Chapter 15
The Mansion struck ten in the evening, the deep boom rolling over Haggard Hill. The storm clouds continued their bubbling creep over the city, turning the warm velvety darkness of nighttime into the empty gray darkness of foreboding doom. Black rain fell fast and hard against the windows of Moulde Hall.
Edmund raised his crank lantern higher against the gloom. He had found it in a storage-room filled with gardening supplies; a clever tool that somehow turned the rotation of a crank on its side into a dim reddish light. Edmund had prevented himself from taking it apart then and there only by promising himself the opportunity later, when he had the time.
The reddish light of the lantern brushed against the statues of the hedge-maze. He wasn’t supposed to be here, yet. He was supposed to have read the letter Patron Plinkerton had left for him. He was supposed to have studied and interpreted the poem that Aoide had given to him, and followed the clues like a treasure map. He was supposed to have gone on an adventure to prove to a long dead Patron that he was worthy of becoming Patron himself.
Edmund didn’t have the time, or come to that, the patience. Mrs. Kippling had said Patron Plinkerton only added one statue to the maze. It had been important to him. Edmund wasn’t stupid: if Plinkerton had hidden anything, it was hidden in the hedge-maze under the clock statue.
He wasn’t positive he was correct, but it was exactly what he would have done.
The lantern began to flicker. Shifting his grip, Edmund turned the stiff metal crank until the glow grew bright again, casting red light over the statuary garden in the middle of the ragged hedge-maze. Edmund glanced around at the flickering shadows as they jumped back and forth from behind the statues, before looking again at the large statue of the grandfather clock surrounded by avian symbols of the Moulde Family.
When Edmund had first seen the statue, he thought the ravens were huddling around the tall clock like chicks hiding under their mother’s wing. On closer inspection he could see the looks in their eyes; each one was staring intently at the clock, mouths open in aggressive spite. These were not birds that had lit on a flat surface to rest, but furious scavengers caught up in the violent passage of time.
He wondered briefly what a group of ravens was called.
The clock itself, Edmund had to admit, was rather striking. Plinkerton had gone out of his way to carve minute whorls and spirals in the clock to give the white stone the appearance of ashen wood. The pendulum hung at an angle, frozen in mid swing, while the numbers were carved in a beautiful script. The hands themselves were covered by a glass window.
A careless observer might have left it at that, but a connoisseur of art would have noticed the hinge next to the window, a superfluous detail in a clock with no inner workings. Edmund had first thought it was a nod to realism, but now that he understood Plinkerton better he knew it was no simple artistic choice.
Setting the crank lantern down, he reached up and tugged at the edge of the cover. It opened with a click — the hinge was real. He brushed his fingers over the clock face, and yes, the hands were painted iron and could rotate about the face.
The bent-key had taught Edmund a lot about locks; they were all about things being in the proper place. There was no keyhole in the clock, but if the hands could move then they were the key. If they were set to a correct time, the lock would open.
He could have spent a long time hunting for that information. Instead, he rested the brass-bell of his broken candle-sniffer against the statue and pressed his ear against it. Instantly, the sounds inside the stone clock became audible.
Edmund began to turn the clock-hands. Sure enough, through the stone and brass, something clicked in the statue’s core. As he continued to turn the hands, the echoing sounds shaped the inner workings of the clock in his mind. When he turned the big hand to the seven, there was a second click, barely louder than the others. When the little hand turned to the five, he heard the click again, and then a louder and deeper clank as a tiny weight dropped into position. Every echo was a clue, every click a signal. gears, levers, and springs wound through his brain until an image of the entire lock burned brightly in his mind.
A few more turns of the hands, and Edmund was certain the clock was ready. Now, all it needed was power. The poem had been clear about this part; When lightning filled the sky it would burn a copper path. Edmund’s eyes looked to the top of Moulde Hall, scarcely visible through the rain. He had wondered why the flag-poles on Moulde Hall had borne no flags. It wasn’t until he read a book on electro-magnatism and the use of lightning rods that he understood.
With a crack that almost split his ears, a flash of lightning struck the western pole on the roof of Moulde Hall, lighting the world a brilliant blue.
