Chapter 15

Constructs

Guinan McCreddy actually rubbed his hands together with glee. Before him, on the hastily cleared table, rested his copy of the Murderer's Bay Argus. He straightened the dirty fur ushanka that sat on his equally oily head. Then pulling a lamp nearer he started to reread the paper's machine print. ROBOT WAR! roared the black headline and an artist's large impression of a so-called 'combat robot' graced a full third of the front page.

“Fools!” he had said out loud when he had first seen the etching. Now that space on the page and some of the table top were covered in his pencil scrawl, numbers, tangents, lines, arcs, vectors. Quickly his bony finger searched the text, coming to rest on the mention of money.

“Two hundred pounds!” he cried in feigned offence. Then mumbled, “It is a start, a start. Plenty more where that comes from.”

He rummaged amongst the sprockets and cogs that were stacked haphazardly atop what was in fact his kitchen table. Finding a small paper pad, he drew it close and started to scribble out more words and numbers. Then after an extended time of notation he casually reached to the arm of his chair and flicked a large bronze switch. The steam engine behind his hunched back hissed into life. Then, note pad clutched to his chest, large wheels spinning, the chair carried him backward and into an elevator cage.

Another switch was pulled and with a loud clatter the elevator chains bore him down. Down the height of his tower, out of his kitchen-come-sleeping room, through his store room and into his ground floor workshop.

* * *

“It isn't really my area,” said Gerald nonchalantly, taking another sip of his coffee. There wasn't even a hint of defensiveness in his tone, which irked Max all the more. He had never been able to wheedle information out of his older brother. Which really was a good thing for national security. For if he had been successful, what would that say for Gerald's fortitude in the event of him falling into the hands of one of the Tzar's professional interrogators?

“What exactly is your area Gerald?” asked Wiremu.

“Exactly,” he responded with a click of the tongue. “Intelligence.”

“And you won't tell us anything about this robot war prize money?” stated Max, lowering his own white coffee cup.

“Can't. And if I could, wouldn't.”

“You really are no fun!”

“What I can tell you...”

“Yes?”

“...is that I have just spent two weeks riding the French Border; Lewis Pass, St James, Clarence River, Mount Beattie, right down to Coastal Clarence, inspecting every single big gun and garrison fort. And therefore, all I know about this silly League of Robot Wars is what I have just read over your shoulder!”

“Can you find out?”

“No.”

“Fine,” hissed Max. “The Army is clearly using the League of Robot Wars for weapons development. I don't know, but there is something about that... that stinks!”

Gerald sighed.

“Clearly the board of Milligan & Co didn't think so. Look at it this way, those students and engineers were going to run their little league anyway. They were going to fight... what? Steam powered ladybirds. This way some of them might be encouraged to develop, to evolve... something with a little more bite, a katipo spider if you will, or maybe a lion! Something that might actually have some use in the real world.”

“Sure,” said Max, pretending defeat. He drained his coffee. But Gerald went on.

“And the prize money is going to lend the thing some credibility, some longevity, create more interest.”

“I guess so,” added Wiremu. Gerald seemed to take note of their long faces then, mistaking the sign of their late night for resignation.

“But here is a thing I can tell you about,” offered Gerald, changing the subject. “The Navy is taking delivery of a new boat. Fresh off the slips at Limestone Bay. What do the Māoris call that place?”

“Tarakohe,” provided Wiremu.

“That's right. Anyway, the Army has got me along to observe as they put her through her paces. It's going to take a couple of weeks. A friend of mine, Captain Wilks, will be her master. And I'm sure you boys will be able to come along some time. Standard stuff. I would see to all the paper work. Would you like that?”

“That would be great Gerald, thank you,” said Max. He felt a little patronised, but that hardly mattered, the conversation had run its course and served its purpose. “We had better get off and do the rounds. We might see you for lunch.”

“Lunch then,” said Gerald, refilling his coffee. Max retrieved the copy of the Murderer's Bay Argus from the sunroom table and the two friends headed out the door.

“He is intense,” said Wiremu, as they wandered the gravel path to the aviaries. “But you handled it well.”

When the weary pair had arrived at Skilton House, having over-nighted at the Pā, they found a note from Max's parents, who had gone to church, and brother Gerald comfortably ensconced in the sunroom with coffee and toast. The note had requested that Max attend to the morning rounds in the aviaries, which on the Sabbath equated to simply making sure that each enclosure had enough food and water to last the weekend out.

