With a horrible yell, he recoiled hand and blade. Slipping through his lax arms, she dove out of the way, and a shot rent the air.
Mr. Forrester screamed, and the knife flew from his hand.
Ears ringing, Clara hurried to secure the weapon, but Mr. Forrester lunged for it with a desperate roar. She landed a kick to the handle and sent the blade skittering across the cobbles, out of his reach. Mr. Forrester turned on her with unhinged fury and charged. As Clara flailed a retreat, Theodore swooped in, seized her attacker, and landed a cracking punch.
Mr. Forrester fell to his knees and slumped upon the cobbles.
Standing over Mr. Forrester warily, Mr. Kingsley seemed to assure himself the man was knocked out cold and then knelt to examine Mr. Forrester’s wounded hand. The shot had gone clean through. Clara stood and gave Mr. Kingsley the handkerchief in her pocket, which he promptly used tobind the wound tight and staunch the bleeding. Grabbing a clean cloth napkin from the nearby table, he then bound up the stab wound on Mr. Forrester’s thigh.
“Well done, my boy. Well done.” Grand appeared beside Clara, unharmed, and she latched on to his tweed jacket.Thank you, God.
“That, sirs, is the villain who took my girl. On the hooves of justice, I beseech thee to chaaarge!” Mum raced across the road, leading a cavalry of Swiss police. She reached them first, and with the level of violence only a frightened mother can achieve, yanked Clara unto her bosom and unleashed a torrent of tears upon her head.
Blinded by the bounty of said bosom, Clara squeezed Mum tight and then painstakingly extricated her face from the wellspring of maternal love, lest she suffocate. “I’m fine, Mum.”
Mum took Clara’s face in hand. “Are you sure, ducky? If he hurt one feather of your being, I’ll order Mr. Kingsley to aim low, shoot true, and end his chances at reproducing.”
“That won’t be necessary,gnädige frau. We will take it from here.” A pair of uniformed policemen hefted Mr. Forrester off the ground as their commanding officer, a fellow with the thinnest of mustaches on the edge of his upper lip, addressed Clara. “Do you know this man?”
While Mum clung to her side, Clara assessed Mr. Forrester. Bereft of his bowler hat, his once well-groomed hair and whiskers were overgrown, disheveled, and unwashed. His once immaculate attire was now stained, rumpled, and torn. The garish canary waistcoat had flown from his rib cage. Like a weather-beaten scarecrow, he hung limply from the policemen’s arms as blood soaked the makeshift bandages tied about his hand and leg. Her throat closed. No. She could say in all honesty that she had never known this man.
“His name is Rupert Forrester.” Mr. Kingsley stepped into provide the answers she could not voice. “He’s an obsessive harasser who’s followed us from London, tracking our movements for weeks and inciting fear at our every turn. When we were in Strasbourg, he went so far as to abduct Miss Stanton, hold her against her will, and profess a plot to rob her grandfather in order to pay off his substantial debts.”
A gasp disturbed Grand’s whiskers. “He did what?”
“With the aid of the Grande Île police, Miss Stanton was recovered, and Mr. Forrester promptly arrested. Last time I saw him, he was secured behind bars. I’m loath to think what became of the prison guard assigned to his cell, for it is now apparent that Mr. Forrester is capable of violence. He’s accosted Miss Stanton a second time and scored her throat with this knife.” Mr. Kingsley kicked the fallen blade toward the policeman’s boots.
Picking up the knife, the policeman reviewed the shallow slash along Clara’s neck. “When the man comes round, we shall see what he has to say before the magistrate.” Clearing his throat, the policeman acknowledged each of them in turn. “You need fear this man no longer. I imagine he’ll soon be receiving a lengthy prison sentence. Every precaution will be taken to ensure he remains in custody and behind bars, where he can do no more harm.” With that, the policemen hauled Mr. Forrester away.
As the setting sun transformed the rustic cobbles into rose quartz, Clara heaved a long sigh and took hold of Mr. Kingsley’s hand.
With a scratch of his head, Grand sent clockwork butterflies flitting in all directions. “Well, well ... that wasn’t part of the plan, but good riddance and justice served, I say.” He retrieved a bottle of merlot from the table and held it aloft as a butterfly came to rest on the cork. “Anyone fancy a glass of wine and a little stargazing?”
CHAPTER
39
“I can’t believe my machine caused such a hullabaloo.” Grand laid aside the day’s paper on their table outside the Lolloping Bear Inn. The automata butterflies nestled in his hair glinted in the jubilant sun, and a May breeze fluttered his wispy mustache as he poured himself another cup of tea. “I don’t understand it. Not a whit, not a whit. Surely Prague’s Orloj or the Zytglogge clock tower we toured yesterday is more impressive than my giant wind-up toy.”
Clara smiled at Grand—or rather, her existing smile broadened. In the two blissful weeks since their eventful reunion, the outward expression of joy had become a permanent fixture of her face, one she could neither control nor contain. “You don’t give your achievements the credit they’re due, Grand.” She gestured toward the paper, with its headline story of “the entire field of journalism flocking to Zürich,” where the great owl had last been sighted. “This hullabaloo is more than warranted. Your creativity is a gift, and your inventions are veritable marvels.”
“Hear, hear.” Mr. Kingsley clanked his teacup againstGrand’s as though it were a stein of ale. “The owl is an innovation without equal, Drosselmeyer. Is it any wonder the public’s enchanted and the prince is keen to become your patron?”
Mum beamed at Grand as Fred nuzzled under her chin. “My father, Inventor to the Crown. Oh, I’m so proud I could prance like a pony all the way to London.”
Grand gawped at the paper. “I just don’t understand it. Not a whit, not a whit.” A distinct and familiar melody lilted through the air on metallic wings. Leaning back in his chair, he consulted the watch Mr. Kingsley had returned to him as it struck four o’clock. “As much as I delight in your company, children, I do think the time has come for a respite.”
After today’s adventure, they might all do well to take a nap. Circumnavigating the peninsula on which Old Town was built had made for a long, albeit delightful excursion. If she closed her eyes, she could yet hear the sails of their boat flapping in the wind as they cruised down the River Aare, taking in the scenic beauty of Bern. Granny would’ve loved it so. The thought tugged at her heart as the flexing of a scar might pull at the taut and rigid skin, but the wound no longer bled. No longer gaped. Time might not heal all wounds, but the Lord surely healed a surrendered heart in due time.
Clara squeezed Grand’s weathered hand. “I suppose I can endure your absence for a few hours, but you had best appear at my side come time for dinner.”
Gripping the arms of his chair, Grand creaked to his feet. “That’s a promise, Little Stargazer.” He pressed a kiss to her crown, still woefully hatless, and made for the inn.
“I’d best be off as well, duckies.” Mum rose, spurring Mr. Kingsley to do likewise, as she placed her napkin on the table. “The kits will be getting restless for their afternoon walk, and I’ve an errand to run in town. I assume I can trust the pair of you not to do anything scandalous whilst unchaperoned?” Her dark brows waggled as though goading Clara to break that trust.
Raising her porcelain saucer, Clara attempted to blame the steam wafting from the freshly brewed Ceylon for her flushed complexion. “If you send another telegram to Papa, do give him my love, will you?”
“Ah, that’s my ducky. More love to give than a church has bells to ring.” With a flamboyant swishing of skirts, she set off with a song in her step. “Ding-dong, ding-dong.”