Deep in the building a thick copper wire must have reached from the poles into the ground. It had to have been there for years to protect the building from lightning strikes. Perhaps Plinkerton had put it there himself. Now, Edmund could imagine the lightning traveling through the building and down the hill straight towards the maze.
Edmund’s heart began to beat faster and faster. The air was electric, sending tingling energy though his body. He felt like he had just before he had given Matron his poem to read at the orphanage, or fit the Mechanus Vitae into Aoide.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a tinny gong echoed from the statue followed by the metallic scraping sound of a croaking raven. There was a grinding as the entire stone base of the grandfather clock scraped backwards, revealing a long dark stairway heading into the depths of Haggard Hill.
Edmund stared down through the hot stale air breathing out from the gaping earthen maw. It was all a bit dramatic, really. Edmund might have just relied on a locked cellar.
But that wouldn’t have worked, would it? The Moulde Family was filled with criminals, cutthroats, and landed gentry. A simple lock wouldn’t have kept anything safe from their prying eyes and fingers. No, Plinkerton was wise (naturally) to hide the Moulde Fortune behind a door that was, itself, disguised. No one would think to look under the statues, would they?
No one except a very clever and able young boy, who was definitely worthy of the name Moulde, to say nothing of Patron Plinkerton’s respect.
Taking a deep breath, Edmund stepped down the rocky stairs, now muddy from the dust mixing with the icy black rain.
The dim moonlight from outside did nothing to help him see. Gripping the lantern’s handle tightly to keep his hands from shaking, he began to turn the crank like an organ-grinder.
Bits of the walls and ceiling had fallen into the passage over the years, and Edmund had to walk carefully to keep from stumbling. Roots from random plants stuck out from the walls to trip him up. The wooden braces in the wall were full of holes and cracks, and the air was stale and foul smelling; a mixture of mold and rotten vegetables.
He had only gone a short distance before the steep staircase came to an abrupt end at a wall of stone and mortar. Edmund stared, nonplussed. Who would build a tunnel only to build a wall at the end? What reason could there be?
There wasn’t one, he reasoned, and pushed gently on the stone. Light as wood, the stone swung away from Edmund’s push.
Behind the secret door lay a stone room covered in small alcoves filled with collapsing wooden boxes and dried skeletons. Moss and cobwebs covered the room like tapestries, forming a morbid mockery of the elaborately decorated Moulde Hall. Old wrought-iron braziers covered with blankets of dust sat in the corners.
In the middle of the room, facing away from the door, sat a giant stone chair and footstool. Seated high on this lofty perch was a dusty skeleton of a woman in the scraps of what must have once been a fine burial dress, but had long since rotted away to leave only cobwebs and dust for her funeral garb. The brass placard on the bottom of this gristly memorial proclaimed the throne’s occupant as Orpha Moulde, the first matron of the Moulde Family.
A chill trickled over Edmund’s skin like spider’s feet as he crept closer to the ancient corpse. Her jaw had been forced open and several teeth removed. A few finger bones lay broken on the ground, marking her sorrowful fate as a target for grave-robbers — no doubt her own progeny.
Edmund raised his lantern higher as he looked around. He couldn’t see any other doors; whatever Patron Plinkerton had stashed away, he had hidden it in this room.
Edmund stepped around the room, cranking his lantern light over small bronze signs that labeled the alcoves as the final resting place of many men and women, all Mouldes. He searched around Matron Orpha’s chair, ran his hands over the stone walls, and tapped his foot as hard as he could on all the rocks in the floor. He couldn’t find any secret catches or hidden doors.
Edmund paused a moment to think. He needed to be smart about this; what would a smart person do upon entering this room?
They’d take everything of value in sight, and leave.
His heart sank. Plinkerton had died over a hundred years ago — how could a stash of money remained hidden for so long? The whole room had probably been filled with gold when Plinkerton left it, like a Pharaoh’s tomb; but over the centuries, someone must have stumbled on the entrance and taken all the money for themselves.
No, that wasn’t what a smart person would do — that’s what a Moulde would do. If Plinkerton had known that his family was doomed to destitution thorough the folly of their own faults, he wouldn’t have left the money lying about in the open. Besides, there was no indication that any other Moulde had been in the room for hundreds of years.
