Imperial Clock

CHAPTER Three

Shipmates



The dull chatter of loose cables tapping on sheet metal in the hold overhead whenever the Brunnhilde shimmied in high winds, kept Meredith on edge over the North Atlantic. The others—Sonja, Father, Aunt Lily and Lady Catarina—hadn’t spoken for hours, but they weren’t asleep. Hot lemon sunlight streamed in through the porthole windows, drawing an unpleasant acrid soda smell from the new seat upholstery. Collars had been loosened, sleeves rolled up, and magazines opened to replace conversation. A seething recalcitrance, understood by all, liked by none, ruled the Brunnhilde.

Meredith fingered the Leviacrum pocket watch on the open Explorer’s Weekly page on her lap. What did it mean? The man who’d been hiding in the alpen tree had worn a dark turtleneck jersey, black corduroy trousers with the hems tucked into thick woollen socks, as well as hiking boots and a black woollen hat, and he’d been carrying a .42 Epsilon steam-pistol in a hip holster. No identification on him at all apart from the portable camera and a box of used platelets he’d left hanging in the tree where he’d fallen. So he’d definitely been spying on the party. Sorensen had developed the miniature plates in his darkroom last night, and they primarily featured the men he and Father had spent the most time with after Father’s presentation: investors from across Europe, and the local scientific alumni.

Why would anyone go to such lengths to record that information? Who was so interested in Father’s affiliations, and why? The man hadn’t woken from his coma, and Sorensen had promised to wire Southsea immediately with any further developments.

As they approached the northern coast of Scotland, Father switched the cabin wireless on. The newscaster’s almost musical Irish voice burst to life: “...have confirmed reports of a tremendous explosion off the northwest coast of Norway yesterday evening. At least one merchant airship crew saw the lighthouse and a considerable portion of Jan Mayen, an island in the Greenland Sea, topple into the sea in the aftermath of the explosion—a blast also seen by an ice breaker and two whalers south of Svalbard. The resulting wave rose to a height of fifty feet out to sea. But as it hit the north-western coastline of Norway, it reached as high as several hundred feet in some of the narrower fjords and bays, demolishing coastal towns and fishing fleets and washing up to six miles inland in one valley.

“Rolf Fjortoft, a fisherman from Tromso, who was airlifted to safety minutes ago, described ‘an unimaginable swell that roared in before I even realized it had blocked out the sky. It lifted me over half way up the hillside and dumped me, still in my rowing boat, on a ledge above the tree line. Both myself and the boat were unbroken.’

“Other residents were not so lucky. While the precise death toll might not be known for some time, early estimates suggest as many as thirty thousand lives may have been lost. A grave night indeed for our redoubtable friends in the north. Our prayers go with them over the coming weeks. And if anyone has means to convey food and emergency supplies to these disaster areas, please visit your local post office for details of how to volunteer. The Leviacrum Council has this morning forwarded emergency funds to support the relief effort in full, but if you would like to donate further—”

Father growled as he flicked the wireless off. His normally warm brown eyes had narrowed to an angry squint, while his wide lips, capable of the most extreme grins or sorry-for-himself, hang-dog sulks, pursed inside his fortnight of a beard, in a way Meredith hadn’t seen since he’d resolved to prove the world wrong by organising his second expedition to Subterranea. It frightened her a little, and she shuffled in her seat. He was the calm of any storm, the laid-back one. What disturbed him would surely terrify her.

“Father, what do you know that we don’t?”

He glowered at her. “Enough to fill a library, where the Leviacrum Council is concerned. The unmitigated nerve. They’d solicit for aid for the very disaster they caused.”

“Ralph?” Lady Catarina voiced everyone’s confusion. “What can you mean?”

“Those bloody weapons tests. You’ve all heard the rumours. Whenever the Coalition rebels launch an attack with some new technology, the Council makes a point of demonstrating their superior weaponry. Oh, it’s never advertised as such—a freak tidal wave, this time—but every man Jack knows the goal is to scare the rebels.”

“But not to drown an entire coast, surely to goodness.” She eyed Meredith and Sonja with concern.

“No, no. They clearly didn’t know how devastating this particular weapon would be. Reckless fools, the lot of them. That’s been their legacy from the very start. Any challenge to their supremacy and they immediately launch half-cocked on some hair-brained technological display. Remember the airship crash of ’98, smoked Buckingham Palace; the lunar rocket misfire in ’03, killed all those pilots. That’s what the Council’s really about—pushing science through before its time. They want pre-eminence, to sit as gods in their tower in the clouds, so the rest of us will kowtow to their ideologies.” He snarled. “Those warmongers and their—no, no, I shan’t say any more. It’s not for the ears of young girls.”

