answered my…hypothesis,” he said.
The two men exchanged one quick look, set their wineglasses on the hearth, and strode abruptly from the King Crow without another word.
The clock in the entryway of the King Crow chimed seven. Doctor Svenson lit the first of his remaining cigarettes, inhaled deeply, and then slowly blew smoke across the remains of his meal. He swirled the contents and tossed off the last of his second glass of wine—a meaty, country claret—then set down his glass and stood. The innkeeper was behind the bar, reading a book. Svenson shrugged on his greatcoat and called to the man.
“I should like to take a walk across the green. Will there be any difficulty getting back inside? When do you retire?”
“Doors are not locked in Tarr Village,” the man replied, and went back to his book. Svenson saw he was to get no further communication, and walked to the front door.
Outside, the night was clear and cool, with bright moonlight casting a pale, silvered sheen over the grassy common, as if it had just rained. Across the square, he could see light through the windows of the church. No other building seemed to be so occupied, again as if an order had been given to extinguish all candles by a particular hour. In possible confirmation, the light vanished behind him in the windows of the King Crow, its proprietor closing down for the night. It could not be much past seven! When did these villagers wake—before dawn? Perhaps the puritanical nature of the train party was not so out of place after all—perhaps his recent time in the sin-filled city (he could hardly deny it was so) had overly influenced his skeptical views. Svenson set off across the grass toward the church, to see if he could discover what kept these particular people awake.
In the center of the common was a very large, old oak tree, and Svenson made a point of walking beneath it and looking up at the moon through its enormous, tangled network of leafless branches, just to torment himself with the subsequent whiff of vertigo. As he turned down to his boots to steady himself, he heard across the square the unmistakable sound of a horse-drawn coach rattling into Tarr Village. It was small and efficient, drawn by two black horses and driven by a well-wrapped coachman who reined the horses directly in front of the King Crow. Svenson knew instantly this was the party, arriving late, who was to meet the two men. The coachman went to the door, knocked, waited, knocked again much more loudly, and several minutes later—receiving no response— returned to the coach. Svenson could not but admire the pugnacious reticence on the part of the innkeeper. After another word with his master, the coachman climbed back into place. With a sharp whistle and a snap of the reins the coach pulled forward along the square and then disappeared into the heart of the village. Soon it had passed beyond Svenson’s hearing, and in the re-gathering of the night’s quiet it was as if the coach had never been.
In construction, the church in Tarr Village was quite plain: white-painted wood with a boxy steeple in the rear more like a watchtower than a pinnacle rising to heaven. The front of the church was more of a mystery. The double doors were closed, but they were also, he realized as he neared them, bolted shut with a heavy chain wound through each handle and held fast with a blockish padlock. Svenson ambled onto the cobbled lane and looked up at the doorway. He saw no one, and walked quietly up the three stone steps and put his ear to the door. Something…a sound that, the more he took it in, set his nerves on edge…a low, undulating sort of buzz. Was it chanting? A queer, dyspeptic drone from a pipe organ? He stepped back again, got no other clue from anything he could see. The church was bordered by an open lot, so he walked quietly through untended grass that rose above his ankles and, with the evening dew, wetted his boots. A row of tall windows ran along the side of the church. The glass bore the knotted surface of elaborate leaded detail, without any particular colors to make plain the illustration. It made him wonder if the images were merely decoration—a geometrical pattern, say—as in a mosque, where any depiction of a man or woman, much less the Prophet, would be a blasphemy. Looking up, all he could see was a dim glow from within—there was
“Captain Blach!”
It was the man from the train, Eloise’s ostensible partner, the lawyer’s clerk. He stood in the open rear door of the church, in one hand a lit cigarette and in the other—incongruously—a heavy cast iron wrench, for use on only the most unwieldy of machines. Before Svenson could speak, the man stuck the cigarette between his lips and offered the Doctor his hand.
“You arrived after all—I was worried you would not. Did you ever find your lady friend?”
