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INFERNAL DEVICES

“This is the real thing – a mad inventor, curiouscoins, murky London alleys and windblownScottish Isles... A wild and extravagant plot thatturns up new mysteries with each succeedingpage.”

James P Blaylock

“Jeter is an exhilarating writer who always seemsto have another rabbit to pull out of his hat.“

The New York Times Book Review

“Goddamn, what a book. This is like H G Wellswith H P Lovecraft’s descriptions of darknessrun through the mind of Sherlock Holmeswriter Arthur Conan Doyle. It's about as screwyas it gets, complete steampunkery, with a duowho are scamming their way across the landthrough an entirely different set of devices.Must read… Pure joy. I couldn’t set it down.”

SFBook.com

“At times Jeter can be profound, deepobservation swirling into the bizarre.”

Bearcave.com

“A delicious and quite insane romp through thegas-lit streets of London. Absolute must-read!”

SF Revu

“K. W. Jeter (is) one of the most audacious andwildly inventive science fiction writers currentlyputting pen to paper.”

Ontario Journal

an excerpt fromINFERNAL DEVICES

by K W Jeter

To be published April 2011 (UK/RoW)and May 2011 (North America)by Angry Robot, in paperback

and eBook formats.

UK ISBN: 978-0-85766-096-1US ISBN: 978-85766-097-8

eBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85766-098-1

Angry RobotAn imprint of the Osprey Group

Distributed in the US & Canadaby Random House

angryrobotbooks.com

Copyright © K W Jeter 1987

All rights reserved. However, feel free to share this

sample chapter with anyone you wish. And if you

like this, go and buy K W’s extraordinary books.

And if you love them, tell your friends too…

1Mr Dower Receives a Commission

5

On just such a morning as this, when the threat ofrain hangs over London in the manner of a sentenceneither stayed nor pardoned, but rather perpetuallyexecuted, Creff, my factotum, interrupted the break-fast he had brought me only a few minutes earlierand announced that a crazed Ethiope was at thedoor, presumably to buy a watch.

Reader, if the name George Dower, late of theLondon borough of Clerkenwell, is unfamiliar toyou, I beg you to read no further. Perhaps a mercifulfate – merciful to the genteel reader’s sensibilities,even more so to the author’s reputation – has spareda few souls acquaintance with the sordid history thathas become attached to my name. Small chance ofthat, I know, as the infamy has been given the widestcirculation possible. The engines of ink-stained paperand press spew forth unceasingly, while the evenmore pervasive swell of human voice whispers indrawing room and tenement the details that cannotbe transcribed.

Still, should the reader be such a one, blessedly ig-norant of recent scandal, then lay this book downunread. Perhaps the dim confines of the sick-room,or the wider horizons of tour abroad, far from Eng-lish weather and the even darker and morepermeating chill of English gossip, have shelteredyour ear. There can be only small profit in hearingthe popular rumours of that dubious scientific broth-erhood known as the Royal Anti-Society, and thepart I am assumed to have played in its resurrectionfrom that shrouded past where it had lain as mytho-logical shadow to Newton’s Fiat live.

Such happy ignorance is possible. Only thesketchiest outline has been made public of Lord Ben-dray’s investigations into the so-called CataclysmHarmonics by which he meant to split the earth toits core. Even now, the riveted iron sphere of hisHermetic Carriage lies in the ruins of Bendray Hall,its signal flags and lights tattered and broken, a mereobject of speculation to the attendants who listen pa-tiently to the tottering grey-haired figure’s inquiriesabout his new life on another planet.

The discretion that sterling can purchase has savedthe heirs of the Bendray estate further embarrass-ment. Not for the purposes of spite, but to remedythe damage done to my own and my father’s name,will I render a complete account of Lord Bendray’sfateful musical soiree in these pages.

The rain begins, spattering on the panes of mystudy window. Before the heaped coal-grate, thedog sleeping on the rug whines and scratches the

6 INFERNAL DEVICES

K W JETER 7

floor. An apprehensive tremor blots the ink from thepen in my hand, and in my waistcoat pocket a coinof no value, save as a dread keepsake, grows coldthrough layers of cloth against my flesh. No matter;I press onward.

Many who read this, I know, will be in search offurther salacious details concerning the more dis-gusting accusations brought against me. I have beenpainted as a demon of lust. Reports of my careeringthrough ill-lit dockside alleys in a coach-and-four,hot in pursuit of unnatural pleasures such as the“green girls” whose connection to instances of mad-ness and physical decay among the younger peerageis so often whispered of, have been given credencefar beyond that which is called for by the small bit oftruth in those stories. It was through no fault of myown that the Ladies Union for the Suppression ofCarnal Vice staged a torchlight march on my formershop and residence. Indeed, if the public were awareof the hidden nature of Mrs Trabble, the captain ofthat well-thought-of regiment, much excited talkwould shift away from me.

As to the greater scandal surrounding the dual ca-reer attributed to me, that is, as a violin virtuosoequal to the great Paganini and a debaucher ofwomen exceeding the lecherous Casanova, I main-tain that neither of these accomplishments wasmine. No Stradivarius or well-born lady ever re-sponded to my bow in such a way. Though my brainwas used in the production of those melodies, so en-ticing on the concert stage and even more so behind

it, my hands are spotless. I can scarcely hope that myrevelations will be credited. For my own comfort Iplace them here.

On other matters official judgment was renderedin the courts. My conviction on the charge of dese-crating a place of worship, specifically by substitutingcopies of Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler for thehymnals of Saint Mary Alderhythe, Bankside, anddecorating the church altar with fishing tackle – thattoo can be explained. Folly I may be guilty of, butnot sacrilege.

Even though my name has been connected – withsome cause, I admit – to reports from the ScottishHighlands of the Book of Revelation’s Seven-HeadedBeast flapping about and dropping flaming sheepcarcasses upon the heads of Sir Charles Wroth’sgrouse-beaters while the Whore of Babylon laughedand shouted disrespectful comments from her perchaboard the creature, yet I still believe that an openmind will absolve me of blame. Indeed, the fact thatthe guns of Sir Charles’ grouse-hunt were trainedupon me should cause a charitable nature to hearmy grievance with some sympathy.

But as I pause for a moment, lifting my pen, andgaze through the rain-wavering glass at the thintrails of smoke rising from the crowded rooftops’chimneys and fading towards the river’s mist – aview I cannot describe in greater detail for fear ofleading the gawking crowd to this, my retreat – ashiver not prompted by ague or cold reaches downmy arms. The dog raises his head, ears pricking at

8 INFERNAL DEVICES

the sound of the distant church bells that neither Inor any other Christian gentleman has heard, orshould ever hope to hear. Somewhere in that cityborough, the name of which is spoken only in themost muted whisper, and whose location is every-where and nowhere in London at once, thecongregation summoned by those bells – to us, mer-cifully silent – is sidling through narrow alleystowards a damp worship.

Restoring my name, my father’s name, seems ashallow vanity now. What matter glory or ignominy,when such visions have altered the world itself inmy sight? Riven in twain, as in Lord Bendray’s intenttowards the earth, yet still whole. For me, London’sgrey veil, smoke and fog, has been brushed aside.Happy are those who mistake the painted curtain forthe reality behind.

The dog drops his head to his paws and resumeshis slumber. Thus chastened, mindful of my own fu-tility, I persist, scratching ink on to paper. Let thereader, thus warned, mindful of the perhaps ignobleinterest he shows in these matters, do as he wishes.

Creff was visibly agitated by the stranger’s appear-ance at our door. Memory calls to mind the anxiouswringing of his hands, resembling two furless pinkbadgers wrestling for each other’s throats, and theperfect circularity of his widened eyes.