He needed to think like a Moulde who was worthy. A knight from the story of King Arthur. What would they do upon finding a tomb to their king?
They’d pay their respects, of course. A wise person respects their history. Edmund returned to the granite throne and knelt in front of the skeleton, his head bowed, the solemnity of the event hampered by the need to grind the lantern.
After a few moments, he realized he was being foolish. This couldn’t have been what Plinkerton had intended for him to do.
He was about to stand, when his brain caught up with his eyes and told him to pay attention. He was looking directly at the stone footstool, where the skeleton’s feet were resting. It was flecked with mold and covered in cobwebs, like the rest of the throne, but there was something about the shape of that long crack along the side. It was far too straight.
Edmund leaned closer. Those were oddly shaped patches of lichen, and they were in just the right place where hinges could be…
With an equal mix of reverent excitement and elated apprehension, he carefully pulled aside the cloth-like cobwebs and took the box from under Orpha Moulde’s feet. The stone was covered with dust and a thin layer of mold that flaked off as Edmund turned it around.
Scraping away the mold revealed a small keyhole, just large enough for his bent-key. He was probably supposed to have found the proper key somewhere else in his treasure-hunt, but he was a Moulde, and Mouldes didn’t always do what they were expected to.
The lock was simple enough; it was only the work of a moment before a soft click echoed through the tiny room and the chest creaked open. Inside lay a thick fold of papers wrapped in oiled leather, as big as any of the largest books in the library.
There were diagrams, blueprints, formuales, and dissertations in small handwriting. There were lists of elixirs and infusions, studies of muscles and nerves, explorations of levers and springs and countless other curios. There were designs for carriages that were moved about by steam like miniature trains, Balloon machines with propellers and bird wings, and bicycles that floated on water. There was even the drawing of a human body, laid out like a schematic complete with bones, blood vessels, heart, and lungs.
Edmund shifted through them all, trying to understand, to ingest all he could.
There were too many. It was too much. He gathered up the papers and shoved the thick stack under his arm; he needed to get back to the library. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do with this treasure trove of science, but held safe in the encircling wall of books, he could study them carefully and learn exactly what he was looking at. Replacing the chest under Orpha’s feet, he slipped through the stone door.
A flash of lightning from the smoky gray sky lit the tunnel, revealing the tall silhouette of a man. Edmund’s lantern cast a faint glow over a thin face as it twisted in a harsh mask of scorn.
“I…underestimated you,” Pinsnip whispered.
Edmund stepped backwards down the steps as Pinsnip advanced, his right hand shaking rainwater off a drenched umbrella.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” Edmund said as Pinsnip forced him back into the tomb.
“Oh…of course you were,” Pinsnip leaned his umbrella against the wall. “Here I thought you…you really didn’t know about the hidden treasure. I’ve been looking for it for…well…the survey, you see.”
Pinsnip looked down his nose at the crumbling skeleton of Orpha Moulde before turning back to Edmund, his eyes narrow. “I’m quite…perturbed about you being here. I have spent so long surveying this estate…looking for this place, and you manage to find it in a month. If I hadn’t been…right behind you, I…well, I would find your good fortune quite unjust.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Edmund admitted, in case Pinsnip wanted to explain.
“Don’t play the fool for me,” Pinsnip’s smooth voice drifted into a halting lethargy. “The others, they think…that the family has money. They think Matron’s…uh…sitting on piles of it, just hording it away like…well, like they would. Unwilling to spend a single shilling on servants, food, things a real Founding Family would…she hates them all, so why play the part? It makes sense.”
“But I don’t trust anything,” Pinsnip sneered in the flickering light, “even what makes sense. I’ve looked at all the family’s ledgers…back to the twelfth century. I tracked each and every financial transaction the family ever made.”
Edmund was about to admit that he did the same when a deep survival instinct reminded him that giving Pinsnip this information would not help Edmund in the slightest.
“Everything adds up…well…until Plinkerton, and then…” Pinsnip wiggled his fingers like a dispersing cloud. “Where did it go? It wasn’t investments or bonds. I thought the books may have been…well, cooked, so I spent a year in the Brackenburg bank, studying…everything they had, and there was nothing! No…investments under the table, secret loans to the city, any purchase of foreign stock…the money just…vanishes!”
