His Clockwork Canary

dimensions with them, fearing they, Wesley and I, might not survive or that time travel would somehow mutate our already altered genes even more.”

“So she chose you and your brother over the cause,” Simon said, knowing that must have touched her deeply.

She nodded, eyes bright. “Apparently so.”

Simon had never once questioned his own father’s love and support. And though his mother was somewhat aloof in nature, he trusted in her affections. Never had he been so aware of his good fortune. Humbled, Simon reached across the table and clasped Willie’s hand. Because of her time-tracing gift, her parents had held her at bay. Was it any wonder she guarded her heart so fiercely? “Why didn’t Filmore make the jump himself?”

She sighed a little. Exasperated? Weary? Another sip of wine and then she rallied on. “Rollins thinks it boiled down to a few factors,” she said. “First of all, he wouldn’t get far without a vehicle that was compatible with the clockwork propulsion engine, and Rollins refused to construct one.”

“Surely another twentieth-century engineer could have performed the task. More than one arrived here on the Briscoe Bus,” Simon said whilst stroking her knuckles.

“Aye, but Filmore trusted no PR outside of the Houdinians. Rollins said as the years progressed, Filmore became more and more paranoid, always spouting one or another conspiracy theory. He also believes that Filmore was secretly afraid of landing in an unfamiliar time on his own. When you think about it,” Willie said, “that is a daunting adventure indeed.”

“Briscoe did it. And Jules is about to do it,” Simon said, gut cramping. “If he hasn’t already.”

“Aye, but Filmore strikes me as someone who cannot operate without minions, so to speak. Rabid followers. Devoted admirers. People who hang on his every word. Even living undercover he chose a job where he could talk people’s ears off, the pub bartender who enraptured patrons with passionate, exaggerated ghost tales.”

“Must have knocked him off-balance,” Simon said, “losing Rollins, and then your mother.”

“According to Rollins, Filmore went a bit batty after my mother died. Even though he’d respected my mother’s marriage to my father, he’d harbored . . . affections. It seems to me a most complex and muddled relationship,” Willie said. “I don’t need to make sense of it, I just want to ensure that the clockwork propulsion engine doesn’t fall into dangerous hands. Neither I nor Rollins deem Filmore the best person for the job anymore.”

“So you’re stepping into your mother’s shoes as guardian of the engine?” Simon asked.

“Not forever,” Willie said, catching and holding his gaze. “Just until the engine is safe. As far as I’m concerned, this Triple R Tourney is a godsend. The Jubilee Science Committee will guard that engine as keenly as the Tower’s yeomen guard the crown jewels. Once it is presented to Queen Victoria during the jubilee, given Her Majesty’s disdain for modern technology, she will no doubt have it locked away. Aye. That will be the way of it,” Willie said. “The engine will be as protected as a royal secret.”

Either that, Simon thought, or the queen would order someone to destroy the engine. That notion vexed on multiple levels. Mind reeling with his brother’s predicament as well as Willie’s latest findings, Simon downed the last of his wine. “So we’re back to scouring a plethora of catacombs in search of the engine.”

“No.” Willie squeezed his hand. “There is a spot of good news in all of this. Rollins promised to intercede.”

“The revolving safe house.” Simon all but thunked his own forehead. “But of course, Thimblethumper—hell, Rollins—would know the precise London location.”

“If Filmore maintained protocol. Rollins ventures he has not. What he is certain of is his ability to track Filmore.”

“So we wait.”

“Hopefully not for long. Perhaps even as soon as tomorrow.”

“Then by all means we should get some rest,” Simon said, noting the weary set of his wife’s shoulders. “I’m eager to leave this particular adventure in the dust.”

“As am I,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Simon reached for the platter of half-eaten chicken, then paused upon noting Willie’s queer intensity as she stared at their dirty plates. “What are you doing?”

“Testing my supernatural ability on the off chance that it has manifested in a way that would please Fletcher.”

“Telekinesis.” Simon’s lip twitched. “In which case these plates would now be flying across the room and into the sink.” He raised a brow. “Doesn’t seem to be working.”

“No,” she said, her kaleidoscope eyes sparking with a hint of humor. “Pity.”

CHAPTER 33

JANUARY 26, 1887 QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

An entire day and night had passed since that bastard mercenary guide, Austin Steele, had abandoned Bingham in Cunnamulla. Since “the Rocketeer” had taken Renee with him, Bingham had been left without a confidant. He wasn’t about to engage the bodyguard who’d failed to protect him from getting “gutshot” in conversation regarding sensitive information. Nor could he discuss his thoughts and concerns with the doctor or nurses who’d been attending to his god-awful wound. He’d dispatched his Mod Tracker, Crag, to infiltrate Merriweather’s compound and to determine the status of the professor and his daughter as well as the damnable meddling Jules Darcy.

Crag’s findings had been disappointing, not to mention perplexing. The compound had been deserted. No sign of a living soul. Nothing of value left behind, yet no trace of evidence explaining how or when the trio had escaped. It made no sense and Crag’s ineptitude only enraged Bingham more.

We’ll just have to wait until one of them slips up and shows his face, Crag had said. I tracked Merriweather before, I’ll track him again.

Meanwhile time was ticking, and for all Bingham knew, Jules Darcy had already coerced Merriweather into re-creating a working time machine. Question was, what did Darcy intend to do with the outlawed vehicle?

“Damnation!”

Impatience ripped through Bingham like a firestorm. He had not traveled this far, nor taken such risks, to be outfoxed by one of Reginald Darcy’s offspring. How was it possible that the dotty old inventor had sired three highly industrious and intelligent spawns? Yes, Bingham had hoped one of the three would ferret out pertinent information or an actual device as created by their distant cousin, but he had also counted on snatching that data or device from their clutches. Thus far, events were unfolding in a most displeasing way.

Amelia Darcy had failed to produce an invention that would further Bingham’s cause. Jules Darcy had quite possibly stolen Merriweather’s knowledge and intellect from beneath Bingham’s nose. The unknown variable this moment was the other son, Simon. Desperate to know the civil engineer’s progress, he tried his telecommunicator for the hundredth time this day.

Still dead.

Blast!

He knew not whether the device was malfunctioning, or the area was simply too remote to support the requisite signal. Just as he was ready to throw the blasted gadget against the wall, someone knocked, then stepped inside.

“Captain Northwood,” Bingham said. “Thank God.”

Within the hour Bingham had left that wretchedly primitive hospital in the dust and had boarded his beloved Mars-a-Tron. Once in the air and back in charge, his mind cleared, as did radio transmissions. He waded through several coded messages, adrenaline surging when he spied news from Wilhelmina Goodenough.

Bingham smiled. He should have known the engineer would have sought out the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium. No doubt Miss Goodenough had played a major role in the recovery of the elusive journal. After all her mother had been an original Peace Rebel, a specialist in matters of security.