Echoes Read online

  When she’d invented prismatic glass, she’d had no idea that it would be of such interest to the world at large. Thankfully her mentor, Professor Richards, had seen the potential and encouraged her, supported her. What interested her now, was getting more air. Corsets and crowds did not make for a fine combination, and she refused to be one of those overly delicate young ladies who took to fainting. Instead, she moved to the edge of this first-floor assembly room to the tall doors to the balcony.

  Thankfully, these were not locked, and she parted the set, carefully propping each narrow half open to allow a little air to circulate. Stepping out, she breathed in deep. Humanity and industry, all of life was here in London. Samuel Johnson was right, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. That worked for women, too. Though the rising vapors of horse deposits in the streets below being warmed by the sun, weren’t quite as refreshing as she’d hoped. The Thames was making its presence felt, too. The Great Stink had gone, but sometimes the river liked to remind the inhabitants of London just what they did to it.

  She looked over the busy streets and Georgian buildings. Even if everything was frenetic and the air thick and smelly, this was home. After all the frantic activity since she’d signed the deal with Sanderson, she finally felt free to breathe again.

  Amethyst was aware she wasn’t alone on the balcony. She guessed that the woman to her side was in her thirties, possibly a widow from the nightly color she wore and in great need of a good feed. Every tendon and bone stood out on the back of the hands that rested on the stone balcony, her cheeks looked sunken and the way her hair had been dragged back from her face in a far too tight bun, emphasized the tightness of her skin to her skull.

  “Hello,” Amethyst risked.

  The woman looked at her, eyes watery, yet dull, like a becalmed lake on a clear day, utterly lacking in sparkle. “Hello.”

  Self-introductions weren’t really the thing to do, but Amethyst wasn’t that worried about propriety. She introduced herself.

  “Edwina Russell,” the woman said, and they exchanged small curtsies.

  The conversation was a little stilted at first as Amethyst tried to remember the guest list and guess how Mrs. Russell fitted into things. Soon they found some common ground.

  “Stephen would have loved this,” Edwina said suddenly.

  “Sorry, who?”

  Edwina, clearly uncomfortable, studied the view. “Stephen is my husband.”

  Is? So, she wasn’t a widow after all. Amethyst wasn’t sure that the statement and the woman’s appearance worked together. “He hasn’t come with you?”

  She flinched, features hanging in expression and attitude. “He’s missing. It’s been eighteen months now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Amethyst was, but sympathy wasn’t the strongest reaction. Curiosity was ever her downfall. “Excuse me for asking, but what happened?”

  “No one’s really sure. He went into his workroom, he had some experiments to run, then there was an explosion and he ‒ he…”

  Again, it was defying convention, but Amethyst reached out and put her hand on the other woman’s arm. Edwina’s hand went over hers, the grip told her she was helping even as the other woman struggled to compose herself.

  “So, Stephen was an inventor?”

  Edwina smiled now and nodded. “He was always so interested in machines and engines and how things worked. His interest really took off when he started working with aetherics. He saw so many possibilities, made so many things. Light, the multicolored lights that aetheric lamps emit were always something he felt should be brought together to give a single steady light, but he couldn’t work out how to invert the effect of a prism.” Edwina indicated through the balcony doors to the display of lampshades all allowing a steady white light to shine from aetheric lamps. “The exact thing you’ve managed.”

  Amethyst woke early the following morning. The conversation with Edwina had continued, and the more she heard the more intrigued she was. Something about the tale had caught her curiosity, not least of which was Stephen’s idea that he could send sound through aether. It nagged at her. After a leisurely breakfast, she decided that she had to investigate the case of the missing, presumed dead, Stephen Russell, it was a puzzle and she liked solving puzzles. What was more, she knew just the person to help her.

  Scotland Yard wasn’t that far, and she enjoyed a good walk. A good walk that ended in disappointment this time. Inspector Jenson was not in the station, nor was he expected in that day.