“Well, it’s not here.” Edmund shook his head, the thick wad of paper pressing against his armpit.
Pinsnip’s hand vanished into his coat’s inky depths and reemerged with a knife that glinted dully in the lantern light. He looked at it thoughtfully for a few moments, and then raised the blade higher in the gloom. A deep tension in Pinsnip vanished, like he was finally comfortable in his own skin.
“You may be right,” he whispered. “Let’s see if we can…find where you hid it.” Quick as a snake, his free hand shot from his side and gripped Edmund by the hair. Sharp stabbing needles of pain flooded Edmund’s brain, flashing red before his tightly shut eyes. “Crank that lantern,” Pinsnip snapped. “Keep it bright, or I’ll skin you like a rabbit.”
Ancient philosophers believed that pain existed to guide mankind to proper behaviors; that which is painful is morally reprehensible, and the seeking of pleasure ethically correct. More modern thinkers considered pain a frankly embarrassing vestigial trait from mankind’s animal ancestry, to be ignored as best as possible in polite company. In the blink of an eye, Edmund had created and developed an entirely new form of philosophical thought that would be later developed in his paper The Catalyst, to wit; Pain was a tool — a lever that could control the actions of others.
He cranked the lantern as hard as he could, gritting his teeth through the pain in his scalp. Pinsnip’s grip tightened as they walked around the room, shining the light into every nook and cranny.
Pinsnip poked every crevice, nudged every stone, and stamped on the floor just as hard as Edmund had, but he never spared a second glance at the seated skeleton and the small stone-like chest that sat at her feet.
“Well,” Pinsnip spat, after they had walked around the room a second time. “It looks like there isn’t much here, is there?” Edmund bit his tongue as Pinsnip twisted him to stare him full in the face. “You wouldn’t happen to be…hiding anything in your pockets from your cousin, would you?”
“No,” Edmund said.
Pinsnip’s eye twitched in the shadows cast by the orange light. His hand flashed like a bolt of lightning, shoving Edmund’s coat aside and yanking the folded stack of papers from his arm. Edmund cried in protest as Pinsnip held him at arm’s length, scanning the strange and exotic diagrams. He snorted, and tossed the papers to the floor.
“A budding artist?” he hissed. “And I had such high hopes for you, too. You came…from poverty, like me, but I should have known you’d end up just like…like them. The Sadwicks had to struggle for every copper coin, but you…you had your fortune handed to you on a silver plate!”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Edmund said. He wasn’t exactly sure what Pinsnip was trying to get away with, but it somehow felt like the right thing to say.
“Good,” Pinsnip nodded approvingly as he shoved Edmund to the ground. “You’re one ‘curses, foiled again’ from being…a real Moulde. I’m sure you’ll change your tune after a few days down here…ha…with nothing but spiders and worms to eat.” Pinsnip gave a mocking tip of his hat, and turned back to the tunnel.
Picking himself up, Edmund chased after, desperate to escape the tunnel before he was locked in the dark crypt forever.
He was too late. He was only half-way up the stairs when he heard the terrible grinding noise as the statue began to close. He reached towards the shrinking hole only for Pinsnip’s well-shined boot to plant itself on the top of Edmund’s head.
He fell back, the clattering din of the lantern ricocheting around his ears. The stairs assaulted him from every angle, striking his shins, his arms, his back, and his chest as he tumbled, until he landed on the cold stone floor of the crypt.
Edmund opened his eyes just as the metal lantern skidded to a halt next to him, sending a shower of sparks spraying over the dried parchment that blanketed the floor: The dry diagrams, blueprints, and schematics, all of which were long since bereft of anything that could prevent their summary ignition.
Edmund barely had time to cry out before the ancient parchment blossomed into a carpet of flame. Ignoring the pain, he pulled himself off the ground and threw himself on the fire, desperately trying to smother it. The flames were a sharp, biting heat that pierced his skin, but still he rolled about, sending scraps of paper flying everywhere as they burned like red autumn leaves, the flame melting them away like ice.
