Mechanicals Read online

  "Oh, it gets that way from time to time. Never mind, that."

  "And what, may I ask, is the extent of its repertoire?"

  "Don't know, don't know. Seems to go on forever, if you let it, until it winds down or runs out of paper. All manner of recitation; Italian, Latin, musical notes, Greek I think. It'll draw, sometimes, columns and arches, good as a draftsman. And," he paused and lowered his voice, "if you like, you can ask it a question."

  "A question."

  "Oh, yes, anything you like. Can't guarantee you'll like or even understand the answer, but I had a woman come here a year ago, and asked it where her dead husband hid his money. Came back next day and swore she found it, after our little friend here filled 'er in."

  Avery rose, realizing he'd been leaning forward to peer closely at the doll's writing. He removed the sheet from the desk, and the device froze, still as a portrait. He turned and presented the paper to Celeste, whose expression remained inscrutable. She raised a perfect eyebrow.

  "And may I enquire," began the priest, "as to the price for such an artifact?"

  "Regrettably, sir, the object is not for sale."

  "No? I assure you I can most definitely compensate for the revenues of your…attraction."

  "I'm sorry Reverend, but the item in question is not, er, entirely in my possession."

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "It's, well, in safe-keeping, like. Not mine to sell."

  "Ah. And to whom does the device belong?" There was an awkward pause.

  "Well, that's the curious thing about it, sir. I can't right as remember."

  "You can't remember." Avery repeated, his curiosity piquing

  "No, sir, and begging your pardon."

  "So, it just…lives here.”

  "In a manner of speaking, yes, sir."

  "But you don't recall to whom it belongs."

  "No. Um, sir. Can't say as I do," the shopkeeper replied.

  "But you do insist that you're unable to part with it."

  "That would be the sum of it, yes sir. Beggin' again your pardon, sir."

  "Mmm." Avery mulled it all over, seeking some kind of confirmation from Celeste. There was none, although she seemed to give an almost indiscernible shrug.

  "Do you mind," Avery returned to study the anachronistic figure, "if I do in fact ask it a question?"

  "Not at all, sir. Although I do usually…"

  "Accept a gratuity for upkeep and such, yes. Worry not, my good man. If this goes as planned you'll be sufficiently reimbursed."

  "Very good, sir."

  There was a long hiatus as Avery stared down the doll. Its gaze rested upon the desk where the paper had been. The shopkeeper cleared his throat, a habit which was beginning to get on Avery's nerves.

  "Aren't you, er, going to ask it a question, sir?"

  "I am. I'm just…not…going…to…say…it…aloud." Avery spoke very deliberately to the dispassionate, carved face of the device, moving his own ever closer with each syllable.

  He tried not to start as the porcelain eyes clicked to meet his. Tentatively, the device once again reached for a piece of paper. Momentarily it looked up at the priest, raising its chin, and looked down at the paper. In a quick flourish, it wrote a brief sentence, and seemed to impatiently shove the parchment across the desk towards him.

  Avery took the message, glanced at it, folded the paper and pocketed it.

  "Mm." His eyes flicked up to signal Celeste, who nodded slightly and stepped back silently into the main of the shop. There was an uncomfortable silence as both priest and proprietor waited, and then were rewarded with the sound of the lady's boots ascending the stairs.

  "Where, er, is the young lady going, if I may?" The shopkeeper seemed in a fog.

  "She's making sure we're alone. And I did notice that both properties adjacent seemed vacant, is that the case?"

  "It is, sir. Deadlurks, the both of them."

  "And is this your place of residence?"

  "No, sir."

  "I thought not. Lack of cooking smells. Pets?"

  "I'm sorry, sir?"

  "Pets, man. Cat, dog. Anything here. I smelled cat, I think, when we first arrived."

  "No. No, sir. There's a cat comes 'round, but not seen it today, and I don't let it in 'less it's raining."

  Celeste's footsteps descended the staircase. A moment later, her gloved hand was seen parting the green velvet curtain. With an almost military step, she entered the alcove, shook her head, and retreated silently. Both men heard the shop bell rattle as the front door closed behind her.

