Hounds of Autumn (6 page)

Chapter 8

C
hloe strolled down Farnbridge’s main
street, allowing Giles plenty of time to take in his surroundings and follow. The more of the world he was exposed to, the more situational decision options he would develop, and the more autonomous he would become. He batted at fallen leaves and poked his nose along the base of each door as he trailed her.

The people they passed gave Giles a wide berth and a few people murmured to their companions. He never drew this sort of attention in London, but then the city was crawling with the strange and the cosmopolitan. It was probably good for the country folk to get a taste of something different than their grocer’s stacking mechanical or their butcher’s meat wrapper.

They were approaching the police station where a constable rested on a bench, smoking. Chloe did not recognize him as either of the two constables she had seen with Camille’s body. Small blessing. He eyed Giles and, once Chloe was within speaking distance, he rose, touched the brim of his domed hat and bid her good morning.

“May I ask you about your little, er, animal?”

“It’s a cat. A mechanical cat.”

“Yes, mum. May we take a look at it?”

Chloe did not know who else was included in his “we,” but she called to Giles. He swiveled his ears at her and trotted over. The constable squatted but pulled his hand back when Giles opened his mouth with a metallic “Brrr?”

“You can touch him if you like. It won’t damage him.”

The constable scowled. “This is the same one from the airship, is it not? Got at some lady’s hat yesterday?”

Chloe flushed. “Yes. But he’s not dangerous. It was the only time he’s ever done something like that. And he’s been fine ever since. I recently upgraded his electro-neural systems back at home. That’s in London. Unfortunately, the data storage system in his decision engine was partially destroyed. He did not lose an excessive amount of information. But the only way for him to reintegrate information is for him to be out in the world. I try to keep him out, so he’ll learn faster, you see. He can learn, in a way. He’s just a baby.”

The man looked doubtful, but he touched Giles’ back with two fingers. “You bought him in London?”

“No, I built him.”

“You mean you ordered him, from a shop? Picked out his this cloth cover and all?”

Heaven above, the man was obtuse. “No, I built him. Myself. Out of parts.” Why was it so unimaginable that a female could design something like Giles? She and Camille couldn’t be the only tinkering women in the world.

“I’m sure you don’t know this, mum. But the sergeant is deciding whether all incoming mechanicals need to be inspected and potentially confiscated.”

“Confiscated? Whatever for?”

“There have been problems. Mechanicals can be dangerous.”

“It was only a hat,” she said. Then she thought of the prints in the mud near Camille’s body. “Is this about Mrs. Granger’s hound?”

He looked at her in shock and rose. “Now how would you be knowing that?”

“Camille Granger was a friend of mine. As we were coming into town yesterday, we saw her body.”

“And you know about her hound?”

She nodded. “The design of the hound is very similar to that of my cat. There’s no way it could have harmed her.”

“Then you know how the hound works?”

“Partially. I’ve seen a few drawings, but I really can’t say.”

“I think the inspector would like to speak with you, if that is acceptable, mum. Do you think you could give us your address? He could perhaps call on you or …”

The poor man was at a loss. An inspector could call upon a lady, but the Aynesworth family would certainly not thank him for it.

“I can see him now,” Chloe said.

The constable was relieved and led her into the dark of the police office. A thin young man was bent over a stack of folders at a paper-strewn desk. He looked up at the constable and nodded a greeting.

“Is Inspector Lockton still here?” asked the constable.

“In his office.” The young man jerked his head.

The constable asked Chloe to wait by the desk as he went back. She spent the time reading the notices pinned to the bulletin board on the wall. Some were so old that the paper had yellowed and the ink had faded to a dusky blue. Most were for stolen articles, like an ivory and jet chess set or household silver. One had the name of a missing girl, aged seventeen, who was last seen in the company of a nineteen-year-old man. Not much of a mystery there, she thought.

A man emerged from the doorway. He was short and round, with a few age spots on his balding scalp. He introduced himself as Inspector Lockton and eyed Giles.

“Constable Jackson says you made this.” He motioned to Giles who was nosing around the base of the desk.

“That’s right.”

“And you were friends with Mrs. Granger?”

“Yes. My husband and I are staying with the Aynesworths, his family. And I had planned on calling on Mrs. Granger while we were here.”

