“Not a patch on women, though, sir,” Hand reminded him.
“…it’s the men of the Continent who primp and preen for hours before they venture into public,” Folkestone continued. “And who are the proudest peacocks of the walk?”
“Frenchmen!”
“As you say, Hand.”
“If this bloke was some froggish toff he couldn’t help but want his mollusks and pancakes,” Hand said.
“I believe they’re called escargot and crepes, Hand.” Captain Folkestone pointed out.
Hand shrugged. “Call it what you want, sir, but it’s all frog-food to me.”
Folkestone sighed. “Try to behave yourself and not re-fight the Napoleonic Wars.”
“Not my fault their dwarf lost.” But when he saw Folkestone’s tilted head and slanted eye he added: “I’ll do my best, sir.”
The noon Sun beat down on the thronged streets of Syrtis Major with all the heat of a Martian summer, which meant most of the offworld visitors were lightly bundled, except, of course, the few pale Venusian travelers about, who were heavily swaddled. The natives were garbed in thin fabrics, the minority traditionalists in the silk robes of upper- and middle-class gentility, or the functional tunics of workers, or progressive radicals who wanted to be thought of as useful to society. But the majority of Martians affected bowlers and brolleys, spats and toppers, tweeds and boaters.
The air was filled with a cacophony of sounds and voices. The swarming steamers and rumbling omnibuses hissed like serpents, warning pedestrians from their paths with a variety of sirens and horns, bells and bangs. Carriages and cabs pulled by zitibars were also in abundance; though steam engines were common on Mars, the traditional dray-animal was still favored by many because of its reliability and great strength…an undeclared conflict existed between the steam-men and the zitibar-drivers, and though it rarely resulted in open hostilities, there was eternal grumbling by both sides, one faction averring they never had to burn stinking coal to get a zitibar moving, the other claiming no steamer ever had deposited reeking dung in the thoroughfare. Also making streets dangerous for pedestrians, drivers and dray-men alike were the multitudes of cyclists on their penny-farthings, boneshakers and coventry-trikes. Overhead, the air was filled with airships and sleek aethercraft entering or leaving the city, and fliers on short hauls.
As soon as they were able, Folkestone and Hand attained the Victoria Walk which curved along the Grand Canal and was limited to pedestrians only. They strolled along the clear turquoise waters, enjoying the cavalcade of sails and steam, and, occasionally, oars.
Though the wide canal walkway was free of motor and animal traffic, frequented mostly by the more genteel human and Martian citizenry of Syrtis Major, there was no escaping the incessant cries of vendors of all sorts. Their keening exhortations echoed from one end of the Grand Canal to the other, assailing pedestrians with the benefits of eating this or buying that, or hawking any of the many scandal-sheets or tabloids that infested the city. Most of the street sellers hawked their wares from small wheeled carts, but because they used neither motor nor dray they were able to drive through a loophole in the civic ordinances.
“Magnificent sight, the canal and its traffic, don’t you think?” Folkestone commented. “Commerce of Empire, industry of Mars, best of both worlds, and all that.”
Hand shrugged. “I suppose, if you like to see so much water in one place. Personally, I think it wasteful, just another extravagance of the Lowlanders, even if the lazy buggers didn’t dig the bleeding canals themselves.”
“But the canals are vital to commerce,” Folkestone protested. “Airships and aethercraft are much faster and can travel to inland villages, but the paddle wheelers and schooners can transport much larger loads. They are the key to Mars’ prosperity.”
“Tell that to the Highlanders,” Hand murmured. “Or, for that matter, to the weald-folk or the sand-pollies.”
Folkestone nodded, realizing he had again touched upon one of the Sergeant’s raw nerves, which were numerous.
“For millions of years. Highlanders scraped along with animals and our own two feet,” Hand continued. “We built up our own high civilization with no help from the bloody Lowlanders. Without any canals, we traded among ourselves and with the other races.”
“And occasionally raided and plundered them.”
