously than ever, and all he could do was listen...listen to life leaving her...to those ragged drum-roll breaths...to death taking her...

And above it all, those
busy, muttered lines from a children’s book nagged and mithered and pestered death, not giving it a moment’s peace, getting under its skin, insisting beyond reason that now was not the time.

Chapter Eighteen

Death Comes Calling

The answer
struck her with palling certainty. It tried to wake her, but the memory of four years ago first demanded its own absolution. It insisted she look back at what had
really
happened that evening in Niflheim. William Elgin—ward of Professor Sorensen and erstwhile time traveller—had used his forty-one second time anomaly to humiliate Meredith and Sonja in front of everyone. There was no other explanation. To have pulled their frocks up over their heads and tied them with curtain cords in the blink of an eye required supernatural speed. No one in the room had seen the culprit because the culprit could not be seen—he’d done the deed while everyone was, to him, frozen in the moment, and then made his escape before time had resumed.

But why had he done it? For a bet? For devilment? To impress one of the Gorgon cousins? Whatever the reason, he had a lot to answer for, th
is young mystery man whom she’d somehow grown very fond of. Perhaps he’d tried to tell her the other night in the museum, but her reaction to his demonstration had made him think twice. Why did every man she liked—Donnelly, Kingsley, William—have to bear a warning label? And this one had already poisoned her before they’d ever officially met.

It
was such a momentous revelation—the humiliation had eaten away at her month after month, costing her countless nights’ sleep and many a meal, not to mention the indescribable damage wreaked upon her self-esteem through at least two years of school—yet it now vanished almost instantly upon waking. For the only person she must tell it to, the only one who understood and had shared her pain, lay trembling on her deathbed. Sonja’s skin was almost as white as her hair, the pillow and bed sheets were wetter than Meredith’s had ever been after her post-Niflheim nightmares. Yes, that had all been child’s play. It no longer mattered. It was over.

Only Sonja mattered.

“Good morning, Meredith.”

“
Morning.” As she yawned and stretched, Derek donned his coat, opened the curtains, and gazed grimly out of the window to a frosty dawn. The red sun rose behind thorny treetops, silhouetting Derek’s hunched figure as he blew out the candle on the dresser. It also rouged one side of Sonja’s face. “Have something to eat before you go,” she said, “wherever you’re going. Mrs. Van Persie won’t be up yet, but I can make us toast and coffee?”

“
Thank you, no. Doctor Marsan said he’ll be back at eight, and I don’t want to miss him, which is why I’m paying Mother a quick visit now. ”

“
Nothing bad’s happened, I hope.”

“
She wouldn’t say over the telephone, but she’s very upset. A telegram arrived, and I’m fairly certain it concerns the new conscription.” He checked his watch. “Six-fifteen. I should be back here no later then seven-thirty.”

“
That’s fine. Dr. Marsan told you he’d be here—”

“
He telephoned while you were asleep to say he’d been detained with another patient. I told him Sonja’s condition hadn’t worsened that I could tell—her temperature and breathing seemed to be unchanged—and he said I was to call him right away if there was any change. I didn’t want to wake you, you had such a long day yesterday. But now that you’re up...”

“
Of course, of course. You must go. You say eight’s the soonest he can get here?”

“
I assume he’s catching up on some sleep—even doctors need their rest.”

“
True.”

“
Well, I’ll see you shortly.” His heartfelt kiss to Sonja’s forehead, and another to her hand that bore the engagement ring, buoyed Meredith with admiration for him. He was as good as his word; he would be here for her till the last, and would hate being away from her, even for a minute.

“
I hope everything’s all right with your mother,” she said.

“
Thank you.” He puffed his cheeks as he made for the door. “Look after her now.”

“
Aye.” Something Sonja might have said, only she’d have said it with more gusto.

The fever may have abated a little—Sonja’s breathing no longer seemed a gargantuan effort—but the longer it attacked like this, the weaker she’d become. At least Dr. Marsan’s prediction that she wouldn’t last the night had been proved wrong. That steeled Meredith’s resolve a little as she changed her sister’s nightie and put fresh sheets and a fresh pillow on the bed, and wiped Sonja down with a cool cloth as gently as she could. Then after making her sister as comfortable as possible, she went to the kitchen and made herself a few slices of toast with butter and shred-less marmalade, with a bit of Dutch Edam cheese and a mug of hot chocolate.

