Sometime around 9:00 a.m.
Inspector Hill winced as the bell over Coventry Street station rang and his assistant walked in, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Hill groaned and took a long sip of black coffee, a drink he didn’t care for much but would consume on occasion when he was trying to vanquish the effects of a particularly wicked bender. The previous night’s bender was all that and more, and the vanquishing wasn’t going well.
“Hello, Inspector. Top of the morning to ya,’” Foster practically sang at the top of his lungs as he entered his shared office with Thomas, removing his coat and hanging it on a hook behind the door. He plopped into his chair and propped his feet on the desk with a noise that both sounded and felt like thunderclaps booming inside Hill’s head. A grunt was all he received in reply.
“Blimey, you look like stepped in horse manure.”
“Thank you, Foster. You are most helpful,” Thomas mumbled.
“Late night, eh?” John smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Musta been a good ’un.”
“That’s one way to put it.” Inspector Hill grunted and placed his head in his hands.
“Another way ta put it is that you went out and got yerself trolleyed.”
Foster drummed his hands on the desk, his grin growing even wider. Foster, notorious among the force for being able to drink anyone under the table, had rarely seen the inspector take so much as a sip. Now the man was looked as if he had the plague, cholera, and scarlet fever all rolled into one. “How in tha’ hell did this happen? And how in tha’ hell did I miss it? I been tryin’ to get you to loosen up fer years.”
“A friend was in a bad way last night.” Hill groaned, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, hoping he could somehow will the pounding in his head to stop. “He needed someone to commiserate with. We might have gone a tad overboard.”
“I’ll say,” replied Foster. “You know you coulda taken the morning off. People sometimes do that.”
“With a killer on the streets?” Hill asked, seeming to gain a little strength at the mention of their current case. “I think not.”
“Well, you’ll be glad you’re here then, even if you are operating at less-than-full capacity,” said John. “You won’t believe what Zacharias told me.”
Thomas’ eyes became fully clear and he sat up, forcing the crashing cymbals in his head to a back corner of his mind while he focused completely on his assistant.
“Do tell.” He pushed the words out past a scratchy throat.
“Zach thinks the hearts are part of a plan to make Archimedes Tesla immortal.”
Hill dropped his face back into his hands. “Mr. Foster, are you pulling my leg?” He groaned from behind his fingers.
“I know it sounds a bit daft, but hear me out.”
“A bit daft?” cried Thomas, raising his head, the light from their office window bringing the cymbals painfully back into the forefront of his head. “A bit daft? I can just hear my report now. Uh, yes, Chief Inspector, of course we solved the murders. Turns out it was Archimedes Tesla the whole time. He was playing Frankenstein with a couple of whores! Have you lost your mind, Foster?”
John chuckled. He was still imagining the kind of night the Inspector must have had to put the incorrigible man in such a state.
“Listen, Thom, I’m not saying that’s what’s going on. It’s a crazy theory, even for Zacharias. But I am saying those mechanics are a weird lot. I told ya before—off their rockers. They’re the ones missing a few marbles, not me.”
“Well, did you friend Zacharias have any proof of this outlandish theory?” asked Thomas.
“Ah course not. Somethin’ like that only the uppity-ups would know about. Like I said, it was a theory. But he’s on to somethin’, you mark my words.”
“How, Foster? How on god’s green earth could you believe something like this?”
“Have you ever been to the Smoking Dragon?” asked John.
“Of course not,” said Hill, with a look of incredulity on his face. “It’s mechanic’s only.”
“Ask yourself, Inspector, why would the mechanics need their own pub? Why can’t they just drink with the rest of us?”
“I don’t know. They keep to themselves, don’t they?”
“That they do,” responded Foster. “But it’s more than that. You should have seen the stink eye they were givin’ me when I walked in last night. Wouldn’t even serve me ‘til Zach got there. Plus, they was talkin’ about their inventions and such, but real secret-like. And did you know they call Tesla the Master?”
“Can’t say I did,” said Hill.
“And they kept turning their back on me, like I was some sorta leper.”
“Your point?” responded Thomas.
“Why would they be that secretive if they wasn’t up to no good?”
