Chapter Nine
Was it possible to just walk away from something like that? Something that would be splashed all over the newspapers in the coming week? Something inexplicable?
Secrets. He was getting good at them.
Angharad assured him the police would have no cause to seek him out—the only treacherous person who’d seen him was Parnell, and even he could only hope to find Edmond by dint of his association with Mr. Mulqueen, a man who no longer existed. The old soldier had referred to Edmond as his great-nephew. In a way, that’s what he’d felt like tonight. But now Mr. Mulqueen was gone, and that pretend family tie was...lost to St. Elmo’s Fire.
They both agreed it would be best if Edmond made up an excuse for why he was out late rather than own up to any involvement in the deadly emporium affair.
On the corner of Randsdell Avenue, Angharad kissed him goodbye and held him for the longest time. He felt nothing, only a weary indifference. But as he watched her take the darkest, emptiest side streets on her way to a life of homelessness, a twinge of guilt hit him, and he crept home through a strange sensation he could only describe as half floating, half mired in a foggy familiarity.
Inside, he found Father flaked out on the settee in his smoking jacket, so he decided not to wake him and went straight to bed. The lies could wait until tomorrow. He kept to the left side of the stairs to keep them from creaking, and didn’t even put his bedroom light on to get changed into his pyjamas. As he took the red tunic off, went to place it onto the bed, a flash of panic gripped him—the whole nightmarish series of events in the emporium blazed back to life all at once. He tossed the tunic onto the floor.
Something spilled out and whacked the bottom of his tallboy. Shaped like an open clam, it was about the size of his palm. At closer inspection he found it was an old, faded silver pocket watch. He held it up to the moonlight. On the lid was a coat-of-arms inscribed into the metal: crossed axes, a shield, a wreath, and a tiny scroll whose words he would need a magnifying glass to read. He put it in his bedside drawer, hid the tunic behind his armoire, and changed for bed.
For much of the night he lay on his side, staring out at the snow showers and the bright moon between clouds, reliving the tragic events of a Christmas Eve he could never come to terms with. A day as long and exciting as a whole year—but excitement turned inward on itself, eating itself to its bare, sharp bones. He wished none of it had happened. It had started in near-death in broad daylight and ended with real death in the dark, right in front of him. Mr. Mulqueen had shot in and out of his life like a meteorite skipping off the earth’s atmosphere, sparking for a brief moment before disappearing forever. But in that moment, Edmond knew he had gained a new way of seeing the world that he would never forget. Maybe he would understand it better when he was older, as Father was fond of saying.
Don’t forget me, Mr. Mulqueen had said at the end.
No, sir, I shan’t. And don’t forget me either, wherever you are.
He fell into a fitful sleep.
Laughter from children playing in the street outside woke him early the next morning. As soon as he’d rubbed his eyes, picked the crusted sleep out of them, he realized what day it was and leapt up, giddy with anticipation.
Presents.
Vague shadows of distant, heavy events blotted in the back of his mind but this was Christmas Day—nothing could breach the magic. Breathless, he roughed into his dressing gown and dug his feet into his slippers. A faint ticking drew him to his bedside drawer, but before he’d half-opened it, the memory of something illicit inside, a pocket watch that kept time for events he daren’t go near today, he slid it shut and bounded downstairs, focused on only one thing:
Presents.
Mother and Father weren’t up yet, so he poured himself a glass of milk, gulped it down, and began separating the gifts into three piles, one for each of them. Of course, his was by far the biggest.
When Mother came down, she kissed him and wished him a happy Christmas. He repeated the words once aloud, then several times under his breath, feeling relieved and grateful and genuinely blessed. That he’d had a family to come home to at the end of a horrible day when the men and women from the emporium had not—he would remember this feeling, and this Christmas morning, for a long time.
“Where were you last night, Edmond?” Father didn’t sound overly concerned as he strolled in, yawned, and kissed Mother for making his morning coffee. But when he repeated the question, he glared at Edmond. “Hmm?”
“At John’s. We played games till late. You were asleep on the settee when I got back, Father.”
“Ah, yes—well—” Father eyed the empty brandy bottle on the sideboard, cleared his throat, “—you’d better ask us next time or there’ll be trouble. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He rubbed his hands together. “So who wants to go first? Lisa?”
