Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 (2 page)

Samuel lifted his tear-stained face. “How can you say that, Victor? We all heard her. My dear Henrietta.”

“It's a trick, you fool! Face facts! She didn't love you anymore. She packed her bags and left. What did you expect? All those business trips you took. You were never here!”

“But…but I did it all for her!” wailed Samuel, his voice filled with anguish. “So we could afford a better life. Please, Victor. For me. I want to hear what Mr. Tweed has to say.”

Victor checked his pocket watch. “I don't think so. I took the liberty of contacting the police before I arrived, Samuel. They will be here soon to arrest this charlatan.”

Barnaby's eyes widened. He pushed himself to his feet. “I, ah, see you have some family issues to sort through, Mr. Shaw. I'll come back when it's more convenient, if you don't mind.”

Before Barnaby could leave the table, Victor Shaw reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, pearl-handled revolver. He pointed it at Barnaby.

“Why the rush, Mr. Tweed?”

Barnaby nervously licked his lips and sank back into his chair. Tweed flicked the switch that ensured his next transmission went only to Barnaby's ear, then he slowly lifted the transmitter to his lips. “Uh…remind me again…what was that you were saying about never getting caught?”

Barnaby looked up at the spider and locked eyes with Tweed.

Think
, Tweed.
Think
.

Tweed glanced at the viewing screen, but the picture was the same as it had been for the past ten minutes. Victor Shaw standing with his gun trained on Barnaby.

Tweed had gone through every plan he could think of, all the way from pretending to be the police to setting fire to the house. Brilliant plans, all of them, but to every one he told Barnaby through the transmitter, his father would give a slight shake of his head.

Then what?

Tweed leaned back in the chair. At the very least he could cause some kind of distraction when the police arrived. Maybe he could attack them? That would certainly shift their attention. He seemed to recall seeing a small hand catapult amongst all the junk in the carriage.

No, that was a stupid idea. He felt slightly embarrassed at having even acknowledged the thought as it drifted through his head.

Tweed closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to clear his mind like Barnaby had taught him.
Focus
, he told himself.
Focus on the problem.

A moment later a thought popped into his head. Tweed's eyes snapped open.

Why had Victor Shaw been so against Barnaby speaking? He was angry they had started early, obviously hoping the police would arrive before anything could be done. But once Samuel insisted they go ahead he had played his hand in order to stop Barnaby from saying
anything
. Even though it meant waiting for the police to arrive.

Almost…

Tweed leaned forward in the chair, staring hard at the screen.

Almost as if he were scared Barnaby might be the real thing.

But why would that scare him? Unless…

A slow smile spread across Tweed's face. He picked up the transmitter and depressed the trigger.

“Repeat everything I am about to say to you. Do not edit, do not hesitate. I think I've found a way out of this. Understand?”

Barnaby gave the tiniest of nods.

“It must have bruised your ego when Henrietta spurned your advances. Isn't that right, Victor?”

Barnaby hesitated.

“Say it!”

Barnaby sighed. “It must have bruised your ego when Henrietta spurned your advances. Isn't that right, Victor?”

There was an inrush of breath from those around the table. Victor's eyes almost popped out of his head. His face darkened in anger, and in that moment Tweed knew he had guessed the truth.

“You, a highly successful businessman, and your brother nothing more than a traveling salesman. And yet that didn't matter to Henrietta, did it? She cared nothing for power and money.”

Barnaby repeated his words and Victor nervously licked his lips.

Tweed carried on. “And the last time Samuel went on his travels, you decided to play your hand. You visited Henrietta, you declared your love. You begged, you pleaded, and when that didn't work, you threatened. Still she rejected you. And that was too much, wasn't it, Victor? Nobody makes a fool of Victor Shaw.”

Tweed watched Victor as Barnaby repeated his words. It was a gamble. Victor might simply shoot Barnaby on the spot, but Tweed was hoping that Victor really was the odious coward he appeared to be, and would simply flee from the house.

Unfortunately, Tweed hadn't factored in Samuel Shaw.

The tall, thin man rose to his feet, straightening to his full height.

“Victor?” he said. “What is this?”