“Lord, Mr Dower, it’s an Ethiope!” whisperedCreff. “And crazed – a murderous savage!” The badg-ers throttled themselves bloodless.

K W JETER 9

I kept my own voice level, as, the shop beingdownstairs from the room where I took my break-fast, the visitor was in no danger of hearing thecalumnies he had occasioned. “’Ethiope’ may be ap-parent on the surface,” I said. “But by what meansdid you discern the state of his mind?” The grey-filled window at my back necessitated the gasbracket’s flame, despite the advancing hour of themorning; by its yellow light I turned over a wedgeof toast, in the vain hope that the one frugal rasherof bacon had a twin hidden there.

“Mr Dower – his eyes.” Creff’s own grew evenwider. “Nothing but little slits, they were. Like hewas maddened with some heathen liquor, and pre-pared for murder!”

Intoxication was, in fact, a possibility. With discre-tion sufficient to avoid offending Creff, I inhaleddeeply, endeavouring to detect the fumes signalling alapse in his conduct. Episodes of indulgence producedunfortunate fancies in him; only a few months beforeI had been compelled to exert a good deal of diplo-macy on the wife of the shopkeeper several doorsover. Creff had been discovered in the alleyway, onhis knees before a bemused shop-cat. Stale beer hadconvinced him the cat was the Recording Angel, andhe had been attempting to bribe it with small confec-tionery lozenges, the erasure of certain regretted sinsbeing the object of his negotiations. Mrs Draywaitehad been mollified only by my hastily concocted ex-planation that a congenital weakness in Creff’s kneesproduced genuflections without warning.

10 INFERNAL DEVICES

In similar fashion, although there was no tell-taleodour of strong drink on the air, the Ethiopian re-ported downstairs might be nothing more than anItalian of unusual swarthiness. Africans had beenmuch on Creff’s mind of late, due to the then widelycelebrated performances of Prince Ko-Mo-Lo, theAbyssinian Tenor, upon a Mayfair music-hall stage,as well as the appearance of several common street-singers of similar hue. The latter, upon investigationby the constabulary, turned out to be ordinary Irishbuskers underneath the lampblack they had em-ployed to transform themselves into Africans. Theyhad hoped that the public, now dark-minded, wouldreward chanted gibberish with more coins than theirprevious incarnations’ repertoire of sentimental bal-lads had earned. Even after these frauds had beenexposed, Creff seemed fixed on the subject, asthough the anthropophagi of his childhood storieshad set up kettle and knackers in every alley.

Mistaking my wary attitude, Creff leaned closeover the breakfast table. “Here’s what we can do, MrDower. You sneak down the back steps and call outthe peelers, and I’ll hold ’im at bay until they arrive.”From under his scullery apron he displayed a carvingknife, the blade barely sharp enough to threaten acheese.

The meagreness of the breakfast, indicative of thestate of both the larder and the bank account behindit, prompted me to other strategies. I desired noclient, dark-complected or angel-fair, to be fright-ened out of the shop with a knife. I took the weapon

K W JETER 11

from Creff’s grasp, and bade him tell the gentlemanthat I would be down to wait upon him presently.

The spectre of losing trade, of whatever natureCreff’s “Ethiope” had brought, drew forth furthermeditation as I dissected the distinctly aged eggstanding in its cup. Since my inheritance of the shopand its business from my deceased father, trade andmy fortunes had gone through fluctuations resem-bling a leaf in autumn, that at moments is carriedupward by the wind but always flutters lower after-wards. Having neither my father’s inborn genius atthe contrivance of the timepieces, clockwork devices,and scientific apparatus by which he established hisreputation, nor having received a compensatory ed-ucation in these matters from him, such trade as Ihad consisted of the minor servicing and adjustmentof those creations that my father’s former clientelebrought to me. That is, whatever service I was capa-ble of making upon my father’s devices, as I couldboast very little skill at this, either. The quality of myfather’s craftmanship warranted that simple repairswere seldom required, and the intricacy of his inven-tions placed the finer adjustments well beyond myscope.

Indeed, I would have been hard put to do otherexcept sell off the collection of partially assembledmachinery, cogs, flywheels, gear trains, escapements,and such in my father’s workroom, and pocketwhatever cash the scrap value of the brass and othermetals brought as my inheritance, but for the con-tinued tenure of my father’s assistant Creff. When I

12 INFERNAL DEVICES

had first come to the shop, mourning band from thefuneral still around my sleeve and the solicitor’s no-tification of death in my pocket, I had found theloyal Creff sweeping out the premises, the windowpanes and counter brightwork polished as he haddone for my father. Keeping him on for these andother household tasks, I soon discovered that, whileCreff’s slowness of wit had prevented him fromgrasping the principles my father had employed inhis creations, his dogged attention had by sheer roteimpressed a certain pragmatic knowledge of themupon his brain. When I first managed to open thecase of one of my father’s simpler timepieces, awatch that a gentleman of Kent had brought me foradjustment, and I saw the dense universe of inter-meshed gears and coiled springs, incomprehensibleand gleaming in a thin sheen of oil, it was onlyCreff’s guidance as he leaned over my shoulder thatprevented my weeping openly. What his blunt,work-calloused fingers could not do, mine could, theminute jeweller’s tools of my father’s bench guidedby his instruction.

As my father’s shop stood near Clerkenwell Green,in that London district long noted for its watchmak-ers, I stocked a few timepieces crafted by myneighbours, hoping to sell one to the odd passer-by.Creff had assumed this to be the caller’s pretext forgaining entry and murdering us.

When I at last roused myself from my thoughts,what remained of my breakfast had passed from un-attractive to inedible. I pushed it away and stood up.

K W JETER 13

On the stairs I passed Creff, still muttering dark wor-ries about “savage cannon-balls”, as I went to seewhat manner of trade had come that morning.

My first sight of that figure, whose crossings andrecrossings through the course of my travails wouldbe the source of so much mystification, instilled inme no such apprehension as had seized Creff. Thegentleman had his back to me as I reached the bot-tom of the stairs. He waited, hat by his elbow uponthe counter, and studying one of my father’s clocksupon the opposite wall. Of more than averagestature, yet with a narrowness through the shouldersthat his greatcoat could not conceal, the man stoodstockstill, absorbed in the clock’s recording of hours,date, and position of the major planets.

“May I be of some assistance?” I announced mypresence, and the man turned towards me, pivotingon his heel with a slow, fluid grace.

I saw then how Creff’s fears had been triggered.At first I thought that the shop’s gas bracket wasturned too low, leaving the stranger’s face inshadow; then the flame’s glow shimmered across thehigh points of his countenance. The skin of his faceand hands, as I then saw that his gloves were foldedbeside his hat, were of a deep, rich brown, remindingme of burnished mahogany or fine morocco leather,its patina grown smooth and lustrous with age. Itcould be no disguise, no lampblack smudged overskin pale as my own, but only the pigment of nature.Reinforcing the supposition of the stranger’s Africanbirthplace were the symmetrical lines of minute scars

14 INFERNAL DEVICES

curving across the cheeks and forehead, such as arereported to be the self-inflicted adornment of certaintribesmen, the small wounds pricked with a thornand rubbed with sand to make them more pro-nounced when healed.

His eyes were as Creff had described them, the lidsdrawn together to form two slits over the slightlyprotuberant spheres of the eyes behind them. I didnot find this as disconcerting as the more excitableCreff had; indeed, the grave, unsmiling expressionlent a calm dignity to the stranger’s presence. What-ever savagery might have remained in his breast waswell concealed under the expensive cut of his cloth-ing.