“Edmond, you lead off this year,” she said. “You’ve a mountain to get through.”
Don’t mind if I do.
Shredded paper and upturned cardboard boxes soon piled into a barricade around him as he delved into the treasures under the tree. The most noteworthy gifts were a mechanical brass device resembling a typewriter, for calculating sums, from his Uncle Oyvind, Mother’s wealthy step-brother from Norway; a pair of spectrometer goggles from his parents; and from his Great Auntie Alice, a pristine first edition of The Naturalist on the River Amazons by Henry Walter Bates, a book he’d borrowed from the library but had desperately wanted to own. The rest were either clothes, sweets, or curiosity toys he normally wouldn’t have given a second thought. Today, however, he delighted in them all.
Afterward, he rocked back and forth on his pouffe, scrunching up wrapping paper and tossing it for the waste paper bin across the room. Mother cried when she opened her present from him, a portrait he’d sketched while she’d sat in the back garden wistfully thinking of ideas for her book club presentation on Emma. It wasn’t a bad effort, if he did say so himself. And Father proclaimed his own present from Edmond—a miniature orrery assembled from a set he’d bought from Fergal O’Malley’s Scale Models—a tremendous effort. It had taken Edmond a full week to put together back in October, during half-term.
Father seemed even more chuffed with Mother’s present for him—a shiny pocket watch with some kind of personalized inscription on the inside of the lid. He slid it into his waistcoat pocket, affixed the chain fastener to his buttonhole, and then smothered her with kisses, making her giggle.
Then something happened no one expected.
“I don’t remember putting this under the tree.” Mother held up a bulging red envelope addressed to Professor Cecil Reardon. “You recognize the handwriting, dear?” She handed it to Father, who appeared equally nonplussed but nevertheless opened it with more gusto than usual.
After a quick scan of the first page of the letter inside—there appeared to be several pages, along with a folded stamped, addressed envelope—he skipped to the final page. He frowned as he read. He rechecked the first page, then the last, and finally let the whole thing fall to his lap.
“Cecil? Dear? Whatever’s the matter? Who’s it from?”
“Father?”
He studied Edmond, the formidable cogs of his mind working overtime. “Most peculiar. It’s from Red Mulqueen.”
Edmond leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin in hands, his heart beginning to pummel. That can’t be. He didn’t have time to—
“What does it say?” Mother asked.
“It’s political. He says he’s a part of this insurrectionist movement—damned irregular.”
“What else does it say?”
Father skimmed the next couple of pages, then picked up aloud, mid-sentence. “It has fallen to me to warn you of an impending catastrophe, and to familiarize you with the persons to whom you must make yourself known if Britain is to avoid this terrible outcome. Overleaf are the twenty key persons I have shortlisted to replace the Leviacrum Council once it is overthrown
—and trust me, Cecil, by the time you read this, it will already be on its knees. Look to the tower on Christmas morning.”
Mother was the first to head for the front door. “Whatever can he mean?”
Father followed, the letter firmly in his grip, while Edmond hung back, his mind racing to figure his unwitting part in this strange claim. Did the nightmarish events of the previous night link to this somehow?
“My God!” Mother clamped a hand over her mouth as she gazed up over the rooftops of London.
“No! Those evil—” Father clasped hands on the back of his head, squeezed his arms against his temples. What’s wrong, Father? What’s happened? “They finally did it. They finally burned it at the stake—like some goddamn medieval cult—bunch of insane witch finders. Oh, they’ll swing for this. Mark my words. Every last one of ’em will feel the noose. Those stupid— Don’t they know what they’ve done?”
Edmond crept out behind him, almost too afraid to look, but look he must.
A giant, amber candle flame burned far above the Thames. Its dark smoke already lined miles of cloud to the south and east. The Leviacrum tower was on fire. Much of the top quarter had already been consumed.
He swallowed hard, but his first reaction was not fear. It was wonder—how an old, handicapped soldier with no home and no money to speak of could possibly have orchestrated something so massive, so historic, so terrible.
And he’d been a guest in their house.
