An Hour Unspent, page 6
His questions today hadn’t turned up any helpful information about foreign thieves in this neighborhood. But then, he hadn’t many contacts in Hammersmith itself. He’d go to Poplar tomorrow and ask around. Someone was sure to know something. It was just a matter of tapping into the right someone.
There were no out-of-place shadows or figures today. Nothing but the rain and a few men in trench coats hurrying through it, their hats pulled low to protect their faces, briefcases clutched in their hands. A few barristers or accountants who had stayed late on their half day, no doubt. Now on their way home, ready for a warm hearth and a steaming cup of tea.
“Which house?”
Barclay made another vain effort to keep Olivia under his umbrella, though she never consented to staying there. “Number 22.” He still couldn’t quite fathom how they’d come to be strolling this neighborhood with a bit of a legitimate claim. No one looked at them askance—thanks largely to the impeccable clothing that Rosemary insisted on stitching for all of them—but still.
He led the way to Number 22 and waited until Olivia was safely beside him, up the could-be-treacherous steps, before ringing the bell.
The old butler who had greeted him last night opened the door with a warm, wrinkled smile. “Mr. Pearce, good afternoon. How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Splendid. Come right in, Mr. Manning is expecting you. And Miss Manning is awaiting the young lady in the drawing room.”
Olivia beamed, no doubt at being called “the young lady.”
“May I take your coats? And you may put your umbrella in the stand there.”
After depositing the brolly, Barclay shrugged out of his summer-weight trench coat and helped Olivia out of her jacket as well, handing them over with a smile.
They probably employed some sort of cook too. And likely a maid. Most houses in this neighborhood had a small staff, just like Peter did when he was in London. What had Miss Manning thought when Lucy made the tea today? Or when one of the girls opened the door? He would have liked to have seen the confusion overtake her face.
It would have been a far more entertaining variety of it than what he’d witnessed on her face right here last night, when her fiancé had emerged from the drawing room in an army uniform. That particular kind of shock hadn’t been at all fun to behold.
Evelina emerged from the same doorway now, looking dry and warm enough to prove she’d been back from her friend’s for some time. Her auburn hair was tidy and sleek, her dress the sort Rosemary called a “day gown”—decidedly less structured than the outfit she’d been wearing earlier. He rather liked that her figure filled the dress. Not that she cared about his opinion—and not that he intended to dwell overlong on her curves—but his family was all stick-thin thanks to simple lack of food, and it was . . . pleasant, he’d call it, to see a well-proportioned young lady.
She directed her smile to Olivia, bending forward slightly to lessen the difference in their heights. The eyes, blue as sapphires, that had shot sparks yesterday and spewed confusion earlier were now warm and inviting. “There you are, Miss Pearce. Have you had your tea yet? Mrs. Wright has prepared the most delicious strawberry cake, and I was hoping you could have some with me while your brother speaks with my father.”
Olivia snapped her head around to Barclay, her opinion on the matter clear from the gleam in her eyes.
He chuckled. “Of course you may. Go ahead.” It would take more than a few months of steady meals for the girl to forget the scarcity of the first seven years of her life. For treats like strawberries—or any cake, for that matter—to cease to be so exciting. Were they at home, he would have issued her a reminder to eat it slowly, to remember her manners.
But Liv would remember. And besides, Miss Manning had already seen them all sitting on the floor—had joined them there—so she wouldn’t be shocked by a child scarfing down her cake, if Olivia did forget.
The butler returned from putting their wet coats somewhere or another and gave Barclay another smile. “If you’ll follow me, sir, Mr. Manning gave instruction to show you to his workshop.”
“Excellent.” Perhaps his task for V would be easily accomplished—perhaps the man would simply be willing to share his innovations with the Admiralty, no need for the underhanded at all. With a peek into the drawing room to make sure Olivia was well—she even then loosed a gale of laughter—Barclay fell in behind the old man. And smothered a smile. At the butler’s shuffling pace, it could well take them an hour to reach wherever this workshop lay.
