It would be embarrassing to call the police, so I double-locked my door and hurried away down Kennington Road. I thought, I should have written down the registration number.
Outside Lambeth North station the newspaper placards read: TIDE OF FEAR. There was a colour picture of the Gulf of Mexico, a dense black centre with a rim of rusty red surrounded by a coral blue.
The train pushed a wall of hot air before it. I boarded. The scratch on my face was noted, in that particularly British way which contains not a skerrick of sympathy. I changed to the Central Line. I arrived at Farringdon to discover it was disembowelled—temporary ramps and lanes and hoardings and lots more TIDE OF FEAR.
Outside, Farringdon Road was a construction site. Lorries, minivans, motorbikes and newspapers floating like gulls above a garbage dump.
I strode north, holding my breath. I turned right into Bowling Green Lane, past the pub (the Bowler) and now I was inside Henry Brandling’s puzzle. I felt my mobile phone vibrating against my hip and there was 40 Bowling Green Lane: FINSBURY BUSINESS CENTRE. Of course it was Clerkenwell not Finsbury but there it stood, built a century after Sumper visited the same address.
Who would have anticipated feeling so let down? I had spent so much time maintaining a rational sense of doubt that I had had no notion of how much I wanted the machine. I wanted Cruickshank and his silver ladies but Thigpen’s had been bombed, rebuilt, become decrepit in its turn. This was our inheritance: a vast dull postwar building with depressing offices for rent.
From Bowling Green Lane I called Security to ask if Amanda had swiped her card this morning.
She had not.
The trains were slow and stinking. It was almost two claustrophobic hours before I reached the Annexe where I discovered a large expensive envelope addressed to me in Amanda’s hand.
“Dear Miss Gehrig, I am awfully sorry. I am so ashamed. You are the person I admire most in all the world.”
Inside I found the little portrait she had made of me, excised neatly from its book. My first thought was, she knows I coveted it. My second was, she is inside the building.
I emailed Eric to say I was “reading at home.”
The tube was more infuriating than before. I did not arrive back at Lambeth North until after noon. The old grey car was gone. Nonetheless I double-locked the door behind me.
I found Henry’s notebooks violated, scattered across the kitchen table. Beside them was the cube. It looked quite normal for a moment. Then I saw the sawdust and knew she had attacked that too. There was no electric drill in evidence but my clever assistant (who else could it have been?) had made a quarter-inch hole straight through the middle of Carl’s wonder. There had been no need. I could have told her. I could have taught her to weigh it in her hand and know that it was solid oak.
Catherine & Henry
THE YOUNG POLICEMAN SEARCHED for my intruder amongst the shameful fluff beneath my bed. He politely requested “access” to the garden where he indicated which shrubs should be grubbed or trimmed “for your own security.” I failed to tell him the garden was not mine.
At my front door he offered a business card and invited me to call him at any hour. He had a sweet young face, shy downcast eyes, and a tiny brass earring which I must surely have imagined. He would not look at me, but pointed to the browning tree directly opposite my flat—he said it was one of thirteen London plane trees bearing the name of an American astronaut, Neil Armstrong in this case, he who had once walked upon the moon.
I thanked him. He gave me another business card. As soon as he had gone, I packed a bag.
That night I moved to a room in a pub near the Annexe. It was such a sad and stupid choice, but the brewery had renovated since my previous stay. There was nothing left to smell or snuffle.
I hung up two light dresses, unpacked my block of cheddar, my knife, my corkscrew, and a bottle of wine. Ingest, I thought, digest, excrete, repeat.
I unwrapped the notebooks and sat in the unrelenting upright chair. I read. I read so deeply that the shouting in the bar did not annoy me. On the contrary—Frau Helga had told Herr Sumper that the owner of the inn had “been her friend.”
Henry reported Sumper saying this had never been true. He repeated that the landlady was a procuress, a cheat and a liar. She was also a Catholic, by which Sumper allegedly did not mean to speak badly of that faith but to make it clear that a very particular automaton Frau Helga had recently consigned to the inn-keeper’s hands would be highly offensive to almost every man who visited the inn, each of whom, Sumper told Henry, feared the Catholic hell and feasted on those Catholic tortures such as intestines wound out of martyrs’ stomachs and gathered onto reels like so much cotton thread.
Frau Helga was a strong woman, according to Sumper. He had reason to know this far better than Henry, “but even you, your Monkship, have seen her swing that scythe.” She had suffered much in her life, and in most respects, in Sumper’s opinion, had shown good judgement. Year after year, summer after summer she had managed to demonstrate good judgement completely without calculation. “But when you, Herr Brandling, could no longer supply the amounts of money we all depended on, she became so terrified of penury she lost her judgement.
“She stole my greatest treasure from me,” Sumper told Henry. “Please do not nod your head. I do not mean it was the most highly priced item I owned, only that it was more precious than any object I have ever made. She consigned this to the packer for local sale.”
The possibility that Frau Helga might someday steal this valued automaton had never been completely absent from Sumper’s mind, but who could have predicted she would sell it, not to Paris or London where at least it would find its market, but to the cursed woman best known for selling women’s bodies and cheating the local clockmakers of their labour?
“Herr Brandling, Henry, I had made that automaton for my master, the Genius. He had, by nature, what I would call a positive personality, but when the Queen ignored his petition, when she then gave his Engine to the English Army, his spirit was destroyed.”
Sumper vowed he would produce a device to lighten the great man’s heart. He would make “the dear old bugger” laugh.
“For materials,” Sumper continued, “I used only gears and wheels such as are used by English clockmakers, but these I elevated by means of specially contrived axles and bevelled gears. There is no point in explaining it to you. For the general casing of the automaton I used sheet tin which I shaped around wooden forms of my own design. I purchased some red velvet. Three inches square. I manufactured a small wheel-driven bellows. Then a pipe in which a current of fast air could be twisted, warped, stopped, released in such a way as to produce a simulation of the human laugh. Henry,” he cried, “your Vaucanson would not have had the wit.”
Henry noted that Sumper’s tongue was “white as boiled tripe.”
Sumper said: “I made my automaton for the Genius, for him alone. I found him on his settee with his sad eyes engaged with nothing but the skirting board. Then I was able to place—just there—like this—my gift.”
It was, apparently, an eighteen-inch-tall likeness of Jesus Christ. It was made of bright tin, but the face had been painted. Hanging from the shoulders was an exceptional blue silk robe. “Once I had wound the key, my Jesus shot forward on his little wheels, turning first to left, then right, then pausing. You think you can see it Henry? But can you predict what will happen next? After the fifth such movement a hidden rod prevents the movement of a gear, arresting the whole mechanism in such a way that both of the Christ’s arms fly open. It is very funny. Anyone can see—Jesus is about to bless the room. But wait. See—the cloak is thrown wide, a great red heart is revealed and this immediately falls under the influence of short puffs of air. The heart is beating, the big red sacred heart. Henry, I wish you could have seen the figure because it appeared so wondrously pleased with its own performance. Its head moved down to see what it had done, and then up to the heavens as if to say, look—is this not a jolly show? And so with his head up and down, and his arms first apart, and then together, with the heart being rhythmically revealed and covered, the Christ began to spin like a top.”