The Midnight Palace - Carlos Ruiz Zafon [54]
When they reached the first floor, they realised that the needles of light issuing from the lantern’s crown projected moving drawings and shapes against the walls of a large hall.
‘Look at this,’ said Ben, pointing at a rectangular surface about forty metres square that stood one metre above the ground.
All three walked over to it and discovered what appeared to be an immense model of Calcutta, reproduced with such precision and detail that when you looked at it closely you felt as if you were flying over the real city. They recognised the course of the Hooghly, the Maidan, Fort William, the White Town, the temple of Kali to the south, the Black Town, and even the bazaars. For a long time Sheere, Ian and Ben stood spellbound by the extraordinary miniature, captivated by its beauty.
‘There’s the house,’ said Ben, pointing.
The other two drew closer and saw, right in the heart of the Black Town, a faithful reproduction of the house they were standing in. The multicoloured beams from the ceiling swept across the miniature streets, revealing the hidden secrets of Calcutta as they passed.
‘What is that behind the house?’ asked Sheere.
‘It looks like a railway track,’ said Ian.
‘It is.’ Ben followed the outline of the track until it came to the sharp, majestic silhouette of Jheeter’s Gate, on the other side of a metal bridge spanning the Hooghly.
‘This track leads to the station where the fire happened,’ said Ben. ‘It’s a siding.’
‘There’s a train on the bridge,’ Sheere observed.
Ben walked round the model to get closer to the reproduction of the train. As he examined it, an uncomfortable tingling ran down his spine. He recognised the train. He’d seen it the previous night, although he’d thought it was only the product of a nightmare. Sheere walked over to him and Ben saw there were tears in her eyes.
‘This is our father’s house, Ben,’ she murmured. ‘He built it for us.’
Ben put his arms round Sheere and hugged her. At the other end of the room Ian looked away. Ben stroked Sheere’s face and kissed her on the forehead.
‘From now on,’ he said, ‘it will always be our home.’
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