At that moment the lights on the little train standing on the bridge lit up and, slowly, its wheels began to roll along the rails.
Silent as the grave, Mr de Rozio was devoting all his archivist’s cunning to the reports on the trial which Colonel Llewelyn had been so determined to bury. Seth and Michael were doing the same with a folder full of plans and notes in Chandra’s handwriting. Seth had found it at the bottom of one of the boxes containing the engineer’s personal effects. After his death, because no relative or institution had claimed them and he had been an important public figure, they had ended up lost in the museum’s archives. The library was shared by various scientific and academic institutions, among them the Higher Institute of Engineering, of which Chandra Chatterghee had been one of the most illustrious and controversial members. The folder was plainly bound and its cover bore a single inscription, handwritten in blue ink: The Firebird.
Seth and Michael had hidden their discovery so as not to distract the plump librarian from his task and had moved over to the other end of the room.
‘These drawings are fantastic,’ whispered Michael, admiring various illustrations of mechanical objects whose specific function he couldn’t quite fathom.
‘Let’s concentrate,’ Seth reminded him. ‘What does it say about the Firebird?’
‘Science isn’t my forte,’ Michael began, ‘but if I’m right, this is a plan for an enormous flame-thrower.’
Seth examined the plans without understanding them in the slightest. Michael anticipated his queries.
‘This is a tank for oil or some sort of fuel,’ Michael said, pointing to the document. ‘This suction mechanism is joined to it. It’s a feeding pump, like the pump in a well, and it provides the fuel to keep this circle of flames alight. A sort of pilot light.’
‘But the flames can’t be more than a few centimetres high,’ Seth objected. ‘I don’t see how there can be any real power there.’
‘Look at this pipe.’
Seth saw what his friend was referring to: a sort of tube, rather like the barrel of a cannon or rifle.
‘The flames emerge round the rim of the cannon.’
‘And?’
‘Look at this other end,’ said Michael. ‘It’s a tank, an oxygen tank.’
‘Simple chemistry,’ murmured Seth, putting two and two together.
‘Imagine what would happen if this oxygen were ejected under pressure through the pipe and passed through the circle of flames.’
‘A flame-thrower,’ Seth agreed.
Michael closed the folder and looked at his friend.
‘What kind of secret could make Chandra design a toy like this for a butcher like Llewelyn? It’s like giving the Emperor Nero a shipment of gunpowder …’
‘That’s what we need to find out,’ said Seth, ‘and quickly.’
Sheere, Ben and Ian followed the train’s journey through the model until the tiny locomotive came to a halt just behind the miniature reproduction of the engineer’s house. Slowly the lights went out and the three friends stood there, motionless and expectant.
‘How the hell does the train move?’ asked Ben. ‘It must get its power supply from somewhere. Is there an electricity generator in the house, Sheere?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘There must be,’ said Ian. ‘Let’s look for it.’
Ben shook his head.
‘That’s not what’s bothering me,’ he said. ‘Even supposing there is one, I’ve never heard of a generator that starts up by itself. Much less after years of not working.’
‘Perhaps this model works on some other sort of mechanism,’ Sheere suggested, although she didn’t sound convinced.
‘Perhaps there’s someone else in the house,’ replied Ben.
Ian cursed his luck.
‘I knew it,’ he murmured.
‘Wait!’ cried Ben.
Ian looked at his friend: he was pointing at the model. The train was moving again, this time in the opposite direction.
‘It’s going back to the station,’ Sheere observed.
Slowly, Ben drew closer to the model, stopping by the section of railway track along which the train had started to roll.
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Ian.
His friend didn’t reply. Taking great care, Ben stretched out an arm towards the track. The engine was approaching fast, and as it passed in front of him he snatched it, unhooking it from the carriages. Little by little, the rest of the train reduced speed until it came to a halt. Ben held the engine up to the light from the rose window and examined it. Its minute wheels were gradually slowing down.
‘Someone has a strange sense of humour,’ he remarked.
‘Why?’ asked Sheere.
‘There are three lead figures inside the engine, and they look too much like us for it to be a coincidence.’
Sheere moved over to where Ben was standing and took the little engine in her hands. The dancing lines of light cast a rainbow over her face and she gave a resigned smile.
‘He knows we’re here,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in hiding any more.’
‘Who knows?’ asked Ian.
‘Jawahal,’ answered Ben. ‘He’s waiting. But I don’t know what he’s waiting for.’
When they reached the bridge that seemed to vanish into the haze over the Hooghly, Siraj and Roshan collapsed against a wall, exhausted after combing the city in search of Isobel. Far ahead the tips of Jheeter’s Gate’s towers peeped over the mist like the crest of a sleeping dragon.
‘It will soon be dawn,’ said Roshan. ‘We should go back. Maybe Isobel has been waiting for us there.’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Siraj.
Roshan could tell from his friend’s voice that their nocturnal adventure had taken its toll on him, but for the first time in years he hadn’t heard Siraj complain once about his asthma.
‘We’ve looked everywhere,’ Roshan replied. ‘We can’t do any more. Let’s at least go and get help.’
‘There’s one place we haven’t visited …’