“Do you know how the hound works?”

“I have an idea, but the hound is a lot more complex than Giles.”

“Giles?”

“My cat.”

“I see. Please come back to my office.”

He led her down a hall and opened the door to his office, holding it open for her. It was tidy nearly to the point of obsession. Books were stacked along the shelves according to size and five new pencils poked, points up, over the top of a cup on the corner of the desk. One corner of the room was filled with boxes and another corner housed multiple filing cabinets. Though the room was filled, it had an odd, impersonal feel to it.

He motioned for her to take a seat, and she took one of two slat-backed chairs facing the desk. A file lay open on the blotter, which Inspector Lockton closed and slipped into a desk drawer. He seated himself and pulled out a different file but did not open it.

“Tell me about the hound. Do you know where it might be?”

“Does this mean your men have been unable to locate it?”

“It seems to have vanished. Now please, what do you know about the creature?”

“I know it couldn’t have killed Camille Granger. It’s similar to Giles, and he’s harmless. Even with the size difference, there’s no way it could kill someone.”

“I heard it can think.”

“It has a decision engine. Like my cat, it can retain information and learn in a fashion. But it’s not possible for it to decide to—” she paused, “crush someone’s skull.”

The inspector’s eyes widened ever so slightly at hearing a lady speak in this manner. She held his gaze.

“So how does this decision engine work?”

“Would you like me to show you?” At his nod, she pulled Giles up onto the desk and turned him off. After the young man at the front desk was summoned to locate a suitably small screwdriver, she pulled back the velvet fur and removed a few cover panels to show the inspector the cat’s innards.

“With an ordinary household mechanical, there are spools that are wound and re-wound to allow it to perform a set of tasks. Very simple. But with this,” she indicated the decision engine, “he can absorb and retain information, recorded on extra sets of spools.”

“So it can think.”

“Only in a very rudimentary fashion.”

He asked her a few questions about the mainspring barrel and strange tangles of wiring, before seeming to come to a decision. He opened the file folder and handed her a few of the sheets within.

She sucked in a breath. This was it. These were the schematics for the hound. She pored over them, though there were only two sheets. She noted with disappointment that the most complex and therefore intriguing sections were not detailed here. Even so, there was plenty to discover. Her friend’s gracefully curved script covered the page, crammed into corners and creeping up the margins.

Someone had killed her, but it wasn’t the hound. Chloe was sure of it.

The inspector waited, hands folded, and when she continued to study the pages, he asked her if she knew how it worked. She tore her eyes from the pages with difficulty.

“Yes, yes,” she explained some of the diagrams, and though he nodded, she was fairly sure that he did not understand.

“What I am certain of,” she said, “is that this creature could not have killed Camille. See? Its center of gravity is too far forward for it to get high enough to bash a human in the head. It would topple forward.”

“It could have stood on its hind legs, even for a few moments, or waited until she had bent down,” he said.

“Unlikely. How could it grab something, rear up and hit her with it? Even if it managed such a feat of balance and coordination, it makes no sense. What motivation could it have to kill?”

“It could have gone mad and become violent.”

“Impossible.”

“Like your cat attacking that woman yesterday?”

Chloe sighed in exasperation, “It has no opposable thumbs, so it couldn’t grasp anything. And even if it was able to, look at the shoulder and knee joint shapes and musculature bands. There’s no way it could generate the power or have the range of motion to smash a skull.”

He sat back. “You helped her build it, you said?”

“No, Camille was the builder. She shared some information with me, but I had intended our visit, in part, to learn all I could about her hound. Giles is less complex, and I couldn’t have built him without Camille’s contributions. She’s a far more gifted inventor than I am.”

He was studying her, perhaps looking to detect a bit of false modesty. But she knew exactly where she stood in relation to Camille Granger’s talents.

“The world has lost a great mind,” she said.

“Indeed,” said Inspector Lockton. “And that mind may have spawned a dangerous creature.”

“I am telling you, it is completely impossible.”

“Please think it over, Mrs. Sullivan. If you think of anything you would like to add, please contact me.”

He rose to indicate that their interview was at an end. He thanked her and allowed her to reassemble Giles at his desk while he sorted through files in boxes. Then he escorted her out the front door. She continued down the street, spotting the carriage, steamcycle and her husband outside the chocolate shop. She raised her hand in a wave and lifted her skirts to cross the street.