But in short enough order they arrived at a door, which the servant opened but made no move to go through. The strains of some classical song or another drifted up, soft as gossamer.
Willa would know the composer. Perhaps even the name of the piece. To Barclay, it was anonymous loveliness.
“If you’ll forgive me, sir, I cannot manage the stairs very well these days. Just go on down. Mr. Manning is expecting you.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Williston, sir.” The butler bowed.
Barclay stepped onto the solid wood of the stairs and followed the music down into what was clearly a basement. But not like one of the few he’d found his way into before, with damp earthen walls and the clinging scent of mold. No, this space was all wood and light and the bright scents of metal and oil. The light, coming from a variety of lamps both gas and electric—there was only one window, high up and papered over, in accordance with the blackout restrictions—reflected gold and bronze from a fascinating variety of cogs and gears filling bins all over the space.
The light centered, of course, around the workbench. Barclay didn’t hurry toward it, instead opting to take in the many gadgets lining the shelves from floor to ceiling. Clocks, of course, some ticking all in synchronicity, some standing as still as photographs. But for every clock, there were half a dozen . . . toys, he supposed. He didn’t know what else to call them. Little figures of every possible shape and color, all poised as if ready to walk or dance or clap. And, given the keys protruding from their backs, they likely did just that.
Then came the other devices, many of which Barclay couldn’t possibly guess at the purpose of. These took up space along the tabletops that stretched from wall to wall. A few looked similar to automobile parts he’d seen. Others like the gramophone he’d meticulously mended for Willa some years ago, so she could have music even when her violin was put away. None, however, that seemed large enough or well suited to an aircraft.
He could spend hours down here, studying each and every device. But his footsteps had apparently been noted above the record that was whispering its way to an end, as Mr. Manning looked up from whatever he was working on at the bench and stood with a smile. “Ah, good day. You must be Mr. Pearce—how do you do?”
Barclay smiled and reached out to shake his hand. “Very well, sir. And you?”
“Fine, fine. Has the rain stopped yet?”
“Not yet, no. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. I hope I’m not interrupting your work too much.” He motioned around him, rather wishing for a camera so he could take photos of each and every view and go back and study them later. For the job, he’d say.
And for his own curiosity.
“Not at all—I ought to be finishing up now anyway. Were my wife at home, she would have expected me upstairs long since.” The glint in his eyes wasn’t exactly of amusement. Nor of indulgence. Nor of any other warm emotion that Barclay would have expected when a man spoke of his wife—the kind Peter had when he mentioned Rosemary. Or that Lukas had when he talked of Willa. “But Lina is far more lenient with me and the hours I keep.”
There was the affection, at the mention of his daughter.
Barclay’s shoulders relaxed a degree. “Your workshop here is fascinating, sir. When my friend mentioned you, he failed to inform me that your work wasn’t solely in clocks.” He sidled to another shelf to peer at what looked like a miniature circus.
“Ah well.” Mr. Manning’s expression went wry, and he waved a hand. “My friends in the clockmaking world dismiss my other work as frivolous—toys, after all, nothing but toys.”
A gear for an aircraft would hardly be a toy. But perhaps those friends didn’t know about that work.
And this work was utterly fascinating. “I hardly think that deserves a ‘nothing but.’ Anything that can bring a smile to a child’s face is beyond compare.” He motioned to the key in the metal base of the circus scene. “May I?”
Mr. Manning smiled and came round the bench. “By all means, sir.”
Barclay cranked the key round and round until it grew difficult. Then halted and, after a quick examination, flicked a discreet little switch.
The circus sprang to life, each animal moving—the elephant galumphing forward along its track, swaying its trunk; the bear balancing, wobbling, upon a ball; the lion tossing its head back in a teeth-baring roar as his tamer flicked a whip.
Barclay watched the actions repeat themselves, heard the tinkling of the music that went along with it, and felt six years old again. “Amazing. And you just keep this on a shelf in your basement, sir? Why is it not in some shop window with a price tag to make me blush?”
