by Mark Hodder
“I’ll examine her and then decide the best course of action, Mrs Jackyl. Would you mind leaving me alone with her? I’ll ring for you when I’ve finished.”
The old woman hesitated, stepped to one side indecisively, then nodded and gestured for Emma to go into the bedroom.
It was gloomy and the atmosphere was heavy with a cloying, sweet scent. Dust motes lazed in the grey light that leaked through a gap at the top of the closed curtains. A four-poster bed stood with its head against the wall to Emma’s right. Shadows were draped across the figure lying in it.
A voice whispered softly, “Ten … the red … we are singing but … in June or July …”
Shutting the door behind her, Emma crossed to the bed, perched herself on the edge of the mattress, and looked down at the wan, sunken features of Mademoiselle Orsini. Once, perhaps, the young addict had been pretty, but now her face was gaunt and lined, there were deep hollows around her eyes, her lips were thin and white, and her gums had receded from her teeth. Her eyes flickered from right to left beneath closed lids, and she mumbled continuously.
“Inventiveness of the … always red … and … and …. not one history but many … the countess says … says …”
Emma placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and shook her gently. “Mademoiselle Orsini, can you hear me? My name is Emma Boswell.”
“A jungle coloured like blood … and the poet … singing … but his friend is twice present … such reflections …are … are …”
“Mademoiselle Orsini? Olivia! Olivia! Can you hear me?”
“Hmm? Oh yes. In the leaves and … and the birdsong. I hear you.”
“How did you meet Doctor Trace, Olivia?”
“Dancing … Dancing … it dances, you know … time … and sings … the Bellingham … approached … so charming, so charming …”
The Bellingham Hotel Ballroom. Built in the early 18th century and still standing, though decayed and decadent. Emma knew its reputation; a place with a sophisticated facade and a rotten core. The sort of place an aristocratic opium addict like Mademoiselle Orsini would go to feed her craving, and where a villain would go to find someone just like her.
“Where is Doctor Trace now?”
“In the past … in the future … singing the song of time … like the poet … in the jungle … like the man … twice present …”
Emma put two fingers to the young woman’s neck and felt the fluttering pulse. She used her thumb to lift an eyelid, exposing the aimlessly wandering orb beneath. She shook her head, sighed, and reached for the bell cord at the side of the bed. A few moments later the door opened and Mrs Jackyl stepped in. Emma took her by the elbow, steered her back out of the room, and spoke to her in an urgent tone as they descended the stairs. “Mrs Jackyl, your mistress has been taken advantage of by a charlatan and villain. On no account must you allow this Doctor Trace fellow near her again. Send for another doctor at once. I’m afraid the Mademoiselle is in the grip of a heavy dose of opium, which, I have little doubt, was administered by Trace. If she is attended to at once, I feel positive that she’ll make a full recovery, but she will then require constant care, for the drug is extremely addictive, and I believe she was, to some extent, already in its grip before Trace entered upon the scene.”
The housekeeper put her hand to her mouth and reeled against the wall. “She won’t die?” she gasped.
“No, not if she’s put into the care of a genuine medical practitioner.”
“And Doctor Trace; should I call the police?”
“No! I shall deal with that. You must concentrate all your resources on guarding your mistress and seeing that she receives the best possible attention. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs Boswell. Thank you!”
Emma took her leave and returned to the autocarriage. A small crowd had gathered around it, and the chestnut seller was yelling, “Up yer come! Up yer come! Get yer chestnuts ‘ot an’ steamin’ fresh from the latest oven! ’Specially built to give the best bloomin’ flavour! Salted chestnuts! Blazin’ ‘ot chestnuts! Like nothin’ yer’ve ever tasted afore!”
She pushed through the throng and saw that the vehicle’s furnace door, which hinged downwards, was open and lying flat. It was strewn with smoking chestnuts, which the barrow man was shovelling into paper bags and distributing among the crowd. Coins clinked into his hand. He saw her and gave a wide gap-toothed grin. “Best bloomin’ business I’ve ever done!” he announced. “You ain’t gonna drive me new oven away, are yer?”
“Yes, I most certainly am.”
“Don’t ‘spose you’d be interested in a partnership, so to speak?”
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Grub, ma’am. Daniel Bertram Grub. That’s me. At yer service.”
“Would you be able to gather together a group of, say, four strong men, Mr Grub?”
“Hum, well now, I’ve three beefy sons, and I ain’t no weaklin’ meself.”
“In that case, sir, I think we might come to an arrangement.”