“I don’t know, Foster. Perhaps they just don’t want anyone to steal their ideas.”
“Like who? Do you know any inventors that aren’t in the mechanic’s guild?”
“Well, I guess not,” admitted Hill.
“Zach also said that those mechanics that go spillin’ guild secrets, well, they end up disappearin’ under mysterious circumstances.”
“What mysterious circumstances?” asked Hill, now growing impatient.
“Could be anything, couldn’t it? Maybe a crystal blows up in his face or a crawler slips out of gear and rolls over him. Who knows?
“All sorts of things could go wrong with the machinery they work with. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“What better way to cover it up if ya want someone eliminated?” Foster pressed.
“Be that as it may, that still leaves the question of proof. And I’m not nearly as concerned with missing mechanics as I am with the two dead women in our morgue.”
“I thought ya might be a bit skeptical, so I asked him to meet with us both. When you talk to him face to face, you’ll realize somethin’s going on. I looked into the man’s eyes, Thomas. There was real fear there. Somethin’s happenin’ at that guild that’s got ’im spooked.”
“Certainly wouldn’t hurt to meet him, I suppose. When is he coming in?
“Oh, he’d never set foot in a police station. I told ya he don’t have the best relationship wit’ the Yard. We have to meet him somewhere. I suggested the Lady of the Lake in Chelsea tomorrow night. It’s across town from Islington, much less chance of him being recognized.
“Good thinking, John. Your intimate knowledge of our city’s drinking establishments comes in handy once again. By the way, why aren’t you knackered this morning? If you were out late at the Smoking Dragon, I assume you partook of your own libations.”
“Ha,” barked Foster. “Nothin’ in that place was fit for an alley cat to drink. The stuff was boilin’ and bubblin’. Looked more like witches’ brew than alcohol. Some of it was actually ’ah fire. No, I let my drink fizzle out and get cold on the table, then I went home stone sober. Good thing, now that I’ve seen you. Someone’s gotta do the policin’ around here.”
Inspector Hill’s retort was interrupted as the bell above the door to the police station rang. Thomas winced but was relieved to notice the cymbals in his head had now reduced themselves to only discordant piano keys. He poked his head out into the hall and saw the impeccably dressed form of Dr. Jackson Elliot stooping to enter the station.
“Look, it’s my partner in crime from last night’s enjoyable evening,” said Hill as he rose and went into the foyer. “John Foster, meet my friend Dr. Jackson Elliot. Elliot, my assistant, Mr. John Foster.”
“Pleased,” said Jackson extending a hand. “I’ve heard much about you. I’m terribly sorry I’m just now meeting you.”
“Likewise,” said Foster shaking the offered hand. Foster, used to being the tallest person in the room, was actually eye level with Jackson. Though both men were well-muscled, Jackson was built like a lean gazelle, in sharp contrast to Foster, who looked as if he might be fashioned after a silverback gorilla. In the single word spoken by John Foster, Elliot recognized a West London accent. Instantly, Jackson knew that Foster was a man with whom he would have much in common, including, most likely, a shared childhood experience, fighting for survival in the city’s poorest district. Men with those kinds of backgrounds recognize the look in other men, a kind of unconscious hardness that cannot be softened, no matter how far removed from the past one gets.
“You must get ’round to our Tuesday night dart game, Mr. Foster,” said Dr. Elliot sincerely. “Do you play?”
“I dabble,” replied John.
“Don’t let him fool you, Jackson. He may look like a lummox, but the man can clip a fly’s wings with a dart at forty paces,” said Thomas. “Why do you think I’ve never invited him to our game? Anyway, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? And how the hell are you walking upright? After last night, I honestly didn’t think you would see anything but the back of your eyelids today. Not a hair out of place, no dark circles under your eyes, you devil. You look fit as a fiddle.”
“Ah, well, being a doctor does have its perks sometimes,” said Jackson. “There’s an amazing new drug being circulated amongst the medical community called aspirin. Still in the testing phase at the moment, but I happen to know a fellow. The stuff works wonders, knocks the headaches right out. And as to why I’m here, well, you obviously don’t remember inviting me.”