Victor's eyes shifted between Barnaby and Samuel. Finally, he exploded. “All she had to do was say yes!” he shouted. “But no! She had to be
loyal
.” He said the last word as though it were an obscenity. “Stupid woman. She deserved to die. After all, if I couldn't have her, why should you?
I
deserved her. I'm the one with all the money. What could you have offered her?”

Samuel took a step toward Victor. Even through the grainy screen, Tweed could see tears coursing down his face. “What could I offer her?” he said softly. “I offered Henrietta my love, Victor. And that was enough for her.”

Victor snorted. “How poetic. Love fades, dear brother.”

“Not ours.”

“Oh, because you're somehow special? Is that it? You think you're better than everyone else?”

“No. Not special. We were the most mundane people in the world.” Samuel's hands curled into fists. “But we had each other!” he shouted. He launched himself at his brother, grabbing hold of the hand that held the pistol. The gun went off with an explosive
bang!
the bullet shattering a vase on a corner shelf. The three other guests dived under the table as Barnaby hurried forward to help Samuel restrain Victor.

Tweed threw down the transmitter and shot to his feet, banging his head against the roof. He cursed and threw open the doors, setting his feet on the metal steps.

He froze.

Tweed felt it first, a low thrumming that vibrated up through the soles of his shoes. Then he heard it. The
dug-dug-dug
of an approaching airship. The sound grew louder by the second, the vibrations stronger.

Tweed jumped out into the street and looked up. There it was:
a small dirigible that slowed to a floating standstill about fifty feet above the ground. But it was unlike any dirigible he'd ever seen. The airship was much smaller than normal, and it was matte black, without any warning lights, making it almost impossible to see from a distance.

As Tweed watched, a huge metal box dropped from the belly of the airship. It sank slowly to the ground, lowered by a thick metal chain that unspooled from within the ship. Tweed moved behind the carriage as the box bumped against the cobbles. The front of the container fell forward and dropped onto the road with an almighty
clang.

The pulse and flare of blue-white light came from inside. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a strange group of people stepped casually into the street.

There were five of them. All dressed in black. But it was what they wore on their heads that made them look so odd.

The first figure had some kind of metal framework completely encircling his skull. Two rods stuck up from the frame and white electricity jumped from one rod to the other, singeing the air and giving off the smell of burning ozone. Connected to these rods were two solid metal discs, and they shone a bright, flickering light directly into his hidden eyes. But the way he looked around convinced Tweed that the discs in no way hampered his vision.

One of the others wore a protective leather helmet that came down to his chest, like some kind of elaborate gas mask designed to cause fear and terror. The eye holes were covered with black glass and wire, and a long tube hung from the mouthpiece down to his waist. Another figure wore a similar mask but made from metal, like a demonic diving helmet.

But it was the figure standing slightly ahead of the others that made Tweed move even deeper into the shadows, his eyes widening with shock.

He had heard the talk over the past year. Whispers amongst Barnaby's criminal contacts and associates.

He's back
, they whispered fearfully.
Come to reclaim his throne.

Tweed hadn't believed the rumors. Superstitious nonsense, he'd thought. Typical of the kind of thing the uneducated idiots who turned to crime believed in. Except the rumors wouldn't go away. Instead, they got more and more specific. He wore a mask to hide an injury, they said. He surrounded himself with a gang of insane killers. He stalked the streets of London leaving a trail of murder in his wake.

Tweed had thought he was witnessing the birth of genuine folklore, like the legend of Spring-heeled Jack. He'd even thought of writing a paper on it, submitting it to one of the more up market newspapers.

Except here he was, standing no more than thirty feet from Tweed. Exactly as everyone had described him.

The Napoleon of Crime himself.

Professor James Moriarty.

Before he and Sherlock Holmes had tumbled over Reichenbach Falls, no one had known who Moriarty was. He was a manipulator, always hiding in the shadows. But after the Reichenbach tragedy, investigations uncovered a criminal syndicate stretching from London to Eastern Europe, with Moriarty in charge of it all. The man was a genius, a mastermind who would stop at nothing to achieve his aims.

