Her Own Devices (9 page)

“Work equals force times displacement,” the lady murmured.

Snouts shifted his weight, and Dr. Craig’s head whipped around at the movement. She drew in a startled breath.

“This is my secretary, Mr. McTavish,” Claire said quickly, before the outrage on the woman’s face could resolve itself into something else—a scream, perhaps, or physical violence. “He means you no harm. He is here for moral support. I—I have never visited Bedlam before.”

Exhaling, the woman focused on a point over Claire’s knee.

This was hopeless. If she did not react at the mention of her devices, the destruction of which had brought her to this place, then had she forgotten them? Had the trip out here been for nothing?

She studied the woman’s face, and realized she was not gazing into space, but was in fact focused on her pocketbook, and more specifically, on the shape of the notebook within.

Work equals force times displacement
. A physics formula.

Claire drew it out, along with a pencil. “This is my engineering notebook,” she said. “I’ve been keeping a record of the devices I’ve made—not on the scale of yours, of course. My aspirations and talent are much more modest.” She opened the book and paged through it. “This is a gaseous capsaicin bomb, and here are sketches for my firelamps, recently used with much success. I was quite pleased with the magnetic steering mechanisms, here.”

Ah. She had the scientist’s attention. Gone was the unfocused gaze and instead, Claire saw the intensity of someone whose concentration was absolute. She turned a page. “This is a sketch of an augmentation assembly for elec—”

A bony white finger came down on the page. “That cell is not nearly powerful enough.”

Claire gained control of her face and proceeded as if they had been conversing all along. “I know. It’s most distressing. The chamber has at least three augmentation assemblies and none of them seem to be able to produce enough power.”

“What are you trying to accomplish?”

“My employer wants to increase the carbon density of coal so that it will burn longer, reducing the cost of long-distance travel by train.”

“Lunkheads.” The lady’s mouth pursed. She took the book away from Claire entirely, and waggled her fingers impatiently for the pencil. Then she began to draw, the precise, perfectly curved strokes of someone who lives and breathes engineering. “You can’t augment city electrics, or draw extra current without endangering the entire system. You have to start fresh.” On the paper, a chamber began to take shape. “You don’t use electricks. You use kineticks.”

“As the mother’s helpers do?” Claire had briefly considered this, but the cell would need to be huge in order to power the chamber, so she had discarded the idea.

“It is similar, but not quite. With it, you could treat your coal in a conductive chamber.” She laid the pencil down and pushed the book onto Claire’s lap.

“This is similar to what he has in place. But the cell is what is stumping us. The one I have is this big—” Claire held her gloved fingers two inches apart. “—which I am quite certain would be inadequate.”

Dr. Craig gazed at her. “Where did you get it?”

“It was built into a rifle by a man called Luke Jackson, who turned from engineering to a life of crime. I call it the lightning rifle.”

“It can kill a man, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Claire’s own gaze did not falter. “I need you to tell me how to construct a similar cell that might power this chamber.”

“Without burning down half of London? Why should I do that?” The anger, which had been temporarily held back by the dam of intellectual inquiry, flooded into her face. “Why should I help you, a perfect stranger, when no one will help me?”

“You have no reason in the world to do so,” Claire said steadily. “But if even one small part of your legacy still exists, and I can prove it works, would not that go some way to repairing your reputation—if not your situation here?”

Dr. Craig whirled on the seat to face Claire directly. “Do you think I’m mad?” she demanded.

“I have no idea. Are you?”

“Certainly not. And yet here I am, disintegrating year after year until even I begin to doubt myself.”

“The doctor and your sister both said you would say that.”

“Of course they did. And do you know why, young lady?”

Claire shook her head. She was no longer frightened, but all the same, her body tensed in case she needed to flee.

“Thomas Longmont is the younger brother of George Longmont, whose name I presume you have heard?” At Claire’s nod, she went on, “George saw the promise—the genius—in my work and realized the effect it would have on the family. The Longmont men have a monopoly on the board of directors of the London Electrick Company—and a commensurate monopoly on the stock.”