“Well, yes, but never viciously, just when they had it coming, but never mind about that, sir,” Hand said. “We was talking about the Lowlanders. Greedy gits, all of them…”
“Baphor-Ta.”
“Well, almost all, sir, but the exception doesn’t go to disprove the rule,” Hand explained. “I mean, look at that Phylus-Zant! Even you wanted to rip off his arms and beat his loaf till it cracked.”
Folkestone sighed. “I merely considered having a chat with the man, perhaps clear up a few misunderstandings, make for better relations between the races.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir.”
Folkestone nodded, satisfied at terminating the discussion and setting aside Sergeant Hand’s flawed argument.
“In a zitibar’s eye, sir,” Hand added softly.
“Ah, there’s the restaurant,” Folkestone said, relieved.
The Salon des Sables Rouges was a long low building set some distance from the Grand Canal. Most of the plot of land it occupied was taken up by an outdoor dining area, the tables unnecessarily protected from the feeble Sun by striped umbrellas. Gentle waves of heat shimmered up from vents strategically set among the bricks, almost unnoticeable in the summer heat. The tables were nearly all occupied, but Folkestone and Hand managed to find seating close to the restaurant. They picked up their menus from the table.
Hand looked about disdainfully at the other diners, mostly Martians of both of the main races, but including a good number of humans, and even a gaggle of pale, thin, scarecrow-like Venusians sitting off by themselves, jammed at two tables pulled together.
“Those wogs’ll be all frown-faced when they find that can’t get a decent bottle of segir, not that you can tell from a Venusian’s face whether he’s deliriously happy or down in the swamp,” Hand said. “Well, maybe they’ll cheer up if they can get stewed amphibian and spiced canal-weed.”
“You do realize, Hand, there is more to life than broiled mutton and potatoes,” Folkestone pointed out.
“Wasn’t even that much for Highlanders till the British brought the sheep and the Irish brought the potatoes,” Hand replied.
“Read your menu, Hand.”
“Up in the Highlands, we got lots of Irish and Scottish who…” Hand started to say.
“How may I serve two such gallant soldiers of the Empire?” asked a voice beside them. “What is your pleasure, gentlemen?”
Folkestone and Hand looked up, saw a waiter had approached them on tiny noiseless feet. He wore a long-tailed coat, a scarlet cravat and a flat cap. He beamed a smile at them much more radiant than the distant Sun.
“What food do you have that ain’t French?” Hand asked.
“Monsieur?” The waiter’s smile faded a bit and he looked at Folkestone in confusion.
“Bring us two orders of pommes de terre et le mouton grillé,” Folkestone said, handing the waiter the menus. “And two lagers.”
“Lagers, monsieur?”
“Beer.”
“I am sorry, monsieur, but…”
“Mineral water,” Folkestone said.
“Ah, very good,” the waiter said with a smile. “I shall bring your orders to you immediately.” He snapped his fingers and a Martian lad dressed in white duck came running. “Two mineral waters for the esteemed gentlemen, boy. Et être vite que ça!”
“What did you order for us?” Hand asked. He sipped from the glass of mineral water that appeared almost before the waiter left them. He made a face. “That’s another thing water’s not made for.”
“I guarantee you’ll like it.”
“I don’t like French food.”
“Trus
t me.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Yes,” Folkestone replied, smiling broadly. “Yes, it is.”
Less than five minutes elapsed before their waiter swept back to their table, platter held deftly aloft on one hand, and placed their plates before them. Sergeant Hand looked down, his features already in a prearranged grimace, then burst into a surprised grin.
“Broiled mutton and potatoes!” he exclaimed.
“And what else did monsieur expect?” the waiter enquired. “It is what was ordered, was it not?”
Sergeant Hand started to reply, but was cut off.
“Never mind about that,” Folkestone said. “Say, Frenchy, what is your name?”
“Pierre,” the man answered.
“All right, Pierre, take a look at this likeness, please, and tell me if you recognize him.” Folkestone gave him the daguerreotype.