“Mr Dower.” He spoke distinctly but softly, thethin lips barely moving apart.

“I am. The son, that is.” I always made this emen-dation to those who might have known my fatheronly through his creations, in an effort to forestallany disappointment in my own inferior services.“The founder of the business is deceased.”

“My condolences I extend.” An unplaceable accentrevealed itself in his speech. His slight bow allowedthe gas bracket’s light to graze the equally dark andpolished curve of his skull.

“Two years have passed. The grief has ebbed a lit-tle, I believe.” My own words mocked my truefeelings, as they often did when I spoke of my father.How grieve over a man one has never known, nomatter how intimate the connection? I stepped be-hind the .shop’s counter and spread my hands upon

K W JETER 15

it. “Now to business, Mr… ah…” Through observa-tion of my neighbours I had cultivated thetradesman’s obsequious smile. “I have the pleasureof addressing…?”

The gentleman ignored my forays towards hisname, and produced a paper-wrapped parcel fromthe crook of one arm. Placing it on the counter be-tween us, the Brown Leather Man (as I had alreadybegun to identify him in my thoughts) undid theknotted cord and pushed aside the paper with hisdark hands. “I was a client of your late father,” hesaid. “For me he built this, upon my commission.Some element of disorder has entered its workings,and I seek to employ you in the setting right of it.”

The last of the wrappings fell away. “What is it?” Iasked. My eyes turned upward at the Brown LeatherMan’s silence, and found the narrow slits studyingme with an unnerving intensity.

In relief I looked back down to what lay beforeme. A mahogany box a little over a foot in length,half that in its other dimensions; a pair of brasshinges faced me. With one finger I attempted toswivel the box around, but the surprising weight ofit kept it motionless upon the counter. I was forcedto grasp it with both hands in order to turn it about.

I unlatched the simple brass hasp and tilted thebox’s lid open. My heart sank within me as I lookeddown at the intricate anatomy of the device.

This feeling of despair was not unfamiliar to me;it often welled up at the sight of one of my father’screations. His genius had not been limited to the pro-

16 INFERNAL DEVICES

duction of the pocket watches and larger timepieceswhose subtlety of design and intricacy of executionhad established his name among admirers of thehorological art. Since his death and my inadequateassumption of his place, I had become acquaintedwith facets of his work that are still little known,having been undertaken at the behest of a select ariddiscreet clientele. Scientific and astronomical appa-ratus of every description, ranging from simplebarometers, though of a fineness of calibration rarelyif ever equalled, to elaborate astrolabes and orreries,the latter distinguished by a set of reciprocating ec-centric cams in the clockwork drive mechanismcapable of showing the true elliptical orbits of heav-enly bodies rather than the simplified circularmotions employed in other such mechanical repre-sentations of the universe – all of these and morewere my father’s children. More so than my ownself, I would often think as I gazed at some intricateintermeshing of gears and cogs such as the one re-vealed inside the Brown Leather Man’s mahoganycasket. The bits of finely turned and crafted brassshowed the care and attention that had been absentin the creation and assembly of my own person intomanhood.

The purpose and function of some of the devicesbrought to me were unfathomable, and an odd se-cretiveness prevailed among my father’s formerclients. Amateur scientific pursuits had long been apreoccupation with serious-minded gentlemen ofproperty and leisure, but the ones who came to me

K W JETER 17

were often as uncommunicative as the devices theywished to be repaired. Sextants that divided the skyinto angles not found in the usual geometries, mi-croscopes whose hermetically sealed lenses distortedthe viewed object into shimmering rainbow images,other instruments whose complexity and manifoldadjustments quite overwhelmed my powers of spec-ulation as to their use – all of these had in time beenbrought into the shop. With Creff’s assistance I hadmanaged the simpler repairs, a hair-thin chainslipped from its proper place or a minute cogwheelgrown toothless and replaceable with a duplicatefrom the vast jumble of parts and half-assembledmachines left in my father’s workroom. The well-heeled clientele for whom I performed these servicespaid handsomely enough. Other devices, where themalfunction was as mysterious as the function, I wasforced to return to the distraught owners with myapologies. I fear it was from the growing number ofthese admissions of inadequacy that my trade hadfallen off, the word passing among the cognoscentithat the son was not the equal of the father. The dis-astrous episode of the Patented Clerical Automata,who completion and setting into motion in a Londonchurch I had undertaken while my confidence indealing with my father’s creations had not yet beensufficiently discouraged, had been suppressed frompublic notice, else the notoriety would have endedmy trade once and for all.

Such were the well-worn reveries that weightedmy thoughts as I bent over the cabinet. As needful

18 INFERNAL DEVICES

as my personal accounts were of replenishing, Ifeared that this was not to be an occasion of profit. Iturned the flame up on the bracket behind thecounter and, while my visitor continued to regardme with his slitted stare, bent over the device withmagnifying glass in hand.

My study revealed nothing of the machine’s pur-pose, though any question of its origin was dispelled.Under the glass I discovered the floating escapementwith ratcheted countervalences that my father hadinvented, though in this instance of a smaller sizethan I had ever encountered before, and linked inparallel to a train of duplicates disappearing into thebrass innards. Other features were of such minute-ness that the magnifying glass, no matter how Isquinted through it, failed to yield the details of thedevice’s workings. One section, brighter than therest, appeared to be made of finely hammered goldleaf, the sheets of which were folded upon them-selves in various asymmetrical patterns. Simpleset-screws in the corners of the box showed wherethe device could be removed from its mahoganyhousing. A number of incomplete linkages aroundthe sides, with signs of wear marking the collars atthe ends of protruding shafts, indicated where theworkings could be connected to other, larger devices.

“It appears to be some sort of regulatory mecha-nism,” I mused aloud. I looked up to see the BrownLeather Man’s eyes still fastened upon myself. Ishrugged, made uneasy by his intent scrutiny. “Fora clock, perhaps, with various other functions com-

K W JETER 19

bined?” I knew that the device was far too complexfor such a simple purpose.

Brown Leather nodded. “A regulator… yes. Thatis so. You are familiar with devices such as this?”

“I know much of my father’s work,” I said. “Butthis in particular – no. I’m sorry.”

“But to repair it.” His narrow gaze seemed tosharpen as he looked at me, as though the glint inhis eyes were the points of needles. “You are capableof such a task?”

As with most tradesmen, avarice outweighed pru-dence in my nature. There was nothing to be lost inan attempt to remedy the device, however unlikelythe chances of success. But the man’s eyes unnervedme, arousing a taste of the fear that Creff had felt,and moved me to honesty. I closed the mahogany lidand pushed the cabinet away. “I think not,” I said.“Some of my father’s creations are beyond my skill.I believe I would only damage this further if I med-dled with it.”

My candour enabled me to look the gentleman di-rectly in the eye. For a moment he was silent, thesmall points of light behind the slitted lids readingdeeper past my own face. “Your warning I accept,”he said at last. “Nevertheless, worthwhile will I makeit to attempt what you can.”

“I cannot guarantee any results.”“Please.” The brown hands folded along the sides

of the cabinet and slid it towards me. “Even the at-tempt is valuable to me.”

“Very well.” My fingertips briefly touched his as I

20 INFERNAL DEVICES

drew the device back to me; a deep chill flowed fromthe dark skin, drawing a heartbeat’s warmth frommy own. “I am, ah… uncommitted to any otherprojects currently. If you’d care to return in a week’stime? Perhaps by then. Let me write you a receipt.”I took a sheet of paper from beneath the counter.“Received from… ?”

