Yuletide Miracle (The Steam Clock Legacy Book 3) Read online

  “You’re a darned interesting fellow, Mulqueen, I’ll give you that. Something of an engineer yourself, or at least a tinkerer, I’ll wager? I have to admit, some of my most notable breakthroughs have occurred downstairs in my workshop, the smell of fresh-cut wood and the taste of metal spurring me on.”

  “I am sure of it.” And oddly jealous. “Your good health, sir, and may you continue toward the betterment of humanity.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Cecil surveyed the room, looking chuffed with himself.

  After dessert, a deliciously sweet apple crumble and custard, Cecil asked him if he’d like to take a look at his workshop. But Edmond had already beaten his father to the punch, recruiting Red for a guided tour of his bedroom, where the youngster wanted to show off his peerless collection of adventure comics.

  “By all means, and when you’re done, come join me for a brandy beside the tree—I’ll rearrange the furniture.” Cecil looked to his wife, who seemed to be egging him on. “And I believe Mrs. Reardon has something she wishes to say later.”

  Red swallowed—whatever could she want to single him out for, besides more thanks—and gave a polite nod. “Love to. And thank you for a splendid dinner. It turned back the clock to happier times, and marvellous food. I shall never forget it as long as I live.”

  “Ahem.” Edmond’s interruption amused them, and suddenly, this evening Red had kept at arm’s length was tame and dear. He followed the lad upstairs with rekindled enthusiasm, as though he was twelve years old again, skinless in a lucid Christmas dream.

  A typical boy’s bedroom, with sky blue wallpaper, a navy blue carpet, oak shelves overflowing with adventure novels and the sentimental toys and knickknacks left from his formative years, a cedar armoire with the doors left half-agape, and towers of cheap comics stacked on an old, expensive tallboy.

  “In my day, we read pirate tales and the stories of Francis Drake. Quatermain and Holly were still at school.”

  “I know. That’s what Father always says, as if he’s somehow above reading real fiction.” The oxymoron was sweet, and it chimed in Red’s subconscious. “But I can’t imagine a world without ’em,” Edmond said, quite grown-up.

  Red lowered his voice. “I think you’d better show me what you really brought me up to see, while there’s time.”

  The lad frowned, made straight for the back of the tallboy, where he retrieved a white envelope. He’d scribbled out the addressee’s name and the sender’s details, so that a cursory glance, should the letter be found, would not clock its illicit nature. “Here they are. But I still don’t know what you can really do with ’em. It’s all official and everything. It’d take a miracle to put things right.” He puffed his cheeks, sank backward onto the bed. “Bloody ’ell, I reckon. If I’d have only apologized like they wanted, none of this would’ve happened. None.”

  Red didn’t even look at its contents, instead placed the envelope inside his empty belt pouch. “Christmas is the time for miracles, lad. You just leave it to—” His knee joint buckled and collapsed him against the bed. His ribs hit the wooden bed frame. He winced out loud. Edmond sprang up to help him, but stopped short.

  “What’s this?” The boy picked something up from the carpet, and in a moment of panic Red checked the four smaller side pouches on his belt. Christ, if he’s got hold of—

  God Almighty! He has!

  ***

  Edmond tested the weight of the thing in his palm. It was heavier than its size, similar to a big marble, suggested. Round and copper, with two hinged silver rings that spun headlong around the sphere in opposite directions, it was like a broken version of Planet Saturn, whose rings, everyone knew, were flat and didn’t move. He spun the rings. Static energy began to creep and crackle across his palm.

  “I’ll take that, thanks.” Mr. Mulqueen snatched it up and stuffed it into one of his belt pouches, then fastened the stud. It bulged the leather slightly. Edmond noticed the three other side pouches also bulged. The urge to ask the old soldier what they were, why he was so protective of them, vanished when he saw the man’s intense scowl. He recoiled, felt he’d betrayed Mr. Mulqueen, abused his trust somehow.

  “I didn’t mean to find it. It just rolled out.”