“Ahem. Not so young as all that, Father.” Sonja cast him her cheekiest grin that had never failed to butter him up, but his expression appeared determined to keep the cabin overcast.

While polishing his uncut amethyst with his thumb, something he did when he had a lot on his mind—most of the time—he stubbornly jutted out his chin. “Little girls. Bratty and vindictive little girls, that’s what I have. Ah, ah—” he silenced their protests with a wave, the worn-to-a-polish amethyst glinting between his forefinger and thumb, “—I know all about it. You were getting even with Brigitte and her cousins for what they did to you. But there’s getting even and there’s getting even. Yours was the latter, and it was completely uncalled for. For the sake of my friendship, Mikael Sorensen has agreed to let the matter drop, but believe me, I have no such intention.”

“But Father, you don’t know what it was like three years ago. You weren’t—”

“That’s enough,” he snapped at Meredith. “You’ve clung to that hate long enough. It’s not normal. It’s not rational. Your mother would have been appalled. No, I’ll decide a fitting punishment for you both later. Now, not another word about it.”

How dare he trivialise what we went through! The rotten— Meredith flung her magazine across the cabin. It flapped and then struck the door to the W.C., drawing an angry call from the occupant, a woman from the next section.

“That’s quite enough from you, young lady.” Aunt Lily leapt up and pointed a lace-gloved finger at Meredith from across the aisle. “If you don’t want a thick ear, you won’t utter another sound until we reach Portsmouth. That goes for you, too, Miss Backchat,” she aimed at her poor sister, who hadn’t uttered a sound.

In reply, Sonja stood on her seat, made a particularly rude noise for the benefit of the entire airship, then sulked in her seat. After biting her lip and flicking her eyebrows up at Aunt Lily, Meredith joined her sister in their shared Coventry.

So the whole world really was against them. Well then, so be it.

If it’s war they want, it’s war they’ll get.



A dour afternoon, muggy between a heavy downpour and the pressing of a thick sea fog, did little to lift their spirits as they alighted from the train at East Southsea Station. Newspaper vendors plied their disaster headlines in the faces of passers-by, shouting to compete with the steam carwash working overtime as it re-minted muddy vehicles.

Near the ticket booth—a mite too near for the ticket seller’s liking—a goggled dandy wearing a white flying suit was exhibiting his automaton invention to a group of awed schoolchildren. The faceless machine gurgled oil, hissed steam, and generally rattled its way through an attempt at the latest dance steps, though its quick-shuffling feet were really quite impressive. The children laughed at the man’s next African jig, and even harder when his metal protégé aped him step for step.

Science wasn’t all doom and gloom, at least.

When Father, Aunt Lily and Lady Catarina seated themselves at the station cafe for a cup of tea and began to peruse the snack menu, Meredith psst her sister and nodded toward the telegraph booth. Poor Sonja shrugged, mouthed her puzzlement, so Meredith beckoned her to follow on trust alone. She used the next group of passengers for cover, mingling for a moment, then broke away to the Halfpenny Arcade, a row of over two dozen glass-cased novelty attractions adjacent to the telegraph booth and ticket offices.

She halted at Pieces of Eight, an ingenious sonograph machine that could read anything you typed onto its ribbon spool—well, the mechanical parrot on the pirate figure’s shoulder made you think it intoned the words—for a halfpenny per twenty words. The Jungle Monkey machine opposite performed an identical function, and punters often had a good laugh insulting one another as parrot and monkey across the arcade.

“You don’t think we’re in enough trouble?” Sonja looked over her shoulder to make sure Father wasn’t following. “He’s in a rare muck sweat as it is.”

“Exactly why we have to escape for a while. Unless you fancy a full day of his belly-aching. And anyhow, we’ve got some sleuthing to do, remember?”

“We do?”

“My word, you’re an obtuse wet rag today, girl.” Meredith didn’t mind so much having to take charge, but they were far more formidable as a team. Her little sister hadn’t been her usual outspoken, caustic self ever since Niflheim. Understandable considering what they’d been through, but they were back home now, and Meredith’s vim had returned tenfold. “The peeping tom’s pocket watch. If it has something to do with the Leviacrum, like we suppose, then we should be able to get to the bottom of it. First we’ll try Parnell at the bookstore, then we’ll swing by the library. Sound fair?”