Mr. Manning chuckled. “There are a few in my shop that are similar. But some of them I keep. To give as gifts. To save for my future grandchildren. Lina loved them when she was a girl—this one especially. Her mother insisted all the toys be removed from her room at one point, but we could not simply get rid of this one.” He flipped the switch off just as the big top began to open up. “I am working now on a commission for the Earl of Cayton’s daughter—a unicorn that can trot up the stairs to a castle, which will open. That one will be quite a device, I assure you. I’ve only just begun it.”
Barclay obligingly spun to look at the springs and gears strewn about on the table. “You are a true artist, Mr. Manning.” He’d had no idea, when V directed him here, that he’d find all this.
Where, in all this whimsy, did a device linked to shooting weapons possibly fit? Perhaps V’s source had been mistaken. Perhaps Mr. Manning had no such project underway.
“Lina mentioned you are a bit of a novice clockmaker yourself?”
A breath of laughter escaped Barclay’s lips. “No, sir. I may have thought I was, but it’s suddenly quite clear that I’m nothing but a novice tinkerer. Very far indeed from a true clockmaker. I’ve a bit of a hand with mechanical things, that is all.”
And he could hear, as if a whisper in a long tunnel, his father’s voice as he repositioned the screwdriver in Barclay’s young hand. “There is no shame in working with your hands. In crafting or fixing. We use our minds, we use our words—if God did not want us to use our hands, too, He would not have given us such capable ones.”
He wouldn’t have said those words if he hadn’t come from a family that did frown on working with one’s hands . . . but for the life of him, Barclay could remember nothing about any Pearces beyond the ones that were his whole world: his parents.
Sometimes, though, he wondered. And once upon a time, had dreamed. Dreamed he’d come from a line of somebodies.
As if his long-gone relatives made any difference when he’d had to resort to stealing just to survive.
“Well, we all start somewhere, Mr. Pearce.” Mr. Manning turned back to the bench, his mouth in that easy sort of smile that lived only on the corners, and only when the conversation was comfortable. “Lina mentioned you’ve a watch that needs fixing, but that you’d like to learn to fix it yourself?”
“It’s an imposition.” Clearly it was—that mountain of gears and springs and coils and screws and drivers on the table would not assemble itself into a castle, after all. Though he could only pray Manning would be too polite to dismiss him. He had to have time enough down here to find that gear the government was interested in, or to get Mr. Manning talking about it. Something to report.
Would God answer such prayers? Or was it too underhanded for the Almighty to honor? Blast, but this faith business was complicated.
Mr. Manning repositioned the wire rims of his eyeglasses. “On the contrary, sir, I find it refreshing that someone wishes to learn rather than just hire my services. It’s been years since I’ve had any kind of apprentice. I’d be delighted to teach you.”
“Really?” He heard the incredulity in his own voice but couldn’t exactly call it back. So he covered it with a smile. “That’s very kind of you. Are you quite certain you have the time?”
“‘There is always time to teach someone eager to learn’—that is what my own mentor always says. I imagine he is repeating the same phrase even now in Switzerland. I cannot imagine Herman ever being away from his workbench.” Moving back the stool he’d been stationed on before, Mr. Manning waved him over. “Have you the timepiece with you?”
“Of course.” Though he’d nearly forgotten his cover story in light of the thought of Liv and leg braces. But he’d remembered to shove the watch into his pocket, and he reached for it now. Its case was beautiful—gold, with filigree. He’d found it in a gutter, where some drunken gent had probably dropped it when he stumbled into the gutter himself. If the thing actually worked, he could get a good price for it with his fence.
Not that he needed to fence it just now. But one never knew what the future might hold. If ever he fell from Mr. V’s good graces, they’d be right back in the gutter themselves. Or back to relying on the mercy of Peter and Rosemary, anyway.
He set it on the table.