Her insufficient sleep left
her groggy, yawning. A pounding arrhythmia came and went as she paced around downstairs. Being half-awake like this was no good to anyone, so she swilled her face with icy water and ventured outside, hoping the crisp morning air would wake her senses. It did. Every bird chirrup, every distant foghorn booming in from Portsmouth harbour—the coast was incredibly misty—and every crunch of her slippers on the frosty grass pierced her tiredness.

An echoing
tapping noise, rather like a hammer on a loose chisel, turned her attention to the east side of the house. The sound was smothered, perhaps underground. A water pipe? No, something clattered as she skirted the flower bed. Now there were hushed voices, and more tapping, only it seemed to be under her feet, and yet not under her feet; the noises came from below but the echoes came from...inside the house?

Father
’s cellar?

Burglars! But
how had they got in? The front door had been locked overnight, and Derek had used the spare key to let himself out not twenty minutes ago. He’d locked it again after him.

After a concerned glance up to the bedroom window, Meredith crept back inside
and made for the study. She kept to the walls as far as possible to avoid creaking the floorboards.

Damn!
The telephone line had been cut, so the burglars had to have broken in since Derek’s conversation with his mother. Yet why hadn’t he heard them? Why hadn’t she?

Oh God
, how many intruders were down there, rummaging through Father’s personal effects, his most secret possessions? They’d got in through the back door—the lock had been pried off the door frame—but how in the name of all that was Holy had they gained entry into the cellar? That iron door had multiple locks and was inches thick, like something from a bank vault. She and Sonja had tried everything to get in there over the years, and failed.

These obviously weren
’t ordinary burglars as the display cabinets in the study, full of prized gadgets and archaeological artefacts, were untouched. And anyone who’d gone to all this trouble to break into an unbreakable cellar vault had an agenda, something specific they wanted to find. If they didn’t find it there, they might very well look elsewhere. They might ransack the entire house to find it, which would take them upstairs...to the master bedroom. To Sonja!

No. Not today. Not ever.

She fetched Father’s Moroccan steam-pistols from their case in the cabinet, but couldn’t find the bullets. Hell. They were the only lethal weapons in the house that she knew of. A kitchen knife or Father’s cricket bat or Sonja’s tennis racquet in the hands of a slip of a girl would scarcely intimidate professional burglars. And yet, the intruders couldn’t
know
she was bluffing, that the pistols were in fact unloaded. Attaching the fancy gilt-edged water and acid cylinders would still carry the desired deterrent effect. If she could simply point and threaten, get the bastards out of the house, away from Sonja long enough for Derek to return...

Yes, she had to do this. This she had to do, and it had to be now, while surprise was still on her side. Wit
h a monstrous inhale of toast-flavoured air—and a quick prayer that that smell didn’t reach the cellar before she did—she opened the oak panel door to the stone staircase and started down, one step, one breath at a time.

The metallic taps grew to clanging
thuds as she approached the vault door left barely an inch ajar. She pulled the hulking thing open and slipped inside, pistols trained on the way ahead. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen inside the cellar, but it was her first time unaccompanied by Father. The sanctum had seemed enormous and magical once, a mad professor’s chateau dungeon from one of Sonja’s horror books. Now it was simply overstuffed and cramped. Its L-shape gave her further opportunity to sneak up on the intruders, who were around the corner, clearly having a go at the safe.

The heavy
panels of Father’s miniature iron mole, a contraption he’d used to demonstrate the design’s potential in order to lure potential investors for the large-scale version, stood upright against the bare brick wall, faded and half covered by a dusty tarpaulin. A black Hi-wheel—a steam-powered penny farthing—stood in several pieces in the corner, its side-cars still attached to the crossbeam. All things she remembered seeing as a girl and hadn’t thought about since.

Clang, clang, clang.

“Snag this ‘un, too?” a man’s voice whispered. “Looks of it there’s more than a year of entries—a right good journal.”

“
Bag it—in fact, bag the whole lot,” came the reply. “She’ll have a field day with this stuff.”

Meredith glimpsed three men, athletically built, stro
ng-looking, dressed all in shades of grey. Their faces weren’t masked per se but were hidden under what could be boot blacking, as was their hair, slicked back and oily in the light of their dynamo lamps. One of them held a sack open while the other two deposited documents from Father’s safe into it: leather-bound journals, maps rolled up inside cardboard tubes, envelopes bearing airmail stamps, and bundles of foreign currency. One sack had already been filled; with what, she couldn’t tell.