Gerald, when he had found out that they had been to Chinatin, was full of questions. Max sensed that his older brother was even taking a professional interest in their previous night's adventure and found himself sorely tested in trying to turn aside the young Captains probes and not reveal too much.

After Wang had waved them goodbye, having first grabbed the driver of the little train from the crowd and urged him to return the friends to Eeling Station, they had agreed together not to speak of anything that they had seen. It was something they felt they should do to keep faith with Wang. Half told stories, that they did not well understand, could stay unheard in Chinatin.

And so it was the next morning when Max skimmed the day's papers at Rockville Central Station, that there was not a mention of Chinatin, the New Year Festival, or of course a death due to a sword wound. Even the most outrageous happenings in Chinatin were hidden from the wider world.

All the same the festival show had been breath taking and Max felt that people had truly missed out by not seeing it. It was astounding that all that colour and spectacle had been going on just up the line, for years. For most in the Dominion it had been just another weekend.

Naturally Wang was already on the 7:15 when Max boarded, sitting down opposite him with a huff and to his questioning look receiving the response;

“Wait for Wiremu.”

“Nice day,” said Max, looking out the window. February was high summer, and the cows were bringing in good milk now, the days long and hot, plum trees heavy with ripe fruit. Wang fidgeted with his carry bag.

“It was a great night Wang,” said Max. “The food was marvellous. The show was amazing, the fireworks, all the performers. We don't have anything like that for our new years. Just sit around a bonfire on old apple boxes.”

Wang smiled weakly.

“You are a good friend Max.”

“As are you Wang,” reassured Max.

Wiremu dropped into place next to Wang as the train pulled out of Aorere Pā Station. He graced them with his cheeky smile after announcing;

“Good morning Gentlemen!”

Then leaning forward the three of them formed a huddle.

“We need to talk,” said Wang.

“All ears.”

“Not here, sorry. Let us meet at midday. Somewhere off campus.”

“Alright,” said Max, thinking. “There is a little tea shop in Morpeth Square, Amelia's. Let us gather there at noon.”

The morning dragged to noon, through classes that had now moved beyond the initial courtship of the first week to begin to get to grip and grapple with their stated subjects. Max was already behind on his course reading and had not yet even attempted the extracurricular 'Practical Treatise on the Steam Engine' by Arthur C. Rigg. A book he had hoped would give him a little edge if he ever actually got to speak with Harriet.

Amelia's Tea Shop stood on a corner of Morpeth Square, its high glass windows looking out across the cobblestones. A Northumberland oak grew in the centre of the paved area and in its shade a bronze of Vice Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood and his dog Bounce, stood resolutely. Traffic trundled past on Cuthbert Street, crossing in front of His Lordship’s Hotel & Public House, where Max, all those years ago had seen the two French fencers perform.

As Max arrived at their small table Wang poured him a cup of tea from the pot he shared with Wiremu.

“I must apologise,” began Wang. “For again I have brought you both into peril.”

“Again?” quizzed Max.

“First in our little fight with the Classical Architects and now at the New Year Festival.”

“As I remember it,” interrupted Wiremu. “On both occasions we willingly chose to put ourselves, how do they say, in harm’s way.”

“That is my recollection also,” added Max, dropping a cube of sugar into his tea.

“Admittedly the accident at the end of the show on Saturday night was a little upsetting and our departure from Chinatin a little too rushed for polite company,” continued Wiremu. “But I sincerely doubt that the blame for these unfortunate occurrences need rest at your door.”

“Well said,” offered Max, stirring his tea.

“That is the thing,” replied Wang, lowering his voice. “Saturday night wasn't an accident.”

“Pardon?” Max lifted his tea toward his mouth.

“It was murder.”

All cups were replaced in their round white saucers. Max's having not touched his lips.

Murder.

The word for the action that cut to the heart of all human fear. Death by another's hand.

“Ah? Do tell.”

Wang sighed and glanced around at the other patrons. Having satisfied himself that none paid them any special interest, he leant close and offered his information.

“No one in Chinatown is talking. And that in itself says something. No one is talking but the word is...” Wang lowered his voice still. “...that it was a Tong killing.”