  "Right, hold this," said Avery, unscrewing the heavy brass knob from his cane and handing it to the old man. He examined its heft, rolling it around in his hands. "Mind that, it's a precision instrument."

  "Where, if I may, sir, has your lady friend gone?"

  "She's evacuated the building. Best thing, really, in advance of an explosion."

  "Explosion, sir?"

  "Quite right. Best put that down. Now, if you'd be so kind as to hold this. Carefully!" From his walking stick, Avery extracted a long glass tube, formerly secured by a ring of cork against the cane's cavity. The shopkeeper turned to the counting desk to put down the brass knob, which in the light of the alcove was seen to have a series of inscribed rings, and behind a crystal face, a watch and compass. Obediently, he returned to Avery to accept the vial. "Now do be a good man and stop breathing, this next bit is rather tricky and tends to go horribly wrong."

  "Horribly wrong, sir."

  "As I said. Good man. Still breathing, though, I see. Just fishing out this next bit…" He inserted his middle finger sharply into the cane, as though groping around for something. "Got it. I really should configure this so it's easier to retrieve…" Attached to a withdrawn stopper of gutta percha was a golden wire, and attached to that, another, smaller vial. "Ah, there you are, you see?" and Avery plucked the long vial from the shopkeepers tentative purchase, wrapping the two glass cylinders together with the golden wire. "Now hand me that back again, will you? Good man." The merchant returned the clockwork brass to Avery, who screwed it back on to the shaft of the cane with one hand, giving the floor a firm tap to be sure.

  "And now I suppose we'd best be off."

  "As you like, sir, good day to you."

  "No, no, my good fellow. I see I've failed to convey my intent, for which I apologize. You see, you simply must accompany me."

  "Accompany you, sir?"

  "Forthwith. I simply couldn't bear to see you blown to smithereens with the rest of the place, now could I? You've been so accommodating. To your detriment, I'm afraid, as you've been accommodating rather the wrong sort. Come, come! Anything vital? Coat, perhaps?"

  "Yes, er. My coat. I'll just fetch it, shall I?"

  "Well done, well done. Excellent chap. Right." And with that Avery ushered the man through the curtain into the shop proper, snapping the venerable curtain from the doorway as he did so. Glancing back, he noted the sad beauty of the doll, and the fact that its perfectly painted eyes were following him as he left.

  "I'm on your heels, man! Don't dawdle!" said Avery as he shuttled the shopkeeper onward out the door. On the street, Celeste stood guard with her parasol, as the weather had turned inclement and a wind was coming up. There was no one on the thoroughfare, as Avery knew Celeste would assure.

  "Now, Mr. Doll-keeper, I must beg your forbearance once more. Kindly escort the young lady across the street, and I strongly suggest you find the building opposite endlessly fascinating, keeping your back to the shop. Good man, off you go. Best to bend your knees a little. Keeps one on one's feet."

  With the puzzled yet obedient merchant safely off the doorstep, Avery tucked his cane in his arm, took the door in his left hand, and with his right hurled the vials to the alcove's rear wall. He slammed the shop door forcefully and strode to his companions. There was a peculiar beat of utter stillness before the entire enterprise roared to its destruction, the cobblestones rumbling beneath them in a violent swo
on. Debris spat upon their coat-backs.

  Ears ringing, the trio turned back for a moment and beheld the ruin before them. The shop's second storey seemed to have supplanted the first, declaring itself the main floor, which had more or less folded in on itself. Neighbouring buildings leaned in ever so slightly as though examining their fallen comrade. For an obliteration, it seemed relatively tidy. Still, the shopkeeper, finding himself a shopkeeper no longer, was in something of a state of shock.

  "Did you… did you do that, Reverend?" he inquired.

  "I'm afraid so. It does seem that your marvelous trinket was ultimately the residence of something considerably nasty, and it needed to be dealt with. It had rather taken hold of your soundness of mind, and I daresay the memories of previous proprietors of this establishment, back to the dim and distant. For all intents and purposes, this fell creature had successfully enslaved you. And now," with a gesture towards the empty street, "you are free." Avery handed Celeste the note the mannequin had given him.