Claire took a breath as the enormity of the case suddenly became clear. Her back relaxed against the bench as the tension went out of her. “Your invention could revolutionize electricks. It could even put the LEC out of business.”

“So instead of embracing the new and changing the old to keep up with the times, they destroyed every example of my work and had me committed—with the collusion of my sister, who is a vindictive, jealous woman.” Her face turned bleak. “Much to my sorrow.”

“And yet she visits you every month,” Claire said in tones of wonder. How could such a Machiavellian plot be permitted to take place in this modern day and age?

“She does not visit me. I believe she has designs on Doctor Longmont, poor girl. She listens to his report on my ‘progress’ and simpers and smiles and goes away satisfied with her charity. And they say
I’m
mad. Thomas Longmont will never marry her. He much prefers the company of gentlemen, all of them smoking cigars and playing cards and ruling the world from the comfort of their club.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Everyone knows everything about the staff here. And about each other. For all the good it does us.”

Claire had never seen a lunatic, but this woman did not seem mad in the least. Angry, yes—perhaps debilitatingly so—but not insane. Her faculties seemed to be as sharp as ever, and if what she said was true, she had been dealt a criminal injustice.

One that deserved reparation.

But it could not be fought through the courts—young as she was, even Claire could see that a collusion of powerful men would never allow the case to see daylight.

Therefore, the solution must come during the night.

“Doctor Craig, how tall is that wall?”

“Fifteen feet, five and three-quarter inches. Not including the iron spikes.”

“And what are the security measures in this facility?”

“Here in the incurables wing, we are locked in and let out only for meals, for physical examination, and for therapy.” The emphasis on this last word came as bitter as acid. “Those of us considered less of a danger to ourselves and others have a bed on the ward, but we are strapped down at night. The ward is likewise locked. Their electricks room is a travesty, used for torture, not healing, and I do not wish to discuss the use of the cold baths.” She mastered herself, and went on in a calmer tone. “This is the first time I have been in the airing garden in six months. I have been amusing myself by triangulating the height of the wall.”

“Is there a guard on duty?”

“No guards, only the orderlies. But you have no doubt noticed they are hired less for their medical knowledge and more for the beefiness of their physiques.”

“You say you are among those on the ward?” Tied down to the bed to sleep. Dear heaven. “What kind of lock does it possess?”

“A bolt only, on the outside. Getting into the wing itself from the main hospital is more difficult. It requires the combination to the key cabinet, which is a closely guarded secret. What do you propose, young lady?”

Claire hitched herself a little closer to the woman on the bench. “I propose that in exchange for releasing you from this prison, you build a kinetick cell for my employer. Once that is complete, we will have no further obligation to one another and you will be free to take up your life again in whatever manner you please.”

A flicker of amusement creased Dr. Craig’s face, brief as lightning. “And how do you plan to keep your side of the bargain?”

Over the lady’s shoulder, Claire saw the orderly walking toward them. Beefy he was, to be sure. And her hour was up. “I must go. Tonight, at three o’clock, be prepared to leave.”

Claire rose and smiled at the orderly. He offered her his arm, and as they paced away across the lawn, she glanced back.

Dr. Rosemary Craig had approached the wall and appeared to be counting the bricks, her fingers investigating each seam and crack.

It would seem the scientist was preparing already.

“’Ow you plannin’ to pull this off, Lady?” Snouts inquired when they were safely back in the landau and bowling down Lambeth Road.

“Never mind ’ow, what about why?” Tigg wanted to know, his chocolate eyes huge. “Releasin’ lunatics? Wiv respect, Lady, are you mad?”

“I am not, and neither is she.” Claire made the turn just before the bridge and headed upriver for the cottage. “If Mr. Malvern is to succeed, we need her knowledge, because it seems all of our brains together are not sufficient for the task. I am convinced the lightning cell is the key to making his chamber work.”

“So, wot then ... you’ll just turn up in t’laboratory wiv a mad scientist and Mr. Malvern’ll stand aside while she does as she pleases?”