“Really!? I mean... does that happen?” asked Max.

“Of course. Do you think I was playing games with you on Saturday night?” responded Wang.

“No but...”

“So who was the victim?” interjected Wiremu.

“No one really knows. He only arrived late last year with a shipment of miners from Australia.”

“No reason to get yourself murdered,” reflected Max. “Stop holding out on us Wang.”

Wang shifted uncomfortably and gave a reluctant sigh.

“Such a public... execution... sends a message.”

“Such as?” asked Wiremu before Max had the chance.

“The unsaid word is that the victim was in fact a government agent.”

“What? No wonder brother Gerald was so interested. But why would the government want a spy in Chinatin?”

“Not our government,” said Wang, pausing for a moment. “The Chinese government.”

“Really?” asked Wiremu and Max in unison.

Wang nodded his head slowly.

“This is getting interesting,” reflected Max. “A better reason for Gerald to be concerned.”

Wang rung his hands together.

“It is as you say, interesting. But listen. You two are my very best friends. And you really don't know how dangerous The Kestrel is. I must beg you, for your own sake, to stay away from this whole affair.”

“But...” began Max, until Wang held up his hand.

“His reach is further than you think and he stops at nothing to protect what is his.”

Wiremu looked puzzled.

“Wang why do you think we would be involving ourselves?”

Wang turned to regard Max, raising his eye brows in question.

“Harriet Leith,” supplied Max.

Wang nodded slowly.

Exactly.

“I would tell you, for your own sake, to leave well alone, to keep as far away from her as possible. Anyone connected with the Tong is dangerous to know.” Wang sighed before continuing. “But you won't do that. So, you must answer more questions. Questions I assume you are already asking. First, what, if any is the nature of Harriet Leith's connection to the Tong? Then, depending on her connection, can you save her from it?”

Max stared at Wang for a long moment.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Very little,” responded Wang, spreading his hands on the table in front of him. “I don't think Harriet had been to Chinatown before Saturday night. Although Coval Leith has been there a number of times. The new train was a gift from him, personally. He appears to have fostered some kind of a relationship with Fong Wai Sung. Or Fong Wai Sung has fostered a relationship with him. To what end who can say? Saturday night may well have just been a social outing for father and daughter. There is no way of knowing if they have any relationship with the Tong beyond Fong Wai Sung, or whether or not they even know of its existence. Again, I caution you to walk away Max.”

An image of the dead blue swordsman laying on the dirt performance area flashed into Max's mind.

“The first thing then is for me to find out if she is aware of the Tong,” mused Max out loud. Naturally he wasn't letting Harriet go simply because she sat by the wrong person on New Year's Eve. Wang sighed. But Wiremu gave a chuckle.

“Don't worry Wang old man. I don't mean to be cruel, but it isn't like Max's rather one-sided relationship with Harriet Leith is actually going anywhere. He hasn't even ever spoken to her!”

Wang looked a little relieved at that. But a sly smile crept across Max's face.

“No. But that is all about to change.”

* * *

Max strode across the quad and into the front doors of the Engineering Department.

“I need to speak with Miss Harriet Leith,” he told the ancient administrator on duty behind the reception desk.

“Don't you all,” he responded dryly. “One moment please. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Maximilian Skilton. Thank you.”

“Not at all.” And the man left through double doors. Max's heart suddenly started to race. For the first time since leaving Amelia's Tea House he wondered if he was making a mistake. He had got this far in response to his friend’s gentle mockery.

But was this really how he wanted to have his first conversation with Harriet? It could only happen once.

He needn't have worried.

“I'm sorry sir,” said the receptionist returning the way he had come. “It seems that Miss Leith is working with her team at her father's locomotive manufactory. She is not due back until Wednesday morning. Can I leave her a message?”

“No thank you. That won't be necessary.” Max retreated back out the door and flipped his bowler back onto his head. Thwarted... yet he almost felt relieved, almost... out in the quad again he was lost for a moment, but after so long without a lead.... he recommitted to his course.

* * *

The Valley Line was something of a folly line or hobby railway. Its board of directors were, to a man, railway enthusiasts before they were businessmen. Not to say that it wasn't a good business, well run. But its lines were graced with the strangest collection of locomotives. Many of which were foreign imports; bright painted English 'J' classes such as the one that pulled Max's 7:15 from Rockville, double headed 'E' class Fairlies and American 2-8-0 'Consolidations'. One of the Directors even had in his private collection a big rear wheeled 'Crampton' which was used from time to time to pull the companies 'picnic train'.