As he rolled, a single fleck of ash, still glowing from the heat, flew up on the smoky air and landed like a falling feather on the end of Orpha Moulde’s foot.
In the span of a second, the ancient cobwebs burst into a bright conflagration, turning the twisted skeleton dressed in webbing into a burning totem, wreathed in orange, flames licking through the skull’s mouth and eye sockets. The open mouthed skeleton blazed a brilliant orange for a second, silently screaming flames into the burning tomb.
An instant later, the room plunged into darkness. Had he been struck blind? He prayed he had been, so he didn’t have to see the horrific aftermath.
Edmund felt along the ground, through hot flakes of ash, until he found his fallen lantern. As he turned the crank, the room faded into view. The burnt remains of the ancient papers littered the ground, and Matron’s skeleton, no longer held together by years of spiderweb, had collapsed into a pile of bones.
Edmund wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to clutch at the skeleton’s leg-bone and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to kick and bite and rage and make Pinsnip pay for what he had done. Make all of them pay!
But somehow, he couldn’t. His heart was empty and cold as he stared at the pile of bones that had once been a monument to his adopted history. Carefully, he reached out and picked up the skull of the first Matron. It was lighter than he expected.
He found the jawbone and pieced the two together. Better. Just like a puzzle.
He kicked the chest out of the way as he turned away from the stone chair. He had come so far! He had found ancient diagrams and inventions of Patron Plinkerton, one of the last great Mouldes! He could have sold them, leased them, pretended they were his own, done any number of things to save the family, and what did he do? He failed, because he didn’t stop a family member that couldn’t see past his own ego.
They were all smarter, stronger, and older than he was. He was just eight years old. Why did he ever think he was more than that? What made him think he could be more than he was? Why did he think that eight years could ever be comparable to…well, to anyone who was older?
The darkness of the tomb grew deeper as the lantern’s light began to fade. He would have a long time to work out those answers. He clutched the skull to his chest.
When he could bear to move again, he turned to set the skull back on the chair, only for his eye to fall on the chest where it lay on its side. In the fading light, it’s shadowy interior looked…wrong.
After cranking the lantern bright again, he was certain of it. When he had kicked the chest, he must have knocked free the false bottom that now peeked out of the lid. Beneath it was something cracked and yellow.
Reaching into the chest, Edmund pulled out eight small folded slips of paper. Laying them on the dusty floor, he cranked the lantern as hard as he could and began to read. It was difficult at first; they were old documents, and while the language was English, there were more letters and syllables than he was used to.
Then, in a flash of comprehension, Edmund knew where Plinkerton had hidden the Moulde fortune. The eight pieces of paper were all writs of investment, each one a sizable endowment with a large expected return upon claiming the original offer — in short, a gentleman’s loan — written out to…
Edmund blinked. There was one writ for each of the other eight Founding Families.
Piece after piece fell into place in his mind. What better place to hide money that you didn’t want your family to find then loaning it to your enemies? Edmund couldn’t guess at what negotiations Plinkerton had undergone to get what he wanted, but however it had happened, the writs were clear. The investment amounts were large, as were the expected interest rates. If Edmund simply demanded payment on these eight loans — he did some quick mental math — the Moulde family would be richer than the wildest dreams of the greediest Moulde in the city.
In his mind’s eye, Edmund saw himself standing atop a massive pile of money with his cousins by his side as the other families bowed to his throne. He saw the city grow and Moulde Hall rise even taller than ever before. He saw the gardens of Haggard Hill grow verdant again, with animals from far off lands roaming the grounds like sentries. The larders would be packed with exotic foods and the kitchen full of ten…no, twenty chefs, all cooking anything but soup. Each of the seven dining halls would be full of guests every night, as would every ballroom and sitting room, while Edmund sat like a king in the library, on his throne of science, literature, and gold.
His humours boiled hot in his veins. He was Edmund Moulde, Heir to the Moulde Estate! He could open locked doors with a piece of bent brass! He had found the library and held the knowledge and wisdom of the ages at his fingertips! He had fixed and brought life to the Aoide, the statue of Plinkerton Moulde! Now, he would catapult the Moulde Family to power and wealth beyond any king or queen one cared to name with only eight pieces of paper! There was nothing he couldn’t do, and no one would tell him differently!