  “No harm done, lad.” Mr. Mulqueen’s scowl didn’t lift, but at least he focused it on his clockwork joint instead. Clickety-click, click. He used the bed to support his rise. “It’s a little dangerous is all, and not what you’d expect. I’d rather you didn’t let on you’ve seen it. Is that all right?”

  “Perfectly.” And even more mysterious.

  “Good. That’s our new bargain then. Your discretion for my Admiral Hood intervention.”

  Wait a minute...“How did you guess I attended Admiral Hood? I didn’t mention it by name.”

  The old soldier glanced around the room, as if he hadn’t heard the question, or pretended he hadn’t.

  “Sir, did you get the school’s name from the letterhead?” Edmond knew he hadn’t—he’d not even opened the envelope, and Admiral Hood was not legible through the scribbled ink.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, that’s right. From the letterhead. What do you say we return to the living room, and that festive atmosphere? I’ve never seen that many presents for so few people. You’re sure to have a whale of a time tomorrow.”

  “What about you? Are there gifts at the emporium?”

  “I dare say, yes.”

  Two lies in two breaths. Who is he? What’s he really up to here in London?

  Downstairs, Mr. Mulqueen drank brandies and smoked cigars with Father. Mother steered the conversation away from politics, and instead talked about the intrepid Professor McEwan and his incredible subterranean discoveries, a hot topic in the newspapers right now. Edmond had read all about them in his latest copy of Explorers’ Weekly—the adult edition, mind you, not the junior—and probably knew more about them than all three grown-ups put together. Instead, he pretended to read H. Rider Haggard’s The People of the Mist on the dining table, glancing up occasionally at Mr. Mulqueen, who appeared more and more relaxed as the evening went on.

  Finally, the old soldier peered at the vintage chronometer clock in the display case and said, “Regretfully, it’s time for me to leave. My colleagues at the emporium will be waiting, and I don’t wish to intrude on your Christmas Eve any longer.”

  “Nonsense, old chap. You stay as long as you like. It’s a treat to have such an erudite guest, and after all, we wouldn’t have had a Christmas but for you. Will you not stay for another drink?”

  Mr. Mulqueen politely declined and, after a long, gentle gaze around the room, during which he seemed to soak up the homely ambience for the last time, took his leave. Father accompanied him to the door, while Edmond trailed, already eyeing his own hiking boots in the vestibule.

  “And this is for you.” Mother handed the old soldier a green Christmas package wrapped with a red bow, and kissed his cheek. His good eye misted. His bottom lip began to quiver. “It can never repay your kindness,” she said, “but I hope it reminds you that there is at least one place in the world where you’ll always be welcome. Merry Christmas, Red.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “And a merry Christmas to you...all of you. It’s cold out. I’ll not feel it, though—not now.” He held the present to his breast and gave Father a nod. “All the best, sir. Take care of them.”

  “And to you, Mulqueen. I hope we’ll meet again.”

  “Bye, Master Edmond.” He leaned past Father to get an obstructed view. He held it for a beat, then he turned and left.

  “Goodbye, sir,” Edmond shouted after him.

  And just like that, he was gone, the clack, click-click, clack of his gait disappearing behind the tall privet hedges that lined this end of Randsdell Avenue. Mother and Father held hands and kissed, then went back inside.

  That was the last they ever saw of Mr. Mulqueen.

  Chapter Six

  Ten to nine: fast approaching his bedtime. Alre
ady Mrs. Simpkins had caught a taxi home, and the neighbours’ merry-making, which had been so pronounced during the brandy and cigars, now gave little more than the odd hearty laugh or distant carol. While Mother and Father were upstairs, changing into their night attire, Edmond slipped out, dynamo lamp in hand, into a generous snowfall.

  Being out without permission didn’t faze him tonight; it wasn’t the first time he’d tried it on, and anyway he wouldn’t be gone all that long—just long enough to find out what Mr. Mulqueen and his veteran friends intended to do about their eviction. They were bound to make up their minds tonight, for tomorrow, Christmas Day, they would have to pack up and be out of the emporium by lunch. Edmond been privy to so much, he’d hung on every word; it would be a shame not to know at least a part of the outcome.