“I’m afraid I did not—”
“Not to worry—I’m sure she went ahead to the house with the others.”
“The light.” Svenson gestured behind him to the windows. “A blue flash, just moments ago—”
“Yes!” The man’s eyes lit up. “Isn’t it splendid? You really are just in time!”
He took another drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the stone porch and ground it beneath his shoe. Svenson’s gaze went to the wrench—it was perhaps as long as the man’s forearm. The man noticed his look and chuckled, hefting the hunk of iron as if it were a prize. “They are letting us help with the works, you see—it really is just as engaging as I hoped! Come, everyone will be delighted to see you!”
He turned and went into the church, holding the door open for Svenson to follow. The blue flash made him think of d’Orkancz and the Institute. He’d given this man a false name—but any member of the Cabal, if present, would know him instantly. Further—his mind raced, gesturing for the man to go first, and closing the door behind them—were the women at Tarr Manor? What other house could be meant? If that was so, there was no hiding the connection of this group—the black books, the Puritan brimstone—with Bascombe and his Cabal. But—he must decide, he must do something (even then the man was leading him into a dressing vestibule hung with church robes). Lord Tarr had been killed to gain control of the quarry and the deposits of indigo clay. What did that have to do with this religious nonsense? And what religious ceremony involved that size of…wrench?
The man abruptly stopped, one hand on Doctor Svenson’s chest, the other—with the wrench, which could not but look foolish—held over his mouth to indicate silence. He nodded ahead of them at an open door, and then stepped quietly ahead until they could see into the next room. Svenson followed, apprehensive and curious in equal measure, craning his head over the man’s shoulder.
They were to the side of the altar, looking past it into the nave of the church, where the pews had been pushed away and stacked against either side wall. In the center of the open floor was an impromptu table made of stacked wooden boxes…boxes like those Chang described from the Institute, or that Colonel Aspiche’s men had taken away in carts that morning. Atop the table was a…machine—an interlocking conglomeration of metal parts sticking out of a central casket not unlike a visored medieval helmet, and trailing bright twists of copper wire that ran into an open box on the floor (which Svenson could not see into). The air was sharp with that same mechanical smell—ozone, cordite, burnt rubber, oil—that he’d known on the bodies of Trapping and Angelique and the man in Crabbe’s kitchen, only now so intense that his nostrils wrinkled in protest, even from this far away. Around the machine, in a circle, was a collection of men—the same mix of classes and types he’d seen on the train, including the tall horse-ish fellow from his first compartment. Most had taken off their coats and rolled up their sleeves, some held tools, some oily rags, some merely rested their hands on their hips with satisfaction, and all of them gazed lovingly at the machine between them. At the circle’s head was another man, in an unkempt but elegantly cut black coat, his streaked hair pushed back behind his ears, his sharp face dominated by a pair of dark goggles, and his hands magnified—like a giant’s—by a pair of padded leather gauntlets that went up to his elbows. It was Doctor Lorenz.
Svenson stepped away from the door. His companion felt him move and turned with a look of concern. Svenson held up his hand and began to silently gag, motioning that there was some trouble with his breathing, with his throat—he took another step back and waved the man forward, as if this would only take a moment, he would be right with him. Instead of going ahead, the man stepped after him—forcing Svenson to gag still more theatrically—and then to the Doctor’s dismay turned to the room, as if to call for help. Svenson took hold of the man’s arm and tugged him along back toward the rear door of the church. They reached the far side of the dressing room before Svenson allowed himself to audibly cough and gag.
“Captain Blach, are you all right? Are you unwell? I’m sure Doctor Lorenz—”
Svenson charged through the rear door and bent over on the paved portico, hands on his knees, sucking in great gasps of air. The man followed him outside, clucking with concern. Svenson could not go in. Lorenz would know him. And now, whatever else happened, this man was sure to mention him—perhaps he had already?—in such a way that would leave little mystery to those who already marked him as an enemy. He felt a comforting
