His Clockwork Canary

CHAPTER 10

THREE DAYS LATER SOMEWHERE OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Bingham owned a personal fleet of substantial and impressive dirigibles, but none as grand as his modified zeppelin, a spectacular flying machine dubbed Mars-a-tron. Fitted with advanced equipment—steam turbines, rocket blasters, and a state-of-the-art gyrocompass—as well as a luxurious gondola with an ornate private cabin, Mars-a-tron would afford Bingham a swift and comfortable journey to the land down under.

Although the day had been pitted with various bumps, Bingham was riding high from a string of good news. On the downside, he’d been visited by the shire constable, who’d been intent on inquiring about the viscount’s rocket fuel supply and mentioning the disastrous explosion caused by that buffoon Ashford in his efforts to build a moonship. Bingham had confessed to loaning his poorly neighbor a modicum of fuel, but he was in no way responsible for the regrettable accident.

The constable agreed.

But Bingham’s mother doubted the law official’s sincerity. He’s sniffing about, she’d said.

Let him sniff. Bingham would not be outsmarted by some bumpkin constable, nor would he be henpecked by his worrywart mother.

Aside from that minor nuisance, his master plan was progressing.

As of a day ago, the members of Aquarius were indebted to Bingham for handling a potential catastrophe on their behalf, and now, because of his ruthless determination, plans for the royal assassination were once again in motion.

Wilhelmina Goodenough was in league with Simon Darcy, and, if she knew what was good for her, would report to Bingham in due course. Captain Dunkirk, the air pirate he had put on the tail of Amelia, had the youngest Darcy sibling in his sights. The elder brother, Jules, was the only Darcy to elude Bingham, but that would soon change. Bingham paid his spies handsomely for results. He did not reward incompetence. One of them would ferret out the science fiction writer, affording Bingham yet another possibility of stealing away a time-traveling mechanism.

The most promising news had come from one of Bingham’s Mod Trackers. After months of chasing their tails, one of his more motivated mercenaries had finally located Professor Maximus Merriweather. The genius recluse had established a small camp in a remote region of the Australian outback. It would take days to make the trek, but Bingham would circumnavigate the globe in order to speak face-to-face with Merriweather. The twentieth-century physicist/cosmologist would be a wealth of information if coerced or bribed. An original Peace Rebel, he’d been instrumental in designing the time-traveling Briscoe Bus. “Time to repeat history.”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

Bingham turned away from the massive map on the wall and regarded his ship’s captain with a dour expression. “Set the controls to hover, Northwood, and join the crew topside. Captain Dunkirk should be rendezvousing with us shortly. When he does, send him below.”

“Aye, sir.” Northwood toggled a switch on the control panel, then left the bridge.

Bingham sank down on his plush throne. The air pirate had been the bearer of encouraging news as well this day. The fact that Amelia Darcy had joined with the famous and pathetically moral Sky Cowboy in her search for an invention of historical significance had been disconcerting. Tucker Gentry was a worthy opponent, and dammit, Bingham wanted that invention—assuming it had something to do with time travel. If the invention allowed him to pursue a futuristic voyage, well then, no need to journey all the way to the godforsaken outback.

“I am underwhelmed by yer mite crew, but yer dig’s damned impressive.”

Bingham glanced over at the pirate rogue, known as the Scottish Shark of the Skies, lazing on the threshold of the bridge. Dark, menacing, and arrogant. A mercenary. Dunkirk had served Bingham well on previous occasions. As long as Bingham paid handsomely, the pirate produced. He ignored the man’s insolence and gestured him inside. “You intercepted the Sky Cowboy and Miss Darcy?”

“Aye.”

“You acquired the artifact?”

“It’s what ya hired me to do, yeah?”

Bingham rubbed his hands together in wicked anticipation. “Is it aboard the Flying Shark?”

“As I said in the telepage, my ship sustained damages. I commandeered a small transport to meet with ya.” Dunkirk produced a brass box from behind his back. “Miss Darcy made quite the fuss when I took this from her. Offered me a percentage of the jubilee prize. Fifty percent of half a million pounds. I confess I was tempted.”