Tweed leaned forward slightly to get a better look. Moriarty wore a much more elaborate mask than the others, tight-fitting and enclosing only his head. It was made from dark brown leather with elegant patterns etched into the surface. Black glass filled the insectoid eye frames. Slim hoses were attached to gold nozzles on the cheeks and lower jaw, the hoses curving over his shoulders to a small canister attached to his back. Did he need the mask to breathe? Had he injured himself when he plummeted over the falls?

Moriarty's clothing matched the style of the helmet. A tight-fitting greatcoat that hugged his body so snugly it was like a second skin. The whole effect put Tweed in mind of a human-shaped scorpion.

As Tweed watched, a last figure stepped out of the metal box and scurried forward to stand behind Moriarty, twitching and giggling as he moved. The man was short, and wore a top hat made from metal wire. Fat worms of electricity arced around the hat, and every time they came around to the front, they hit a copper wire and sparks exploded into the air with the snap of freed electricity. The hat was connected to a metal pipe that the figure clutched protectively to his chest.

Some kind of weapon?

The figures all surveyed the street for a moment. Tweed quickly ducked out of sight. He waited a second, then peered around the side of the steamcoach. They were already moving purposefully across the road.

Straight for Samuel Shaw's house.

Tweed darted into the carriage to check the display unit. Barnaby and Samuel had disarmed Victor and were busy tying him to a chair with what looked like the cords from the curtains. The other three guests had emerged from under the table and were pouring themselves drinks with shaking hands.

Tweed had to warn Barnaby. He picked up the transmitter and depressed the trigger.

“Barnaby!” he said quickly. “You know how I said all your friends were uneducated peasants because they believed that Moriarty was back from the dead? Well, I still think that. But he
is
back. And coming your way. You need to get out of there.”

But Barnaby didn't react.

“Barnaby?”

Nothing.
Damn
. Barnaby's earpiece must have fallen out in the scuffle.

Tweed hesitated, then pulled the punchcard out of the transceiver.
The image on the screen blurred, then froze at an odd angle. The spider had fallen from its hiding place and was now staring up at the ceiling.

“What the devil…?” said a tinny voice.

Shaw's huge face loomed into view, a mass of deep wrinkles and bushy eyebrows. He picked up the spider and stared at it, then showed it to Barnaby. Barnaby's eyes widened in alarm. He muttered something to Shaw, but before anything could be done, there was a splintering crash. Barnaby whirled around in alarm. Someone cried out. The spider was dropped to the ground and Tweed saw blurred feet rushing around.

He swore and ran outside. The street was empty.

Then the screaming started.

It must have taken Tweed only ten seconds to cross the street, but by the time he reached the front door the screams had already stopped. He peered carefully into the front hall. No one around. He crossed the threshold and entered the sitting room.

When he saw the body of Samuel Shaw lying at his feet, one arm stretched out as if reaching toward him, Tweed staggered to a halt. His eyes flickered around the room. Victor was still tied to the chair, but his head was burnt beyond recognition, his mouth wide open in a soundless scream. Smoke drifted up from inside his mouth, as if his breath were misting on a cold winter's day. There was no sign of Moriarty or his gang, but a second door leading out of the sitting room stood open. The other guests sprawled amidst shattered glasses and spilled brandy on the far side of the room, wisps of smoke curling up from the horrendous wounds burned into their bodies.

Tweed rushed forward to check the corpses. But a moment later he straightened up and frowned.

Barnaby wasn't among them.

He looked around in confusion. Where was he?

Tweed heard someone swearing outside. He hurried over to the window and flicked aside the net curtain. Moriarty and his gang were reentering the metal container, and two of them dragged a kicking and swearing Barnaby between them. Moriarty pulled the metal door back into place and the box started to winch back into the sky.

Tweed didn't hesitate. He sprinted outside and headed straight for the container. It swayed back and forth on the chain, and Tweed could hear muffled shouting from inside as Barnaby struggled with his kidnappers. He leaped into the air and grabbed hold of the thin ledge around the base of the container. The cage dipped, but hopefully they would attribute it to Barnaby's struggles.

Tweed waited, but no one sounded the alarm.

He had gotten away with it. Although, what
it
was, he had no idea. What,
exactly
, did he plan on doing? Barnaby would disapprove.
Acting without thinking
, he would say.
Bad form, lad. Bad form.