  The direct route home would take half an hour, but somehow, Amethyst wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Instead she headed for the university. Her friend and mentor, her benefactor, Professor Richards, had been a lecturer of Aetheric Studies in his time, but he wasn’t the only one. With a bit of luck the interest Stephen Russell had in aetherics had recommended him to at least one of the faculty.

  Two hours later, she stormed from the building, annoyed and no wiser. How men, supposedly men of learning, could be so ignorant as to ignore her just because she was a woman was unbelievable. Or at least it should be. Roll on the day when suffrage was achieved. She bit down on her fury. Maybe then men would realize that ‘woman’ doesn’t equate to ‘worthless.’

  Chapter Three

  Maker paced in his own bedroom. Every muscle tensed, each step moved him closer to madness.

  Violet had been on her best - or worst - form. Since she’d noticed Montgomery paying Amethyst attention, she’d been trying to separate the two. Lord Montgomery had been a friend of Maker’s at school, but Violet had known the family since childhood. He would like to think she was acting out of kind intention, to protect Monty, but he lacked any conviction that his wife’s actions could be that altruistic. He stopped by the window and looked out across Belgravia Square.

  Amethyst.

  Sometimes she seemed to be the only friend he had. That was unfair to his other friends, but he craved her company more than any other, he craved more than her friendship. Yet, unlike too many of his contemporaries, he would not, could not travel that route. Marriage had robbed him of a great deal, but he would not allow it to rob him of the last thing he had, the knowledge that his word was his bond.

  His shackle.

  “Inspector Jenson to see you, Miss.”

  Amethyst smiled at Edwards, her butler, as she stood from where she was kneeling before her study desk. The room was full of light despite the walls being lined with full to bursting bookshelves. The sun poured in from the glass of the conservatory which now housed spare parts, strange inventions, and a few fire scars. Edwards offered a small respectful bow and melted away as the other man entered.

  “Jenson!”

  The older man wore a brown tweed suit, his middle-parted salt and pepper hair kinked where his bowler hat usually sat. His brown eyes crinkled as he returned her smile and took her outstretched hands. As she rushed forward and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

  “I'm so pleased to see you.” She pulled slightly back and saw the surprise in his expression. “Oh dear, did I just break some other social convention?”

  She saw him swallow.

  “My apologies, Miss Forester, I'm just surprised by such a warm greeting.”

  Her stomach sank, she'd thought they were friends, another mistake. “I'm sorry, I didn't think it was wrong or would be unwelcome.” She stepped back. But he took hold of her lower arms and pulled her back to him.

  “It was neither. I'm just surprised a young lady would welcome an old man so warmly.”

  “I consider you a friend, and not old. Please, call me Amethyst.”

  His brows lowered a moment.

  “Oh dear, another faux pas?”

  “No.” He smiled, sweetly, gently.

  His hand moved to her upper arm as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Amethy-stargh."

  This last was matched with a flinch of pain as Jenson swung to face his attacker. Surprise colored his expression as he looked down on a black-clad cane-w
ielding old lady.

  Amethyst grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Great-Aunt Flora!”

  Flora looked over her wire rims, assessing the man. Her eyes might be old and faded, but she saw more clearly than most. She pinned the Inspector with a hard glare.

  “You’re old enough to know that is not the way to greet a maiden.”

  As calmly as she could, Amethyst said: “You’ve seen me greet friends this way hundreds of times.”

  The way Flora’s eyes shifted, slow and heavy, taking an inordinate amount of time before they came to rest on Amethyst, like a hammer on an anvil.

  “Well, it’s time to grow up and realize you’re a wealthy and eligible young woman. There are plenty of men ‒” The way she looked Jenson up and down questioned his inclusion in that definition. “‒ who will seek to take advantage.”

  The weight of Flora’s gaze became unbearable, reminding Amethyst that she still held Jenson’s hand. In fear of the cane, she let it go.

  “Jenson, this is Lady Gordon, she’s staying with me. My self-appointed chaperone.”