He ignored me, his gaze broken away from me andnow sweeping about the shop’s contents. Each clock,simple or elaborate, fell under his inspection.

“Is there something else with which I can assistyou?” I asked. Free of his searching gaze, I had beenable to dismiss my moment of dread as foolish. Per-haps a solider bit of business could be transacted.

Brown Leather turned back to me. “Your father’sworkroom,” he said. “I would like to see it.”

The request caught me by surprise. I blinked athim before I found my voice. “Why?” I said simply.“There’s nothing–”

“Your father, Mr Dower; perhaps he left behindsome articles, the use of which is puzzling to you?Mechanisms not exactly as this, but similar in part.Or even wholly different, but still of a function toyou mysterious. If such are still in his workroom, Iwould like to examine them. They might be” – hisvoice arched, intimating – “valuable to me.”

His surmise as to the contents of my father’s work-room was completely accurate. When I had firstcome to London to claim my inheritance, I had beenastonished at the mechanical chaos that filled thelarge windowless room at the back of the shop. Tot-

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tering clockwork mountains, eviscerated timepiecesof every size from pocket watches with dials as smallas thumbnails to the massive gearing of tower clockswith hands thicker about than a man’s wrist, brassskeletons of automaton figures with the round orbsof porcelain eyes staring from the unfleshed faces,scientific apparatus with dusty lenses peering only atdarkness – a whole, universe caught midwaythrough its moment of creation, and frozen there bythe death of its Creator. My father apparently hadworked on a score of projects simultaneously, andonly his fervid brain had been able to sort out the in-terpenetrations of each with each in the crowdedspace. In my brief tenure there, the disarray hadbeen increased by the natural decay of Time, and bymy own admitted carelessness in clearing enoughroom for my own work at my father’s bench. In ad-dition, my practice of facilitating a number of repairsby scavenging bits and pieces from the partially as-sembled devices had the unfortunate effect ofhastening the general disintegration.

My reluctance at allowing a stranger to see theembarrassing muddle into which my legacy hadfallen was overcome by the prospect of turning aprofit on some conglomeration of gears and springson which I had never expected to receive anythingother than scrap value. “By all means,” I said, ges-turing towards the door behind the counter. “Ifyou’d be so kind as to step around, I’d be pleased tohave your inspection.”

I guided him down the hallway and the short

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flight of stone steps to the workroom. There beingno gas bracket, I lit the lamp I kept on the bench.The flame, even adjusted to its highest, cast a lightbarely penetrating to the corners of the room, hadthey been visible behind the disordered masses of myfather’s abortive creations. The glow picked outhighlights of brass gears and little more.

Disregarding the gloom, the Brown Leather Manwas already intently peering at the jumble of devices,poking at the various mechanisms with one longbrown finger and bending closer to examine the as-semblages of gears. Disaster threatened as onecliff-face of brass wheels tottered at his prodding in-spection, a disembodied mannikin’s head lookingdown from above in the manner of a Red Indianstalking an explorer in the rude deserts of America.

A lensless telescope swung on its pivot away fromBrown Leather as he probed deeper into the me-chanical morass. “Are you finding anything ofinterest?” I called from my place at the bench.

The silence of his back turned to me was his onlyreply. A bit nettled, I lifted the lamp and carried it to-wards him, the yellow circle cast around my feet,more to benefit my own curiosity than to aid hissearch.

Holding the lamp aloft, I peered over the BrownLeather Man’s shoulder, the light gleaming from thefuscous curve of his skull. Some involved meshingof gears and cogwheels, frozen in stopped Time, layexposed before him, his extended forefinger probinglike a surgeon’s scalpel into a brass cadaver. So intent

K W JETER 23

was he upon this post-mortem de artifice that heseemed scarcely aware of my presence behind him.

A sudden snap of thin metal breaking, and my oddclient lurched backwards, knocking me over andsending the lantern flying from my hand. The lightwas not extinguished, coming to rest propped againstthe leg of the workbench, but the immediate areawhere the Brown Leather Man stood and I undigni-fiedly sat was darkened.

Enough light was reflected from the banked clut-ter of metal for me to look up and see what hadhappened. A coiled spring in the apparatus BrownLeather had been investigating now dangled crazilyin air in front of him, one jagged end bobbing like ajack’s head. The spring had apparently broken underhis prodding and snapped sharply enough to inflicta wound on him. Indeed, I could see him with onehand clutching his opposite forearm to stanch theflow of blood from a jagged gash above his wrist.

I scrambled to my feet, moved by natural sympa-thy and the prospect of the damages to which Imight be liable.

“My God, sir, you’re hurt!” I cried, bending for-ward to minister to his wound. Dismayed, I saw thedamp spatter of his blood upon the stone floor andthe nearest brass device.

He jerked the injured limb away from me. “It isnothing,” he said. “Do not worry of it.” His actionsbelied his words; still clutching his forearm, hehastily retreated up the passage to the front of theshop, with myself close behind.

24 INFERNAL DEVICES

Before gathering up his hat and gloves from thecounter, he clumsily fished a coin from his coatpocket and pressed it into my hand. A shiny wetnessseeped between the brown fingers clamped to hisforearm. “A payment on account,” he said, his nar-row eyes locking once more on to mine. “For yourwork to be done yet.”

Then he was gone, the shop door slamming be-hind him, and the clatter of hooves on cobbles and ahansom cab’s wheels fading into the street’s constantmurmur.

“Lord, I told you he were a mad one, didn’t I? Justdidn’t I!”

I looked around and saw Creff watching from thestairway, one hand again clutching the dull kitchen-knife. Without looking at the coin that the BrownLeather Man had handed me – the flash of silver andits familiar weight assured me of its being a crown –I slipped it into my waistcoat pocket. “There’s a bitof mess in the workroom,” I said. “Some blood onthe floor–”

Creff’s eyes widened as though inflated by hissharp intake of breath.

“An accident,” I assured him. “Nothing but a bro-ken watch spring. Would you be so kind as to cleanit up?”

A few moments later, as I stood behind thecounter examining the device left behind by mymorning’s visitor, with an odd premonitory uneasestaying my hand from lifting the lid, a shout camefrom the workroom. Creff appeared in the passage-

K W JETER 25

way, wadded rag in hand.“There’s no blood here.” He sounded annoyed, as

if having discovered a jest played on him. “It’s allwet, right enough, but there’s no blood.”

“You must be mistaken,” I said. “In the back, bymy father’s old things.”

“See for yourself, then,”I followed him down the steps. In the workroom,

by the brass wall of my father’s creations, where Ihad seen the jagged edge of metal tear the brownskin, I knelt down on the stone floor. Creff held thelantern above, illuminating the spattered wetnessfrom my client’s wound.

Even before I touched it, a faint scent traced acrossmy nostrils, evoking memories of childhood: theaunt who raised me, and our visits to the seashoreat Margate. I dabbed a finger at one of the spots. Thefluid on my fingertip was perfectly clear, rather thanthe thick scarlet I had expected. Curious, I tasted it.

Not blood, but brine. As I knelt upon a stone floorin the heart of London, memories of sand andwheeling gulls deepened, unlocked by the sharp,vivid tang of sea water.

26 INFERNAL DEVICES

I have returned from my regular morning perambu-lation. Long acquaintance with my father’s devices,and the eliminative functions of a dog grown oldeven before he became my companion in travail andperil, have made my habits as rigidly timed as thosemechanical figures that parade in and out of thefaces of certain Bavarian clock towers.

