Chapter 37
Chapter
At any moment tonight, amid the gala festivities in Westminster Hall, Mr. Harrison was going to herald the attention of the large crowd and numerous members of the press in attendance to announce the latest innovation produced by Alvan T.
Harrison, Incorporated—a man-sized automaton that would eliminate the need for human soldiers and thus put an end to casualties of war.
The very moment that announcement was made, the Daughters of Genius Society would make their move.
In unveiling his machine, Mr. Harrison would present them with the means of his downfall—the automaton on which Margaret was trusting Papa had hidden his unique maker’s mark, which would concretely prove his abduction and compulsory labor at the hands of Mr. Harrison.
Proof the D.O.G.S. would promptly confiscate, thus enabling the Widow to act from an undisclosed locale in the shadows, where she stood at the ready, awaiting word from Professor Quimby.
Tonight, Mr. Harrison would finally be held to account and brought to justice.
And most importantly, compelled to release Papa.
Dressed in coattails, Charles came to stand beside Margaret in front of the commemorative display of an invention on which she was pretending to jot notes for an article in the London Dispatch. “How are you holding up, Miss Knight?’
Physically, rather well for her, by the Lord’s mercy. “These last two weeks of preparatory bedrest have provided me with an optimal teaspoon count for tonight’s event.”
“And what of your emotional teaspoon count?”
That wasn’t quite as optimal. Margaret shifted in her wheelchair as the musicians Charles had hired played softly in the background while guests clad in evening attire chattered and clinked glass of champagne, blissfully unaware of the tension coiling in her shoulders.
“I’m anxious to have the night over with, frankly. ”
“Me too.” Charles slipped a hand into a trouser pocket, a sure sign he was attempting to conceal a tremor.
“I’ve been reminding myself of something a rather brilliant woman once told me: ‘For only when we rely on God as our Sustainer is it possible to shake and yet not be shaken.’” He lowered his voice, speaking words meant for her alone.
“Rest assured. With Him, we will make it through the night, Reverie.”
Margaret nodded, absorbing the truth in his words.
They would make it through the night. Through this case.
For not only did they have God and each other, they’d an entire sisterhood of lady inspectors and covert assets stationed throughout the elegantly attired assembly.
She glanced up at Charles, needing the visual assurance of his presence.
Steady and sure as the great hall’s hammer-beam roof, Charles remained at her side.
Inhaling to a count of four, holding for four, then exhaling to a count of six.
Just as she’d taught him. A smile tugged at Margaret’s lips.
Matching his rhythm, she quieted her own anxious spirit with breath and prayer.
Inhale. Sustain and steady us, Lord. Hold.
Exhale. Though we shake, let us not be shaken.
Inhale. Sustain and steady us, Lord.
Hold. Exhale. Though we shake, let us not be shaken.
A blast of fanfare from the musicians echoed throughout the hall.
“Attention, everyone! May I have your attention, please!” Mr. Harrison waved to the crowd at the end of Westminster Hall, standing upon a raised dais constructed for the occasion and backed with swagged curtains of lush red velvet.
“Thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of Alvan. T. Harrison, Incorporated. In honor of this momentous milestone, I would like to make a special announcement, or rather, debut a special innovation. One I hope will leave a legacy that endures for generations to come. Ladies, gentlemen, members of the press—I give to you my greatest and most important invention . . . The Dodger!”
Parting the velvet curtains with a shining hand, the automaton emerged.
Gasps rippled through the crowd of onlookers as the machine walked across the stage of its own accord and stood beside Mr. Harrison, mirroring his stature.
The mechanical man was fashioned in the likeness of a British solider, its metal exterior designed to give the appearance of the machine being dressed in full uniform.
Light illumined the lenses of its round eyes, and steam wafted from the top of its helmet, mimicking the appearance of decorative plumes.
Agleam with modernity, the automaton cut an incongruous figure amid Westminster Hall’s medieval architecture and historic ambience.
Applause erupted in a cacophony, but Mr. Harrison motioned for the crowd to quiet.
As she’d expected, the man obviously wished to give a speech.
Margaret moved her plaited tresses from her right shoulder to her left, signaling the waiting lady inspectors.
