Today, the corridor, dimly lit by widely spaced gaslights turned low, was not being used and was, therefore, helpful
ly deserted.
Sir Horace breathed a little easier. He removed his hat and set it down in a dim corner with his cane. Then he hurried down the long corridor. Doors were set into the wall every ten or so yards. He tried one door, most of the way down the corridor, but he wasn’t far enough down the hall to glimpse the Throgmorton display. He shut that door and walked quickly on to the second-last door along the corridor. He halted before it, then, holding his breath, turned the knob and eased the panel open—just enough to put his eye to the gap and ascertain what lay beyond.
The Throgmorton steam carriage stood to the right of the door, one long side parallel to and two feet from the wall. Shifting and scanning farther, Sir Horace saw the backs of two guards; the men were standing on this side of the rope cordon with their hands behind their backs and their gazes trained on the shifting crowd pressing close on the other side of the rope. The Throgmorton display was plainly garnering a significant amount of attention from the public—yet more reason, had Sir Horace needed further convincing, to ensure that the steam carriage failed and failed definitively here and now.
Yet if he stepped out of the door, before he could crouch out of sight behind the contraption, he would—for a bare second—be visible, not to the guards who were facing the other way but to those jostling and pressing as close as they could to study the steam carriage.
Sir Horace eyed the throng, which included young boys and groups of youths eagerly pointing and exclaiming. Sharp-eyed monsters who would think nothing of pointing him out to the guards—
A commotion sounded farther up the hall. Everyone—boys, youths, guards, and all—peered in that direction. Sir Horace realized the Prince had advanced down the line and something had happened with some invention he’d asked to see demonstrated...
The Prince was closer than Sir Horace had expected; there was no time to lose.
Sir Horace dragged in a breath, pushed through the door, and, leaving it to swing silently closed, scuttled on tiptoe three paces to his right—and sank to his haunches behind the Throgmorton steam carriage.
Breath bated, he waited—dreading to hear one of the guards coming to see who had slunk past...but there were no calls, no heavy footsteps. The steady, excited murmuring of the crowd continued unbroken.
Hardly daring to believe his luck, Sir Horace turned his somewhat frantic attention to what he took to be the engine compartment. Throgmorton had erected a metal housing over the top, but although there were panels closing in the sides, the one facing Sir Horace had plainly been designed to fold down if the knob securing it was released.
Holding his breath, Sir Horace reached up, twisted the knob, and slowly lowered the hinged panel toward him, until it rested on the lip of the housing that swept up to shield the upper rim of the front wheel.
Sir Horace peered into the workings of the engine—at a bewildering array of pipes and gears and God knew what else besides. He searched for a lever he might pull, or a knob, but although he spied several levers, they were attached to rods and couldn’t be easily moved.
Now what? He knew nothing about engines—had never deigned to even listen to discussions about the bally things. Think!
Valves! He vaguely remembered that valves mattered. He peered this way and that and saw several. One was close enough to easily reach.
Feverishly, Sir Horace turned out his pockets—did he have any string?
He didn’t. All he drew forth were bits of paper, coins, and two silk handkerchiefs...
Silk was strong, wasn’t it? And these were of the finest quality silk. After stuffing the other items he’d unearthed back into his pockets, he shook out one handkerchief and, holding opposing corners, wound it into a short but very strong length. He turned back to the engine and quickly tied the silk over the valve in a way he hoped would stop the valve from working. From releasing. That was what valves did, he thought.
He paused and listened. Judging by the sounds from the crowd, the Prince was still several exhibits away.
Sir Horace looked down at the second silk handkerchief. Then he peered into the engine compartment, but none of the other valves were sufficiently accessible. Then he noticed the pipes leading back toward the rear of the carriage. He dropped to his knees and, with his head almost on the floor, followed the pipes back...
There! Another valve—a good-sized one close enough that if he lay on his back he could reach it.
Sir Horace carefully shut the side panel he’d opened, sealing away the sight of his tampering, then, dispensing with all dignity, he gritted his teeth, rolled onto his back, angled his shoulders under the contraption, and, with his second handkerchief, swiftly tied the second valve down tight.
He blew out a breath, then quickly wriggled out from under the carriage and clambered back to his previous crouch.
He edged toward the end of the carriage. The door he needed to reach was two yards away, with the entire distance in full sight of the crowd.
Clinging desperately to calm, he forced himself to wait—wait—until he heard the Prince exclaim.
He didn’t hesitate but rose and walked swiftly—silently—to the door and, without even pausing to check that no one had seen him, he slipped behind the panel and closed it behind him.
In the dimness of the corridor, he waited to see if any hue and cry was raised. He was breathing stertorously; he hadn’t realized until then.
His brow was damp. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief...
Grimacing, he blotted his face with his sleeve, then, as no shouts had come from the other side of the door, Sir Horace turned and walked back up the corridor.
By the time he retrieved his hat and cane, stepped onto the tiles of the foyer, and closed the corridor door behind him, he was starting to believe.