In a smoke-darkened courtyard branching off myroute, a group of children in tattered smocks, barefeet as black as the street grime they skipped upon,sang and played a simple hand-clapping game. Thedog barked, as though to join in their shrill, innocentglee, but a chill settled around my own heart as Imade out the words that accompanied their criss-crossing dirty arms and slapping palms.

Georgie’s fiddleGeorgie’s clock,Georgie sets him in the dock;With his bow

2Visits of Portent

27

And ladies low,Georgie’s fiddle and clock!

The children ran off, laughing and shouting rudegibes at the man who gazed after them with strickenexpression. Painful memories, evoked by the childishsong, marched behind my creased brow as, dog atheel, I retraced my steps homeward. The game’s jin-gling rhymes were, no doubt, a decaying echo ofthose street ballads – complete unto infamous de-tail! – that first sprang up when my affairs cameunder the eye of public attention. I recalled the hor-rid evening, when I, thinking I had at last beenreturned to safety and anonymity, stopped at theperimeter of a crowd assembled to listen to an itin-erant singer. Within minutes, I had realised that, tothe tune of “Hail, Smiling Morn,” a bawdy accountof my recent perils was being related to the audience.Above their heads a coloured board had swayed onthe end of a pole, with an artful caricature of myown face leering at maidens swooning to my sup-posed violin-playing; one ladylike hand had beendepicted by the artist as trembling to touch the ex-aggerated clock-winding key into which a privatesection of my anatomy had been transformed. Thesight of this villainous depiction in the hands of theballadeer’s accomplice had staggered me backwards;the nearest faces had turned towards me and hadspotted the resemblance between me and the demonfiddler on the placard; across dizzy-heaving streets Ihad been forced to flee before a general hubbub

28 INFERNAL DEVICES

could arise. Shortly after, I had decamped to my newresidence and hidey-hole, in a less populous districtwhere my alleged crimes might go unnoticed againstthe backdrop of the inhabitants’ grey squalor.

Having returned to my desk and pen, the dog oncemore at his somnolent station by the coal-grate, Istrive to banish the singing, mocking voices from mythoughts. To no avail: they form a constant obbligatoto the actual words and tones I seek to conjure fromthe past.

The day on which the Brown Leather Man firstmade an appearance in my life would have remainedmemorable for that alone. That he should be fol-lowed by other visitors, who would prove to beequally significant, illustrates that principle best de-scribed as the Superfluity of Events.

My puzzlement at the morning’s caller and thecommission he had given me circulated through mythoughts for the balance of the day. A fit of piquehad been engendered in Creff by my failure to heedhis dire warnings about the “Ethiope” or, perhaps,by the same’s obstinate refusal to actually murderme. The lack of his willing assistance left me unableto do more than carry the mahogany casket, weightydevice inside, from the shop counter to the work-room bench. Under the lamp, the intricate brassassemblage seemed as intimidating as before; I left itfor the next day, when my resources – and Creff –might be better marshalled.

No further custom came that day. It seemed in-

K W JETER 29

creasingly likely that the Brown Leather Man’s de-vice would have to be the salvation of my accounts.The coin he had deposited as partial paymentweighed heavy in my waistcoat as I pulled the shut-ters against the evening’s approaching darkness.

As I was about to extinguish the shop brackets, aknock came upon the door. I lifted the shade andpeered through the glass at the barely discernible fig-ure beyond. The weight and fine tailoring of thecloak revealed the person’s gentlemanly status. Be-fore I could speak, he rapped again on the glass withthe silver head of his cane. “Come on, come on,” hecalled in a slightly coarse accent, unplaceable to me.“Jesus H. Christ,” I heard him whisper to another fig-ure behind him. “Sure gotta deal with a lot of dimbulbs around here…”

The unfamiliar inflection and incomprehensibleterms I attributed then to foreign or modish affecta-tion. My reclusive habits kept me apart from thosecant phrases “What a shocking bad hat!” and thelike – that flourish on everyone’s tongue for a sea-son, to be replaced by something equally foolish.That this gentleman had time for such frivolity be-spoke money, and the urge to spend it; I unlockedthe door and bade him enter.

He swept in with magnificent carriage, the ebonystick planted in sharp arrogance with each step. Thecloak was worn with Byronic panache; the waistcoathad been embroidered with gilt thread far beyondeconomy or taste. His hawkish, faintly pocked coun-tenance was surmounted by spectacles of dark blue

30 INFERNAL DEVICES

glass, hiding his eyes, although the only illuminationon the street had been the yellow, mist-shroudedglow of the corner gas lamp. He made no motion toremove the spectacles, but examined me throughthem as though bending forward to the lens of a mi-croscope.

His companion draped herself on his arm, onehand resting in the crook of his elbow. I had only amoment to note her fair, somewhat sharp-nosedbeauty; the gaze she levelled at me from under herdark lashes drove my own away in confusion, whilethe gentleman’s bark turned me on my heel towardshim.

“You’re Dower?” He lifted his cane to point at mewith its silver tip.

“I am. That is, the son–”“Yeah, right. Sure.” The lady looked up at him and

squeezed his arm in some manner of signal. He fellsilent, frowning and pinching his lower lip, as if gath-ering his thoughts. When he spoke again, his wordswere wrapped in a mannered formality.

“Mr Dower,” he said, bowing slightly. “I have thepleasure of your acquaintance. Um, that is, let meintroduce myself. Scape – Graeme Scape.” He shiftedthe cane and extended a gloved hand, then, uponreceiving another warning squeeze from the lady,withdrew it while muttering another incomprehen-sible word under his breath. “This is Jane – I mean,Miss McThane. May I present. Whatever.”

She parted the folds of her shawl enough to revealthe white curve of her throat. I stammered some

K W JETER 31

simple pleasantry, the heat of my blood blossomingacross my face. The smile Miss McThane bestowedon me was of a disturbing frankness that I had en-countered only once before, when, a fresh-arrivedinnocent in London, I had chanced to stroll throughthe Burlington Arcade and had been approached bya seeming lady and greeted with a such-like smileand a murmured “Are you good-natured, dear?” –an offer clear to even one as naive as myself. Then Ihad been able to flee that precinct of glittering jew-ellers’-windows and even more glittering women,and thus maintain my innocence. In the confines ofmy own shop, however, I felt myself cornered andstalked by the scarlet smile and discreetly loweredsable lashes.

My transfixed gaze was broken away from hers bythe sharp rap of Scape’s cane upon the floor. Asthough startled awake from a guilt-provokingdream, I looked around at him.

“Mr Dower.” His smile pulled his mouth lopsided,as though we shared some conspirators’ knowledgebetween us. “I’d like to talk some business over withyou. Okay? I mean… that all right with you?”

Some aspect of his manner, an oddity in his bear-ing, puzzled me. He had not the polishedpresentation of self that marks the aristocratic gen-tleman born to wealth and position. Nor the assuredforthrightness, blunt of word and face, that charac-terizes the new entrepreneurial class whose moneyand mercantile ideas have obscured so much of thenational landscape within this generation, like the

32 INFERNAL DEVICES

smoke from their foundries and chuffing engines ofcommerce. Not a foreigner; however strange hischoice of phrase, it seemed clear that English of somedistrict was his native tongue. Charlatanism or knav-ery of another ilk rose in my mind as the possibleexplanation, yet the gentleman – if gentleman hewas – displayed no part of that sidling, herpetoid in-sinuation by which the diddler places himself insidethe victim’s confidence. In the space of a few sec-onds, my mind skittered from one hypothesis to thenext, all the while pursued and confused by the in-eradicable image of dark eyes and snow-whitethroat.

