The Lazarus Engine – Chapter 22
The Informant
Three days after the lecture, a letter arrived at Thorne’s morgue. The envelope was thick, cream-colored, and sealed with black wax. Inside, a single sentence:
“Lord Pym is dying. He asks for you. Come alone.”
The address was Pym’s decaying mansion in Hampstead.
Thorne went alone, as requested. Gray was at the station, filing reports. He left her a note: “Gone to see an old man. Back by noon.”
The butler led him to a bedroom on the second floor. Lord Augustus Pym lay in a four-poster bed, his parchment skin even paler than before, his milky eyes fixed on the ceiling. The clocks in the room had all stopped. The silence was absolute.
“You came,” Pym whispered.
“You asked.”
Pym’s lips twitched. “I wanted to see the man who stopped the engine. Who arrested Charlotte. Who told the world about the Order.”
“I told the truth.”
“A dangerous habit.” Pym coughed. His hand emerged from the blankets, thin as a claw. “I’m dying, Thorne. Not from age. From the engine.”
Thorne stepped closer. “What engine?”
“The one in my chest. The one I asked for. Charlotte gave it to me. Before the tower. She said it would keep me alive. She lied.”
Pym pulled open his nightshirt. On his chest, just above the heart, a small brass gear was embedded in the flesh. The skin around it was blackened, necrotic.
“It’s been winding down,” Pym said. “Slower and slower. In a few hours, it will stop. And so will I.”
“Why did you send for me?”
“Because I know where the last engine is hidden. The one Charlotte couldn’t use. The prototype for the resurrection machine.” Pym’s hand trembled. “It’s in the catacombs beneath St. Paul’s. March built it there, in secret. He wanted to be buried with it.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened. “And you want me to destroy it.”
“I want you to use it.” Pym’s eyes focused on Thorne with sudden intensity. “On me. Wind it. Start my heart again. Let me live.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I know you won’t. There’s a difference.” Pym sank back into the pillows. “Then destroy it. Burn it. Melt it. Make sure no one ever finds it.”
“I will.”
Pym nodded. His eyes closed. “One more thing, Thorne. The mechanical hand. The one you have in evidence. It contains a list. Every member of the Order. Every experiment. Every death. Charlotte recorded it all. Use it to bury us.”
Thorne took the old man’s hand. It was cold.
“Goodbye, Lord Pym.”
“Goodbye, resurrectionist.”
Thorne left the room. As he reached the door, he heard a faint ticking. Then silence.
Lord Augustus Pym was dead.
Thorne stood outside the mansion, the cold air sharp in his lungs. He had a new mission now: the catacombs beneath St. Paul’s. The last engine.
He hailed a cab.
“St. Paul’s Cathedral,” he told the driver. “And hurry.”
The cab rattled into the morning light.
Behind him, the clocks in Pym’s bedroom began to tick again.
But no one was there to hear them.