  Who is like the beast?

  "You see," the priest continued, "I and my fetching companion here are associates of an ancient order dedicated to the identification and elimination of malevolent supernatural forces. We are committed to their pursuit and destruction, whatever the cost. Now, speaking of cost, you'd best go home and recuperate, returning here tomorrow noon. There shall be a package here at the door with instructions pertaining to your full compensation. We shan’t leave you destitute! Heavens, no." He let it sink in. The man had clearly not recovered his wits.

  "Right, then, we'll be off, shall we? I do seem to recall the mention of dinner, even though it was I who had mentioned it." And with that, Avery offered his arm to his elegant companion as they continued south, back to Hyde Park, his walking stick tacking at the street's uneven pavement.

  The now-former merchant rallied, briefly, although his gaze was still fixated on what had been his livelihood.

  "What…what did you say, about elimination of malevolent supernatural forces?"

  Celeste stopped and turned towards the dazed man.

  "Yes?"

  "What is it called, your ancient order?" he enquired.

  She smiled warmly and replied, "The Church of England."

  ONE - NEW YORK 1854

  Billings noted, in the darkened parlour, when he had time to collect his thoughts in the silence, how everything here had become old prematurely. The floorboards, surely, were no older than parents of the young ladies he was here to see, and yet each board seemed cracked and weathered, as by some accelerating decay sent forth from the surrounding fields and forest. New things too, such as the cheaply-made carpet he could no longer see in the gloom, fray sooner, fade in shorter seasons, wear thin in the tread of fewer generations.

  Perhaps, he mused, it was the proximity of and to death that hastened the wizening of this place. It was not the living that brought people here, not for, oh, what, six years now. Not since the knockings, not since the inquisitive neighbours and their worked-out codes. Not since the sisters.

  When people came to the farmhouse they brought death with them. Their fear of it, their regret or anger in the face of it. Every one of them, around the parlour's oval table, burdened by death. Except for Billings. His foray into the darkened room was purely mercenary. Where the prey of other stalkers here, eager for track or sign or milestone, were the spirits of the loved or the merely familiar, his was the story. And regrettably, like a hungry hunter, he was going to slink home with only the growl of disappointment in his belly.

  As a student of human nature one of the things Billings had learned is that people don't like spaces that are too large for them. Put a man in a large room and he begins to pace. Put a woman on a large couch and she'll flap about like a pigeon. And give a room full of people an overlong silence, and they'll hum, or laugh nervously, or cough. He sensed that this was about to happen.

  What happened instead was a resounding crack he could feel through the table's pine. Those assembled jumped sharply. At that, a match hissed and spat at the darkness, reflecting in the belled glass of a small lamp on the table, and in the wick the fire was placed and settled in its nest. The match was waved into oblivion, though its soft smoke hung in the gloom for a moment before dissipating. It was Kate, or Katie, the younger and prettier of the two, whose angular nose was prominent in the amber glow. Maggie, the older sister, twenty and looking spinsterly, kept her pear-shaped face to the shadows. The sense of anticipation in the room was palpable.

  Maggie began first. A "whoo" sound, low and slow. Billings wondered what that was for, exactly, and how she'd come to the conclusion that this was desired, by the spirits or otherwise. Katie (Kate?) spoke, projecting into the space above the flame, as though her audience were not within six feet of her around her parlour table.

  "If there are any spirits here…if any spirit wishes to comm-un-i-cate," she isolated each syllable, oddly "then please make yourselves heard."

  While all assembled remained motionless, Billings could see eyes dart to the dim and barely discernible corners of the room. He remembered the now-indistinguishable wallpaper, catalogue-bought and lamp-stained, which kept out the drafts but not the chill that came down out of Lake Ontario and trudged itself to Hydesville. He himself had taken the train to Rochester, and a cold carriage through the black columns of trees to this farmhouse, hardly a destination at all. And all to recall an unremarkable wallpaper in the gloom. The pervasive smell of sherry was making him mildly ill.