It was also well known that there was a steamer inbound from the United States with two Roger's 'K' class locomotives on-board with the slightly unusual wheel configuration 2-4-2. These had been named for the two great American presidents, one 'Washington' and other 'Lincoln'.

Benjamin Salasor, the sometimes acidic editor of The Murderer's Bay Argus had recently written that; 'It was fortunate that the Valley Railway Company was not desirous of naming its entire fleet after 'great American presidents' as the list of those who qualified was far too short for the task and possibly already exhausted. The Directors should also forgo the temptation to move on then to naming for English prime misters. For while Perceval or Gladstone might be suitable, Disraeli, for a locomotive, certainly was not.'

As was the pattern, the three friends took the 5:15 home that night after their classes and returned the next morning on the 7:15.

At noon, Max having no classes immediately after lunch, took the Lewis Street cable car down to Haven Station. After a short wait by the water’s edge he boarded the steam tram that trundled along the Boulevard to Addingtown. At Addingtown he sprung down and as the tram pulled away, looked across the rails to the giant sheds and smoke stacks that were the engine works of Rotheram & Scott, A & G Price Ltd and Leith Engineering.

He paused for a long moment to collect his thoughts. Then after pulling his bowler forward, his pony tail back and his waistcoat down, he set off across the many railed yard. A cement commuter way had been laid between the rails, giving the army of workers coming to and from their homes in Addingtown a smoother passage than just hobbling over the ballast. Still, it was cut with dark brown rails and one had to watch for the shunters that continually ran back and forth, busy about the many tasks of the massive yard. Before Max had made it to the far side he was required to wait twice; first for a tank engine bearing a rake of half complete passenger wagons and then for a freight train hauling flatbeds loaded with freshly poured, silver, iron 'pigs' from the smelter at the Onekaka Iron Works.

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The massive doors at the front of each of the workshops stood open giving vent to whatever fumes issued from the production of railway locomotives, and allowing the summer breeze access to do its freshening work. However, shutters had been drawn across each door cavity to the height of a man, Max suspected to shield any sensitive work within from prying eyes. He had once toured the Rotheram & Scott works as a little boy on a school field trip. Even now, grown as he was, he was still astounded at the huge size of the buildings and the idea that they were staffed not by titans, but mere men.

Leith Engineering clearly did not expect many visitors and it took Max a time to locate an appropriate entry. Up a flight of steel stairs to a door, which stood along the corrugated iron wall from a goods landing. He pulled the door open, like a man who meant business, which he was, and found himself in a world that reverberated with the roar of the furnace, the bang of rivet guns, the wheesh of steam cranes and the sudden clatter of dropped steel. None of this however could he see, for once inside he stood confronted with a mesh of chain-link, beyond which, a tall, bald gentleman, with the most surprising sideburns, sat in a well-ordered office.

“Yes?” he enquired, rising, and coming, without haste, to the wire. He studied a sheaf of papers, which he held in his large hand, as he waited for Max to respond.

“I am here to see Miss Harriet,” said Max.

The clerk, or whatever he was, raised a single eyebrow at this and continued to read.

“You've pretty hair,” he remarked matter-of-factly after a long moment. “You'll not be wanting to get that caught in a lathe.”

“I beg your pardon?” stammered Max, a little taken aback by this unsolicited advice from a man whose own hair seemed to have totally abandoned his head, sliding down either side to pile up on top his jowls.

“She is with her team up in The Box.” He made to turn away then, but Max was still at a loss, so spoke up.

“I'm sorry I have no idea where that might be.”

Baldy Burns gave a great sigh at this and dropping his papers on a desk, came out of his own box by way of a side door.

“This way,” he said and at once led Max up a long flight of steel stairs that climbed steeply away to the left. 'The Box' appeared to be somewhere in the rafters above.

Within a few steps Max could look out across the workshop floor. Although it took a moment for his untrained eyes to sort what he was seeing below and bring order out of the monotone sea of iron shapes. Massive chassis replete with wheels, great round multi-holed boilers, riveted iron sheets, half complete cabs, coupling rods, gears and domes all jostled for correct placement in the line of assembly. Over the whole scene scampered a legion of workers, each about their own tasks and some occupied with the operation and direction of the gantry cranes that moved the colossal components around the workshop.