Foster laughed out loud. “This keeps getting better,” he said.
Hill too had to laugh at himself. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Why did I invite you?” he asked Elliot.
“Your case, of course. You wanted me to take a look at these funny heart contraptions, from a surgical point of view. You really don’t remember.”
John broke into a full-on belly laugh. “And talking to civilians about confidential cases, as well.” He chortled. “This is too much.”
Hill looked sheepish. “I’m glad my malfeasance amuses you, Foster.” He paused, considering the prospect. “But I’m sorry, Jack, I don’t remember that at all.”
“Well, none of us were at our best last night, I’m afraid. I don’t mean to cause any trouble. I can be off.”
“Now, wait a beat there, Dr. Elliot,” interrupted Foster. He turned to Thomas. “Perhaps we could let the doc take a peek. He is a surgeon after all. I’d bet my bowler that whoever is doing this also has a bit ’a medical knowledge ’a their own. It can’t hurt, could it? It might piss Quincy off a bit, havin’ another doctor around second guessing him, but that’s just icin’ on the cake as far as I’m concerned.”
Thomas thoughtfully rubbed the five o’clock shadow that he hadn’t had the time or inclination to remove this morning before dragging himself into work. “That actually wouldn’t be a bad idea. If you don’t mind, of course, Jack.”
Jackson spread his arms out wide. “I’m here,” he replied. “And it was your idea to begin with, even if you can’t remember it,” he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
“Great,” replied the inspector expressionless. “That’s all I need, another wise guy in the station.”
Foster and Elliot chuckled as they followed Hill through the door that led down to the basement morgue.
A few minutes later, Dr. Elliot stood over the body of a young woman, staring down into her chest cavity. All three were silent as the doctor examined the mechanical device still lodged in the woman’s chest.
“Remarkable.” Jackson breathed at last. “This took some real skill.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hill.
“Well, look how those veins and arteries are attached. It’s almost seamless, as if the device were custom-made to fit her. It’s hard to tell where the flesh ends and the artificial rubber tubing begins. Whoever’s done this must have a very intimate knowledge of the human body. I have to confess I’m a bit envious of your murderer’s skill with a scalpel.”
“Do you know anyone who might be capable of it?” said Thom.
“No one jumps immediately to mind. Maybe only one of my old instructors at the college would have the skill to do it, and they are the best, well, they fancy themselves the best, at any rate. Some of them still have a good measure of skill. It’s my opinion, gentlemen, that you are dealing with a very limited pool of potential suspects. There’s only a handful of surgeons in London to begin with. Of those, maybe only the top one or two might, might, be able to do something like that.”
“That does narrow down our list of suspects, boss,” said Foster. “What are their names?”
“Clarence Evans, he’s the top man for sure. He’s probably performed more surgeries than any other doctor in the city, complex stuff too. Amputations, arterial transplants, colon operations. After that, you might try—”
“Wait,” interrupted Hill. “Did you say arterial transplants? What’s that?”
“Blocked arteries. They can be replaced, preventing attacks of the heart. We use pig arteries.”
“You can do that?” asked Thomas.
Jackson chuckled. “I can’t do it. Not yet, anyway. When I say we, I mean the medical community at large. Dr. Evans can do it. Dr. Frederick Vincent probably could—he’s the other man who might have the skill to do something like this—though I don’t think he’d be interested in this sort of thing. I’m hoping to learn at some point myself after I’ve gotten a bit more experience under my belt.”
“Amazing,” said Hill. “But why wouldn’t Dr. Vincent be interested?
Jackson chuckled. “He’s just a bit too … pragmatic, I guess you could say. He’s not going to be bothered to do anything that doesn’t directly benefit his own pocketbook.”
“What about a mechanic?” blurted Foster.
“Excuse me?” said Elliot.
“Do you think a mechanic could do somethin’ like this?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,” replied Jackson. “I don’t know too many mechanics. But why do you ask?”
“We might have some leads that point to the guild,” offered Hill. “And this.” He retrieved the first mechanical heart from a shelf. “This is the device that was removed from the original victim. Come here.” Thomas removed the front flap of the device and walked to the east wall, placing the heart under the stream of morning light filtering in through the high window. Jackson followed and bent down to the contraption looking closely, noticing the refractions of pink light.