V
Doctor Cyrus Fogg was leaning against a wall opposite the entrance to the Bellingham Hotel Ballroom. Matters were progressing nicely. He’d established a secure hideaway, and his knowledge of the city’s prospering criminal underworld was improving every day. He was absolutely certain that, in not very much time at all, he’d be at the head of a criminal empire the like of which the country had never seen. The seeds had already been planted.
The light rain was now a wet mist, miserable enough to keep the crowds off the streets. Only the most determined partygoers were visiting the ballroom, and he scrutinised their comings and goings with eyes that missed not a single detail. Mentally, he divided them into three categories: rich and stupid; rich and desperate; and—his favourite—rich and stupid and desperate. It was among the latter that he searched for his next victim.
A hansom galloped past, splashing mud onto his shoes. He hissed at it and showed his teeth, then frowned and squinted through the murk at the bizarre carriage that came clattering from the opposite direction. It was moving by itself, without aid of a horse, and a thick plume of steam was rising up from it.
“What sorcery is this?” Cyrus whispered.
The thing came to a halt on the other side of the road, close to the entrance of the ballroom, and a figure, heavily wrapped in a long coat, scarf, hat and eye goggles, stepped down from it. A Landau drew up nearby and four men disembarked.
Cyrus watched, and realised, with no little amazement, that the driver of the horseless carriage was female. He waited for the men to join her and for the group to mount the steps of the Bellingham.
It didn’t happen.
The men loitered, while the woman unslung something from her shoulder. Cyrus thought it vaguely resembled a blunderbuss, but it was considerably fatter and there was a sort of long canister attached to it.
The woman pulled a lever out from it, then pumped it up and down repeatedly, all the while watching something on the side of the device.
Cyrus Fogg began to feel uneasy. What was happening here? What was she up to?
He found out mere moments later when the woman suddenly looked straight at him. She raised the instrument to her shoulder, pointed it, and, with what sounded like a tremendous blast of air, something flew from it, flowered open, and enveloped him.
It was a wire mesh net.
He tried to free himself from it and instantly became entangled.
“Damnation!” he snarled.
The four men ran across the road, heaved him up, carried him to the Landau, and tossed him into it. He continued to struggle but, the more he did, the tighter the net became, until he was entirely immobilised.
“I’ll bloody kill you!” he yelled.
One of the men kicked him in the ribs.
“No, John!” another objected. “The mistress said not to hurt ‘im.”
The doors of the carriage closed and it jerked into motion.
“I’ll pay you!�
�� Cyrus said.
“We’re already bein’ paid, an’ you’ll keep yer mouth shut if’n you know what’s good for yer.”
The Landau rocked as it rounded a corned. It picked up speed. The prisoner’s head bumped repeatedly against the hard wood floor. He cursed and threatened and pleaded but to no avail.
The journey seemed endless, though in truth it didn’t take long at all, then the carriage lurched to a halt and Cyrus was bundled out of it, up the steps of a house, through its front door, and down some stairs into the basement.
The four men disentangled him from the net, propelled him into a cage, clanged the door shut, and locked it.
“I swear, I’ll get you for this!” he growled.
The woman appeared and removed her hat, goggles, scarf and coat, revealing herself to be Mrs Emma Boswell.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said.
“Shall we stay, ma’am?” the eldest of the men asked.
“No, Mr Grub, I’ll take care of business from here on in. Come back in a week, and I’ll instruct you in the use of the autowagon.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Much obliged!”
With a touch to the peak of his cap, the barrow man bid Emma farewell and herded his three sons up the stairs and out of the house.
Emma turned to her prisoner, who stood glowering at her, his mouth twisted into a ferocious sneer.
“Good evening, Doctor Fogg. I trust you’ve enjoyed your holiday in the future?”
“Let me out of this cage!”
“I fully intend to do so, sir, just as soon as the drug Mr Macallister Fogg took has worn off, sending you back to where you belong. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’ve done with Lady Edmonton’s necklace?”
“I think not.”
“I ask only to save myself time and effort, sir. I’ll never give you the opportunity to recover the necklace yourself, and once my employer has returned, we need only investigate your movements and, inevitably, we shall be led to it.”
“No, you shan’t. You’ve seriously underestimated me, girl. Already, I’ve established an organisation through which to advance my schemes. By now, it will have recruited the cream of this city’s criminals. It will operate even without me at its head, and you can be sure that it has already disposed of the necklace and invested the proceeds.”
“And what is this organisation of yours called?”
“I see no disadvantage in telling you. I’m sure you’ll hear about it soon enough. It is called The Dick Turpin Society.”
