to feel weary.
‘I work here, yes.’
‘For whom?’ Devil persisted.
‘What? For myself, of course. My interests are not so usual. I am a maker of automata.’ He gestured towards the flaxen doll and the Chinese manikin. ‘But you know that much, Mr Wix. You are acquainted with my beautiful Lucie.’
There was a small silence.
‘I thought you were a poor man, Heinrich, like me. If you are rich, as it seems you are, why have you and Lucie danced every night for Jacko Grady and his audience of barbarians?’
Heinrich was still wearing his ruined coat, with his frayed shirt collar protruding. His boot heels were worn to wafers and he looked as if he had not eaten a meal in the last week. Eliza longed to ask the same question, but she would not have had Devil’s boldness in coming straight out with it.
Surprisingly the Swiss smiled. The deep lines in his face vanished and for a moment he looked a younger man. ‘I am not rich. My family have been watchmakers at Le Locle in Neuchatel for three generations. I am the last son. My care is not for watches, but in what I do there is the same precision. The same love for a device that is intricate, ingenious, unique. I am a craftsman, Mr Wix, not a banker. What is money?’
‘I could tell you,’ Devil said bitterly. The note in his voice made Eliza look at him with attention.
Bayer said, ‘I dance with Lucie at the Palmyra because I want the world to see her. There has to be a debut. A London debut, in your popular music hall. I hoped – expected – this would quickly lead to better things. But, sadly, it seems not. We are disappointed of course.’ He shrugged his thin shoulders. It was clear that his brilliance as an inventor was not matched by his knowledge of the world. ‘The worst of it all is the insult to Lucie. This evening, I am afraid, I was unable to hide the pain it caused me.’
Eliza was filled with sudden pity for him which only intensified her discomfort.
The servant came back with a young boy to assist her, and together they unfolded a card table and set three chairs around it. On the bench they laid out a china tureen and some covered dishes with a tray of cutlery and glassware.
‘Will there be anything else, Herr Bayer?’
‘I don’t think so, Mrs McKay. Or, wait a moment. Perhaps some wine?’
‘Thank you. Yes,’ said Devil with distinct emphasis.
A bottle was brought and uncorked. Devil and Eliza helped themselves to soup from the tureen and thick slices of ham with potatoes. The food was plain, but plentiful and good. Devil drank a glass of wine straight off. Heinrich took a few spoonfuls of soup but he soon left the table and went to the Chinaman sitting on its plinth next to the yellow-haired doll. He reached behind it, and its head suddenly flopped sideways with a gasp of exhaled air that sounded like a human sigh. Eliza jumped and her spoon clinked in the bowl. The creature’s hands rose from its lap and its head jerked upright with another hiss. The fingers flexed and its mouth opened and closed to reveal two rows of porcelain teeth.
‘You see?’ Heinrich said.
‘I do,’ Devil replied. He put down his spoon and fork in order to concentrate on the inventor.
‘He is operated by a system of compressed air cylinders, controlled from here.’ Heinrich indicated a notched drum with a handle, a simple enough mechanism that reminded Eliza of a barrel organ.
Devil remarked, ‘He’s of a size with Carlo Boldoni. But this fellow is more biddable, I’m sure. Tell me, Heinrich, what is your creature for?’
The inventor frowned. ‘I made him. His existence is sufficient reason in itself. But I thought I might have him tell ladies’ fortunes? One shilling a time. “Mr Wu knows the secrets of a woman’s heart, and will answer the questions you cannot ask.” Look at this.’ He turned a handle and one of the Chinaman’s hands drew a spool of paper from the opposite sleeve. ‘What is a fortune? You or I could invent a fine one.’ Heinrich laughed then, a creaking sound of rare usage. Eliza found that the palms of her hands were damp.
Devil’s concentration intensified and his forefinger rubbed slow circles in the green baize surface of the card table.
‘Do you play cards?’
‘I am a busy man, Mr Wix. No, I do not.’
‘Please call me Devil. If I had friends that’s how they would know me.’
Jasper is your friend, Eliza silently corrected him. Why had Devil obliterated the Hector of their shared boyhood?
‘I wonder if Jacko Grady plays cards,’ Devil mused in the softest voice. The Chinaman’s hands descended and once more lay inert in its lap as Heinrich wandered away to his bench. He took up the half leg and held it suspended by its metal arteries.
‘Have you ever heard of a false automaton?’ Devil asked.
Heinrich did not look up. These questions bored him.
‘Of course. Who has not? Even Mr Grady spoke of such a thing. But why would I be interested? They are the province of …’ There was a pause while he searched for the word. Not tricksters, or even conjurors. ‘Illusionists.’
‘Exactly.’ Devil’s smile did not reach his eyes. He poured himself another glass of wine to rinse down a large mouthful of ham and potato. Only when he had cleared his plate did he turn to Eliza.
‘Tell me, what drew you back to the elegant and acclaimed Palmyra theatre this evening, Miss Dunlop? Eliza, that is. That is how I think of you.’
He thinks of me? She only nodded. ‘How is Carlo’s poor face? I was not able to ask about the damage when I saw him earlier.’
‘Probably for the best. He would have bitten off your head, if you had done so. Yes, he is mending quite well although he complains enough. You came to the theatre to ask after him?’
‘No, not for that reason alone. As I said earlier, I have an idea. You recall the suggestion Heinrich made when we were leaving the tavern that evening? That you should perhaps have a woman in your act?’
Summoning his patience Devil nodded. ‘And you agreed with him.’
Eliza said, ‘I enjoyed the Philosophers illusion, of course. But so much gore? And to tell the truth, the play as a whole did not appeal to me in the way it would have done had there also been a female role.’
Heinrich returned to his automata. He rested his fingertips on the shoulders of the flaxen girl. ‘Nor to me,’ he agreed.
‘Ah. You would prefer a female philosopher. Really?’
Eliza looked at her surroundings. Surely nothing she could propose in such a setting would seem outlandish? ‘You are laughing at us, Mr Wix. The role would not necessarily be a philosopher. The time will come for novelty, don’t you agree? I was envisaging a more – what? – feminine scenario. A comedy, perhaps. Disappearances, clever materialisations, mistaken identity, laughter closing with a kiss.’
‘If I knew any Shakespeare I would say that is what your idea sounds like.’
‘Why