“This is insane,” Father reiterated, then dashed back inside to finish the letter that—to some—might implicate him in the conflagration. Mother squeezed beside him on the settee, draped her arm over his shoulder as he read on. “Please contact Professors Sorenson and Bilali at your earliest convenience, and they will explain exactly why this measure was necessary in wresting power away from the Council. There are enormous industrial interests involved here, Cecil, and much of their research and development will now be up in smoke. It is time to hand British science back to the British people. It is time for the scientists in their home workshops and basements to take the lead once more. With your help, sir, new laws and a new infrastructure for the transparency of scientific evolution can be implemented. No one organization must hold sway over the limitless potential of steam science.”
He flipped the page, his frown now gone, replaced by a wide-eyed fascination. “And now for a word or two about your son—Edmond.”
No, no! Skip on, Father. Whatever you do, don’t read—
“It has come to my attention that he was expelled from Admiral Hood Boarding School this past week—” Mother and Father both glared at him, “—and that, owing to circumstances the headmaster has chosen to ignore, I believe Edmond was dealt with callously and unfairly. If you will listen to his account, the only correct conclusion must be that he acted in self-defence. A vengeful teacher and a priggish principal do not an impartial jury make. I pray you will take this matter to the highest authority in hope of overturning what I deem a travesty of justice.”
Edmond flushed cold, then molten.
“And do not treat the boy too harshly for withholding this news from you. He is braver and brighter than you realize, for he stuck to his principals in the face of a beastly interrogation in the master’s office that day. Ask yourself this: if you were twelve years old and found yourself expelled, would you be frightened of delivering that news to your parents, and would you not put it off for as long as you possibly could? I know I would. Edmond gave me the official letter to give to you, so here it is. Whatever the outcome, I pray you grant him his dearest wish and send him to a school much closer to home. Boarding School is not for everyone. Some boys thrive when they are close to family. I believe Edmond is one.”
Mother dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, and Father’s voice almost broke as he read on. “I lost my son before I ever really knew him. Do not make that same mistake. Family should not merely be celebrated once a year within prescribed festivities; its magic should be kindled every day and by every member, for nothing as long as we live will ever replace that bond we share before the hearth. It is what I regret most in old age; the years I missed with my wife and son. Pray look after Lisa and Edmond. Do not let your work overshadow them, as the Leviacrum has overshadowed all that is good in London.
“For my part, I voyaged from Africa to achieve two goals: one, to put this seismic shift of power in motion for the people of Britain; and two, and far more importantly, to right a wrong that has haunted me for over twenty years.
“Where you go from here, sir, is entirely up to you.
“Yours faithfully,
“Ethelred “Red” Mulqueen.”
The sound of the ticking Harrison clock reigned over the living room, and no one spoke for several minutes—minutes chock-a-block with unfinished, grandiose theory.
Mr. Mulqueen must have been an undercover agent with huge influence among the higher-ups. Was he titled? A banished duke or a lord? He definitely spoke and wrote well enough. Joe even said the Admiralty had no record of his name. And he sided with me against the school? Maybe I was right to stick to my guns all along.
Father retrieved his pocket watch and slowly wound the hands to set the time by his infallible Harrison clock. On the top of the lid, an oddly familiar decoration caught Edmond’s eye. He’d seen it before, though he didn’t quite know where.
“Father, can I see your watch?”
“Why—yes, of course.” He handed it over, distracted. “Your mother always picks the perfect gift, eh.”
“It’s...smart, yes.” Something about that shape inscribed into the lid... “Can I take it upstairs?”
“Hey—” Before Father had chance to object, Edmond was already at the foot of the stairs.
“I’ll be really quick.”
“Edmond, don’t run in the house,” Mother shouted.
He made straight for his bedside table, where he’d hidden the watch that had fallen from Mr. Mulqueen’s tunic. He sat on the bed, studying the timepieces side by side.
The design is the same. The coats of arms on the lids are identical. Maybe it’s a common make of watch.
But Mr. Mulqueen’s watch was much older, discoloured, more worn in every way. It didn’t have a chain either.
He flicked Father’s lid up, read the inscription inside:
To My Darling Cecil, With All My Love At Christmas. Forever Yours, Lisa.
He suddenly felt sorry for Mr. Mulqueen, who’d come so far and achieved so much, but had been without a family of his own for so long. The thing he’d cherished the most—forever out of his grasp. He should be here now, sharing Christmas Day, instead of—
Oh, Mr. Mulqueen. Why did you have to climb like that? Why did you have to jump?