Chapter 9

O
n the morning of Camille’s
funeral, Chloe put on the gray dress and black shawl that Miss Haynes had selected for her. Chloe grabbed her small reticule and took Ambrose’s arm at the front door. Outside, three carriages awaited, the matched pairs of horses tossing their heads. Liveried footmen held the carriage doors and the family climbed inside. Alexander, Beatrice and Mrs. Malone sat across from Chloe and Ambrose.

Mrs. Malone rested her elephant-headed cane against the side of the carriage and folded her hands in her lap. She and Beatrice spoke softly together. Beatrice’s plain hat sported one spot of color—the tiny mechanical robin that Chloe had repaired. It was not moving, and Chloe hoped to heaven that Beatrice had not brought the key in her handbag. To have the little bird bobbing and twittering at a funeral would be inappropriate in the extreme.

The carriage lurched forward, the horses’ hooves crunching rhythmically on the gravel drive. Once they emerged on the main road, the row of carriages turned away from the direction of town. The sun shone white through the morning mist that swirled up from the damp earth and a soft wind rustled through the moor grass.

After a twenty-minute ride, the carriages stopped in front of the Granger house, a two-story home that was respectably opulent without being ostentatious. Bright clay pots brimming with asters, pansies, irises and other flowers in reds, yellows, blues and whites lined the walkway to the front door.

“How could these plants grow in this season and climate?” said Ambrose, leaning over a lush pot of white crocus.

“Mrs. Granger had a greenhouse, a large one,” said Robert. “She loved exotic plants and even ordinary ones. She let me go see them if our family came to visit. She had the servants bring some of them out in wheelbarrows each day and bring them in at night.”

“One of her little eccentricities,” said Dora. “She spent hours in the greenhouse, pulling off dead leaves, watering them, just looking at them. It was servant work, but she liked it. The only thing she loved more was tinkering with her little machines.” She turned away to pull a handkerchief from her bag and dab her eyes. Alexander put his hand on his sister’s shoulder.

“One of the servants must be keeping the flowers alive. Mr. Granger didn’t much care for them,” said Robert, stooping to finger a pot of blue trailing bellflower.

Chloe hadn’t known about Camille’s love of plants. Her friend had mentioned the greenhouse, and even mentioned some of the plants that she particularly liked. Their letters had centered on mechanics and Chloe had never realized just how much her friend had liked growing things. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ambrose studying her, gauging her emotional state. He offered his arm and she took it, biting back the tightness in the back of her throat.

They moved with the line of mourners into the house. They passed the stately portraits and the crepe-covered mirror in the hallway. The parlor clock was stopped, and the room was filled with flowers and mourners. Chloe glanced around to see if she could recognize any of the wealthier people she had seen at church. She spotted a group of them to one side, though the majority of the people were common townsfolk. They formed a slow-moving line past the walnut coffin.

As they approached the coffin, Chloe pulled back. She could not bear to see her friend again. Ambrose let her stop and then moved gently forward, his hand on hers.

Camille Granger had been transformed. The dirt had been washed from her skin and hair, which was wheat-gold and arranged in pleasing curls. Her head rested on a pale blue satin pillow, surrounded by a wreath of peonies, possibly to disguise her injury. Loosely clasped in her hands was a single white lily, perhaps from her own greenhouse. Her eyes were no longer open and encrusted with mud, but were closed as if in sleep. But she did not look asleep, not really.

Chloe’s vision blurred with tears as she bent down to brush a kiss on Camille’s forehead. Ambrose pressed a handkerchief into her hand. The push of the crowd moved them into an adjoining room where other mourners were sharing cucumber sandwiches, pastries and hot tea.

When Ambrose left her to fetch refreshments, Dora approached. “I was hoping to speak with you alone.”

Chloe nodded, cautiously.

“I’m sorry if our words hurt your feelings the other night at supper. My father was furious with me, and said I ought to apologize.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Chloe. “It’s forgotten. I know that the difference in ages between Ambrose and I may seem strange.”

“Not so strange, no. Many widowers marry younger women.” Dora sipped her tea and looked into the crowd. “Marie was a bit younger than Uncle Ambrose. I think by ten years or so.”

