Prologue
“Damnation!” Hair spiking up in disarray, spectacles sliding down the slope of his beaky nose, the man glanced up from the work papers strewn across his desk and stared at the clock with a look of dawning horror. “What pernicious quirk of the cosmos has made six hours fly by in the space of one?”
It was, of course, an absurd question. He of all people knew that the laws of the universe were governed by a mathematical precision.
That was the beauty of the world and how it worked.
It was astounding how often one could understand so many elemental scientific truths if only one was skilled enough with numbers to figure out the complex equations that revealed the hidden secrets.
“Equations that can be put to practical use in bettering the lives of countless people,” he whispered, his gaze returning for a moment to his scribblings.
But for now, the grand scheme of abstract problem-solving would have to wait. He was late—horribly late—for a very important engagement.
“I tend to lose myself in all the possibilities when I’m caught up in the excitement of discovery, but there is still time …”
The man gave a rueful grimace at the piece of paper pinned above his work table. The reminder, written in giant, boldfaced letters by his good friend, stared back in stern reproach.
“But even though the hour at which I should have departed has long since passed, if I ride hard through the night and take the shortcut of North Abbey Road to King’s Crossing, I can make it to the junction of the Cambridgeshire Turnpike before dawn …”
He was already stuffing a notebook—he called it his scribbling book—into his coat and then added the handful of papers he’d been working on, which he placed into an oilskin portfolio, and which he then carefully slipped into the leather satchel lying beside the valise holding his clothing for the trip.
“Which means that I can still arrive at close to the appointed time.”
A smaller packet lay on his blotter. The man hesitated.
Choices, choices.
A recent unsettling incident had made him cautious.
He knew that his fellow members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society—all fine fellows but limited in their imagination—were curious about his latest innovations.
But they wouldn’t comprehend his reasoning, even if he took the trouble to explain.
Only Hapatia, his childhood comrade-in-exploration, understood that transcending the ordinary required a willingness to be bold, no matter the consequences.
He couldn’t wait to pay her a visit and explain all about his new calculations and what he intended to do with them.
But in the meantime …
The ticking of the mantel clock warned that there was no time left dithering. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to focus. And then, as often happened when he put his mind to a conundrum, the solution flashed into his head with startling clarity.
Smiling, he picked up the packet and threw it into the banked coals of his tiny hearth, then picked up the poker and stirred up flames, watching in satisfaction as the packet was quickly reduced to ashes.
The man turned back to his work table for one last look. A good thing, for he spotted a sheet of folded stationery half hidden among his pens. “Thank God that I didn’t forget this,” he said, and shoved it in his pocket.
“Now, I must be off.”
Grabbing up his bags, he hurried to the livery stable where he kept his horse and was soon galloping out of town in a cloud of dust.
At first luck was with him. But the wind soon kicked up, fitful gusts bringing a damp chill to the late-summer evening.
The man looked up and muttered an oath. Iron-gray storm clouds were blowing in from the west, causing the light to fade quicker than he expected.
A prick of his spurs urged his horse onward, hoping to outrace the rain.
Though the North Abbey Road would shorten his journey considerably, it was a miserable excuse of a thoroughfare, unfit for man or beast when the weather turned foul.
As for the rickety wooden structure spanning the river gorge at King’s Crossing …
“Bloody hell.” Wincing in dismay as the first drops of rain spattered against his hat, he tugged his oilskin cloak from his saddlebags and put it on, hoping for the best.
But darkness soon swallowed the road, forcing him to slow his horse to a walk.
Thunder rumbled, and before the echo died away the skies shuddered and suddenly released a torrential downpour.
Shrieking like banshees, the accompanying high winds forced him to shelter for a time within a copse of pine trees.
The minutes ticked by with maddening slowness.
When at last the storm abated, allowing him to continue, he found the ruts in the road were growing deeper and deeper as water sluiced through the mud, creating a helter-pelter swirling of pebbles and rocks.
His horse stumbled as the footing turned treacherous.
Swinging down from the saddle, the man grasped the reins and led the way up the winding road, anger making his blood boil.