The flickering embers of burnt schematics flared in Edmund’s mind, melting autumn leaves that burned away in his grip while the sneering grin of Pinsnip flickering in the flames. Pinsnip had tried to bury him alive. Already, plots and plans hung heavily in his mind around a burning furnace of vengeance. He had been wronged, and he could not let Pinsnip go unpunished!
He would show them all!
The thought echoed in his suddenly quiet mind, the afterglow of cathartic pride washing his brain in comfortable calm. He closed his eyes, relishing in the sensation that soothed his heart.
He opened his eyes. What was that sound?
A faint ticking reached Edmund’s ears in the silent tomb. It was the work of a moment to find its location: the chest’s false bottom had another overlooked occupant.
Edmund pulled a large brass pocket watch out of the chest.
It was exquisitely ornate, with twisting ornamentation that curved around the cover like curls of smoke. The Moulde family motto was carved into its back with an elaborate script. Fingering the catch, Edmund popped open the cover to reveal the elegant watch-hands pointing at sharp spidery numbers. As he studied the design, the long hand flicked a hair’s breadth closer to the hour.
How could the watch have been kept wound for so long? Could someone have known about the watch, and kept it wound, even in the tomb? No…he double checked to make sure…the watch had no spring-winder. He twisted the catch and turned the watch over and over in his hands, but there was nothing.
Yet somehow, this watch that could not be wound was ticking. Had been ticking. For at least six generations.
How could a watch have lasted that long? How could anything…
The watch was heavy in Edmund’s hand. Even Camelot fell; how long would his kingdom last? What good would it do for him to take what he could and live like a tyrant? When he died, he would end up as nothing more than a pile of bones in a rotting crypt beneath a lonely house on a hill. And he would probably die young from some sort of unfortunate accident. All his watches would run down…
In a relatively short span of time, Edmund had learned exactly what it meant to be a Moulde. It meant recognizing other people’s failings and exploiting them for your own benefit. It meant helping others only when there was something in it for you. It meant indulging in your vices, so long as no one mentioned them, and ignoring others virtues, so long as was polite. It meant plots, plans, and never — never — forgetting that death was always nearby.
When would it end?
The flickering embers of burnt schematics flared in Edmund’s mind. Even if Pinsnip wasn’t going to let him starve, the inventions and diagrams of Plinkerton Moulde were still lost forever. This man had hurt him — hurt him deeply — and the family too. Could he let the man leave Moulde Hall without knowledge of exactly what that meant?
The burning spirits of centuries old Mouldes shouted at him, demanding he punish Pinsnip for his transgressions against the family, and its heir. His pride, his heritage, the Old Way of Doing Things all demanded revenge.
Edmund was not just a Moulde, however. He was an Edmund as well.
What would Edmund have been if Matron had not adopted him? Who would he have become? What terrible and awful things might he have done if he hadn’t been given a way to a new life? What if Matron hadn’t wanted a second chance?
But Knights were supposed to uphold justice, and Pinsnip had left him to rot in the crypt. Oh, he may have considered coming back before Edmund died, but did that excuse his behavior? An excuse for bad behavior was something Edmund had never experienced before.
What was more important: mercy or justice?
Edmund’s head fell to the side as he looked into the empty eye sockets of Orpha Moulde. Minutes ago, he had stared into her burning face. The cobwebs that held her together had curled away into ash and the monument to this woman’s greatness had collapsed.
Edmund lifted the watch to his ear. After six generations, Plinkerton’s watch was still ticking.
It was possible.
He didn’t matter. Pinsnip didn’t matter. Even mercy or justice didn’t matter. What mattered was the machine. The machine of the city, the machine of the body…of the family. Ticking away in the darkness.
Memento Mori. Some day he would die, and all that would be left of him would be dry bones and cobwebs…
…and whatever he had wound up and set in motion.
If Plinkerton could create something that could last for six generations, than so could Edmund. He was going to save the family for good, whether they wanted it or not, and he was going to do it his way. Not like Matron or his cousins, but like an ever-wound watch.
Edmund blinked, and looked around. Of course, none of that would matter if he couldn’t escape the crypt.