He flipped open his old friend’s watch, hoping to find an inscription left by his wife, years ago. Joy! There it was, faded but still legible after all this time. The last evidence of a fallen soldier’s happiness.
To My Darling Cecil, With All My Love At Christmas. Forever Yours, Lisa.
“What?” His brain knotted, then he realized he’d opened the same watch again.
But no—he hadn’t.
He checked twice, thrice, and a dozen more times to make sure. Either his mind had stuttered to a halt or Mother had just given Father the exact same watch Mr. Mulqueen’s wife had given him years ago.
What sense did that make? How could the inscription—names and all—be identical in every way? He lay back on the bed and pondered...and pondered...
The same phrase kept repeating over and over in his mind, something Mr. Mulqueen had written at the end of his letter: ...to right a wrong that has haunted me for over twenty years.
To right a wrong...twenty years...wife and son lost...twenty years...
It was like being stuck in a web of reason. Web? The shock of St. Elmo’s Fire spreading beneath him in the emporium, and the explosion that had incinerated Mr. Mulqueen and his angel. It had overpowered Edmond at the time. But now, with sleep
between them, what did he really suppose had happened there in that extraordinary flash? The marble with no apparent use—dangerous? Dangerous how? Why had Mr. Mulqueen carried it with him all that time?
Time?
To right a wrong.
A vision of the circular web of St. Elmo’s Fire cast his mind back to other, similar shapes seared into his recent memory. The driver’s goggles, the car’s headlights, hurtling toward him—meant to kill him. Shocking moments.
And who was it that intervened?
He inhaled deeply, then sat upright on the edge of the bed, feeling little more than a wisp, a ghost in his own room. Then he retrieved the red tunic from behind the armoire and put it on. Far too big and heavy. But his theory intrigued him, demanded he see it through to its end.
To right a wrong.
He studied himself in the mirror, couldn’t make any headway. He picked up the watches and slinked downstairs, fog-bound, searching for a light in the mists of time.
“Edmond? Where on earth did you get that?” Mother rose to her feet.
“Someone gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“Edmond?” Father reiterated sharply. “Answer your mother.”
“I—This is important.” He slipped the tunic off and handed it to Father. “It’s about what happened yesterday. I need you to try this on, Father.”
“Why, I’ll do no such—”
“Cecil.” Mother’s piercing, worried gaze tried to penetrate Edmond, but he was too steady, too determined—this was his mystery to solve. “Our boy needs you. Try it on for him.”
“Oh, very well, but I really don’t see what all the fuss is about.” He slid both arms in, then straightened it about his shoulders. “It’s my size, at least.”
Studying his father’s soft, middle-aged face, the beginnings of wrinkles and the tiredness that never seemed to leave him, made Edmond gasp.
It’s not just your size, Father.
He imagined a further twenty years on him, a grey beard, a damaged eye, the grizzled hardness begot by long years of fighting in foreign lands. In a war that had not yet arrived.
To right a wrong that has haunted me for over twenty years.
The Harrison clock ticked away in the background. That family heirloom was Father’s most prized possession. Edmond looked at the pocket watches side by side, one in each hand.
A family heirloom?
He held his gaze on the Christmas tree—homely and true—while the first tears he’d shed in ages made Father open his arms for him. Edmond stepped into them, and hugged the old man for the longest time.
****
About the Author
Robert Appleton is an award-winning author of science fiction, steampunk, and historical fiction. Based in Lancashire, England, he has written over two dozen novels and novellas for various publishers, most recently Carina Press and Samhain Publishing. In his spare time he hikes, kayaks, and reads as many classic Victorian adventure novels as he can get his hands on.
Website: https://robertappleton.co.uk
Twitter: https://twitter.com/robertappleton
Blog: https://robertbappleton.blogspot.com
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Imperial Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy #2)
Borderline
Sunset on Ramree
Also by Robert Appleton:
Steampunk:
Prehistoric Clock (The Steam Clock Legacy #1)
The Mysterious Lady Law
Science Fiction:
Alien Safari
Sparks in Cosmic Dust
Alien Velocity
Pyro Canyon
Cyber Sparks
The Eleven Hour Fall: Complete Trilogy
The Basingstoke Chronicles
The Mythmakers (also appears in the SFR anthology Impulse Power)
Godiva in the Firing Line
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