As they climbed the air became notably hotter and Max began to fear he would arrive before Harriet in a sweat. Then he stopped at a landing and gripping the hand rail, peered over, for something below, all golden and alight, had caught his attention.

At first it appeared to be a giant spider. Max strained his eyes against the sparkling glare to see that a man stood astride one of the wheeled chassis. He was stripped down to his singlet and braces, but a leather apron protected his legs and belly from the volcanic sparks that shot from the iron before him. His great bare arms shone with perspiration and a large cigarro thrust from between his clenched teeth. Although the figure's eyes were covered by black lensed goggles Max knew that the man he watched was Coval Leith. The thing that first caught his eye however, along with the welding fire, was the great tool that was being wielded. For from behind Lord Leith's shoulders, came up and over, a pair of giant iron arms. Hinged and ligamented with hydraulics it was these, like some monstrous praying mantis on his back, that did the work. The master engineer's gloved hands held small controls out in front of his stomach, though he shook and strained when the electrode struck.

“Come along now young sir,” said Baldy Burns, suddenly at Max's shoulder. “I'll start to think that you have come to spy on Mr Leith and not his daughter.” Max peered over the side one last time, ignoring the well-placed jab in his amazement at what he was seeing below, before following on up the next flight.

Other walkways diverged from the steps that they climbed, disappearing off into the darkness and smoke of the workshop's rafters. Then Max's begrudging guide was knocking on a steel door. Nothing happened for a long moment, then the door swung open. Max's heart began to pound in his chest, and not from the climb.

“Miss Harriet, a visitor,” announced the clerk, before turning on his heel and marching back down the stairs. And there she was. Harriet studied Max for a long moment.

“Good afternoon Miss Harriet,” began Max. “I believe we need to have a word.”

“We do?” She was clearly surprised or at least confused by his sudden appearance, but thankfully not dismayed. “You best come in.”

“Thank you.”

As she closed the door behind Max, Harriet called down to the retreating figure on the stairs, “Thank you Uncle Hector.”

Max found himself in the most fascinating of rooms, well-lit and much cooler than the workshop outside, and stacked full of... of gadgets and books, tools, metals, tubes, and beakers. The smell of good coffee was heavy in the air. Three other young men sat around a large table watching him closely. He got the impression that he had just interrupted some kind of meeting.

“This is Max Skilton, from my fencing class,” said Harriet, leading him forward with a hand on his arm. “Come meet the team.” She had copper bangles at her wrists and was wearing a tan brown leather waistcoat over a cream-coloured hemp shirt, sleeves rolled up. Her long legs were encased in fitting pants of the same tan leather. The bottoms of which hid the tops of heeled boots. A short wrap around leather apron covered her hips and thighs. The red hair was tied back to reveal fine ears and that elegant neck. Max tried to slow his racing heart as he neared the others.

All three young men rose, and one started to drape a cloth over a many geared and axled construct that lay on the table before them, clearly in an attempt to shield it from view.

“Don't worry Morri,” said Harriet. “It hardly matters now.” Morri let the cloth drop.

“I guess not.”

“Max this is Morris Walker. He is our hydraulic specialist.”

“Pleased to meet you Max,” said Morris, shaking Max's extended hand. He was a tall thin young man with a bouncing Adam's Apple and scruffy straw blonde hair that hung in his eyes. Next she introduced Fredrick Ferguson, adding that “Fred is our Cognisant.”

“Cognisant?” echoed Max.

“He gives our little machines brains. Cogs and gears,” answered Harriet. Fred performed a mock stage bow before reaching out to take Max's hand.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Fred was dark and sported a thick black moustache that was well grown for one so young. He reminded Max a little of the Goth who had helped him kit up at the fencing class.

“The pleasure is mine,” responded Max.

“Torquil Tickham,” cut in the remaining team member. “Chief Winder,” he declared reaching across to shake Max's hand, but only managing to grasp it on the third attempt. Max looked him in the face and saw two mismatched monocles dangling before his eyes; the left making the eye behind it appear tiny and distant, while the right was massive and comical, taking up the entire lens!

“An honour,” said Max with a chuckle. “I think I remember you from the race last week.”