“Well? You okay?”The impatient bark of the self-designated Scape

brought me out of my muddled reverie. The bluelenses drew closer – to my face, the eyes behind en-deavouring to discern my health.

“Yes… yes, of course.” I stammered out the words,watching myself in the dark mirrors of his spectacles,careful to keep my gaze from straying to the gentlysmiling visage of his companion. “Terribly sorry; thefatigue of a long day, I’m afraid.” I stepped behindthe shop counter and spread my hands along itssmooth surface. “How may I assist you?”

Scape disengaged his arm from his companion’sembrace and folded his hands upon the silver headof his walking stick. Miss McThane drifted with herteasing smile to examine one of the clocks on thewall, staying within hearing distance of any talk.“Maybe you’ve heard about me already, Dower.” He

K W JETER 33

34 INFERNAL DEVICES

lifted a hand to withdraw a card from an insidepocket; which he then laid on the counter in frontof me.

“I don’t believe so.” Ordinary courtesy, and ashopkeeper’s self-interest, ruled out a direct dis-avowal. “Perhaps…” I looked down at thepasteboard square on the counter. In florid lettering,it announced

Mr. G. Scape

IMPRESARIO

Scape’s Celebrated Musical Automata

Late of Milan – Buda-Pesht – Brighton

The word Automata triggered a wary attitude onmy part. Of that segment of my father’s career con-cerned with the production of lifelike human figurescapable of motion, speech, and other appurtenancesof flesh and blood, I had, from the bitter upshot ofmy own dabbling with the devices my father had leftbehind, learned to deny any knowledge. The scenesof chaos inside the church of Saint Mary Alderhythe,kept from public scandal by the good offices and in-fluence of the parish authorities, had been sufficientwarning for me. If this gentleman’s interest in mywares and services were limited to clockwork jiggerythat imitated corporeal habits, then there was nopossibility of commerce between us. The inflectionsof my voice were guarded as I pushed the card withone finger back across the counter.

“No,” I spoke, shaking my head, “I’m afraid not.

Doubtless, if I had more time for edifying culture, Iwould be familiar with your contributions. Still–”

“Don’t sweat it,” interrupted Scape, dismissing myignorance with a wave of his hand.

“Pardon?”“I’ll send you some tickets, next time we play Lon-

don.” He swayed on the pivot of his cane, watchinghis uplifted hand paint an imaginary scene above ourheads. “Bright lights, names all lit up in neon; youbring your girlfriend around to the box office, they’llgive you the best seats in the house–”

“I’m not sure I follow…” His manner had becomeexcited and effusive, and I didn’t catch the meaning,possibly lewd, of some of his words. His companionlaid her hand on his arm, which had some calmingeffect.

“Forget it,” said Scape. “No problem.”Miss McThane brought her sly smile around to me

again. “We’ve been touring abroad a great deal. Itrubs off, you know? The way they talk, and stuff.”In this, the longest speech she had directed to me,the same odd accent and diction appeared, that I hadnoticed in the gentleman’s voice.

“Yeah, right,” agreed Scape. “Those crazy Italians.Hah. Wild – really wild.”

“How may I help you?” I said, hoping to move theconversation to a productive vein.

“Business – yeah.” He swivelled his gaze around,searching among the clock faces, then back to me.“These, uh, automata I got – I take ‘em around toplaces. And they do their bit. You follow me?”

K W JETER 35

I could see my politely reserved expression dou-bled in the blue lenses trained on me. “I believe so.You refer, I take it, to musical performances–”

“You got it, jack.”“And these mechanical devices that form your

troupe – are they of your own creation?” I wished todraw him out, gently as possible, to find the actualextent of his knowledge of clockwork musicians.

“No – no.” Scape shook his head. “I got ’em fromwhat’s his name…”

“Jackey Droze,” supplied Miss McThane.It took a moment for the words to spark anything

in my memory. “You mean Jacquet-Droz,” I said.The name of the eighteenth-century Swiss watch-maker, and the two sons that followed in theirfather’s career (with more success than I had on asimilar course), was familiar to me, as it had oncebeen to all Europe. Indeed, Creff had informed methat my father had once travelled expressly to Lisbonin order to examine the devices christened by theirmaker Charles the Scribe, Henri the Draughtsman,and The Musician. The senior Dower’s interest in,and efforts towards perfecting, the mechanical simil-itude of human action, presumably dated from thatPortuguese visit.

“That’s the guy,” said Scape.“You are, then, the current owner of the cele-

brated organ-playing figure?” I knew that themechanical woman, reputed by some to have beenmodelled by Pierre Jacquet-Droz after his own wife,had changed hands many times after the watch-

36 INFERNAL DEVICES

maker and his sons had toured with their creationsbefore the Continent’s crowned heads.

“Uh, no, actually–” An echo of my own warinessentered Scape’s manner. “Some other ones that hemade.”

“Others?”“Yeah. A, uh, trumpet player and a couple of…

what’s that other thing called… with the strings? –cello. That’s it – two cello players.”

“Extraordinary.” I rubbed my chin, feigning thedepth of my musing. “I never heard tell of any suchmusical devices crafted by Jacquet-Droz.”

Scrape gave a diffident shrug. “Well, you see, henever showed ‘em to anybody. They just sorta stayedin the family, you know? And then I bought ‘em offthe old guy’s great-grandson.”

“I see.” Indeed I did; whatever suspicions I’d hadof this extraordinary person’s less than honest intenthad been all but confirmed by his exposition.Jacquet-Droz’s skill in clockwork had, by all reportsthat have come down to the modern day, beeneclipsed only by his genius for showmanship andself-promotion. The notion that he would create averitable orchestra of musicians and not put them ondisplay with his other mechanical children was ob-viously farcical. This, in combination with themuddled recall of what instruments this supposedimpresario’s troupe played, marked him in my eyeas a person whose every word would need to be ex-amined for fraudulency.

“And in what connection, sir,” I continued, “have

K W JETER 37

you come to me? I must confess I know little ofmusic, being merely” – I smiled, lifting my hands to-wards the ticking wares displayed on the walls – ”asimple watchmaker.”

Scape returned my smile, or at least half of it; onlyone side of his face twitched to reveal a few yellowteeth. He leaned over the head of his cane, bringinghis face closer to mine. “Well, you see… I’d like tobuild the act up a little. You know? I mean a trum-pet-player and a couple of cellos – it’s getting kindaold. People wanna hear something different. Gotme? Like, maybe, something that could… sing…”

“That would be a marvel.” It was obvious that hewished me to hand up on a platter the fish his verbalhook dangled for. From the corner of my eye Icaught a change of expression in Miss McThane’sface and, glancing at her, saw her dark eyes nar-rowed in what might have been grudging respect asthey gazed at me.

Scape persisted. “Or – play… the violin.” His wordsjabbed at me, in the manner of someone forcing thewrong key into an unyielding lock.

“To have such a device, I would imagine, wouldplace one in your profession at the pinnacle of suc-cess.”

He turned away from me, the better to hide theexclamation of annoyance which he muttered underhis breath; I caught only what seemed to be the syl-lable cog (perhaps a reference to my mechanicaltrade) and the word succour (a prayer for divine as-sistance?). I smiled to myself, pleased with my

38 INFERNAL DEVICES

fending off his pointed inquiries.“Look,” he said, mastering his emotions with vis-

ible effort. “Your old man was a very clever guy – allright? Let’s just say he got… interested in musicalstuff. And maybe he, like, built himself a violinplayer. I mean, a clockwork figure that could playthe violin.” Behind the blue lenses, the hidden pointsof his gaze probed into my visage. “What would youknow about something like that?”

