The Intervening Years
Pieter Finch Fine Timepieces
53 Brompton Road
Knightsbridge London
January 12, 1869, 08:28 am
Ariadne cried most of the night again. Quietly at first, as she strove to keep from waking her husband, but then inconsolable torrents that only abated near four o'clock. Pieter held her through most of it and even after until sleep brought brief respite from weariness and helplessness.
At 8:30 Pieter awoke. Benjamin, the old mantle clock downstairs reminded Pieter that he needed to open the shop. Mrs. Sutton would also be along shortly to take care of Ariadne. Pieter reflexively donned his spectacles. As weary eyes adjusted focus he spied the bottle of Laudanum on the nightstand: a silent accusation. An invitation to weakness. Confident of its inevitable victory. She will sleep, it whispered mockingly. And you can to.
"Not today," Peter said with more resolve than he felt. "And not tonight."
"What, Peter?" Ariadne said sleepily.
"Nothing dear," Peter said narrowing his eyes at the bottle. "Nothing at all."
Like so many mornings of late lack of sleep meant that the front of Pieter's brain felt heavy, denser than normal. It did not quite hurt, but rather had the effect of a hangover without the benefit of previous debauchery. As he pulled on clothes and began making his way downstairs inspiration and ideas flew around his brain, then slowed upon hitting the stickier bits until they stopped altogether. Only the stronger, more plodding thoughts continued on: Open the shop, Finish fixing Mrs. Dalrymple's chronometer.
Benjamin greeted Pieter from the shelf near the landing. The masterwork of some forgotten Midlands craftsman, nearly the entirety of Benjamin's workings were exquisitely carved lignum vitae wood. His voice had a unique soft tone and friendly chime. He was also right next to the lever that turned up the gas lamps.
At the bottom of the stairs a new voice interceded. A plaintive voice from the top shelf near the back corner of the store. The brass gleamed as Pieter took it down. "What am I to do with you?" he whispered as he pulled the polishing cloth out of his pocket. A unique piece, a binocular microscope with customized objective lenses and stage, she had been one of the few scientific pieces he had created during the brief period when Pieter's shop had been near the Royal Society and he had dabbled in precision instruments: an embryoscope, or so it was called by the person who'd requested it.
The woman who had ordered the device died before it could be delivered. Pieter would have long ago sold it to another but for optic tubes: Welded brass set for the specific distance between Lady Dashwood's pupils. It had taken hours to set the distance correctly, even as Hensleigh Wedgwood's rioters began sweeping through the East End.
Pieter finished dusting the device and took a quick look through the tubes before apologizing and setting it back on its shelf. "It is impossible to set you for another without completely disassembling you. Perhaps I can find a nice beastman scientist in France or the Americas."
Reaching the front door, Pieter opened it and stepped outside to check if any clocks had been left outside overnight. Sunrise had been nearly 30 minutes ago, but morning greyness and heavy fog swallowed the street lamps in either direction, giving the shop an isolated feel. It also portended little business until at least noon-time.
Here's a thought! If Michelson's experiment means that light can be slowed, stopped, even, then by extension could one not do the same for electromagnetism? Or even Gravity? It would just take … take …
The thought struck the glue that was the front of Pieter's brain and was gone.
I need to get a notebook and write some of these down.
Mrs. Dalrymple's (or rather Captain Dalrymple's) chronometer still sat on the table from the previous evening. Her son was soon to sail on one of the new turret ironclads and she wanted him have his father's timepiece, but hadn't run right for years and had stopped altogether some time ago. It had been Pieter's plan to look at it the previous evening, but Mrs. Sutton had left for the day and Ariadne had needed looking to.
Pieter picked it up: A 60 year old Harrison Model H12 sea watch with sterling silver case and high-quality brass works. The watch's heart was heavy. It would not wind. It would not tick. There was a slight dent in the bezel that did not affect the crystal or the internal seal. That would need to be worked out, but it was hardly the cause of its illness.
He removed the case and checked the works: dust, and rancid oil. Harrison had not been lubricated in some time and to make matters worse some years ago someone had removed the watchworks from their enclosure and left them exposed to a dusty room. A thorough cleaning was in order but dust and oil of themselves would not have prevented operation.
Only one other possibility, thought Pieter. He dismounted the Going Barrel and looked at it edge on. Two problems immediately presented themselves. Firstly, instead of a brass and steel spring, he saw only steel. Second, the steel spring was broken.
A story became clear: At some point the original spring had broken and the repairman, in ignorance of what he was working with, had attempted to replace the bimetallic spring with a steel one. That spring quickly broke under Harrison's higher torque load, and the owner doubtless opened the removed the works in hopes of fixing it. When that failed the watch sat on a shelf for some time. Had the original repairman simply reworked the original bimetallic spring, he could have affected a quick, but workable, fix. Instead, the device had sat despairing on a shelf for years because of shoddy repair work.
Pieter frowned as he grabbed his jeweler's screwdrivers and began disassembling the barrel.
Such work should not be allowed. It is easy enough fixed, but unnecessary. Whoever it was also overtightened the screws as if that would somehow make the repair better. I will need better leverage.
"Tea, Mr. Finch?"
The coiled metal ribbon sang a beautiful, whirring chord as it escaped its mounting, slicing through the edge of the webbing of Pieter's right hand in the process. Peter gripped his hand whist looking for a clean cloth to staunch the blood.
Stupid, stupid, I should have unwound the spring before trying to remove it. A first year apprentice knows to do that.
After finding a mostly clean rag he pinched it over the small gash and began looking for the block of alum to close off the wound.
"Mr. Finch?" Mrs. Sutton set the tray heavily down on the only open spot on the counter. "Would you like some tea? We need to speak about your wife."
Renewed pain roared through Pieter's hand as the alum constricted flesh and blood vessels. He nodded curtly towards the teapot as he replaced the cloth and applied pressure to the wound.
"Your wife is awake," Mrs. Sutton said disapprovingly. "She hasn't been taking her medicine."
"I didn't give it to her," Pieter said removing the cloth to check the bleeding. It hadn't stopped so he applied more alum and replaced the cloth.
"How is she supposed to get better if she isn't given her medicine?" Mrs. Sutton said in a tone usually reserved for poorly behaved schoolchildren.
On the nightstand the bottle laughed.
"Drugging my wife into a stupor is not going to make her better," Pieter said in clipped tones. "Even if it makes your job easier."
"What about Doctor Duchenne's clinic?"
"Nor is sending random bolts of electricity through her brain. I am well familiar with his work and with what has happened to his less successful experiments." Blood began dripping to the floor in audible drops.
"We could always send her—."
There is no we here.
"You've said enough, Mrs. Sutton!" Pieter said furiously. "Your wages are paid through the end of the week, but your services are no longer required."
"But I—."
"Leave now."
Return to The Story Thus Far
Return to Gathering Storms Main Page
Return to Victoriana Campaign Index
Return to Dr. Penguin's Iceberg
