The Lazarus Engine – Chapter 28
The Final Trap
The victim was found in a locked study on Bedford Square. The door was bolted from inside. The windows were sealed. No chimney. No hidden passages. And yet, a man was dead.
His name was Cornelius Ashe, a retired clockmaker who had never been a member of the Order. He had never met Victor March. He had never seen a Lazarus Engine. But he had found something—hidden in the walls of his shop, behind a loose brick.
March’s missing notebook. The one that had not burned. The one that contained the final equation.
Thorne knelt beside the body. No wound. No blood. No engine in the chest. But the victim’s eyes were wide, his mouth open, his hands clutching his own throat.
“He strangled himself,” Gray said.
“The engine made him do it,” Thorne replied. “Just like Wells. Just like Hale. But the engine isn’t here.”
He searched the room. In the fireplace, among the cold ashes, he found a small brass gear—identical to the ones from the previous murders. It was still warm.
“A new killer,” Gray said. “A copycat.”
“Or a student. Someone who found March’s notes and decided to continue his work.”
Thorne picked up the gear. On its inner rim, an inscription: “For the resurrection. – I.V.”
Isolde Vane. But Isolde was in prison, awaiting execution.
“Someone acting on her behalf,” Thorne said. “Or someone who wants us to think so.”
They visited Isolde in Newgate Prison.
She sat in her cell, still composed, still smiling. Her hands were shackled. Her hair had been cut short. But her eyes were as sharp as ever.
“Dr. Thorne,” she said. “I heard about Cornelius Ashe. A tragedy.”
“You know who killed him.”
“I know many things. But I’m not telling you.” She leaned forward. “Unless you make a trade.”
“What trade?”
“My freedom. You arrange my escape. I give you the name.”
Thorne shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Then find the killer yourself.” Isolde sat back. “But hurry. The third winding is coming. And this time, there will be no one to stop it.”
Thorne left the cell. Gray was waiting in the corridor.
“She’s lying,” Gray said.
“Partially. But she knows something. And whoever killed Ashe wants us to believe Isolde is behind it.”
They walked out of the prison into the rain.
The breakthrough came from an unlikely source: Ezekiel Crowne.
He appeared at the morgue that evening, wild-eyed and breathless. “March’s notebook. I know who took it.”
Thorne looked up from the gear. “Who?”
“A woman. She came to my shop a month ago. Said she was a collector. Asked about March’s work. I told her nothing. But she must have found someone else to talk to.” Crowne pulled out a folded paper. “I followed her. She lives in a boarding house on Cherry Street. Room Twelve.”
Thorne took the paper. “What’s her name?”
“Mary. Mary Smith. Common as dirt. But her hands—” Crowne shuddered. “Her hands were scarred. Like Charlotte’s. Like someone who had been burned by brass.”
Thorne and Gray went to Cherry Street that night.
The boarding house was dark. Room Twelve was at the end of a narrow hallway. The door was unlocked.
Inside, they found a small room, neatly kept. A bed. A desk. A single brass gear on the windowsill.
And on the desk, a letter.
“Dr. Thorne – You’re looking for me. But I’m already gone. The third winding has begun. Meet me at the Royal Observatory, Greenwich. Midnight. Come alone. – M.”
Gray looked at Thorne. “It’s a trap.”
“All traps can be sprung.”
He tucked the letter into his coat.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The stars were visible.
Greenwich was an hour away.
Midnight was approaching.