Sonja rolled her eyes, then bobbed her head in amused assent. “If Parnell didn’t hate us before, he’ll burn us in effigy after this.”

“Ha! You know it.”

“Right, then—” Sonja retrieved a halfpenny from her purse and sank it into the Pieces of Eight coin slot, “—who’s the message for? Father?”

“No, how about...Aunt Lily!”

“Genius.” As she positioned her fingers over the typewriter keys, Sonja snickered to herself. “I know just what to...”

Meredith leaned over her kid sister’s shoulder, biting a gloved fist so as not to burst out laughing as she imagined the parrot intoning the typed message. Sonja was always the best at these mischievous pranks, and it was wonderful to have her back in such defiant form.

As soon as the message was finished, Meredith bribed two young boys who were perusing the attractions. She asked one to fetch the pretty woman in the white dress from the cafe, and the other to start the Pieces of Eight machine as soon as she appeared. Then Meredith and Sonja beat a hasty retreat and headed for the nearest tram.

The words were barely audible as they left the station and ran down Clarendon Road:

“Lily McEwan. Lily McEwan. Up the Jolly Roger. Be so good as to tell Captain Killjoy his captives have escaped. They will return home for dinner. In the meantime, kindly and slowly walk the bloody plank, wench.”



The brightly striped and somewhat optimistic gazebos erected on the beach along the esplanade—optimistic because of the notoriously fluky weather this time of year, early autumn—were deserted, their canopies flapping in a punchy sea breeze. The fog had rolled away to the east, increasing visibility as far as the Isle of Wight, while closer in, hundreds of gulls huddled together on the lighthouse and the walls of Southsea Castle. An ice cream vehicle sauntered by, its steam-powered tri-wheeler chugging away at odds with the sweet melody chiming from its pink-and-white trailer van. The air on Southsea front bit through her, so Meredith buttoned her coat to the collar as the tram eased to a stop outside Parnell’s bookstore.

“Don’t look.” Sonja hung her head away from the esplanade when they got off the tram. “It’s Edgar and Aloysius, two rotters from my class. Just ignore them. They might not see us.”

“One of them’s pretending to walk like a gorilla. What goes?”

“Oh, they like to make fun of my walk. They say it’s not feminine at all.”

“Ironic, I’d say. They look about as masculine as Parisian froufrou.”

Sonja nodded. “Which boy’s doing the walk?”

“The oily one with a stupid quiff.”

Immediately Sonja spun around and pretended to snort up a pinch of snuff, then staggered drunkenly across the tramlines, finally lifting up the skirt of her frock from the back, flashing her petticoats.

Meredith glanced either side to make sure no one else was watching. The boy who’d been mocking her now stood, fists on hips, glaring at Sonja.

“What’s all that about?” Meredith hurried her sister away to the bookstore, fearing an ugly confrontation.

“Aloysius’s older sister is hooked on the white powder—the family’s dirty little secret.”

“Harsh, Sonja, harsh.”

“No, self-defence. He and his family call Father fit to burn, and they don’t care who hears it either. They want to fling muck, they better learn to duck.”

Feminine or not, the little rebel had a vigilante sense of justice, and it never failed to inspire Meredith. If only everyone gave voice to their sense of right and wrong in Britain, the Leviacrum Council might not hold such sway, might not have scientists and businessmen and politicians alike quaking in their boots. Like tentacles in the sewer, the Council had grown its power slyly and with a long reach over the past several decades, suckering those with influence one by one, and now its stranglehold was absolute. A worrying amalgamation of science and power. An unofficial dictatorship pulling the strings, to the point where you daren’t voice dissent for fear of being branded a traitor and hung on trumped-up charges. Like the Embreys. The Forshaws. The Mayers. Respected families obliterated because they refused to bow to the Council’s dictates. And the worst part—ordinary people didn’t just buy the manure the Leviacrum shovelled, they ate it up with a spoon. Just like Edgar and Aloysius, young pillocks no doubt indoctrinated by pillock parents who didn’t question a thing they read or heard.

“Afternoon, Meredith. Afternoon, Sonja.”