  Mercifully, another crack shot out, which at least gave Billings something to think about. The other guests clucked and cooed and seemed reassured that their similar, joyless journeys here had not been completely wasted.

  "Yes," Kate continued, "the spirits are here."

  A double crack this time.

  "No? They're saying no. The spirits are troubled. There is one among you who…who does not believe. Who does not wish to see."

  Billings hoped the raising of his eyebrows wasn't as painfully obvious to others as it felt to himself. An affirmative crack informed him that wasn't the case. The spirits at least were on to him.

  "The spirits are receding. We must cleanse the room of doubt, and begin again."

  Well hell, he thought. At least there's a pipe and a flask in his bag on the porch.

  Moaning quietly with annoyance, the patrons pushed themselves away from the table, casting sharp glances in his direction as the wick was turned up in the lantern. He rose, nodded to his hosts, and headed towards the foyer to reclaim his hat and cloak.

  Outside, his bag had become damp from the February chill. Frost sparkled in the light of the carriage lamps across the field, the drivers nowhere in sight, no doubt huddled together in one of the coaches, drinking or sleeping. The ritual of locating, packing and lighting his pipe soothed him, to the extent that he was distracted from the approach of a well-dressed businessman, perhaps forty; a fellow refugee from the pantomime inside.

  "The spirits told me you don't think too much about them," the man japed good-naturedly.

  "Toes," Billings said.

  "Begging your pardon?"

  "Toes. She cracks her toes. Rolls the ankle to extension, and cracks the middle toe. Makes a helluva racket."

  The man was amused. "What makes you so sure?"

  "My sister could do it," Billings stated. "Know that damned sound anywhere. Used to drive me to distraction."

  "Ah," the man replied, pondering, as he patted himself down for his own pipe. The two men smoked silently in the winter cold for a while, each taking the measure of the evening, and one another.

  "If you don't mind my asking," continued the businessman, "what's your interest in toes got you all the way out in the middle of nowhere? You don't strike me as the type to be seeking counsel from the recently departed."

  "I certainly don't mind. I'm a reporter. Was. Nothing to report, at present, and fixing I suppose to seek gainful employment, presumably in Rochester, if I can wake up a driver."
r />   "One story, or the want thereof, lands a man out of work?"

  "One story, or the want thereof, probably put my former employer out of business, if they haven't packed it in when they saw my ass headed for the train station."

  The man nodded. He drew deep from his pipe and stared out into the forest. "I reckon you know who I am."

  "I reckon I do, sir."

  "And you're not curious as to what I'm doing here."

  "Assumed, rightly or wrongly, that it was none of my business."

  "Damned incurious for a reporter, son."

  Billings laughed. "Didn't say I wasn't curious, sir. Just that it was none of my business."

  At this, the man laughed as well. "Samuel Colt, Colt's Manufacturing Company, Hartford Connecticut."

  "Ernest Billings, vagrant, of Rochester, New York, soon as I get there."

  "Ernest Billings, eh? Should've been a lawyer, son."

  "Never occurred to me, sir."

  "And a diplomat! Well Mr. Billings, how 'bout we find something for you to do in my employ. How does that suit you?"

  "That suits me just fine, sir. Might I ask in what capacity?"

  "To be honest, son, that beats the hell out of me. But you're quick, discrete, and have no time for horseshit. That's a man I can put to work."

  "As you say, Mr. Colt."

  "I say. And you can go ahead and ask me, now. About what brought me out here to hell and gone to listen to some toes cracking."

  "All right. Mr. Colt, what's your interest in the supernatural, and do you consider these Hydesville events as they've been reported to be authentic?"

  "Well, you're a reporter all right. In my experience, you can write the rest of that on your own, and to blazes with anything I might actually say."

  Billings cleared his throat. "Mr. Colt replied that his was the business of turning men into spirits in the most expedient way available, and, should it turn out that communication with, if not the customers but the ultimate product of his enterprise were possible, it could be determined whether they harbour any specific resentment."