Marie, Ambrose’s first wife, had died while giving birth to their firstborn, a son. The infant had not survived. Chloe knew that after Marie’s death, Ambrose had descended into a darkness so complete that his friends thought he might follow Marie and the child to the grave. It was Chloe’s father who dragged Ambrose from the opium dens and paid for his stay at a sanitarium in the country.

When Ambrose had first proposed marriage to her, Chloe was certain he only did it in repayment to her father for his past kindness. Why else would a man of fortune and intelligence make an offer to an eccentric spinster? Later, she had accepted his offer. Their marriage was not a great romance, but she thought of it as quite a pleasant partnership.

She knew that Ambrose was content as well. Even so, on occasion he would see a petite brunette or a little boy and get a faraway look. She would take his hand or ask about a bird or plant, and once she got him talking, he would be himself again.

“Marie was a good person,” said Dora. “Gentle and quiet. A bit like Beatrice.”

Chloe had been anything but gentle and quiet the other night. Or on the airship. His first wife had been all sweetness and propriety, painting silk screens and embroidering samplers, decorating their home in pleasant fabrics and colors. When Chloe had taken over the household, she had done nothing more than instruct the housekeeper to do things the way they had always been done.

Chloe made eye contact with Ambrose across the room and he smiled and lifted the cups of tea and large slice of Battenberg cake that he had balanced on a plate. They found a set of chairs, and Chloe picked at the cake.

People around her were chatting amiably, plates heaped with pastries. One woman wrapped a teacake in a cloth napkin and snuck it into her handbag. Another was chatting with her husband about the finery of the house. Chloe scanned the crowd for anyone who looked saddened by Camille’s death. Boys dashed past the window outside. Nearby, a man laughed uproariously and his companion fanned herself with her hand, her cheeks pink. It looked like most of the mourners had come out of curiosity. Unless they were from a few select families, it wasn’t often that they would get a chance to see the interior of one of the area’s finest houses. And courtesy would prevent the master of the house from throwing them out for anything less than the most egregious behavior.

It was appalling that Camille’s funeral would be treated in such a way. Chloe felt a hot surge of anger, wondering if Camille’s killer were here somewhere, stuffing his face with cake.

At the far end of the room stood a stocky man, with ruddy skin and thinning blond and gray hair. With his thick beard, he looked like an aging Viking, grown fat and soft with age. Make that a disagreeable, aging Viking, Chloe thought. He was scowling at the guests.

Robert seated himself beside her and, following her gaze, said, “That’s Mr. Granger.”

Mr. Granger seemed to be looking over the crowd with the same scrutiny as Chloe. His gaze caught on the refreshment table for a few moments, then he suddenly turned and vanished through the door.

“Would you like to see the greenhouse?” Robert asked, looking at both Chloe and Ambrose.

“I don’t think we ought to,” said Ambrose and looked at the door through which Mr. Granger had passed.

“I’m sure it’s all right,” said Robert. “There are some other guests outside, wandering the grounds. And we still have half an hour until we leave for the church.”

“I’ll go,” said Chloe. She needed to get away from the people and the festive atmosphere. The plants may not miss Camille, but they wouldn’t be celebrating her death either. Ambrose asked about the plants, and after Robert told him that the greenhouse was filled with only ordinary plants and had nothing exotic, he declined to join them. Robert and Chloe passed into the hallway, and out a pair of double French doors. The air outdoors was chilly, and a bit of wind whipped Chloe’s skirts.

“Over there,” said Robert, hurrying toward the large greenhouse at the edge of the grounds. He had been correct about a few souls walking through the garden, but no one appeared to be inside the greenhouse. Perhaps they shouldn’t go, Chloe thought. She despised the idea of being one of the guests who acted as if this were a garden party. But Robert was so eager, and with others wandering around, she hoped no one would mind. Robert held the door and they entered the greenhouse together.

The warm humidity of the interior was a comfort after the cold outside. Moisture beaded on the windows and the air was thick with the scent of wet soil, mulch and growing things.

“I like to come here when we visit the Grangers,” Robert said. “The people are pleasant enough. But it’s so quiet here.” She could tell he was more relaxed in this place than among people.

“The plants are indeed quiet,” she said, leaning over a miniature pink rose.