“And does it accept female members, Doctor?”
“What?”
“I want in.”
“You want to join the Society?”
“Yes.”
“Why? So you can expose us?”
“So I can afford to live in the manner I desire, rather than having to count every penny as secretary to a thoroughly inept detective.”
“I don't believe you.”
“To demonstrate that I speak in good faith, I will hand you the key to the cage, and make a gift to you of this.” Emma took a flat display case from a shelf, opened it, and pulled out an amulet of Egyptian design. Its lustre was such that it actually appeared to radiate, as if the metal was filled with light. She held it up. “This is the amulet of Am-Heh. It is solid gold, sir.”
Cyrus Fogg’s eyes shone avariciously. “All right,” he said.
It was blatantly obvious to Emma Boswell that it wasn’t all right at all. The moment she opened the cage, the doctor would mete out punishment for his capture.
“You might want to check that it’s real before making any hasty agreements,” she said, and tossed the amulet through the bars. Reflexively, her captive caught it.
Doctor Cyrus Fogg blinked rapidly, looked at the cage surrounding him, then at the ceiling, and said, “Crikey! Did I do it again, Mrs Boswell?”
“Do what again, sir?”
“Fall through the blessed trap doors! I thought I’d repaired the mechanism!”
“Thought you’d—thought you’d—Are you Macallister Fogg?”
Her prisoner looked at her with a puzzled expression. “What? Why, of course I am! Whom else would I be?”
VI
Macallister Fogg and Mrs Emma Boswell sat in front of the fire and shared a pot of tea.
“Enjoy it,” Emma murmured. “We can’t afford any more.”
“Are funds really that low?” Fogg asked.
“Your great great grandfather took all the money from the house. I was forced to survive on what little I had in my account. I’m afraid I had to exchange your autowagon for the manpower required to capture him.”
“Hum! I’ll build another one.”
“When you can afford the parts.”
“I’ll find a client.”
“If Doctor Cyrus Fogg was telling the truth—if he really did found a new criminal organisation, and if it’s as powerful as he suggested—then we can expect no shortage of clients.”
“Excellent!”
“Beast! There is nothing excellent about crime!”
“Er—no—of course not! I didn’t mean to suggest—um—I say! I still find it difficult to comprehend. Was I really possessed?”
“You were. And I beg of you, please don’t brew any more Hetrodythermaline.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin! I don’t remember how I did it, or where the inspiration came from!”
Emma looked thoughtful, took a sip of her tea, and said, “I wonder whether the drug’s effects are permanent or will wear off?”
“I suspect they were already wearing off when you threw me the amulet. I say, though, what a stroke of genius it was to use it!”
“Not genius, sir. Just a hunch. I remembered how, when you retrieved it during the Egyptian mummy affair, something of you appeared to soak into it. The previous owner had claimed it housed his soul. Working on the hypothesis that it now contains yours, I hoped that, somehow, its radiance would jog your real personality back into dominance.” Emma’s eyebrows pressed toward each other, the skin creasing between them. “It’s a remarkable coincidence.”
“What is?”
“How your ancestor, Doctor Bartholomew Fogg, awoke from a nap one day, his head brimful of odd ideas that led to the creation of Cyrus Fogg—and how, over a hundred years later, you awoke from a nap in an identical manner, and recreated that evil man.”
“You suspect an outside influence?”
“No, I suspect an inside influence.”
Fogg pulled a lever on the side of his armchair. His cigar dispenser whirred into action, the first of its mechanical arms unfolded from a recess next to the fireplace, then it made a grinding noise and froze in mid-movement.
Emma rolled her eyes and said, “Pardon my language, but why in the name of all that’s holy don’t you just place the cigar box on the hearth beside your blessed chair? By extending your hand just a little beyond the lever, you’d be able to pluck a cigar from it yourself.”
“No fun in that,” Fogg grunted. “What do you mean, ‘inside influence?’”
“It is my belief that you possess, in the structure of your body, particles of your ancestor; of Bartholomew Fogg.”
Fogg’s eyebrows shot up. “Surely you don’t refer to actual physical substance!”
“Yes, sir, I do. I even go so far as to suggest that those particles might contain some sort of timing mechanism, which was set to activate at a preordained moment measured from your time of birth, and that, when that activation occurred, they caused you to replicate Bartholomew Fogg’s moment of inspiration.”
Macallister Fogg considered this for a moment. He rubbed his chin. He looked at his secretary.
“Mrs. Boswell, that is the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard!”
THE END
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