Chapter 38
Chapter
Pursuing a distraught Mr. Harrison as he pursued a runaway automaton, Margaret had a newfound understanding of the phrase wild-goose chase.
She pressed her steering lever as far as it would go, pushing the wheeled chair to its maximum speed.
Still, she remained behind in this race to who knew where.
Despite his age, Harrison was fleet of foot, and the long stride of his lanky legs provided an additional advantage.
Meanwhile, the oversized toy soldier possessed the speed and endurance of a steam-powered locomotive.
Like a train careening down the tracks without a conductor, the metal man sprinted in the shadow of Westminster Palace’s north end.
Unpredictable. Uncontrollable. And, she feared, unstoppable.
In the distance, the sound of the automaton’s metal boots pounding on stone pavers was accompanied by Harrison’s shouts for the machine to halt.
Even now, the man failed to understand that the automaton wasn’t a living thing, but a machine incapable of hearing spoken orders from a commanding officer.
The only directives it would heed were those already programmed and placed within its metal mind, and it would not rest until it deemed those directives completed or, quite literally, it ran out of steam.
Streetlamps illumined people out for a night on the town, heads swiveling as they gawked at a soldier sprinting in full regalia as a spry septuagenarian gave chase, never once contemplating that said soldier was in fact an out-of-control piece of machinery that might pose a danger to any and all in its path.
Such as the young match boy it was bounding directly toward!
Mr. Harrison must’ve noted the machine’s intent, for he took to waving his arms in the air, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Run, lad! Run!”
The city’s bustle of activity, combined with the little boy’s loud hawking of his wares, drowned out Mr. Harrison’s warning.
The lad didn’t even notice the machine as it barreled his way.
Quick as a wink, the automaton scooped the match boy off the street without breaking its stride.
The lad screamed in a mix of shock and terror that chilled Margaret’s blood.
“No!” Harrison faltered as an anguished cry rent from his chest. “Leave the boy be . . . don’t hurt him!” He staggered, but forged onward, recovering his footing and increasing his pace. “Hold on, lad!”
Margaret steered around the now-scattered matches.
She didn’t believe the machine intended to injure, but to save.
Somehow the automaton thought that boy was the fallen comrade he was meant to rescue and take to higher ground, which explained why the soldier was heading for the only high ground in sight—the Great Clock Tower of Westminster.
Margaret knew the clock tower more intimately than most. As a ten-year-old, she’d once accompanied Papa to watch him fix the giant mechanism.
When the job was done, they’d ambled through the enclosed walkway to admire the four faces from within, peering through the clock’s eyes at the vast city below.
They’d felt the clock’s heartbeat in the mechanism room.
They’d met the quarter bells and Big Ben, the clock’s resonant voice and soul.
Together, she and Papa had climbed over three hundred steps of the tower’s narrow spiral staircase.
A difficult climb then.
A sheer impossibility now.
If the machine went up the stairs, what was she to do?
As though it perceived her fear, the automaton barged its way into the tower with a battering-ram kick to the door and darted inside, followed by Mr. Harrison.
By the time Margaret arrived, rolling across splintered wood and shattered glass as she entered the breached tower, it was woefully apparent her fears had been realized.
Overhead, the clang of metal boots and the screams of a young boy echoed through the tower, growing ever fainter as they ascended.
She wheeled forward as far as she could and looked up through the narrow gap between the spiral staircase steps.
She could just make out Mr. Harrison climbing several lengths behind a gleam of metal.
Margaret sagged against the back of her chair, jaw clenched and chest heaving.
Think, Maggie. Think. She couldn’t just sit down here twiddling her thumbs and leave matters to Mr. Harrison.
He wasn’t thinking clearly. Nor was he proving a good judge of the machine’s functions and responses.
She had to get up there. Somehow, someway.
Sorting through the memories of her previous visit to the tower, she searched through every detail she’d observed back then, which might prove helpful.
She must remain calm and coherent so she could think optimally.
Methodically, Margaret inhaled to a count of four beats, held it, and then gradually exhaled for six.
Her breath fluttered the collar of her tea gown, cooling the perspiration on her skin.
Cooling . . . great gadgets, that just might work!
Rotating away from the staircase, Margaret approached the adjacent wall and accessed the ventilation shaft Papa had shown her all those years ago, the one that was intended to aid the flow of cool, fresh air throughout the tower.
About the size of one of the smaller shipping containers used on Grandpapa Stanton’s merchant vessels, the shaft extended upward from the tower’s base all the way to the belfry.
Just big enough to accommodate a wheelchair laden with one lady inspector.
Margaret turned and rolled backward into the shaft just as Helena and Charles stumbled through the entrance, hair windswept and cheeks ruddy.
“Helena, instruct the other inspectors to secure the perimeter lest Harrison or the automaton escape. Then summon the authorities. Inform them a boy, aged no more than seven, has been taken hostage in the tower.”
Lips pursed, Helena left with all haste.
Charles leaned over, hands on knees, catching his breath. “What’s the plan?”
“In short, rescue the innocent boy caught in the gears of Mr. Harrison’s guile.
” Margaret secured a safety strap across her lap and pressed a button on her chair, activating the Wheelicopter function.
The wheels on her chair folded outward, tucking themselves underneath in conjunction.
A sharp click indicated the spokes had widened into blades.
The stacked wheels began to rotate, whirring as the chair rose, hovering above the ground.
Charles straightened, admiring her with awe. “I suppose I’ll have to take the stairs.”