Chapter 14 #3
Sir Horace blinked. Looking more closely at Clive’s face, he realized that it was, indeed, grim resolution that was increasingly overtaking his nephew’s expression.
“There’s no reason for congratulations.” Clive drew in a breath, straightened, and, from his more lofty height, looked censoriously down on Sir Horace.
“The only reason I’m here is to tell you to your face that I want nothing whatever to do with your scheme.
I’ve seen the Throgmorton steam carriage in action, and as far as I’m aware, it’s working perfectly. ”
Sir Horace lost all ability to maintain his superior facade. Aghast, he stared at Clive. “Wh-what?”
“It’s next to immoral—trying to hold back progress like that, and purely for your own ends, I have no doubt.
” Clive slid his hands into his pockets and cast a wary glance at the crowd around them.
“I find it difficult to conceive of the degree of sheer selfishness that would prompt you to attempt to damage an invention of such promise, but regardless, I want no part of it. God knows how I’ll find the money I need, but I’d rather do a bunk to the Continent than prosper from a nasty, nefarious scheme like yours.
” Clive met Sir Horace’s wide eyes. “You mistook me, Uncle—I’m not such a blackguard. ”
Sir Horace’s reeling wits latched on to the critical point. “The steam carriage works? It hasn’t been tampered with?”
“Yes. And no. As I said, as far as I’m aware, it’s working perfectly.”
Sir Horace’s expression blanked as he stared disaster in the face.
Only two days ago, he’d pooh-poohed the Throgmorton steam carriage to his most valuable investor, pouring scorn on all of Cavanaugh’s projects as well as on the entire concept of horseless carriages…
and now one of the damned devices was going to be demonstrated there, in front of the crème de la crème of the inventing world, Prince Albert included?
With Cavanaugh smiling in triumph in the background?
“No!” Sir Horace seized Clive’s sleeve and focused on his nephew’s face.
“You don’t understand. You must stop it! ”
Clive’s expression hardened. He detached Sir Horace’s clutching fingers from his sleeve. “No, Uncle. I will not act for you in this.”
Sir Horace opened his mouth—
Clive cut him off with a disgusted look and “If you want it done, you’ll have to stir your stumps and do it yourself.” With a last hard look, Clive stated definitively, “I want nothing more to do with you or your schemes.”
With that, Clive stepped past Sir Horace and disappeared into the crowd.
Sir Horace stood rooted to the spot, uncaring of the bodies jostling him as the crowd streamed past, as a vision of utter ruination—financial, reputational, and ultimately personal—took far-too-solid shape in his mind.
In seconds, he’d moved well beyond horrified. “I can’t let this happen.” The mutter sounded hollow and distant in his ears.
Devastation loomed, second by second drawing inexorably closer. Slowly, he swiveled and looked down the hall toward where the Throgmorton exhibit stood in all its glory. He couldn’t see it; the crowds were now far too dense to see more than a few yards in any direction.
But he knew it was there.
Knew that if he was to have any chance of coming about, he would have to act now. The Prince would arrive shortly. There was really no way around it. He would have to do as Clive had said and attend to the matter himself.
How to do that—how to bring about the disastrous failure he’d envisioned for the Throgmorton steam engine—he didn’t know, but he would have to try.
On the heels of that fainthearted resolution, a stir about the main doors had everyone turning that way. Sir Horace looked, too, and swallowed a groan. The Prince had arrived. Sir Horace’s time—his moment of reckoning—was nigh.
Along with the rest of the crowd, Sir Horace stood unmoving, his gaze directed toward the main doors as the Prince was welcomed by the chairman of the organizing committee, then His Highness said a few words in his accented English.
By the time the resulting enthusiastic applause had faded and the Prince, surrounded by the fawning committee members, embarked on his progress down the hall, Sir Horace had found his backbone. He’d also managed to formulate a plan.
His first step had to be to gain access to the Throgmorton steam engine without being seen.
His earlier view of the Throgmorton display was blazoned on his brain. He hadn’t missed the cordon of guards Cavanaugh had arranged in an arc before and to either side of the steam carriage.
Sir Horace’s lips twisted in a sickly smile, and he made his way up the hall, pushing past the knot of people gathered about the Prince as Albert chatted with the first exhibitor.
