His Clockwork Canary

She judged him. She challenged him. She intrigued the bloody hell out of him. No matter her gender, he’d thought her a heartless, glory-seeking pressman. Yet she worried that he’d utilize the Peace Rebels’ engine to jump dimensions? Worried that he’d somehow damage their already distorted world? And what of the possibility that he’d disappear in a rainbow of light, never to be seen again in his own time, much like the original Time Voyager? Any one of those scenarios would make for a more sensational story, would it not? One would think she’d be anxious for Simon to pull the most outrageous and scandalous stunt imaginable, thus providing her and the Informer with the story of the century!

For the life of him Simon could not determine the beliefs, motivations, and goals of this enterprising woman. Old Worlder? New Worlder? Certainly not a Flatliner. Though she claimed not to trust mankind, she exhibited passion regarding the fate of the world. Did she support advanced technology like Simon’s fuel-efficient monorail, or like Queen Victoria and other blinkered conservatives, did she shun anachronistic marvels?

Crossing the threshold, Simon battled those troubling musings and focused on their present task. He removed his derby and pocketed his gloves whilst the Canary pulled off her cap and glanced about the tavern. He knew without asking that she was assessing the eerie ambience much as he had the night before. Mostly Spirits & Tales resembled any common pub. Cramped confines, crowded seating, dark-paneled walls and floors. An enormous bar overwhelmed the small room and a mirrored backbar displayed shelves of various liquor bottles and filmy glasses.

Unlike most pubs, it did not possess a warm and cheery atmosphere. The dim lighting cast the room in a sickly shade of green instead of a warm golden glow. The paintings on the walls depicted scary, even downright ghastly scenes, and the floorboards creaked with every step. The only difference between last night and now was the quiet. Two, not twenty, people sat at the bar and there was plenty of seating elsewhere. Simon did not recognize the broad-shouldered, older man behind the bar, but it had to be Filmore, aka Flash. He sensed it in Willie’s demeanor. Yet instead of sitting at the bar, she moved toward a table near the raging hearth.

“It will take more than a hot cup of tea to relieve the chill I sustained whilst poking around Mary King’s Close,” she said in a grumpy tone. “I could use a whiskey, although I suppose you’ve yet to recover from last night’s bender.”

“Your hostility wears thin, Canary.”

“As does your impropriety.”

He glanced to where she looked and realized he was holding the chair out, waiting for her to sit first—a gentlemanly consideration for a woman. Except she pretended to be a man. Still. His patience on the matter was spent. “Listen, Willie, I—”

“Stay here,” she said, barking the order much as she had back at Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities. Of all the bleeding cheek, Simon thought as she strode to the bar in her gangly, boyish manner. Fine. Let her buy the drinks. Let her have first crack at the Houdinian. He wanted to make haste with this expedition, and if the Canary could advance their efforts with her extraordinary interviewing skills, Simon would gladly take advantage.

Restless, he eased down in a rickety chair and pretended interest in a menu whilst surreptitiously watching the scene unfold.

The Canary nodded in greeting to the other two patrons, then climbed onto a barstool and motioned to the barkeep. The physically fit, silver-haired man appeared between midfifty and sixty years of age, the average age of most living Mods. Other than that, Simon had no way of knowing if the man was indeed Jefferson Filmore. Mods looked like any other Vic. They were wholly normal and human, just from another time. Even so, Simon suspected the man had introduced himself as Jim Flash, since Willie engaged him in animated conversation whilst the man poured two whiskies.

The Canary checked her time cuff as she pulled cash from her ratty wallet. There was something about her posture, her expression. Intense. No, attentive. Focused. As if whatever Filmore was saying was of enormous and impressive interest. Was that her trick? Encouraging someone to talk freely by intimating that they were unusually fascinating?

The exchange of payment was quick, and Simon watched as the two shook hands in a friendly farewell gesture. He thought he saw the Canary wince as Filmore pulled back. She checked her time cuff, then a pocket watch. She jammed her hand through her hair, looking somewhat rattled, then downed one of the whiskies.

What the devil?

She ordered another and once again engaged Filmore in talk. Simon could not make out specifics and this moment the Canary lowered her voice even more, causing Filmore to brace his elbows on the bar and lean in as if whatever she was saying was now the source of fascination. Simon leaned forward as well, but he couldn’t hear a damned thing. He itched to join the Canary at the bar, but by God, she looked to be making some sort of progress.

She checked the time—again. Why did she keep doing that? Then she grasped Filmore’s beefy forearm as if saying something of dire importance. Filmore was all ears.

Then the queerest thing happened.

Willie froze.

Literally.

She stopped talking, stopped moving, although she retained a death grip on Filmore. The awkward moment stretched on, and after snapping his fingers in front of her face, Filmore wrenched away his arm and Willie slumped forward on the bar.

Simon pushed to his feet and moved swiftly to the bar. He grasped Willie’s shoulder, pulling her upright. Her eyes were open, but unfocused.

“What the hell?” Filmore asked. “We were swapping ghost tales and the kid faded off.”

“Afraid my friend’s in his cups,” Simon said, gesturing at the whiskey. “We’ve been at it all night. A celebration of sorts. I best see him home.”

Unsure as to what was going on and not wanting to raise the Houdinian’s suspicions, Simon hoisted Willie over his shoulder like a sack of grain, mumbled an amusing apology to the barkeep and patrons, then whisked the Canary outdoors and into an alley.

“Put me down,” she ordered weakly, with an ineffectual punch to Simon’s back.

He propped her against a cold brick wall. Held her upright by her shoulders. “What happened in there?”

“What time is it?”

Simon looked on as Willie squinted at her time cuff, then fumbled for her pocket watch.

“That can’t be right,” she mumbled, sounding more British this moment than Scottish and looking somewhat delirious. “I’ve never been gone that long.”

“Gone where? What are you talking about and why do you keep checking your timepieces?”

She shrugged off his grip, gave herself a shake, then tugged on her cap. “We must hurry. I fear I may have tipped my hand,” she said whilst taking off down the alley on shaky legs. “I lingered and meddled. I’ve never done that before, but when I saw her . . .”

“Her, who?” Simon asked, taking a firm hold of the Canary’s elbow. Had she gone temporarily bonkers? Had one shot of whiskey addled her mind? “There were two male patrons at the bar, myself, and Filmore— if that was Filmore.”

Willie nodded. “It was.”

“No woman present,” Simon said, “other than you.”

She cast him a dazed, angry look.

“Keep pretending if you want to,” Simon said, “but know that the effort is wasted on me.” Vulnerable as she was this moment, he half expected her to throw up her arms, to cry defeat, to admit her true identity and spout some sort of fantastic tale related to her ruse. Wishful thinking on his part. Instead, she bolstered her shoulders and put more starch in her step.

“It’s in a vault,” she said, leaving the alley and taking a hard left onto a narrow street. “A coffinlike vault with some sort of intricate locking system. I know not the code, but maybe you can crack it. You’re good with numbers, right?”

Simon’s mind whirled. “Thimblethumper said the Houdinians would kill to protect an object of value, yet Filmore willingly told you the engine is hidden in a locked vault?”