“Tick is our clockwork genius,” explained Harriet, folding her arms across her chest, and looking at Tick doubtfully.

“And this...” proclaimed Tick, with an outstretched arm “...this is Harriet Leith! Miss Leith is... as you all know... a practical genius... descended from a long line of gen... Harriet you look a little hot. A little flushed around the cheeks. Is something ailing you? A fever?”

“I assure you I am quite alright thank you Mr Tickham,” rebuffed Harriet, glaring at Tick. Max wasn't sure what the little exchange had been about. But whatever it was Harriet regrouped quickly and pointing at the machinery in the centre of the table said, “And this was our entry for the first ever battle in the Dominion League of Robot Wars. Not much use now.”

“Superseded?”

“Spectacularly! The appearance of the Army's money... and the specs they are demanding... has put the whole thing on its head.”

“It matters not,” claimed Fred “Together we have the thing in hand. For a most excellent new design is coming together. The two hundred pounds is practically ours!”

Just then a little flap door opened in the wall and onto the bench opposite Max trundled a small steam locomotive, no bigger than a shoe, pulling behind it a couple of miniature flat-deck wagons. Harriet followed Max's eyes, for he was quite amazed by the little train; funnel puffing and wheels turning faithfully.

“Meet Leonardo,” said Harriet. All five of them watched as the engine travelled along the rails that had been laid on the bench, then disappeared out another hole in the corresponding wall. “He'll need some more coal soon Morri. My father built him for me when I was a baby. Now he spends his days chugging around our office and workshop.”

“Who; your father or Leonardo?” asked Tick, who was ignored and went back to his work to whispers of “Winder” from the other two.

“But Max,” said Harriet turning to him once more. “How can we help?”

“A word if you don't mind. In private.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows doubtfully.

“This way if you please.”

Max's hands, holding his hat, shook slightly with sudden nerves as he followed Harriet from the room and into a side office.

“They seem like fun fellows,” reflected Max when the door was closed.

“Indeed,” agreed Harriet with a rueful smile as she looked back out though the glass at the young men clustered around the table, “They are my team.”

Max began.

“I realise it is maybe a little strange, me coming here like this unannounced...” Harriet nodded, arms folded over her chest. “Even as we have never been formally introduced...” Too late now too. Here goes. “...but I was with my friends at the Chinese New Year Festival on Saturday night.”

Harriet nodded slowly and her eyes seemed to become unfocused, or focused on the past, as she recalled the night. She bit her bottom lip for a second, then said, “That didn't end well did it?”

“Indeed no,” agreed Max, watching Harriet closely.

“For that one performer. Very sad. After such beauty and precision. Just one tiny mistake and fatal.” She lost a little of her poise as she spoke and placed a steadying hand on the table.

She believes that the death was an accident, as it appeared.

“I saw you in the front row,” continued Max. Harriet looked genuinely lost at this information and rocked her head to one side to watch him.

“Why did you never come and say hello?” she puzzled. “I would have welcomed the company of another English speaker!”

Inwardly Max rolled his eyes, he couldn't believe it. The very thing Wang had warned him against doing. He imagined himself punching Wang in the mouth. But the objective part of him cautioned that she could right now be playing him and playing him very well. In all reality she may indeed have known that he was there at the show, that she sat next to a Tong leader and therefore Max would never approach, and that it was murder! He preferred not to consider these things, denying the possibility. Although he had to admit a little pride that he wasn't so enamoured with her as to not consider alternatives to those being presented.

“I am sorry. I did set such a course, but I was otherwise detained by my host.”

“That's fine Max. I'm sure there will be other occasions.”

Was she flirting with him!? He sincerely hoped not. For he knew that if she did he would be hopelessly lost and completely in her power. Destroyed... if those were the games she played. With a hiss Leonardo came though the wall. On his flat decks perched two steaming cups.

“Coffee?” asked Harriet, grabbing them up as the little train rumbled past.

“Thank you” responded Max, taking the offered cup, and making the 'cheers' gesture to the three engineers who watched though the window from the other room.

“Go on,” she encouraged, lifting her own cup.

“As an Archaeology student, indeed as the person I am, I'm interested in foreign cultures and on that particular night obviously in Chinese culture. Thus, I studied everything closely. As I watched that final performance and its grim conclusion, my attention was drawn, amazingly, to a small wheel that rolled across the dirt and came to rest...”

