His Clockwork Canary

them?”

“Because they are a closely guarded secret.”

“Yet you’re privy to this secret.”

“I’m privy to a lot of secrets.” Jules checked his pocket watch. “Time is of the essence.” He passed Simon an envelope. “Three Houdinians. Three names. There is a curiosity shop in Notting Hill. It’s run by a retired Mod Tracker, although few are aware of his past vocation.”

“You’re one of the few.”

“I am.” Jules corked the liquor bottle. “If anyone can give you a location on a Houdinian, it’s Thimblethumper.”

“Queer name.”

“Bogus name.”

“Why am I talking to this Thimblethumper? Why not you?”

“Because I’m increasing our chances of success by going after another clockwork propulsion engine.”

“Not—”

“Yes.”

“But the original device—”

“Is trapped in the future. I know.” Jules reached inside his coat and passed Simon a palm-sized gadget with a hinged cover. “It’s an experimental tele-talkie. Agency restricted. Show it to no one and only use it to communicate with me in times of dire need.”

Simon thumbed open the cover and marveled at the intricate mechanism.

“Point-to-point verbal communication. Earphone, microphone, antenna,” Jules said, noting various and curious components. “Power button and toggle. Left to transmit, right to receive.”

“No cords?”

Jules shook his head. “It’s a hybrid of the Mods’ walkie-talkie. A personal two-way radio device.” He produced a matching silver and bronze tele-talkie and thumbed the power button, causing Simon’s device to squawk, then squeal.

Simon winced at the high-pitched sound as Jules limped out of the office and a goodly distance away. Suddenly, he heard his brother’s voice as clear and loud as though he were still in the same room. “Good God,” Simon said, toggling left to transmit. “Can you hear me as well?”

“Ingenious, is it not?” Jules asked. “Powering off to conserve energy.”

Simon powered off as well and joined his brother in the cavernous work area. “How—”

“No time to explain, and as I said, it’s experimental and—”

“Agency restricted.” Simon angled his head. “What agency would that be precisely?”

Jules paused as if deliberating the wisdom in sharing that information, then slipped the tele-talkie into a leather pouch attached to an intricate harness worn beneath his greatcoat. “The Mechanics.”

Simon absorbed the name and significance. He knew his brother traveled in scientific and fantastical circles, but the Mechanics were so fantastical and mysterious, many thought them an urban legend. “You’re telling me that you have personal connections with Her Majesty’s Mechanics?”

“I am a Mechanic.”

Highly trained, highly covert agents who “fixed” sensitive and controversial matters for the British government and its sovereign. It’s not that Jules didn’t have the keen intellect and military training. “But—”

“My leg.” Jules quirked an enigmatic smile. “I manage.”

Blimey. Simon could scarcely believe his ears. “How long—”

“Since my recovery.”

“Then you are not retired.”

“Oh, but I am. Officially.”

Simon shoved a hand through his hair. “If you were recruited upon techno-surgical recovery, then you have been operating undercover for six years. Why did you not tell me?”

“Because it was not sanctioned.”

“And now?”

Jules thumbed a switch on the knob of his cane and Simon watched, fascinated, as the walking stick retracted to the length of a screwdriver. “Although I consider myself fairly invincible, I am not a magician. Should I fail upon this mission, I shall be stuck in the 1960s along with our not-so-dear and troublesome cousin Briscoe.” Jules’s expression darkened. “Papa died believing me to be a struggling writer, racked with demons and wrestling with addictions. If I do not return . . . I’d prefer you, Mother, and Amelia to remember me in kinder regards.”

Simon struggled to make sense of his brother’s words.

“Professor Maximus Merriweather holds the key to my futuristic voyage,” Jules said, whilst buttoning his coat. “And he, I have learned, is in Australia. Should there be a dire reason, you can reach me using the tele- talkie.”

Simon glanced at the advanced device burning a hole in his hand and his ever-curious mind. “A wireless signal that transmits over fifteen thousand kilometers?”

“Lest you forget, the Mods put a man on the moon.”

“Are you saying the Mechanics have recruited an original Peace Rebel? A twentieth-century scientist? An engineer? Someone from NASA? The GPO? Wait. You are traveling to speak with Professor Merriweather? The Professor Merriweather?”

“A difficult man to track and even more difficult to engage.”

Simon bristled with envy. Merriweather was a legendary physicist and cosmologist. A Mod who’d preached about the wonders and downfalls of the future before disappearing with his young daughter in a bid for safety and anonymity. Someone who would understand, support, and—given his education and origin—possess the knowledge to perhaps advance and enhance Simon’s Project Monorail. “What I wouldn’t give for an hour alone with that genius.”

“Yes, well, I require more than an hour,” Jules said, “and should Merriweather slip my grip, you will have a Houdinian at your disposal.”

Before Simon could remark, Jules pushed on. “The tele-talkie should function for as long as I’m in this dimension. After that . . .” He grasped Simon’s shoulder in an affectionate squeeze. “I suppose we shall have to rely upon our twin sensibilities.” He smiled, then stepped back. “Good luck in your quest, brother.”

A thousand questions crowded the tip of Simon’s tongue, but he stood speechless as Jules disappeared before his very eyes.

LONDON

He appeared out of nowhere, pushing in behind Willie just as she unlocked her door, forcing his way inside her lodgings before she could engage the customized clockwork safety lock.

On instinct, she grabbed the first weapon within her reach and whirled.

The intruder blocked her swing, and the bronze Buddha with the clock in his fat belly flew out of her hand, crashing into her new electric table lamp. The glass shade and incandescent bulb shattered, time stopped, and Willie’s bravado wavered. Physical contact had been brief. Not long or focused enough to effectively time-trace into his past, but enough to catch a glimpse of a memory. A group of men convening in a darkened room and the whisper of two disjointed words—assassination and Aquarius.

Heart pounding, Willie scrambled back, assessing the situation.

She’d been walking off her frustration. Ruminating Dawson’s order to get a story on Simon Darcy or to hit the proverbial street. She’d been lost in thought, lost in the cold fog rolling in with the depressing dusk. She knew not if this odious thug had been following her or perhaps lurking in the shadows of the meager lodgings she rented near Blackfriars Bridge. What she knew was that she was now trapped inside her dimly lit parlor with a dangerous masked stranger.

“I mean you no harm,” he said as if reading her mind. “If I did, the deed would be done.”

“Comforting,” she snapped.

“Cheeky,” he replied. “Indeed, I find your fighting spirit . . . stimulating.” His lip twitched as his gaze landed on her newsboy cap, then dragged south to her worn boots. “The name is Strangelove.”