  He kept checking aloft for signs of the aerogypsy but the sky was thick with heavy snowflakes, and Mr. Mulqueen was likely already at the hangar by now. A tardy gaslighter, muffled to the gills and cursing aloud, criss-crossed Challenger Row, lighting the streetlamps there. This fresh layer of snow erased all but the newest hack tracks, while not a single steam vehicle braved the treacherous lanes. Happen news of the crash that morning had warned them against risking heavy machines on the ice.

  “Till England rises, true and green—aye, rich and true and green; Nor’ west, nor’ west, my maiden Queen, till England rises, green.” He repeated those lines from Ode to a Nor’ west Maidenhead, more for the tune than the words, and they kept him company until he reached Bishopsgate, where several couples inched along the pavements, arm-in-arm, slithering every few steps and objecting to the scarcity of cabs on a Christmas Eve.

  By the time he reached his destination, the streets were deserted and only one or two home lights were visible. It was very dark indeed down the side of the emporium building. Around the back, on the waterfront, it was almost pitch. He checked several times to make sure Parnell wasn’t hanging about, then he tiptoed into the darkness, using only his lamp to help pick his way under the bare ash branches on the other side of the fence. Up he climbed, and in he sneaked, through the gap in the roofing panel. A piece of torn clothing that hadn’t been there earlier—was it John’s or Saul’s?—was frozen stiff, along with a dash of blood on the steel panel’s sharp corner.

  The veterans were in fine fettle below, belting out an aeronautical shanty he hadn’t heard before. This time, the emporium was quite well-lit. A bright spotlight had been rigged over the entrance. It blazed its yellow beam at the giant Norway spruce tree, reflecting a multitude of red and green glints from glass decorations among the foliage. Edmond wondered who could possibly have affixed them there at such precarious heights—the tree reached over 180 feet high. The operation must have taken an entire day. He took his place on the scaffolding, a little higher this time so he wouldn’t be seen.

  “What time are you shooting off then, Red?” Reggie tucked his knees up against his chin.

  “In the early hours, most likely—before dawn.”

  “We’ll miss you, love.” Angharad re-draped her shawl over her shoulders as best she could manage with only one arm. “Back to Africa, is it?”

  “Afraid so. Back to spotless diamonds and muddy water. But hey, at least I got to see snow again.”

  “Too bleedin’ much o’ the stuff,” Reggie said.

  “So it was you all along.” Joe gazed at the still-smoking kiln as he held his mug in mid-air, half way to his lips. “Had to bring your foreign gripes home, didn’t you. Had to spread that filth now—couldn’t let us have just one Christmas in peace.”

  “Easy, Joe. You’re not exactly in with the Council cronies either. Red’s got it where it counts, you said so yourself. And sedition or not, that clockwork tower does want busting open, see what spills out.” Reggie spat onto the floor.

  Joe looked at Mr. Mulqueen. “There never was any record of you having served in the B.A.C. I made enquiries yesterday. Far as they’re aware, the only Mulqueens out in Africa are with the bridge-builders in Zululand. They never heard of an Ethelred Mulqueen.”

  Edmond’s brow ached from his constant frown, but now he managed an even deeper one.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, Joe, you’re wrong. I sailed from Africa three weeks ago, spent every penny I had in the crossing. Those letters I posted, they each have a specific purpose, but this mission, I’ll have you know, was entirely my own. No one sent me here to do anything. Let’s just say I’m privy to more than you as to what’s going on inside the Leviacrum and its council chambers. Here and in Benguela.”

  “You have to admit you’re a conundrum, though, Red, dear,” Angharad said. “I mean what you’re doing sounds rum ’n’ all that—no doubt you’ve got Scotland Yard chasing its tail—but it’s blasted odd the Admiralty thinks you’re a ghost, too. How do you account for that?”

  Mr. Mulqueen said nothing, sipped from his mug.

  Ghost? Ghost. Edmond couldn’t get the word out of his mind. Maybe Mother had read Dickens’s A Christmas Carol to him too many times, but under the magical coloured tree, it seemed oddly appropriate.

  “I wonder if Chorlton and McCabe got lucky,” Reggie said, eager to change the subject. “They picked a fine day for it, that’s for sure.”