He had warned the authorities on numerous occasions that neglect of the region’s roadways was not only foolhardy but short-sighted.
The world was changing, and forward-thinking men understood the key to progress was—
A flicker of moonlight interrupted his thoughts.
“Thank heavens,” muttered the man, gazing up at the night sky, where a twinkling of stars was beginning to show through the mist. The storm looked to be scudding off to the south.
As the wind settled, the roar of the river just over the crest of the hill further buoyed his spirits. Once he had traversed King’s Crossing, the worst of the journey was over.
However, his optimism proved short-lived, for when he approached the primitive bridge—it was little more than roughhewn planking laid across two massive oak-and-iron support beams that spanned the ravine—he saw that the heavy downpour and high winds had caused a section of rotting planking to fall away into the ravine, leaving a yawing hole across the entire middle of the bridge.
No, no, no—I must get across!
However, there was no choice but to turn back and give up his plans.
Still, he hesitated, eyeing the exposed section of the right-hand beam where the planking had fallen away. It looked undamaged, and while his horse could not cross such a narrow walkway, it was just wide enough for him to pick his way over the gap on foot.
Daunting, perhaps, and a trifle dangerous. But he had a great deal of experience around bridge construction sites and wasn’t afraid of heights …
Mind made up, the man unslung his bags and tied his tired horse to a nearby tree.
“I can hire a post boy at the Three Crowns to take the long way around to fetch my mount,” he muttered, “and once my business is done I can then ride on to pay a visit to Hepatia.” The story of his absent-mindedness and the havoc it had wreaked with his travels would likely garner a good laugh when told in the comfort of a gracious drawing room with a glass of fine spirits in hand.
Warmed by the thought, he drew in a deep breath and shouldered his bags. Without hesitation, he stepped onto the bridge and started forward.
Unsure of the planking that still remained, he kept to the outer edge of the structure, taking care to center his steps over the beam.
Focus, focus—he needed to keep himself balanced and alert to any shifting of the rain-soaked oak.
The rush of the roiling water on the rocks below warned that the slightest mistake could prove fatal.
Halfway across, the gap forced him to walk along a width of wood that was barely more than eight inches. It looked even narrower in the gloom and swirling fog, and after swallowing hard, he forced himself to lock his gaze on the silhouette of a tree on the other side.
It felt like forever, but he finally inched across the gap and onto more solid footing. Quickening his steps, he hurried across what remained of the planking and reached the other side, his boots sinking into the mud of terra firma with a welcome squelch.
Despite the chill of the night, the man realized that his brow was beaded with sweat—
“Halloo?”
A tentative call suddenly floated out from the darkness up ahead.
“Is someone there?” added the disembodied voice.
“Yes, yes,” answered the man, feeling unaccountably comforted that he wasn’t the only one traveling on such a hellish night.
“But if you are looking to cross the cursed bridge, you are out of luck—unless you are willing to risk a drop to your death.” He drew in a quick breath.
“The planking has fallen away in the middle.”
“But you were daft enough to cross the wreckage on foot?” A blade of lanternlight cut through the fog. “I feared as much, Milton.” The blade grew brighter. “Thank heavens you survived.”
The man—his name was Jasper Milton—let out a relieved laugh on recognizing the voice.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you, Axe!
” Whatever the reason that had forced his friend—the moniker “Axe” was a private joke between them— to be on the road in this devil-damned weather, he was glad to encounter a kindred soul.
“But how did you know I was traveling tonight?”
“Don’t you remember me coming to your room early this morning?” interrupted Axe.
“I …” Milton scrubbed a hand over his face. “I sometimes get things jumbled in my head when I am concentrating on a scientific problem.”
“I’m well aware of that. Which is why I decided to wait for you at the Three Crowns Inn, thinking that we could ride together for a while before parting ways for our final destinations. But when you didn’t arrive at the time you should have—”
“I was late in leaving,” explained Milton.
“Alas, why does that not surprise me?” replied Axe dryly.