“Flux crystals,” said Elliot.
“Exactly,” said Hill. “Whoever’s made this thing must be able to cut the crystals. And that’s no easy feat.”
“And, no offense, doc,” offered Foster, “but cuttin’ those bloody rocks is a bit trickier, in my opinion, than sewin’ someun’ up. You mess up, someone bites it. They mess up, a lot of people could take a dirt nap.”
“None taken, assistant inspector. And I can’t say that I disagree terribly. The mechanics are masters over machines. Their creations are astounding. We doctors are far from masters of the human body. It’s the most complex machine of all, and we are just beginning to uncover its secrets.”
“Nevertheless,” said Hill, “Foster and I will pay a visit to the two surgeons you mentioned. In the meantime, if you think of anything else that might help us, please let me know.”
“Absolutely. I’ll check my medical books for something this evening. Not sure what I might find, but those books are written by some of the best minds in the medical community. I’ll be working in my laboratory tomorrow morning. Perhaps you could swing by if you have the time.”
“I’ll make time,” said Hill.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Dr. Elliot. “I’m due at the welfare clinic shortly, so I must be off. Before I go, however…Thomas, how is your sister? I feel terrible about our conversation yesterday.”
Thomas burst into a short laugh. “You should have heard the tongue lashing she gave me with my poached egg this morning. I thought the devil himself was in our dining room. Nearly split my head in two, the state I was in. And yes, your name did come up. I don’t think it’s quite safe for you to call on her just yet. She called me every name she could think of. And that was nothing compared to what she was saying about you. Pompous ass … that was the nicest thing she said. It got worse from there.”
“She never did like it when we drank,” said Jackson.
“Apparently,” said Inspector Hill, “her sentiments on that subject have not changed.”
Archimedes Tesla sat in his opulent office atop the enormous mechanic’s guild, listening to the constant background noises coming up from the floors below. The droning of bellows, the whoosh of steam-powered machinery, and repetitive ringing of anvils were a constant refrain anywhere in the entire building. Whereas most people heard a cacophony of noise, Archimedes heard Beethoven’s Eighth. Giant glass windows stood behind his desk so he could look down on the main floor of the warehouse and observe his mechanics going about their various experiments. Tesla pushed his wild mane of stark white hair back from his tired eyes and peered down to the shop floor. Two mechanics were trying in vain to attach a harness, affixed with a high-powered crystal laser, to the back of a German shepherd. A good idea, perhaps, but the dog was not cooperating. The old man turned in his chair when someone knocked on his office door.
“Enter,” commanded Tesla.
The door opened and in walked Mr. Tesla’s most loyal mechanic, George Watt. He was slightly over six and a half feet tall and slender as a pole. Despite his narrowness, he was not unattractive. He had a straight nose framed by hard, piercing blue eyes. He kept his face shaved smooth, his only blemish a faded scar on his left cheek—a scar he’d received while working in the very shop that Tesla had just been observing. The visitor’s lips were thin, his mouth turning neither up nor down. He wore gray tweed trousers and a vest under a brown leather work apron.
“Ah, Mr. Watt, you have good news to report, I hope,” said Tesla as he motioned to a pair of chairs opposite his desk. The newcomer sat unceremoniously, his knees jutting outward, clasping his hands in front of him.
“Mixed, I’m afraid, Master Tesla,” responded Watt. “The test—”
“Hold on,” interrupted Tesla. He pulled a brown cigar from his desk and stared it. Slowly, he held it under his nose and inhaled the scent. The aged scientist then retrieved a brass cigar cutter from another desk drawer and took his time snipping the end of the cigar before he lit it and puffed small circles of blue smoke into the air around him. “Now, the bad news first, George. Let’s have it.”
“Well,” the slender man began, “none of the test subjects have responded well to any of the mechanical organs. It seems the components are too small, too fragile. The power of the crystals is too great. None of the subjects are yet to survive an implantation. The results have been catastrophic.”