The waiter opened the folder and went pale. “Mon Dieu! Is…is he…that is to say…”
“Dead as a mud-flapper,” Sergeant Hand said, chomping away.
“But do you know him?” Folkestone persisted.
“Oui, monsieur,” Pierre replied. “It is M Poulpe.”
“French?”
“Oui, monsieur,” Pierre answered. “I cannot be certain, but his accent did not seem provincial. Parisian, perhaps, but, if so, he has traveled and acquired tones from other lands. It happens, monsieur, despite our best efforts. In my own case, for example, since I have come to Mars, I have picked up…”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Folkestone asked.
The waiter was still visibly upset, but the direct question helped him concentrate on something other than the man’s image, which he handed back to Folkestone. Pierre looked up, pursed his lips, and stroked his chin.
“The day before yesterday, I believe,” he finally said.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, he ordered our bouillabaisse, one of our specialties,” he explained. “Of course, it is not the same as one would make back home, in my father’s restaurant in Nice, since some of the local fish have to be substituted for…”
“Do you know Poulpe’s Christian name?”
“No, I am sorry, monsieur, we were not well acquainted,” the waiter replied. “I would not even know his surname, but once, some months ago, he was sitting with a man who called him by that name. Later, I greeted him by that name; he did not correct me, and even seemed pleased by the recognition.”
“Who was the other man?” Folkestone asked.
Pierre shrugged. “I had not seen him before, and I have not seen him since. I can only tell you, he was human, very elegant in his dress, was dark complexioned, perhaps Indian, and had a neatly trimmed fork-beard.”
Hand looked up from his meal. “That’s pretty good for a man you never saw before or since.”
“It was the difference between this man and M Poulpe that drew my attention,” Pierre explained. “M Poulpe was well-spoken and very educated, mannered as well, but his clothes were very plain. Not shabby or worn, you understand, but very common, such as a rich man who dresses in the manner of a pauper because he prizes something else more than he does his attire.”
“Was Poulpe rich?” Folkestone asked.
“He never said, of course, for that is never a matter of polite conversation, but he must have been,” Pierre explained. “His choice of fare was as plain as his clothing, soups or common chops most of the time, but in his wine choices he exhibited a very sophisticated palate, and the vintages he chose were…not inexpensive.”
“French wines?” Folkestone asked.
“Are there any others?”
“In the Highlands, we have a berry that…”
“Imported?”
“Exclusively,” Pierre replied. “To reduce costs, we, for a time, attempted to replace certain vintages with wine grown on Mars in the French Sector using vines transplanted from Earth. The results were…unsatisfactory.”
“From the trade reports I’ve read, it seems those wines are very popular on Mars,” Folkestone said. “Especially the Planète Rouge Vin label.”
Pierre shrugged. “What can I say, monsieur? Mars is many things, but France is not one of them.”
“Do you know if Mr Poulpe was a resident of Syrtis Major?”
“Since he was a very regular customer, I assume so, but I do not know for certain,” Pierre replied. “As I said, we were not well acquainted, certainly not friends. He seemed a very private man.” He sighed deeply. “I shall miss his fraternity considerably.”
Finished with his meal, Hand pushed the plate away. “I thought you said you barely knew him.”
“Oui, monsieur, very private,” Pierre said, raising his eyebrows as he looked at the thoroughly cleaned plate. “But he was a son of France, and for those of us who choose to live in the British zone, the company of any Frenchman, even that of a stranger, no matter how fleeting, is precious, to be missed when it is withdrawn, especially when in such a cruel and violent manner.” He sighed again, in the deep heartfelt end-of-the-world way that only a Frenchman can sigh. “He tipped very well.”
“You certainly seemed to enjoy your meal, Hand,” Folkestone observed when the waiter returned to his duties.
“When they don’t cook it up all French-like, it ain’t too bad.” He looked at the bill the waiter had discreetly placed on their table, then passed it to the Captain. “But I can get better at over at the Bell and Anchor.”
Folkestone eyed the bill. “And cheaper.”
