“Herbert can build another one,” said Burton. “He already has, once. But I assumed he had taken it to the far future with him and hasn’t returned.”
“That was our summation as well,” said Miss Hemlock. “There is no further official historical record of him. He just up and vanished this year. There’s no census information on him, no record of his death, nothing.”
Burton nodded. “He has a fondness for far futurity,” said Burton. “The year eight hundred and two thousand, seven-hundred and one, if I remember correctly.”
“Good God!” Monckton Milnes, wiping brandy off his chin with a handkerchief.
“Yes, well, wherever he is, someone has gained his ability to travel through Time.”
“Wait a minute,” said the explorer. “You can travel through Time. Could he have absconded with one of your Time Machines?”
Miss Hemlock rolled up her sleeve. “No. All of our temporal transport units are accounted for.” She extended her arm, stepping closer so that Burton could have a better look. Strapped to her wrist by a leather band was a brass contraption that resembled a wristwatch. She flicked a tiny lever, and the device clicked open to become a brass disk made to spin perpendicular to the inner surface of the device, which had some kind of rotating dial inside of it with a month, day and year. This month, day and year.
“Bismillah! It’s a tiny Time Machine!”
“Yes. It allows one to travel through Time without a big, bulky conveyance that is difficult to hide or move around. I was also given to understand it’s less bumpy than the original.”
“But you miniaturized it?” said Burton. “How?”
Miss Hemlock smiled. “In the future, we will have miniaturization capabilities you couldn’t imagine, or understand I’m afraid. It has few moving parts.”
“You live in an age of wonders, Miss Hemlock,” said Abberline.
“I wish that was the case. Such technologies have their downside. For every wondrous thing created, there are those who discern how to put them to terrible ends.”
“That has always been the way of things, Miss Hemlock,” said Burton. “Now, how can we help you? I assume you rescued us tonight for a reason.”
She shrugged. “I had no idea you were going to be there. I was merely tracking our mutual enemy. I knew about the Morlocks, though, that’s why I brought along my trusty electric torch.”
She removed a large contraption from a clip on her belt beneath her voluminous duster. It was shiny yellow, with what appeared to be a large lens and a handle with a black cord depending from it.
“I picked this up in the late twentieth century,” she said proudly. “It gives off ten thousand lumens.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Monckton Milnes. He followed this with a resounding hiccup.
“Where do you put the kerosene?” asked Abberline. “The candle?”
Miss Hemlock uttered a tinkling little laugh, like crystal. “It runs on electricity, stored in a battery. Unfortunately, the battery doesn’t last very long, but I knew it would shine bright long enough to fend off a few Morlocks.”
“Well, however it works,” said Burton, “we are forever in your debt. We would like to help you apprehend this scoundrel.”
“Good. I don’t know exactly where he is, unfortunately, but I do know what he’s doing here.”
Burton arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes. Sometime in the next week, a man named Mycroft Holmes is going to receive a very special document. A timeline of future events from now until the middle of the next century. A so-called Map of Time.”
A knot tightened itself in Burton’s stomach as he recalled Swinburne’s words.
You must stop Mycroft know-it-all Holmes from getting the map. The Map of Time.
“You know of this,” said Miss Hemlock, reading Burton’s expression. It wasn’t a question.
“I’ve heard of it, yes,” said Burton. “I didn’t know what it was before now.”
“You think this mysterious Morlock wrangler is the one who gives this Map of Time to Mycroft Holmes?” asked Abberline.
“I do. Though what he is doing with these Morlocks, I can’t fathom.”
“How did you find out about this Map of Time?” Burton asked.
“That’s probably going to sound like the strangest part of all of this,” said Miss Hemlock. “From Mycroft Holmes himself, in the spring of nineteen forty-five.”
“Bismillah! He’d be over a hundred and twenty years old. There’s no way he could live that long.”
“He doesn’t, er, didn’t,” said Miss Hemlock. “Not exactly. He found a way to circumvent the aging process. After a fashion.”
“Circumvent it?” said Abberline. “Goodness me, but how?”
“Through technology. Near the end of his life, Mycroft Holmes reportedly became interested in methods of prolonging life, through occult as well as materialist means. In nineteen forty-five, he is a being of pure mind, existing inside a complex analytical engine that is continually improved upon, and is currently—in my time—housed inside what once was the Westminster clock tower.”
“Mercy me! Big Ben?” Abberline exclaimed. “And he told you all of this?”
“He did. He was doing a bit of bragging, and did not know that I was a Time Agent.”
“What does he do up there in his tower?” Burton inquired.
Miss Hemlock uttered a deep sigh. “We are at war in my time, Captain. It has spread to consume the entire world, for the second time. Mycroft Holmes is known as The Thinker, and directs our war efforts as well as warns us of impending air raids.”
“Air raids?” Monckton Milnes said. “My earlier assessment was correct. There isn’t enough booze for this.” He got up and went poking through Burton’s liquor cabinet.
“Yes, air raids. I told you technology was a double-edged sword. We have machines that can fly, allowing people to traverse great distances in a matter of hours. But they have also been employed into dropping bombs. The Germans attack us almost nightly. The Thinker’s predictions about where the bombs would land have been essential in saving lives.”
“Bismillah! The conceited duffer has finally done it. He knows every major world event from now through the middle half of the next century. And he is alive—after a fashion—and in a place where he can direct these events to his benefit.”
“He has all of human history in his hands,” Abberline added. “We knew he was up to something! I followed him all of yesterday. He met with several prominent scientists and engineers. They must be building this analytic contraption you spoke of.”
“Or an early prototype,” added Miss Hemlock. “Parts are constantly being replaced and updated.”
“But who is his mysterious benefactor? And why would he give this information to the likes of Mycroft Holmes when he could simply benefit from it himself?” Abberline worried his bowler again, turning it on his knee.
“He doesn’t seek to benefit,” said Burton. “He wants to completely unravel the threads of Time itself. He’s obviously quite mad.”
“Well, whatever his motives, we need to find him and stop him from giving Mr. Holmes that map, if he hasn’t already acquired it.” Miss Hemlock glanced at each man in turn. “Can I count on your assistance?”
“Of course,” said Burton. “As I said, we are in your debt. Besides, someone is using Time as a weapon. We must stop him before everything we know ceases to be.”
“You know I’m bloody well in,” said Abberline. “What else can I do?”
Monckton Milnes hiccupped again, and regarded the woman with bloodshot eyes. “I’ll be at the Cannibal Club, Dick. The next time you want to have a normal bloody conversation, stop by.”
“I will, Richard,” said Burton. “And for whatever it’s worth, thank you.”