There; it was out; plain as simple day. Throughsome means, some hidden current of rumour, thisscalawag had heard of the affair at the church ofSaint Mary Alderhythe and. the Clerical Automatathat my father had left in place, but never animatedbefore his death. Though my attempt to set the elab-orate array of devices into operation had met withdisaster, this Scape – if that were his real name – hadevidently conceived the notion that one or more ofthe automaton figures – perhaps the priest, or thechoristers – could be altered to suit the purposes ofperforming in music-halls. To one of his coarse sen-sibilities, there would be perhaps no differencebetween a chorus’d evensong and a collection of jigssawed out of a fiddle; if a clockwork figure had beeninvested with any musical talent, this fellow nodoubt believed that it should be as capable of oneperformance as the other.

“I have no knowledge of such a device.” This, instrict truth: while my father had certainly eclipsedJacquet-Droz, by giving his Clerical Automata a fairapproximation of human vocal powers through in-

K W JETER 39

genious assemblages of rosined wheels rotatingagainst a set of tuned strings, he had not, as far as Iknew then, ever envisioned a clockwork violinist.

Scape’s mouth set into a bloodless line; his handsthrottled the shaft of his walking-stick, as throughhe were about to bring its length down upon my in-solent head. I took a step backwards from thecounter, fearing such violence, only to start about insurprise when a soft hand laid itself upon my arm.

“Mr Dower–” Scape’s companion had, during ourverbal jousting, stepped quietly beside me. Her gaze,half-shaded behind her sable lashes, and intimatingsmile held me speechless as she interposed herselfbetween shopkeeper and soi-disant client. Her handtraced a feather’s touch up to my shoulder. Some-how, it seemed that while she had been outside thefield of my vision, the edge of her gown’s bodice hadcrept lower, revealing an immodest aspect. My daz-zled eyes could not avert themselves from her whitethroat or the uplifted forms below. A delicate veinswelled with her pulse from beneath a lace-fringedshadow, as though it were a stream trickling beneathfields of snow that gave off an unaccountablewarmth. “You know,” she said, as I watched, mes-merised, the words formed by the coral bow of hermouth, “you seem like a nice guy. A real nice guy.”

(Torturing memories! I sit at the prison of my desk,gnashing my teeth and grinding my pen-nib into themocking white expanse of the paper under my hand.The coaxing words of a very Delilah! Had I butknown what lay beyond them!)

40 INFERNAL DEVICES

“My buddy – I mean, Mr Scape – he gets a littleexcited sometimes. You know?” Miss McThane’shand strayed to the top of my cravat, one slender fin-ger teasing a loop of silk free from the knot. “Likewhen he’s talking about something he’s really hoton. Know what I mean?”

“Yes…” The word was no more than a squeakinggasp. The loosening of the constriction around mythroat did nothing to aid my breath past the stonethat had formed inside it. I felt my spine come upagainst the wall at the end of the counter; my legs,as though acting as the reservoir of all the moralsteadfastness that had drained from the rest of mybody, had effected my retreat from the woman’scontinuing onslaught.

“Like…violins…”The back of my head struck the silver case of one

of my father’s more elaborate clocks. The force of theblow triggered the delicate mechanisms inside;dimly, I was aware of small doors opening above me,and a circle of uniformed mannikins tinkling atheme from Handel’s Jephtha as they paraded in andout of the encircled numbers. Behind my own brow,other small doors were opening, emitting darker fig-ures shrilling melodies more dizzying, as I watchedthe sinuous grace of Miss McThane’s finger rise tolay its point upon my chin.

“Violins” I choked.“Yeah There’s just… something about ‘em. Drives

him…wild.”I strove to speak, but could not. A scent of lilacs,

K W JETER 41

borne across the dwindling distance between us bythe warmth of her bosom, enveloped my head. Sheseemed suddenly of greater stature, looking down atme from a height. Faintly, I realised that whatevervirtue normally resident in my limbs had fled fromthem as well, and I was sliding slowly down the wall.

Her smile grew wider, her eyes even more shaded.“Violins…” she whispered.

(Temptress! With a start, the dog looks up from hisdoze by the grate, hearing the snap of the pen in myfist. I blot the spilled ink from my desk, draw forth afresh sheet, and begin again.)

Suddenly, as though from a great distance, I hearda clatter and a hubbub of voices. The chain that heldmy eyes fast upon Miss McThane’s was broken, asshe jerked her face about towards the source of thenoise. I heard my own name being shouted.

“Mr Dower!” It was Creff, in full cry, his harsh ac-cents, echoing down the hallway behind the shop.“Thieves! Murdering thieves!”

The excitement in his voice roused me from myunwitting haze. I pulled myself upright and brushedpast Miss McThane, shaking away the restraininghand she placed upon my sleeve.

At the end of the hallway the workroom doorstood open. In the circle of light cast from thebench’s lamp, Creff and Scape could be seen,wrestling over the mahogany cabinet held betweenthem. Catching sight of me, Creff shouted, “It’s theEthiope’s accomplices! He’s sent ‘em here to coshand rob us!”

42 INFERNAL DEVICES

I ran towards the struggling pair, unmindful of anydanger. The prospect of alteration to the odds againsthim spurred Scape to greater effort: he wrenched thedevice left behind by the Brown Leather Man awayfrom Creff, and bulled head-downward at me. I fellfrom the impact of his shoulder into my chest; hecharged past me, but I managed to snare his legswithin my grasp, bringing us both sprawling on tothe floor of the shop. Scape’s hands splayed open,and the mahogany casket slid a few inches further,impelled by momentum.

Miss McThane bent down to pick up the casket,but was unable to lift it owing to its great weight.Creff, brandishing a broom handle as a truncheon,vaulted over the prostrate forms of Scape and myself,and menaced her away from the object of the pair’sfelonious desire. With unladylike facility, she raisedthe hem of her dress and forcefully placed the pointof one reversed-calf boot in a sensitive portion of myservant’s anatomy. Thus crippled, Creff fell in a knotupon the casket.

“Get offa me, for Christ’s sake,” said Scape. Hestruggled to his knees, breaking free of my grip. Myflailing hands sought what purchase they could onhim; my fingers hooked behind the blue lenses of hisspectacles, and pulled them from his face. The natureof the struggle changed dramatically thereby.

“Shit!” He staggered to his feet, bent double andpressing his hands against his eye sockets. The dimglow of the shop’s gas brackets, turned low for econ-omy’s sake, wrought obvious pain in him, as though

K W JETER 43

he were some earth-burrowing animal rudelyscooped to the surface by a rustic’s hoe. Tearsstreamed from under his palms. “You sonuvabitch,”he shouted blindly in my direction. The lenses splin-tered under his unguided boot. The sight unfoldedCreff from his immediate personal concerns. Hegaped at the stricken man as Miss McThane, aban-doning her pursuit of the casket, rushed to aid hercompanion.

Emboldened by this turn of events, the wine of ex-citement drowning any remaining dregs of caution,I picked up the broom handle Creff had dropped,and laid it smartly across Scape’s back. “Out you go,sir!” I cried. “Your custom’s not wanted here.”

“You turkey–” the agonised man spat the words inthe direction of my voice.

“Come on. Later for this crap.” Miss McThanedragged him to the doorway. A hansom cab waitedin the dark outside; she soon had the hunched-overfigure deposited inside; with no instructions given,the driver whipped the horse to speed, carrying thetwo away in extreme haste.

Creff, maintaining gingerly balance, peered outthe window at the cab vanishing into evening mist.“The Ethiope,” he said, turning towards me. “Thosewere his henchmen, no doubt about it.” He gesturedat the cabinet sitting in the middle of the floor. “Sent‘em here to steal that ruddy thing.”