“I think I’d like a greenhouse like this someday.”

They spent a quarter of an hour examining the plants, noting which were sprouting and the very few in need of repotting.

“I think I’m going to go back inside,” said Chloe.

“I’ll be inside in ten minutes.”

As Chloe rounded the greenhouse to go back inside, she discovered an aging mechanical parked under a potting bench. It looked like an older model garden mechanical. You could load it up with soil and pots and it would follow you around the garden. But it was rusted. How odd that Camille would allow such a thing. Chloe’s household mechanicals were always in perfect working order, and she could not imagine someone like her allowing one to fall into such a state of disrepair. She dragged it out from its place. While Robert poked around at the plants, she pulled it open, examined and prodded inside. He noticed her looking at something and came out.

“I can have this working in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. It only needs oil and a good cleaning, but mechanically, the regulator is the only faulty part,” she said.

Robert nodded, but looked uncomfortable at her poking around in a mechanical.

“Here,” she pried out the regulator box. “A few minutes, and it will be all fixed.”

Robert’s eyebrows rose at the sight of her filthy hands and the grease-covered box. She sighed.

“Wouldn’t you like to go back inside?” he said.

“Just give me a minute.” She rotated a piece until she heard a satisfying click.

“Are you certain you don’t want to go in?” Robert asked.

“You can go on without me.”

Robert didn’t move. Of course, he didn’t want to return to the festivities any more than she did. He returned to the greenhouse.

She was careful to keep the oil and grease off her dress as she worked. She needed a small spanner and one of the gears was stripped. She had the parts at home, but then, Camille had a laboratory. She looked up at the house’s windows, wondering which one might be the right room. Maybe it was not even on this side of the house. It would be the height of rudeness to be discovered wandering around a house uninvited, during a memorial gathering. But the laboratory—it was here. All of Camille’s work was here.

It was too much to resist. She wrapped the regulator in an oily cloth from the bench and held it out carefully. If anyone asked her, she could explain her presence with it and she would still be clean enough to go to the funeral. She took a quick glance around the lawn, judged that no one aside from Robert was close enough to see her, and rushed inside and up the servants’ staircase in back. Thankfully, it was empty, as was the long upstairs hallway. She hurried along, past empty rooms and then into what she knew must be the main house. She glanced into doorways as she went, but had to skip a few when she heard voices within.

One of the doors was almost completely closed, and she eased it open a crack. It was a woman’s bedroom, all decorated in shades of apricot and cream. Books filled a small bookshelf and she longed to take a look. The paintings on the walls were all of idyllic pastoral landscapes that reminded her of the French countryside. Camille’s bedroom. A door at the side of the room was ajar, and she slipped inside the bedroom to investigate just as a maid turned the corner. She sped through the side door and into the next room.

This was the laboratory. She set the regulator on a workbench and waited. The maid had, of course, followed her.

“Mum, are you in need of anything?” The maid was young and doe-eyed, but her look was keen and sharp.

“The garden mechanical had a problem, and I was going to fix it.”

The maid looked doubtful.

“I’m Mrs. Sullivan. Mrs. Granger and I were correspondents. I build things too.” She motioned around the laboratory. “I’m sure I can find what I need, thank you.” She turned away, and felt a guilt-pang at her unladylike dismissal.

The maid left, but Chloe knew that her time was limited. She took a look around the laboratory, which was much messier than her own, with unfinished projects covering most of the work surfaces.

There were two large tables in the shape of an L, one along a side wall with the other leg running under the window. The other two walls were covered in shelves, some filled with books stacked willy-nilly, and others with boxes, most of them unlabeled. A desk stood in one corner, covered in parts and papers.

She started with the desk, rifling through papers, keeping a few in a stack to the side. She found a number of note pages, a few diagrams, but nothing on the hound. There were, however, a few notes on advanced data spool recording and retrieval, and one on battery design. She kept those.

She pulled open the drawers, but the jumbles of papers and parts made it difficult to sort through them quickly. Well, at least no one would notice more mess, she thought, removing a few pages and jamming things back into the drawers. She tapped her stack of papers on the desk and folded them as tightly as she could, cramming them into her reticule which bulged from the pressure. She wished she had her satchel with her, but she would have to make do.