“Good afternoon to you, Parnell.” Meredith’s haughty greeting elicited an eye-roll from the permanently flustered young man. At least, he always seemed flustered when they were around. He may have been perfectly sanguine as a rule, but they teased him something rotten, and even though he was engaged to a girl they didn’t dislike, Meredith loved to flirt with him. He had no defence, and to make matters worse, if he got too irritable and snippy Sonja would weigh in as well. No, it was safe to say, they were not his favourite customers.

“What’ll it be this time?” He leaned on his desk, sighed and pretended to resume his reading. The rather becoming parting in his slick blond hair was clearly his fiancée Ethel’s touch, as Parnell had about as much idea of how to present himself as a barnacle in a bucket of snot. “I don’t need to remind you we don’t stock those...um, er, you know—”

Sonja plonked her elbows on the desk, facing him. “Say it, Parnell. Say the words.”

He flushed bright red, then almost purple, refusing to look her in the eye. “It’s your genre, not mine.”

“Oh? And which genre would that be?” Meredith copied her sister, practically breathing the poor man’s air as he turned the page of his novel without reading a word.

“You’re both disgusting.” He licked his trembling fingertip and turned another page. “And we’ll never stock that kind of filth.”

“Aw, but they have such nice-sounding titles.” Meredith batted her lashes at him when he glanced up. “You don’t mean to say they were unfit for such innocent creatures as we?”

“Innocent, ha! The devil’s own tormentors—you’d find something to tease in an open-top casket. Now what can I do for you? It’s near on closing time.” He stood upright, checked the time on the shop clock, and sniffed.

“If that’s what you call customer service, no wonder you’re haunting an empty store. Sheesh. Or is that Saint Jerome over there in the corner?” When he swivelled to see, Meredith spun his novel toward her on the chestnut desktop. “Frankenstein, how dreary. But we always did have you pegged as some sort of back-alley body snatcher. Sonja, who are those two you read about—”

“Burke and Hare. Might work well with Frankenstein and Parnell. All the anatomical research they could ever want at their fingertips.” She motioned across the scientific section behind her. “And with old Jerome looking on, quite the ghoulish set-up.”

“Oh, you two are just a riot.” In Parnell’s hand, a book stamp. In his expression, the desire to use it violently on Meredith and Sonja. “Come on now, if there’s nothing you want, I’ve got work to do: closing up and all that.”

“Yes, Frankenstein, we could see how busy you were when we came in.” Meredith slammed his book shut, then chuckled at his pitiful sigh. “So, what do you have on secret societies and such?”

He stared dumbly at her. “You mean historical?”

“No, she means futuristic,” Sonja replied with cutting sarcasm.

“Well, you’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.” A note of triumphal superiority livened his voice, bringing out his professional tone. “There happen to be secret societies and esoteric organisations in every country, period and walk of life you can think of. The Europeans cornered the market in them, but as long as there’ve been people on Earth, there’ve been secrets shared and kept.”

“What about sub-sects of the Leviacrum Council? Is there anything on those?” Meredith asked.

“By sub-sects, I assume you mean the spy arms tasked to carry out surveillance and infiltration and all that. Those you hear about—” He checked himself, glanced to the front door. “Gosh no, who would be idiotic enough to publish a book on the watchers?” Skimming both their gazes, he added, “Why do I get the feeling this is going to end with my backside polishing the guest seat of a Black Maria?”

“And such a charming backside at that.” Meredith blinked coquettishly at him.

He stared at her, again turning red with embarrassment. “Are you two in some kind of trouble?”

“Actually...” As Sonja approached him, she peered out of the window and quickly ducked behind his desk. “You need to hide. They’re...they’re here!”

He shook his head. “Nice try, Sonja, but you’ve tried that one before.” After thumbing his braces and rocking on his heels, “Fool me once—”

“Not you, you blithering gollywog—Merry, it’s Father. I just saw him pass on the tram.”

Meredith froze, knew it was better to stay put than make any sudden movements. A playful exuberance took hold, shivered her as she imagined them outfoxing Father, a man whose puzzle-solving and attention to detail were practically proverbial in England. “Did he see you?”

“I’m not sure, but he was chunnering a mile a minute, from the looks of him.”

The tram bell rang, but the vehicle’s heavy iron clunking sound continued without break until it faded far past the next stop. He’d missed them.

Sonja popped up, brushed herself off. “I see the coast is clear. Look, not a lick of fog in sight.” She winked at Parnell. “Do you smoke it?” No reply. “Tough audience. So, about those arms?”

The poor man glanced at his own shirt sleeves. “Oh right, yes, the spy arms of the Leviacrum. Do you have anything specific?”