  Angharad scoffed, then wiped a dribble of liquid from her chin. “Those two’ll be lucky if they find a hot water bottle willing to share a bed with ’em, Christmas or no. We’d best wait for them, though—tomorrow I mean. No matter what that fat article Parnell burbles, we owe it to old Chorlton and McCabe to keep ’em abreast of what’s happened.”

  “You think they’ll come with us?” Reggie asked.

  “Aye, I do,” Joe replied. “It was McCabe suggested the Roundhouse Circus a while back. Soon as the thick snow clears, they’ll reopen the market and the big acts. They’re bound to have something for us, even if they can’t pay us except with food and a roof.”

  “And at least I’ll know where to find you,” Mr. Mulqueen said without any real conviction. Everything Edmond had heard today—every half-truth, outright lie, cryptic hint—told him the old soldier was set to leave Britain and never return, that he’d done what he came here to do and Edmond would never see him again after tonight. The notion swelled an ache deep inside. He sensed that same ache in the others around the kiln.

  A flash from above made him think a lightning storm had arrived. He looked up to the long, thin window in the roof, directly over the silver star on the tip of the tree. Yellow light shone through the glass, blinding him. It was another spotlight, its beam flitting about like a fishing line in a choppy river. Then he saw something drop through the beam—a dark, flailing form.

  At the same time as he realized what it was and leapt to his feet, yelling the thought out, the glass shattered. Two people hit the upper branches with horrifying force. One screamed in pain on the spot where he—no, she­—had landed. Her voice could shatter glass on its own. The other fell through the foliage. Loud cracks, rustling, and the tinkering of smashed glass marked his descent. The body came to an abrupt stop about half way down. There it lay twisted and lifeless on an outstretched branch, its limbs dangling.

  When the woman’s screams faded atop the tree, angry wind howled through the hangar. Snow fell in swirls, while the yellow spotlight continued its crazy search from above.

  “Edmond! Come down here, boy! It’s not safe for you up there.” Mr. Mulqueen waved him down. Edmond felt the others watching. He concentrated on each sturdy rung, each wobbly step. It was all he could do to keep his mind off the shock and safely on terra firma.

  ***

  Young Edmond didn’t blink. His gaze didn’t rise above his own eye level as he approached his elderly friends. It was as though invisible reins held his pace to no more than a haunted jog. His eyes looked like they’d been lashed open. Red had never seen such a terrified expression on someone still able to move on his own.

  “What did you see up there?” Red held on to the lad’s needy embrace around his waist, and g
lanced up to the treetop and the roving airship beam.

  “Two fell. One stuck up there. I-I saw the other...b-break.”

  “It’s all right.” Angharad crouched to comfort Edmond, touched foreheads with him. “You’re safe with us, sunshine. We’ll figure out what to do. These eons of experience between us should come in handy for something. What do you say?”

  Lovely woman, thought Red. Flinty to a fault, but a real corker when the chips are down.

  “I saw...a woman land...on top. She screamed. I think she’s badly hurt.”

  “And the spotlight? Did you see it before or after the window smashed?”

  “B-before. It shone as they fell.”

  Angharad looked up at Red. “Sounds like it wasn’t an accident. They wouldn’t have had time to switch the spotlight on if someone had just fallen overboard. My guess is someone tried to desert, to climb down a rope or a line dangling from the ship. The spotlight was switched on to find out who it was—”

  “And they sent someone down after her,” he said.

  “And the rope broke,” they both finished together.

  Joe, having heard every word, now sprang to life, throwing his overcoat off and buttoning up his smart blue tunic. “We need to find out who that is up there—the woman and the airship. Angharad, take Edmond somewhere safe, somewhere close by but safe.”

  “Aye.”

  However unpalatable it felt to have the boy he’d gotten so close to wrenched away, Red knew old Joe was right. A decorated officer in the fusiliers, DiStepano possessed a decisive streak as firm as a second spine. Angharad rushed Edmond to the caretaker’s cabin under the scaffold, kicked the door in and ushered him inside. Good thinking.