Part 13 (1/2)
Mrs Archer nodded. The big man took the packet, tore it open, and handed the papers inside to her. They were covered in dots and dashes and other symbols of Gracewell's Engine. Arthur didn't know what exactly they meant.
”Hmm-hmm,” she said. A bent finger traced the lines. ”Hmm-hmm. Where's Dimmick?”
”Dimmick?”
”Dimmick. You know. Your master's usual dogsbody.”
Arthur didn't like dogsbody.
”Mr Dimmick's unwell. My name's Shaw.”
”Ha! Dimmick's not the type to be unwell, like a fainting maiden! Tell me, where's he gone to? What's he about? What's he up to?”
”There was a fire, Mrs Archer-he was injured in it. I'm here in his place, I suppose.”
”I know. I know about the fire! Not that your master had the decency to tell us. Not even a letter or a pigeon. A fire that stopped Mr Dimmick-there's a thing! Well, off with you. Go on.”
”Now, wait,” Arthur said, putting his foot in the door. ”They said I was to wait for your answer to whatever that is.”
The big fellow scowled, and closed the door regardless. It seemed to Arthur that he would've quite happily broken Arthur's foot clean off if he hadn't moved it.
A moment later the door opened again.
”Sit,” Mrs Archer said. ”Over there by the fire. Have some tea.”
An iron kettle hung over a smouldering fire. Arthur sat on a rickety stool beside it, and the big fellow offered him a cup of tea, which tasted of the river.
The big fellow stared at Arthur, but rebuffed every attempt at conversation. After a while Arthur began to wonder if he was in fact staring, or if his eyes were merely open, while his attention was elsewhere, or nowhere at all. There was something very odd about the man, something that went beyond mere rudeness. Arthur wondered if he was half-blind, or in some way not quite right in the head.
The room smelled of tea, and straw, and dirt, and old age; and beneath that something less wholesome-rat, perhaps, something bitter and pungent. The corners were cluttered with tools, rustic bra.s.s nonsense, and dead rabbits. Tied-together twigs hung by string from the ceiling. A rat crawled out from behind a heap of rubbish, and nosed around the edge of the fire. n.o.body but Arthur seemed to mind.
Archer sat at a table by the window and read Gracewell's papers, tracing the lines of dashes and dots with her gnarled finger. She made notations of her own in a leather-bound journal.
”He thinks I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned,” she said.
”Hmm?” Arthur had been drowsing a little in the heat.
”Your master. Thinks I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned. Won't come out here himself. Scared, I reckon. How's he going to do all the things he wants to do if he's scared of a little moonlight?”
”I don't know about that. What is it you do for Mr Gracewell, madam?”
She gave him a long flat look. ”We all do our part,” she said. Then she went back to her work.
Arthur felt ready to hit the next person who presented him with a mystery, or uttered a Delphic word in his presence.
The big fellow was still scowling.
”Your friend and I don't seem to hit it off very well, Mrs Archer.”
”That's my son,” she said. ”My big beautiful boy.”
The big fellow continued to scowl.
Evening crept up on them. The window darkened, and insects buzzed and chirped outside. Archer didn't believe in dinner, it seemed. She looked like she might live on tea, but Arthur didn't see how the big fellow managed it.
Arthur closed his eyes and summoned in his mind the menu of the St. Andrew's Hotel.
”Put your feet up, why don't you, while I work!”
He opened his eyes.
He'd been asleep for a moment. Not long.
”Those are Mr Gracewell's calculations,” he said.
”Yes.”
”From his Engine. Or plans-plans for the next Engine.”
”I reckon. Could be.”
”What in the world could you know about a.n.a.lytical engines, Mrs Archer?”
If she was determined to be rude, Arthur didn't see why he shouldn't respond in kind.
”Nothing,” she said. ”Not one thing. Not a jot or a t.i.ttle. Not a speck. But I know the stars.”
She smiled.
She stood. ”Come on, then.”
”What? Where?”
”Up.” She pointed out the window. ”Up Rudder Hill.” She p.r.o.nounced it rodor.
She handed Arthur Gracewell's pages of calculations, now rather dirty and crumpled, and her own papers, which were covered in numbers and geometry. She went to a corner of the room and bent over. Rummaging in the clutter, she produced a large and expensive-looking telescope, an equally fine s.e.xtant, something very old-fas.h.i.+oned and etched with symbols-an astrolabe, perhaps-and some other implements Arthur couldn't begin to name ... the sort of things you might imagine Copernicus hunching over, or Magellan navigating by, or Stanley carrying down the Nile.
”Good G.o.d! What is all this, Mrs Archer? Do you have a Gatling gun, too?”
”Ha!” She began to shove the implements into sacks, from which long bra.s.s legs and odd sharp points stuck out. In amongst the bra.s.s and copper there were things made of sticks and twigs and bone. ”Come on, then.”
”What's up the hill?”
”Your job is to carry,” she said, ”and keep an eye out.”
”What about him?” Arthur said, nodding sideways at the big fellow.
”He keeps the house. That's his job. You come with me.”
She took down her cape and walking-stick from a hook by the door. ”Quick now.”