A tremor had replaced the strength in my arms. Ilaid the broom handle on the counter before itdropped from my hands. “There would be little rea-

44 INFERNAL DEVICES

son,” I said, “for the gentleman to whom you refer,to hire others to steal that which he himself broughthere. If he wished to have it, why would he notmerely keep it in his possession to begin with?”

Creff scowled, turning this argument over in hismind, looking for its flaws.

“No,” I went on. “I believe our last visitors to havesome conception of this as an article of value. Theyapparently felt it easier to take it from our custodyrather than the rightful owner’s.”

Unconvinced, yet unable to say why, Creff nod-ded. “Here,” he said, looking up. “What was all thatpalaver about fiddles?”

“I have no idea,” I said wearily. He had apparentlybeen listening from some post upon the stairs. For-tunately so; from such a vantage point he had likelyseen Scape’s furtive actions.

These events had taxed me sorely. I directed Creffto carry the casket back to the workroom. I brieflyconsidered notifying the constabulary of this foiledrobbery, but thought better of it. The article overwhich we had struggled – and which I could identifyas to neither purpose nor value – might well havebeen impounded for examination, and I would thuslose a valuable commission.

Some time after my first arrival at the shop, Creffhad directed my attention to a secret repository wellhidden under the floor of the workroom. Upon ex-amination, it had revealed nothing but a few of myfather’s mechanical sketches and a flask of antimony.In this hole, the Brown Leather Man’s property was

K W JETER 45

entrusted for safekeeping, the concealing cover plac-ing it beyond an outsider’s easy discovery.

As the reader might well imagine, my mind wasgreatly preoccupied with the perplexing nature ofthe day’s events. From the appearance of the BrownLeather Man in my shop, and the puzzling spillageof sea water in the workroom – a detail dream-likein its apparent insignificance and nagging incon-gruity – to the blue-lensed Scape of jerkily animatedmien and strange words, his companion of yet morefrightening demeanour, and the pitched battle thathad ensued over the mahogany casket, the hourshad been spanned from one baffling occurrence toanother. As though some great unseen Clock, tickingout with regular monotony the passage of my life,had reached a zenith and set its bells into previouslyunheard clangour and alarm – so we mistake Peace,and describe it as Eternal, when the hand is alreadypoised to strike the hour of dreadful change.

So deep were my musings that the pangs ofhunger reminded me of the engagement to which Iwas committed for that same evening. One ofClerkenwell’s more prosperous watchmakers (thatprosperity owed more to the cheapness of his goodsthan to any other quality), whose snobbishnessmade him anxious to associate with one bearing myrenowned father’s name, had renewed his invitationto me. The opportunity of a meal beyond that af-forded by my meagre larder and Creff’s slightculinary skill enabled me to endure the man’s stulti-fying company.

46 INFERNAL DEVICES

Leaving Creff, armed with the broom handle andthe kitchen-knife of which I had relieved him earlier,in vigilant guard over my shop and home, I mademy way the short distance to my colleague’s resi-dence.

Nothing in the man’s conversation, or that of hiswife, intruded upon the continuous hidden flow ofmy thoughts. I was able to maintain a fiction of po-lite society with a few appreciative comment, amurmured “Oh?” or “Indeed” over the boiled pota-toes, while all the while the spectral figures of theday’s drama trod the stage and declaimed their linesinside the theatre of my skull.

Only when my host and I were draining a resinousOporto at the edge of the fire, did his commentsenter my consciousness.

“Peculiar thing – eh? – these street costers – mostpeckuliar.” he poured himself another tumblerful.“Peddle the damnedest stuff. Never seen the like.”

“Pardon?” Perhaps I had finally grown weary ofturning the thin pack’s cards over in my mind. Iemerged from my thoughts to hear his oration onthe London Street vendors.

“The other day – just yesterday, it was–” He leanedforward to impart this confidence. “I was in the Tot-tenham Court Road with my little daughter.” (Iknew the child, a wretched pug-nosed creature.)“An old Irish woman, dirty as a pig, selling dolls froma basket, approached us. ‘Shure they’re bhutifuldolls,’ she says.” He imitated the accent with mock-ing scorn. “’Shuted for them angels of the worruld,’

K W JETER 47

meaning my daughter. With that sort of blandish-ments, soon enough my little Sally must have oneof the wretched things.” (I had often heard the childin the street outside my shop, whining for some gim-crack or lolly.) “The old witch wanted fourpence –can you credit it? – for one of the things, and eagerenough she was to sell one, too, until my Sally seesa few wrapped in tissue at the bottom of the basket,and says she wants one of those. Then damned if thewoman doesn’t go all coy on me, refusing to bringone of the bottom ones out, saying they weren’t‘shuted’ for such a fine child and such-like, until mySally was near choleric to have one. I finally had topay sixpence to entice the woman to hand it over –and a fine show of reluctance she made, too, eventhen! – and when she had scuttled away with herbasket, and my Sally unwrapped the doll, damned ifshe didn’t scream and drop the thing on the street!I’m sure it’s quite the ugliest creation possible, and awicked joke to sell for the hands of a child.” Hisbroad face was red from the port and indignation, ashe stood up and opened the doors of his writing cab-inet. “Here the thing is – see for yourself.”

I took the object he thrust towards me, and withbut small curiosity examined it. It was a doll as isoften sold in the streets, cheaply manufactured ofpappy-mashy, as the costers term it, dipped in wax.The striking aspect was its extraordinary face: acrude parody, as though the maker’s rude art hadmeant to represent some animal other than thehuman. Sloping forehead, goggling rounded eyes,

48 INFERNAL DEVICES

and protruding lips over a non-existent chin; thesefeatures, in combination with the greenish cast of thewax, gave a distinctly piscine impression, as if a her-ring fresh off the fishmonger’s slab had been dressedin a plaything’s clothes. For a moment, as I turnedthe thing over in my hands, I again felt as if I weretoiling through the rigours of a dream; it remindedme of the sea water – from where? – on the floor ofmy workroom.

“Extraordinary,” I agreed. I reached to hand it backto my host, but he waved it away.

“Keep the damned thing,” he said.“Your little girl–”“Faugh. She can’t abide the sight of it. No, no, do

us a kindness and take it away from here.”I laid it on the arm of the chair. My thoughts

drifted away, to their former channels, as my hostexpostulated on some other subject. My hands cameto rest on my stomach – stuffed to bursting againstfuture famine – and I felt a circular shape in mywaistcoat pocket. The coin the Brown Leather Manhad paid me; idly, as the other’s voice droned on, Itook it out. A familiar shape and weight; perhaps notfamiliar enough of late. I looked down at it in mypalm, and felt my gut hollow beneath the half-di-gested meal.

The face, in profile, on the coin was the twin ofthe hideous doll.

A sudden panic pushed me up from the depths ofthe chair. I made a hasty excuse to my host and,gathering up my hat and cloak, rushed from his

K W JETER 49

house. Outside, I realised that the doll had found itsway into my hands along with the coin. I thrustthem into my pocket to remove them from my sight.

The mist had thickened, swallowing every aspectof the houses and the railings in front of them. Underthe sulphurous glow of the street lamps, meresmudges of light swathed in grey, indistinct formsscurried from one dark cranny to the next. I has-tened home, guided by memory rather than sight,unable to look behind me to see what blurredshadow might be entwined with my own.

50 INFERNAL DEVICES

INFERNAL DEVICESby K W Jeter

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UK/RoW: April 2011

North America: May 2011

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