From their various positions, the inspectors began to shift through the crowd, discreetly nearing the stage.
Meanwhile, she remained in her chair, strategically positioned to have a clear line of sight during the operation while keeping out of the way.
If all went according to plan, the end of Harrison’s speech would cue Louisa to instigate a diversion—a loud verbal altercation with a waiter selected and paid off by Charles to play along with their ruse.
With all eyes riveted on this shocking disturbance, Charles was to ferry Mr. Harrison away from the scene of disaster while Jane and Iva Leene seized the automaton and whisked it out of the hall with no one the wiser.
Once the automaton was in their possession, the chief would alert the Widow, who’d alert the police, who’d arrest Mr. Harrison quietly in the backroom where Charles was to stow him for safekeeping.
Thus, her first case would finally come to a close.
Once the crowd had settled into a rapt hush, Mr. Harrison commenced with his speech, placing a hand on the automaton’s shoulder. “The Dodger will revolutionize the art of war. Never again need we send our boys into battle. Never again need we grieve the chums who don’t come home.”
Knuckles blanching as his grip tightened on the machine, Mr. Harrison fell silent and then cleared his throat before continuing.
“How, you ask? By means of a patented polyphon cranium inspired by existing music-box technology. As you may be aware, polyphon music boxes are comprised of wooden frames with interchangeable metal discs, each disc playing a different song. The music is created by minute holes punched into the metal disc with pitch determined by the position of the punching. As it’s punched through, the metal is curled backward, creating tiny projections on the disc’s underside.
When the polyphon is operated, the resulting disc projections, called plectra, engage with a series of ratchet-like star wheels that sit in a gantry.
Each star wheel, when moved on its axis, plucks a tooth on the instrument’s comb.
The tooth then resonates, sounding a predetermined note. ”
Margaret ground her teeth. How many times had Papa been forced to explain this jargon to Harrison in order for the man to memorize this oration?
“In much the same manner, the Dodger can perform predetermined actions thanks to numerous discs working in tandem within its polyphon cranium, each punch programed to orchestrate various military strategies and scenarios.” Whipping a silken cloth off a nearby display, Mr. Harrison revealed a straw dummy, which he dramatically tossed into the crowd, which quickly parted with gasps of astonishment.
“Behold, ladies and gentlemen, a demonstration!”
Margaret blinked. That was an anomaly she hadn’t accounted for while planning her operation.
It never occurred to her that Mr. Harrison would be so foolhardy—so reckless!
—as to demonstrate a machine of war in a room packed with innocent bystanders.
Had the Dodger even been subjected to proper testing?
Most likely not. At least not to the stringent standards such a potentially dangerous device would necessitate. They needed to seize that machine.
Straightaway and posthaste!
Before Margaret could signal the inspectors, Mr. Harrison was already winding a crank on the automaton’s back. “The Dodger will now rescue a fallen comrade and convey him to higher ground.”
The automaton solider blinked and turned its head toward the faux comrade’s splayed form on the floor.
Its mouth parted, emanating a chilling mechanical voice.
“Hold on. I’m coming.” Leaping from the stage, the machine landed with a clank amid the gala guests and paused for a moment, blinking as though disoriented.
Margaret sucked in a sharp breath. That looked disturbingly like a system malfunction. Had the jump jarred something out of alignment in the polyphon cranium? But no . . . perhaps not, for the automaton was on the move again, seemingly unaffected.
While Mr. Harrison muttered encouragements as though rooting for a son to do well in a footrace, the automaton solider strode across the hall, heading for its target, but instead of hefting the wounded comrade over its shoulder, it stepped right over the dummy as though it were an obstacle to avoid rather than its primary objective.
“No!” Mr. Harrison’s yell echoed through the hall.
The automaton flinched as though taking fire and then accelerated to a breakneck sprint.
Shouts and screams echoed through the great hall as gala guests scattered this way and that, attempting a disordered mass evacuation.
The lady inspectors shoved their way through the anarchy, endeavoring to apprehend the runaway automaton, but the crush of bodies was proving too dense a blockade.
They weren’t going to get through. Not in time.
In a blink, the automaton soldier was racing out the front doors of Westminster Hall.
Bound for the very heart of London.