“Crossing me would not bode well,” Bingham said. “But I guess you know that, as you are here and not in league with the lovely yet vexing Miss Darcy.”

Bingham’s hands trembled as he rose and reached for the box. So small. What could it be? A component for the clockwork propulsion engine? A diagram of the time machine? A formula or perhaps a document stating the precise location of pertinent wormholes?

He set the box near the gyrocompass and, upon opening the lid, discovered an exquisite model of an ornithopter. Somewhat fanatical regarding aviation, he’d seen drawings of a similar construction. Flying machines as imagined by the master, Leonardo da Vinci. “Where precisely did you procure this?”

“Tuscany, Italy. Mount Ceceri.”

An old stomping ground of da Vinci’s.

The great bird will take its first flight on the back of Monte Ceceri. . . .

What, if anything, did this exquisite model of a da Vinci flying machine have to do with time travel?

Bingham donned a pair of magnifying specs and examined the model at great length and with utmost intensity.

“Pay up,” Dunkirk said, “and I’ll be on me way.”

Bingham tempered his disappointment as he inspected the compact, though intricate, model of a da Vinci ornithopter for the third time. He had to be sure. Unfortunately, he was. “This isn’t it.”

Dunkirk, who’d been lounging in a seat without invitation, leaned forward with a sneer. “It’s what Miss Darcy came oot of that cave with, and she was damned well averse to letting it go. I searched the cave for anything else. Empty. Ya told me to steal whatever Amelia Darcy was after, yeah? This is it. A da Vinci ornithopter. An invention of historical significance.”

“But it is not significant to me.”

“What the fook does that mean?”

Bingham straightened and slid the specialized specs to his forehead. “I don’t want it.” It did not apply to time travel. It was not even a full-scale working ornithopter. A prized artifact for a museum or a private collector, but nothing but a disappointment to him. “It will not advance my cause.”

“Could be worth half a million.”

“Ah. The jubilee prize.” Bingham refrained from rolling his eyes. Dunkirk was ignorant of his role as anonymous benefactor of the Triple R Tourney, and he intended to keep it that way. He’d learned long ago that the best way to control his “employees” was by controlling what they did and did not know about him and his many ventures.

Bingham rocked back on his heels, anxious to be on his way. He had many irons in the fire, Professor Maximus Merriweather, at this moment, being the hottest. He gestured to the sixteenth-century model. “By all means.”

Dunkirk stood. “You’re offering me the invention instead of the payment we agreed upon?”

“The ornithopter is worth more than I offered you.”

“If it wins the prize.”

“Thought you were a gambling man, Captain Dunkirk.”

“We had a deal.”

“Indeed. You failed to deliver what I anticipated. I am not satisfied with your services and thus shall not pay.” He flashed a lethal smile. “Take the ornithopter or leave it. This transaction is over.” Bingham had toyed with killing the insolent pirate, but the man was a valuable minion—as long as he stayed in line. Cutting Dunkirk loose for a while, denying him lucrative “work,” might inspire the man to treat Bingham with more respect in the future—when next Bingham needed him.

The Scottish bastard eyed him up and down, then smiled. “I be takin’ the ornithopter.”

Bingham watched as the intimidating man gently scooped up his “prize.” “Oh, Dunkirk. You neglected to mention the status of Miss Darcy.”

“Dead.”

“Pity.”

“Aye, it is,” he said on his way out.

Bingham sensed true regret in the pirate’s voice, when all Bingham mourned was the chance to dominate Miss Darcy in bed. Ah, well. At least her demise would please his mother.

He called for his captain. “Set a course for Australia.” He would not dawdle and pine over Miss Darcy’s less-than-thrilling discovery. Certainly he would not mourn the outspoken utopian’s death. He would seek the expertise of Merriweather, who had firsthand knowledge of the Briscoe Bus. As backup, he intended to contact Miss Goodenough.

Time to turn up the heat on Simon Darcy.

But first he would deplete some of his frustration by ravaging his sex slave and confidant. He moved toward his private cabin, knowing the automaton was naked and waiting in his bed as ordered. “Renee!” he bellowed. “Get on your hands and knees.”