Claire collected her thoughts while she negotiated another turn, then pushed the bar out until they were traveling at a refreshing thirty miles per hour away from St. George’s Fields. “We have two options, Tigg. Either we bring her into the lab and introduce her, or we fabricate the cell in the privacy of our own cottage and present it as a
fait accompli
.”

“I dunno wot that is, but if you mean passin’ it off as if we done it, that don’t seem right, either.”

“You are quite correct. So, it appears as if we must go with the first option and present the lady herself.” She was not yet sure how she would manage that, but one thing at a time.

The boys remained quiet for the rest of the journey. It wasn’t until they had rolled to a stop outside the cottage that Snouts said, “So at t’risk of repeatin’ meself, ’ow we gonna do this, then?”

“Come inside,” Claire said, gathering her things—including the lightning rifle from under the seat. “This is going to be rather ... complicated. I am going to need every man Jack of you if we are to complete our preparations before midnight.”

*

Their single greatest advantage was that the walls of Bedlam were meant to keep people in, not out. In fact, Claire reflected as she secured a loop in the rope to the brass clip on her leather corselet, this was probably the first time in recorded history that anyone had tried to break in.

Her black skirts were secured above her knees, revealing only black woollen stockings, and the lightning rifle’s comforting weight rested on her back. A black gauze scarf would conceal her features, though at the moment it was wrapped around her shoulders.

The wall, though smooth and relatively featureless on the inside, was easy enough to scale on the outside. A barrel and a damaged crate got them halfway up, and the grappling hook and rope took care of the rest.

The airing garden had no illumination of any kind—only the glow of the electricks in the corridors shone through the glass, which was not enough to cause any difficulty. The long shadow of the building would provide cover once they could reach it. A night bird twittered some distance away down the street toward the corner of Lambeth Road.

Lizzie, standing watch.

“Quickly,” Claire whispered. “Someone’s coming—probably the bobbies.”

She tugged on her rope, and on the other side of the wall, Snouts hauled on his end. Up she went, her corselet creaking as it took her weight, her feet in their sturdy boots scrambling for purchase. At the top, she pulled herself upright using the iron spikes, thankful that Bedlam had not yet seen the necessity for embedding broken glass in their masonry.

She slid down the inner side, and when Snouts caught her, released the rope from its clip. They had no choice but to leave it hanging there, ready for the return trip. She heard the scrape of boots on cobbles on the other side as her team scattered into the streets and alleys opposite, and then silence. The air sawed in and out of her lungs as she tried to breathe quietly, huddled with Snouts behind the bench she had occupied that afternoon.

A pair of male voices murmured, and they distinctly heard the scrape of the barrel as the bobbies—if that was who they were—disassembled their makeshift ramp.

Please don’t let them look up and see the hook
.

A very long ten minutes later, another night bird called at the opposite end of the block. Maggie, sounding the all clear.

“It’s all right,” Snouts whispered. “We can manage wivout a stair.”

“I hope Doctor Craig can, too. Come.”

Keeping close to the ground, they dashed across the open lawn and into the shadows. Claire moved along the wall of the incurables wing, Snouts close behind her, until they reached a set of frosted glass windows. “The cold baths,” she whispered. “This is the easiest way in, and the furthest from anyone with ears.”

Snouts gazed upward. “Lady, they got bars on ’em. You proposin’ to squeeze between?”

“No, I’m proposing to use the rifle.”

She unholstered it and pushed the switch. The hum sounded uncomfortably loud in the silence, but instead of allowing the charge to build up to lethal force, she stepped back and took aim at the window. If one sent a bolt of power into sand, the result was glass. And if one sent a bolt of power into glass ...

A tendril of blue-white light arced across the space, illuminating every leaf in the shrubbery before spreading over the surface of the window like spidery cracks in a sheet of ice. With a shivering sound, the window disintegrated into a million shards, sifting into piles of glittering grains on the sill.

“Completely disintegrated and returned to sand,” Claire whispered. “One would think it would melt, but no. It’s a property of this current that—”