Meredith handed him the peeping tom’s pocket watch. “Exitus acta probat.”

“The result validates the deeds. This is the symbol of the original founders of the Leviacrum. My grandfather worked for one, a chap named Hector Polperro, a landowner of enormous wealth. It was called, ah, let me see...I think it was The Icarus Club back then. Something Greek at any rate. No, no, it was The Atlas Club. See here, that’s what the symbol represents—the great tower supporting the globe takes the place of Atlas, the giant of Greek mythology who held up the sky on his shoulders.”

He studied the brass casing under his spyglass, then checked the underside. “Number eight-two-six? Hmm, I’m guessing this doesn’t open like a regular pocket watch.” He tugged at the two halves, then tried the winder. “Nope, just as I thought—won’t budge.”

“So how do we get in?” Sonja asked.

He shrugged. “Beats me. My grandfather had one just like it, only the number on his was one-one-seven. No idea what that meant or what was inside, but I can tell you it wasn’t a timepiece. He carried it everywhere, but I never once saw him open it. And he was a stickler for knowing the time. His regular pocket watch looked nothing like this item.” He shook the object, then held it against his ear. “That’s all I have, I’m afraid. The engraving is quite a famous symbol, but its origins won’t be explored in any book, I can tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because no writer would be stupid enough to dig into the Leviacrum’s true origins, and no publisher would be dumb enough to print his findings, at least not in this country. Few people know much about the original Atlas Club, any more than they do about the current administration up there in the tower. It was extremely hush-hush back then, and it’s been a well-kept secret for the best part of a century. Not exactly something you can research for a school project.”

“I see.” Meredith slid half a crown into the shop’s charity tin for homeless veterans. “Does it still exist? The Atlas Club, I mean.”

Parnell shrugged. “I dare say. Who knows? Um, where exactly did you get this?” He gave her the object back, then ran a hand through his hair.

“Niflheim,” her kid sister replied.

“Norway?”

“No, Piccadilly.” Sonja’s sarcasm suddenly seemed rude and inappropriate, even to her, so she bit her lip. “Sorry. I mean yes, Norway. We were a stone’s throw from that horrendous wave you’ve no doubt heard of.”

“Yes, I was just going to say—”

“The item belonged to a sleazy, rotten—” Sonja cut short her vulgar description when Meredith pressed a finger to her own lips and motioned for them to leave. “Let’s just say he made a rather poor showing as a conker. Bye, Parnell.”

“Huh?”

“Much obliged, Parnell. Don’t read any more of that smut now,” Meredith called over her shoulder as she hurried out, Sonja in tow. The next tram was on its way, and with it being after five o’clock, they’d have to wait another half hour for the next one.

“Bye, Son—Bye, Mer—”

They were outside before he could finish. Already the light was beginning to wane, and a fresh fog bank glowed silver-yellow to the west—the beams from several Gannet airships roving through the mist, probably searching for a vessel in distress. The gas lighter and his dependable old bulldog made their way up the seafront, illuminating the tall streetlamps one by one, while a convoy of steam-powered cars flying Suffragette banners and honking their horns clattered by, making the dog bark like crazy.

By the time Meredith and her sister took their seats on the half-empty tram, Parnell had shut up shop. He stood outside the front door wearing his beige duffel, leather gloves and bowler hat, and upturned his collar to help ward off the chill. A dully dressed young woman with a broken boot heel limped toward him up the pavement. When she saw him, she waved madly and quickened her pace. He waved back, sprinted into her arms and lifted her as high as he could, spinning her round and round, to her immense delight.

Meredith swallowed self-consciously, trying to suppress the surprising ache that swelled inside her. She looked to Sonja, who was also watching the blissful couple. The ensuing silence they shared on the tram ride home seemed to echo unspoken truths between them. Hard to put a finger on, the inklings had been there these past couple of years but never quite so telling, nor so eloquent of feeling. A sad, constricting feeling.

They were close as sisters, yes—they had each other. But there was perhaps something missing after all, something that gaped and would continue to widen between them no matter how much they railed against the world. Maybe it was because they railed against the world, everything society insisted they should be. But one thing she felt for certain: the strokes of an inevitable countdown had begun—exactly when she didn’t know. It was one they both felt, tacitly, but could never share. For it was beyond siblings, beyond family, beyond any casual expression.

It was a yearning.

Before today, she’d never been jealous of Parnell.