“What do you mean catastrophic?” Archimedes asked, his brow furrowing, showing the deep horizontal age lines etched into his forehead.
George swallowed thickly before answering. “I mean the organs are being blown out of the subjects’ bodies, sir. It’s quite … gruesome, I’m afraid.
“Bollocks!” Archimedes swore. “What’s the good news then?”
“The good news is we’ve finally completed the body and the circuitry for the machine. We’ve been able to force it to fire on command … using steam power, of course. We could, if Project Alloy doesn’t pan out of course, retrofit the parts to walkers, or dirigibles, or some other sort of delivery system.”
Tesla sat his cigar down and stroked his long white beard. “Other delivery system?” he questioned. “Other delivery systems,” he said louder. “There are no other delivery systems!” He slammed his fist on the table and rose to his feet. “Don’t you get it, Watt? Lord Grey and Queen Victoria will not accept failure on this one. War with the Americas is inevitable. We were only able to hold them off in 1776 because of my lasers. You can’t know how close they came to declaring their independence. But the colonists knew they would have been destroyed if they had tried to secede from the Empire. Our machines are just too devastating. It’s only a matter of time, however, before they develop their own lasers. Then what? We cannot defeat them on their own turf if they have equal firepower. We would be forced to lose all the resources in America. Victoria will not let that happen.”
“But they don’t have crystals, sir.”
“Not yet, no. But it’s a big world out there, George. I’m not willing to gamble that India is the only place on earth the flux crystal might be found. Hell, America itself is huge. Miles and miles of land. I’ve been there, Watt. You can’t even imagine it. The colonists haven’t begun to explore it all. Last I checked, very few had even made it past that giant, muddy Mississippi River or whatever the blazes they call it. What if one of them ambles over a mountain one day and trips over a load of shiny rocks?”
“But surely, other weapons would be suitable,” protested Watt timidly. “The dirigible, for example. Death from above.”
“The dirigible?” roared Tesla. “Have you found a crystal that cranks out enough power to fly one of those things across the Atlantic? No? I didn’t think so.”
“What about our walkers?” retorted Watt.
“Can a walker think for itself? Can a submarine take prisoners? Or fight in formation? No, only a human can do that. But humans are too weak. They get tired, hungry, their feet develop gangrene, they get shot, they bleed out. Imagine, Watt, a fighting force that never tires, that never stops, that never dies until its enemies are totally obliterated. But these aren’t just mindless machines, oh no. Something vastly superior. Machines with the hearts and minds of men. Hearts and minds bent on serving the empire above all else. That is what Lord Grey wants, and that is what we are going to give him. All other projects are secondary until we can show Grey some results. Are we clear on that, Watt?”
“Yes, Master. I’ve got my best men on it. I will not rest until we can deliver a working prototype,” said the slender man as he rose to his feet.
“See that you don’t.” Tesla growled and turned back to his window, muttering something under his breath about the incompetence of subordinates.
Watt cursed under his breath as he closed the door behind him. He was sick of his brilliance going unrecognized. He’d made more contributions to the guild than any of these other so-called mechanics. They couldn’t hold a fluttering candle to his cognitive abilities. Most of them were intellectual ants compared to him, and the others only cockroaches, including that overrated Tesla. How many years had Watt faithfully served that miserable old bastard? Twenty-five years, and what did he have to show for it? Nothing but disrespect and empty threats. Tesla didn’t see him as an equal, even though he, Watt, had worked on the flux lasers with that conniving Tesla all those years ago. It could have just as easily been Watt that had gotten credit for the work. He could be the one in charge right now, and he’d be doing a damn site better than Tesla at running the place. It was time England recognized who the true genius behind the mechanic’s guild was. He would get the heart working, and he didn’t care how much blood he had to spill to do it. The disgusting work he was doing, the work he had to do under the cover of darkness, was unpleasant, for certain. But it was a paltry sacrifice for the glory to come. And when he got the automatons up and running with their newly installed mechanical hearts, unceasingly marching to the beat of unrestrained flux crystal power, all of London would find out who the real genius was. They would all know then—Tesla, Queen Victoria, Lord Grey, every one of them would tremble when they heard the name George Watt.