Finally, Sir Horace gained the main doors and stepped into the foyer.
Although people were walking to and fro across the large, open space, no officials were stationed there anymore—they were all inside hovering about the Prince.
Relieved—and taking it as a sign that Fate was on his side—Sir Horace drew in a breath, puffed out his chest, and walked to the right, to the service door set into the foyer paneling.
On reaching it, he cast a last swift glance around, but no one was taking the slightest notice of him.
He opened the door, walked through, and closed it behind him.
As he’d remembered from previous exhibitions there, the door gave onto a long corridor running the length of the hall. As the exhibition hall was frequently used to host large official dinners, it was necessary to give staff access to the hall from both sides.
Today, the corridor, dimly lit by widely spaced gaslights turned low, was not being used and was, therefore, helpfully deserted.
Sir Horace breathed a little easier. He removed his hat and set it down in a dim corner with his cane.
Then he hurried down the long corridor. Doors were set into the wall every ten or so yards.
He tried one door, most of the way down the corridor, but he wasn’t far enough down the hall to glimpse the Throgmorton display.
He shut that door and walked quickly on to the second-last door along the corridor.
He halted before it, then, holding his breath, turned the knob and eased the panel open—just enough to put his eye to the gap and ascertain what lay beyond.
The Throgmorton steam carriage stood to the right of the door, one long side parallel to and two feet from the wall.
Shifting and scanning farther, Sir Horace saw the backs of two guards; the men were standing on this side of the rope cordon with their hands behind their backs and their gazes trained on the shifting crowd pressing close on the other side of the rope.
The Throgmorton display was plainly garnering a significant amount of attention from the public—yet more reason, had Sir Horace needed further convincing, to ensure that the steam carriage failed and failed definitively here and now.
Yet if he stepped out of the door, before he could crouch out of sight behind the contraption, he would—for a bare second—be visible, not to the guards who were facing the other way but to those jostling and pressing as close as they could to study the steam carriage.
Sir Horace eyed the throng, which included young boys and groups of youths eagerly pointing and exclaiming. Sharp-eyed monsters who would think nothing of pointing him out to the guards—
A commotion sounded farther up the hall. Everyone—boys, youths, guards, and all—peered in that direction. Sir Horace realized the Prince had advanced down the line and something had happened with some invention he’d asked to see demonstrated…
The Prince was closer than Sir Horace had expected; there was no time to lose.
Sir Horace dragged in a breath, pushed through the door, and, leaving it to swing silently closed, scuttled on tiptoe three paces to his right—and sank to his haunches behind the Throgmorton steam carriage.
Breath bated, he waited—dreading to hear one of the guards coming to see who had slunk past…but there were no calls, no heavy footsteps. The steady, excited murmuring of the crowd continued unbroken.
Hardly daring to believe his luck, Sir Horace turned his somewhat frantic attention to what he took to be the engine compartment.
Throgmorton had erected a metal housing over the top, but although there were panels closing in the sides, the one facing Sir Horace had plainly been designed to fold down if the knob securing it was released.
Holding his breath, Sir Horace reached up, twisted the knob, and slowly lowered the hinged panel toward him, until it rested on the lip of the housing that swept up to shield the upper rim of the front wheel.
Sir Horace peered into the workings of the engine—at a bewildering array of pipes and gears and God knew what else besides. He searched for a lever he might pull, or a knob, but although he spied several levers, they were attached to rods and couldn’t be easily moved.
Now what? He knew nothing about engines—had never deigned to even listen to discussions about the bally things. Think!
Valves! He vaguely remembered that valves mattered. He peered this way and that and saw several. One was close enough to easily reach.
Feverishly, Sir Horace turned out his pockets—did he have any string?
He didn’t. All he drew forth were bits of paper, coins, and two silk handkerchiefs…
Silk was strong, wasn’t it? And these were of the finest quality silk.
After stuffing the other items he’d unearthed back into his pockets, he shook out one handkerchief and, holding opposing corners, wound it into a short but very strong length.
He turned back to the engine and quickly tied the silk over the valve in a way he hoped would stop the valve from working.
From releasing. That was what valves did, he thought.
He paused and listened. Judging by the sounds from the crowd, the Prince was still several exhibits away.