pulled down so low over his eyes that George was not surprised he could not see where he was going. The boy’s trousers seemed to be held up with string in place of a belt, and what George could see of his face was a cheeky grin. A curl of black hair hung over the shadowed eyes, as if trying to escape from the cap.
‘Sorry, guv,’ the boy said, before continuing quickly down the street. George watched him for only a moment, then returned his attention to working out which way he needed to go.
In the end he asked for directions. The newspaper seller outside the station was happy to help, until he realised that George was not about to buy a paper as well. Then his attitude cooled, and George quickly bade him goodbye.
He now had no trouble finding Lorimore’s house. It was set back from the road behind huge iron gates, which stood open as if expecting him. There was a man standing just inside the gates, and he certainly was not expecting George. But once George had explained his business, and shown the man his letter from Lorimore, he was allowed to pass.
A gravel driveway wound its way from the gates up through extensive grounds. As he made his way along it George began to wonder if he had not come to some public park instead of a private house. But then the drive looped again, and before him was an enormous four-storey house built of imposing red brick and pale stone.
The man who opened the door to George had been shoehorned into his dark suit. His neck bulged out over the stiff collar of his white shirt, though his face was in shadow and George could see almost nothing of his features. ‘Yes?’ His voice was a low rasp of disapproval.
‘George Archer,’ George said, trying to sound confident and unperturbed. ‘Mr Lorimore asked me to call.’
The man stared back at him for several moments as if he had not spoken. Then he stepped back inside and gestured for George to enter the wide hallway.
‘You’d better wait here, sir.’ The last word sounded like an afterthought. ‘I’ll see if Mr Lorimore is expecting you.’
The butler’s footsteps echoed off into the house and George waited close inside the door. The hall was wider than the biggest room in George’s house, and had more furniture crammed into it than George possessed in total. But he was too used to the impressive space and furnishings of the British Museum to feel intimidated. Instead he spent the time he was alone looking with interest at the display cases that lined one whole side of the hall.
The first few were disconcerting. They were glass-fronted, mounted on the wall. Glassy eyes stared out. They seemed to follow George as he walked slowly along. From inside each and every case, a stuffed animal watched him. One was a fox, its teeth glinting sharply in the dark maw of its mouth. Then a family of mice, nestling in a home of straw. Cats, dogs, birds … All manner of creatures were frozen within the glass cages. Each and every one stared at George in an uncomfortably accusing manner.
The last animal was another bird, which strutted somewhat precariously inside its relatively large environment. It looked ungainly yet somehow assured. It had a bulbous body and head, with a feathery tuft for a tail. Its beak was hooked and on another bird might have looked savage and threatening. But here it merely added to the whole faintly ridiculous shape. George examined the creature through the glass, wondering where it might have come from. There was no label or clue on the case.
Soon, George was standing before the last display case. From here on down the rest of the hallway, the wall was lined with low, narrow tables, each holding a display. At first he had thought that these too were bizarre examples of taxidermy. On the first table stood a figure about a foot tall which stared out at the world as if daring anyone to approach. It was a monkey, standing on its hind legs and dressed in an army uniform, complete with cap. In its tiny paw, the monkey was holding a cigarette.
But it was not a stuffed animal. George could see now that it was made of wood and metal. A superb sculpture that caricatured the form of the real animal and emphasised the more human aspects. The figure stood on a small plinth, and in the plinth George could see a keyhole. An automaton he realised — once wound up the monkey would perform some trick or go through a series of predefined clockwork actions. He forgot his unease at the stuffed animals, and began to look forward to meeting Augustus Lorimore.
‘It was constructed by a Frenchman called Thierry.’ The voice was taut and nasal and quiet. It startled George.
He turned quickly to find a man standing beside him. The man was almost as tall as the butler, but incredibly thin. His suit fitted his skeletal form immaculately. His neck was sinewed, and the skin of his face was stretched like parchment over the bones so that the shape of his skull was distinctly visible. He was, George supposed, in his fifties. His hair was the colour of newly wrought iron. His eyes were almost the same colour, and seemed to burn with intelligence and passion.
‘Mr Lorimore?’ George guessed.
‘Mr Archer,’ Lorimore replied. ‘They executed him, you know.’
‘I’m sorry — who?’
‘Thierry.’ Lorimore was holding a key. The tiny piece of metal was almost lost in the man’s long bony fingers as he slotted it into the plinth and turned it carefully. ‘He was a murderer, of course,’ Lorimore added as he wound the mechanism. ‘But you would think that the ability to produce something as beautiful as this, as elegant and engineered …’ He clicked his tongue, feeling round the base of the automaton for a switch or lever. ‘Well,’ he continued as he stepped back, ‘you would think it should count for something, wouldn’t you?’
‘Er, yes,’ George agreed, although he was not at all sure that he did. His attention focused on the monkey as its head turned and it looked around. Perhaps it was checking to see if anyone was watching, because then it raised its paw furtively to its mouth as if dragging on the cigarette. The mechanism was smooth and quiet, George noted.
‘There is a facility,’ Lorimore said, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the monkey, ‘to light the cigarette, and also a wick inside the body. Then it blows smoke out of its mouth, to complete the illusion. It was a gift from Lord Chesterton, delivered only this morning. I am, I confess, still intrigued by its workings.’
As he spoke, the monkey looked round again. As if startled, its eyes widened with a click, and the paw holding the cigarette disappeared behind its back. A moment later, the other arm shot up and the monkey snapped a smart salute. George laughed out loud at the absurdity and cleverness of it.
‘You too are impressed, Mr Archer,’ Lorimore observed. ‘That is good. Very good. Now,’ he held his arm out to allow George to precede him along the hall, ‘let us discuss business.’
‘I’m not sure it’s really business,’ George said as they walked slowly to the end of the hall. He was walking slowly so he could look at the other tables they passed. Each one had on it an automaton. Some were crude and simple — a musical box with a large key, for instance. Others were every bit as intricate and sophisticated as the monkey — a tiny carriage; skaters on a frozen lake of glass; a lady in a crimson, velvet dress — George could not guess what the mechanism did, but she looked perfectly sculpted and beautifully lifelike.
‘Everything comes down to business,’ Lorimore told George as they entered a large drawing room.
But George hardly heard him. It was as if the displays in the hall were merely the overture to a grand opera that opened out in the drawing room. The walls were all but covered with more display cases — animals, birds, unfathomable shapes floating in tanks of viscous liquid. Two sofas were arranged facing each other in the middle of the room, almost lost amongst the clutter. Beyond them, a large carved tiger was bearing down on the figure of a man who was trying to push it away. Every level surface seemed to have on it a metal or wooden model or apparatus.
‘I apologise for the distractions,’ Lorimore said, smiling at George’s evident fascination. ‘A hobby of mine, I confess. I am a collector as well as an enthusiast. Flora and fauna, automata, historical books and papers … They all interest me.’
‘I understand the fascination with automata,’ George said. He bent down to examine a device that fed ball bearings down a chute after which they were channelled into different runs marked off with numerals. ‘From what I understand, your factories produce industrial versions of machines almost as impressive and clever as these?’
‘Almost?’
Perhaps there was a hint of annoyance in Lorimore’s tone, but if there was, George did not hear it. He was tracing the possible paths of the tiny metal balls. ‘Is this a clock?’ he asked, realising how the mechanism must work.
‘Indeed it is. You can tell that from looking at it?’ There was no anger now, but surprise and perhaps a little respect.
George shrugged. ‘That’s the business I’m in.’