  Flora snorted. “Less of the self-appointed, dearie. Your mother asked me to look after you and it’s just as well.” Again her gaze grazed over Jenson, disapproval oozing from every pore.

  Amethyst concentrated on Jenson. “Lady Gordon is ‒”

  Apparently, Jenson needed a release from the same burden and looked to Amethyst. “Your Great-Aunt?”

  “Well, yes.” She smiled, braced for impact and turned to Flora. “Great-Aunt Flora, this is Detective Inspector Dean Jenson. He investigated Professor Richards’ murder and has become a good friend.”

  “Well, I hope you’re a better friend than you are a police officer.”

  Jenson reared, affronted. His jaw slackened, but he said nothing.

  “Great-Aunt Flora!”

  “Well,” the old lady turned with her usual thump-shuffle to one of the two wing-backed chairs by the fire. Amethyst never ceased to be amazed how Flora could be leaning on that cane like an old lady one minute and wielding it with the accuracy of an assassin the next. “You can’t tell me he’s a great officer. He hasn’t found out who killed the professor yet, has he?”

  “On the contrary,” Jenson said as he accepted Amethyst’s mute invitation to sit in the other chair, while she pulled a footstool beside him, to sit on herself. “I have identified who killed the professor.”

  “Haven’t caught him though, have you?”

  Jenson swallowed. “No.”

  “Hmm.” Flora sat back with a smile that said she’d proven her point.

  Unnaturally stiff, Jenson watched Flora like a snake. Would she strike at him? It wasn’t an unreasonable question; that cane could strike with the power and venom of a cobra.

  “Don’t worry about Great-Aunt Flora, her bark is every bit as bad as her bite, and her cane is even worse, but her heart is in the right place.” Amethyst sighed.

  “What is that?” Jenson looked beyond her to the contraption she had been working on when he came in. “It looks like a weird machine with more knobs and bells than any machine needs, and a tin bowl.”

  Amethyst appreciated the surprisingly accurate description. “It is a Ronalds telegraph machine, I’ve attached it to an aetheric power cell. The tin bowl as you call it, is a parabolic receiver dish and it acts‒” She cut herself off at the sound of Great-Aunt Flora’s tut.

  “Don’t go getting all technical, dearie,” the old lady said. “I’m sure that’s not why the Inspector called.”

  Deflated, Amethyst turned to Jenson. “No, sorry. Why did you call?”

  “I understand you came to the station to speak to me yesterday?”

  “Indeed.” She smiled. “I hoped you might be able to help me a little. You see, I have a friend… well, an acquaintance…” she looked at his earnest interest and realized she had to be completely honest. “There’s a woman I’ve met once. She came to the launch of the Prismatic Shades, and she and I fell into conversation. Her husband is missing and what she said has me intrigued, I hoped you could give me some pointers as to where to start.”

  “What do you have?”

  “A name and an interest in aetherics. After I missed you at the station, I went to the university and tried to speak to some of Professor Richard’s old colleagues.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Unpleasant and unhelpful. They wouldn’t even speak with me. However, I returned early this morning and spoke to one of the administrative staff. Stephen Russell has never been a student, but there is a record that he purchased a ticket for an open lecture about three years ago. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing if he even attended.”

  “What about asking the lecturer?”

  “It was Professor Richards.”

  He nodded his understanding, asking the dead anything tended towards the difficult end of the spectrum. The stiffness of that big moustache suggested he was thinking about something. “Did you see the attendee list? Catch any other names on it?”

  “I didn’t think to ask.” She hung her head, she should have. “I’m afraid my investigative skills aren’t that good.”

  His small rumble of a chuckle warmed her. “They aren’t bad either.”

  “I suppose I should have looked for Mr. Brown's name, or possibly Mr. Quinn since you think that's his real name.”

  “You see, your instincts are good.”

  “Whose real name?” Great-Aunt Flora asked.