“By my foot,” concluded Harriet, taking a sip of her coffee and holding the cup to her mouth in both hands. “It was a coin.”

“A coin?” echoed Max slowly.

“Indeed. But Master Sung, our host for the evening, said it was a worthless trinket, an obviously failed lucky charm.”

“Quite,” agreed Max, nodding the irony.

“He said I could have it.”

“You have it!” Max was more than a little surprised by this revelation, especially coming as easy as it did. He wasn't sure if he had actually set out to try and solve a murder, the 'wheel' being the victim's possession and therefore evidence, or if in fact he was simply using it as a lever to bring himself into contact with Harriet. “May I be as forward as to ask to see it?” He really didn't know what thread he was pulling, but he was happy to follow it and see where it went. The archaeology bluff was working, notwithstanding the fact that this very conversation was it's only goal. But Harriet was biting her bottom lip and studying the floor.

“It's here,” she said almost guiltily and lead him over to some kind of structure built from metal pipes.

“I don't understand.”

“I'm sorry Max,” she said, touching a golden streak at the join of two pipes. “That is the coin. It was made of brass, and we were out of solder.”

Max had nothing to say, so quickly at the end of the thread. At least Harriet looked genuinely contrite.

“I am sorry Max,” she repeated. “I thought it was worthless.”

Max took a sip of his coffee, glaring at the smudge of solder.

“That's alright,” he lied, bitter about the loss of the coin, so recently discovered and that its destruction had also bought his time with Harriet to a close. Leonardo appeared out of another hole and made his way along the bench.

“Oh!” said Harriet as she remembered something. “I did make a couple of rubbings!”

“Of the coin!?” clarified Max, hope raising again. Harriet nodded her head in confirmation.

“May I?” asked Max.

“Of course,” said Harriet, putting her coffee aside and opening the draw of a filing cabinet. “It would be cruel not to.”

“This is great,” proclaimed Max a minute later when Harriet spread the single piece of paper on the table in front of him. She had carefully used a pencil to record a relief from both sides of the coin and thus had preserved it beyond the crucible. The image thereon was of a round coin, the size of a small biscuit, marked with four Chinese characters and pieced though the middle by a distinctive square hole.

“All is not lost?” asked Harriet at his shoulder.

“Far from it,” answered Max.

“I'm relieved.”

Max studied Harriet.

“You were holding out on me with this, weren't you?” he accused, waving the page at her. A sly smile turned the corners of her mouth.

“Maybe just a little.”

Max laughed out loud and felt like saying in that companionable way “I like you Harriet Leith.” But the risk of his actual intensity of feeling showing through was too great, so instead he asked; “May I keep this?”

“If it aids your studies. By all means.” She was opening the office door and leading him out then, and he knew that their time together drew near a close.

“Thank you. It will be a great help.”

She paused half out the door and turned to him once more.

“Let me say also Max that..." she searched for words "...despite my commitment to... I was impressed by how you handled yourself in fencing class last week. Gilbert is a fierce fighter, I know. But you... you did well.”

“You are too kind,” answered Max. Too shocked for anything other than automatic courtesy. “But I thank you.”

“Good afternoon Max. See you around,” chorused the other three steam engineers, as Harriet and Max re-entered the workshop. Max waved them farewell as he passed though, opening the main door to return to the landing beyond. It was hot again. Harriet leant on the door frame to watch him go.

“Thanks for visiting Max. Guests are rare,” she said, beginning to close the door. “Uncle Hector will see you out.”

“Thank you for..." being amazing, a princess, a goddess amongst mortals... "...for your hospitality. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon Max.” And the door closed to a crack. Max turned and began the descent. The door clicked shut behind him.

Over.

“Harriet!” he called, spinning to retrace his steps. There was a pause before she reopened the door and looked at him doubtfully. Max took a deep breath of the hot air. “They say you like to ride trains... on the outside.”

She watched him then and for a long moment didn't say a word. A calculating look was in her green eyes and she appeared to be weighing him up.

“Do they?” she said finally, but the question was rhetorical. Then she seemed to make up her mind. “Meet me at the White Bridge at ten o'clock tomorrow night. Bring something warm to wear.” It sounded like a challenge. The door closed again and Max was alone on the stair.