Hounds of Autumn by Heather Blackwood Read Free Book Online Page B

those. There’s hope.”
    “That there is.”
    “I want to see Charles Granger. I want to see if I can get Camille’s research notes. They’re useless to anyone else, and if they’re lost, her work will be in vain. Her work on the cadmium and nickel battery—I think it’s the key to the thinking machines. I’m sure of it. A power source that small and powerful could do so much.” She settled back into her seat and watched the scenery, aware that she indeed bore the look of a woman concocting an idea. They reached the street near the railway station, and asked the driver to meet them an hour later.
    “I heard they have a pastry and chocolate shop near the railway station,” said Ambrose, offering his arm. The mid-section of her dresses may have become a tad tight in the past month, but passing up chocolates and pastries was beyond her power.
    They passed the time amicably over two steaming cups of hot chocolate and a small plate of Chelsea buns. They were fresh and warm, with plenty of sugar glaze dripping down. She set Giles on the floor, and watched as he moved around their table, looked out the window, and examined their feet and legs before settling by Chloe’s chair. The little cat could make decisions, albeit simple ones. And if Camille’s hound was even more complex—the possibilities were dizzying.
    Ambrose glanced at his pocket watch and said, “It’s time,” and they walked to the railway station. Chloe scooped up Giles at the doorstep so he would not delay them. Ordinarily, they would have had a servant or two retrieve their crates from the station. But both of them were of the same mind when it came to these crates. They would check the contents of the boxes immediately upon their arrival. The crates, especially the largest, were too important to be left to a servant.
    At the station, Ambrose arranged for a worker to open each of their crates for inspection. The boxes were waiting at the side of the station building, and Chloe observed with a frown that one on which she had painted “up” with a helpful arrow was upside-down. The worker lifted the lids of each straw-filled crate and Ambrose and Chloe took turns approving the contents.
    Inside Ambrose’s crates were books, bound stacks of papers, a microscope, slides, notebooks and a projector with small, brass-encased playback spools. Chloe’s boxes were filled with mechanical parts of all descriptions, lengths of India rubber tubing, cans of lubricant and an assortment of gears, cogs, screws, fastenings and copper wire.
    The largest box was last.
    “The others boxes can be loaded onto our carriage,” said Ambrose to the man. “But we’ll need to unpack this one completely.”
    Inside was the steamcycle, the only one of its kind. Once the straw was brushed off, and it was rolled to a clear spot, Chloe did a quick examination. Its exterior looked undamaged. The two leather saddle seats, positioned one behind the other, were unmarred. The glass headlamp was unbroken and its empty oil reservoir intact. A covered wicker lunch basket was fastened over the rear fender and held, among other things, a few tools and a lantern. She knelt to pop open the barrel-like enclosure that covered the engine. After a few moments of probing, she nodded in approval. She filled the oil reservoir, fired up the kerosene burner, gave the mechanism a spin to start it up, and closed the barrel. It gave a low, sweet rumble.
    She wiped her hand on a handkerchief and stood back, admiring. From the grips on its handlebars to its brushed metal fenders, it was a vision in brass, leather and steel.
    “Looks fine,” she said. “Give it a go and see how it is.”
    As Ambrose mounted the steamcycle, the railway worker who opened the crates motioned over some of his loitering comrades. They jumped in shock as Ambrose gave it more steam and it roared.
    “Is that one of those automobile things?” yelled one of the men. His friends laughed at him and he blushed.
    “It is