“Ah, let’s see.” Mr. Manning nudged his glasses again and picked up the watch, turning it over in his hands. Within a few seconds he had the case open, the works showing. “A quality piece. Certainly one you’d want to fix rather than replace.”
“Yes. Only, I’m afraid it spent some time in a puddle.” Barclay leaned onto the table’s edge.
Mr. Manning chuckled. “I’ve a young friend who’s convinced he can create a watch that will be unaffected by water. Until he manages it, the two will remain enemies, to be sure. But we can fix the damage.”
Barclay watched as he chose a small tool and went to work, filing away each term he used, each instruction—most of it somewhat familiar from the book he had, but it was fascinating to see it all applied so deftly.
When Manning passed the tool to him, his hands weren’t quite so deft. But his efforts were met with a series of exclamations such as, “Good, that’s it,” and “Quite right,” so he kept at it. Though he suddenly knew how Fergus felt, with the unaccustomed constraints of instruction upon him.
How many years had it been since anyone had tried to teach him something? Usually he was the one doing the teaching. Pauly had done a fair bit of instructing over the years, but learning how to crimp the crust of a meat pie was a bit different. Still, unfamiliar as it was, it was . . . pleasant. It felt like a thing. One of substance.
The clocks in the room all chimed the hour in unison, making Barclay jerk upright at the cacophony.
Manning chuckled. “I beg your pardon—I should have thought to warn you. They can be a bit startling to those not used to them.”
“That’s all right.”
“We had better stop for now anyway, so we have time to fit Lina’s old braces on your sister. Though any evening you want to stop by, Mr. Pearce, to keep working on it, you are quite welcome. I’m almost always home by seven—last night was the exception and certainly not the rule. And I would welcome the company down here.”
An open invitation to explore the workshop—perfect. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure I’ll take you up on that.” Though for now, he ought to go and check on Olivia. “And thank you, too, for the leg braces. Liv is eager to give them a try.”
“I sincerely hope they can help her. You have spoken to a physician about using them, I trust?”
Barclay filled him in on the advice from one of the doctors as they meandered back through the shop. He halted at a table he hadn’t seen before, half hidden as it was under the stairs.
A metal cylinder nearly filled it, looking far different from any of the other mechanisms in here. It was large and clunky and looked to be made of steel. Under it was a wide sheet of drafting paper with words on it that made his pulse kick up. Synchronization gear. And there was a drawing of an aircraft.
Eureka.
“Never mind that—it’s nothing interesting.” Manning motioned him toward the stairs.
Barclay didn’t obey the gesture. Instead, he stepped nearer the table, comparing the contraption to the drawing. It was, if he weren’t mistaken, barely even begun. And he hadn’t spotted any parts lying about that were large enough to be put to use in it. “Synchronization—as in, with the propellers? I wasn’t aware this was under consideration.”
Manning sighed and turned to the table as well. “It isn’t. And isn’t, I’m told, even necessary. The aircraft have deflectors on their propellers, which is more than the Germans can boast. They don’t need such a thing as this, they say.”
An incredulous laugh slipped out. Barclay could well imagine a few of the old-fashioned gents in charge of things at Whitehall claiming just that—but they really didn’t even understand the potential of fighters in the air. They were shortsighted.
V wasn’t.
“Thinking like that won’t win this war—we ought to be staying a step ahead of the Luftwaffe, to my way of thinking, and they’re surely working to close that gap even now.”
“Exactly.” A bit of fire lit Manning’s eyes behind his spectacles. Then it dimmed, died. “But a clockmaker is no doubt not the one to achieve it. It’s for the gunsmiths.”
“Nonsense. It’s for whoever can accomplish it.”
“Which, again, is not a clockmaker.” Manning shook his head. “I cannot even find the parts I need.”
“What if I could help you?” Perhaps he was overstepping, saying more than V would want him to . . . but no, V’s instructions had said to get him to finish it and get it to Whitehall if possible, taking the designs if necessary.
An overt approach could well be his best bet here—the man obviously wanted to help the Royal Naval Air Service.