  “Mr. Brown,” Jenson advised. “The man who killed, or at least caused Professor Richards to be killed. His real name seems to be Quinn.” He focused back on Amethyst. “Since we last met, I’ve continued investigating. From what I've found, Mr. Quinn, as Mr. Brown, started working with the University about two and a half to three years ago. Therefore, he may well have encountered the man you’re investigating. Quinn also made a number of interesting connections which I’m still looking into. Given that they all have strong connections with or specialism in, the aetheric fields, I wondered if you've heard of any of them.” He passed her a small scrap of paper.

  The handwriting matched the man, neat and upright.

  “These are some of Quinn’s contacts, the ones that we can’t locate. It seems they’ve all disappeared.”

  “And here’s a matter of more interest,” Amethyst said reading the list. “The man I was asking after was Stephen Russell.” The fourth name on the list.

  “Oh!” Jenson exclaimed, surprised to find a black cat at his ankle. Especially as this one was dragging splinted and bandaged back legs and using its claws and a plaintive mewling to gain attention. He picked the creature up in one big hand and unhooked the claws from his trouser leg with the other. “A new addition to the household?”

  “Yes. This is Gladstone.” Amethyst ruffled the furry head as Jenson lay the cat on his lap. “She was found run over in the street and brought to me to patch her up.” The cat seemed content to curl up on Jenson’s lap. “You like cats?”

  “I don’t object to them.”

  Amethyst smiled at him, he was already absentmindedly stroking the cat behind the ears.

  “Why you?” he asked. “Why not take her to a vet?”

  “I was closer and the injuries showed that her back legs were actually mechanoid.”

  “Mechanoid?”

  “Yes, from the hip joint down the bones have been replaced by metal rods and cogs. From what I saw of the rest of her a lot has been similarly replaced, so I fixed up the mechanics. I even saw a tiny aether cell housed between her ribs. Just here.” She pointed. “You can feel it.”

  Jenson did so and nodded. “What's that for?”

  “I don't know. I'd have to cut her open to find out and I didn't want to do that. So, I patched her up and she's become a part of the family.”

  “Two questions.”

  Only when Amethyst nodded for him to go on, did he.

  “If she's made of metal, why the splints?”

  “She's not made of metal, onl
y her back legs are, so the muscle joints and the broken skin still need to heal.”

  “Why Gladstone? It's an odd name for a girl.”

  “She was found flat on the road, Gladstone means flat stone, and I have a strange sense of the appropriate. Besides, I don't think you or I are in any position to comment on odd names, are we, Dean?”

  His expression was warm as he shook his head. Neither Dean nor Amethyst were popular names.

  “But to get this conversation back on track,” Amethyst said. “I’ll tell you if I discover anything more about Stephen Russell; though if you can’t find him, I don’t know what I’ll be able to do.”

  “You’re a fresh pair of eyes with a different approach, sometimes that’s enough.”

  She tipped up the list. “May I keep this?”

  Jenson nodded. “I hoped you would.”

  She rolled the paper up and in the absence of a pocket in this dress, slipped it into the heart neckline of her dress.

  “Ar-umm,” Jenson just about strangled off the cry as the cane bit his leg.

  “Eyes up, sir.”

  “Great-Aunt Flora!”

  The old woman looked at Amethyst. “I’ll behave if he does, dearie.”

  With a roll of her eyes, Amethyst turned back to Jenson. He smiled a little uncertainly, then saved her from having to worry about what to say.

  “So why are you attaching a telegraph machine to a parabolic bowl and an aetheric power cell?”

  Amethyst reached behind her and picked up a notebook, showing her visitor the tome. “Well, actually, it’s all to do with Stephen Russell. His wife told me that he was trying to transmit sound through aether. At present the telegraph system works on wires which restricts where they can go. The idea of this is to be able to go anywhere without need of those wires. I’ve added a power cell for freedom of movement and the bowl is part of the receiver mechanism so the signal can be located and focused into an audible result.”