After lunch, they went to the Admiralty communication center, making a wide detour to avoid the orderly room to which Hand had been assigned temporarily. First, they sent a message to Baphor-Ta’s office at the Court, telling him what they had discovered about the dead man, then forwarded the information to the Foreign Office in London. Since Poulpe was likely a French national, it would be up to the FO to contact the French Embassy or, if appropriate, the Sûreté. Lastly, they sent a note to Lord Admiral Barrington-Welles, informing him of the results of the Court’s request.
“That’s probably the end of it for us, Hand,” Folkestone said as he inserted the report in a brass capsule and coded it for pneumatic delivery to the Lord Admiral’s office. “Poulpe may be French, but unless he is a wanted man, the Sûreté will likely be just as happy to leave it in Baphor-Ta’s jurisdiction.”
“Well at least the corpse has a name,” Hand said. “We gave him that much. Even a frog don’t belong in potter’s field.”
“And if Baphor-Ta knows enough French,” the Captain added, “he will see the irony of finding the body where it was.”
“Sir?”
“The word ‘poulpe’,” Folkestone said. “It means ‘octopus’.” He searched Hand’s face for a glimmer of amusement. “And he was found in the water.”
“Oh,” Hand said after a moment. “Quite droll, sir.”
With one minor task or another, it was early evening before the two men departed the Admiralty. The purple shades of dusk were gathering and the stars emerged brightly. Airships switched on their powerful arc-lamps, and aetherliners occasionally leaped into the vault from Syrtis Major’s busy aetherport. Some lights glimmered across the Grand Canal, but many of the Martian sailing craft held to the old tradition of putting into port at sunset. The bright blue-green star that was Earth gleamed and flashed just above the misty horizon.
“Sir, since it appears this investigation is going to stay with Baphor-Ta, and the Admiral has no assignment, I’m going to ask to be transferred back to my regiment in the morning,” Hand said as they stood outside the imposing onyx building, ready to go their separate ways. “If I’m going to play babysitter, I’d rather do it with my own lads.”
“I’m sure we can find something more meaningful than that,” Folkestone said. “Perhaps I can…”
“No, sir, I appreciate it, but if we’re not hunting pirates, finding a lost civilization or saving the Empire, I’m sure I’ll be bored to tears, whatever i
t is,” Hand said with a chuckle. “And if I’m going to be bored to tears, I’d rather do so with my own comrades. And, of course, they’re probably getting soft without me.”
“Perhaps you are right, Hand,” Folkestone allowed. “But is it not difficult to be around nothing but humans day and night? A full half of the Admiralty is of your race, either volunteers for service to Her Majesty, or attaches from the Court. There, well…”
“I thought it quite an irony at first, being the lone Martian in Her Majesty’s 63rd Martian Rifles,” Hand admitted. “But you have to remember it is a hardship outpost. Of the Martians who enlist, the Highlanders are looking for adventure, and the Lowlanders want a post not too demanding and close to the good things in life.”
“Surely not as stark as that, Hand,” Folkestone protested.
“Of course, neither get want they want, Highlanders being sent to outposts where there are no uprisings, and Lowlanders working harder than they have ever work before.” He chuckled. “Funny that. But, as to the 63rd, it was as much a shock to me as it was to the others, me surrounded by humans the first time in my life and them getting close to a Martian for the first time. We had our scrapes, but it wasn’t long before we was fast mates, me and them.” He sighed. “They became my family, I guess you’d say.”
“Nothing from back home, then?” Folkestone asked.
“No and not likely to be,” Hand replied. “Well, a note now and then from my eldest sister Lana-So, but the lass has to be careful not to let the folks know. She visits the grave on high holy days, just like the others.”
“That’s quite a price you paid, Hand.”
Sergeant Hand shrugged. “No regrets, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Sergeant,” Folkestone said. “What are your plans for this evening?”
“Dinner and a round of darts at the Bell and Anchor,” Hand answered. “Then back to the lodging house for a bottle of segir with Messrs Shakespeare and Legend.”
Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2) Page 5