“When the inn got word earlier that the bridge at King’s Crossing had been badly damaged in the maelstrom, I worried that you might have decided to take the shortcut in order to make up for a delay.
And so I thought that I had better come look for you in case you had suffered some injury. ”
“Thankfully no,” said Milton. “Though I’m soaked to the bone and my bags are damnably heavy.” A wince. “But what are you doing here? I thought you were heading—”
“A last-minute change in plans, which appears a stroke of luck. My horse is tethered close by.” Axe stepped free of the fog. “You’re an idiot—you know that, don’t you?” he added as he set the lantern down with a long-suffering sigh. “Here, let me give you a hand.”
“You’re a more thoughtful friend than I deserve—always acting as the steely support to keep me from spinning out of control! ” exclaimed Milton as Axe grasped the straps of the valise and leather satchel and slipped them free of his aching shoulder. “I’m very much obliged to you.”
“Since we are speaking of friendship …” Axe paused. “Allow me to make a last plea for you to change your mind about your plans for your latest innovation. Think of—”
“Absolutely not.” Milton stiffened. “If that’s why you’ve come to find me, you’ve suffered an uncomfortable trip to find me for naught. My mind is made up.”
“Allow me to remind you that we made an agreement. A very lucrative one—”
“And I’ve explained to you why I’ve decided that I can no longer be part of it.”
“But see here—”
“Enough!” he snapped. “You’re an excellent fellow, Axe, but your vision is limited. You don’t see the grand scheme or the far-reaching effects my contribution to history will have on mankind.”
“You seemed to think that my vision was clear enough when I explained my idea and how we would both benefit—” began Axe, only to be cut off again.
“As I said, I’ve changed my mind, Axe.”
“But it was my concept that led you to think of—”
“We both know that I am the only one who can actually make the grand scheme,” said Milton.
“Because I’m not as clever as you are?”
A shrug. He shifted and made to step around his friend. “Come, I’m anxious to arrive at the Three Crowns—”
Whatever words were about to follow were swallowed in a gasp of pain as a razor-sharp length of steel cut between his ribs. An instant later it pieced his heart and all sensations dissolved into oblivion.
“I’m sorry.” Axe pulled his knife free, allowing Milton’s mortal remains to flop to the ground.
“If you had only listened to reason, this wouldn’t have been necessary.
” He put the valise satchel down beside the lantern, careful to avoid any puddles, and then crouched down to regard his friend’s lifeless face.
“But no, you were too stubborn to see beyond your world of ideals and abstraction.” Axe reached out and closed the unseeing eyes. “The Future will thank me for being more pragmatic.”
Without further words, he searched the dead man’s clothing and removed his purse and a notebook. A branch cracked close by, causing him to spin around in alarm. But the weak beam of light showed nothing but a ghostly swirl of fog, which quickly dissolved in a gust of wind.
He quickly rifled through the valise and satchel.
A grunt of satisfaction sounded as he set the satchel aside and looped the valise over his shoulder.
Then he set to work dragging the body back to the bridge.
It had started to rain again—which was, he decided, all for the good as it would wash away all signs of what had just taken place.
However, it took some muscle and awkward maneuvering to navigate the slippery planking.
He didn’t dare venture too far on the damaged bridge—just enough to ensure that his act of foul play would never come to light.
An unfortunate accident would be the verdict. The violence of the body’s fall onto the rocks below would make the real cause of death impossible to discern.
The wind from the new squall swirled through the nearby trees, setting off a leafy moan from the shuddering branches.
The rain stung his eyes, making it impossible to see anything more that an amorphous blur of shadows.
But after another few steps the churning of the river below told him that he had gone far enough.
Axe hoisted the dead weight of the corpse upright. And then, with one last, mighty effort, he managed to lift the body and send it plummeting down into the blackness.
A clap of thunder, a flash of lightning.
Axe flung the valise into the void, and stepped back from the edge of the bridge.
“I promise you, Milton, this is all for the good,” he said as and wiped his palms on the front of his coat. “You would have squandered your brilliance. While in my hands, your ideas will be developed to their fullest potential.”