“Ah, building up and tearing down,” Folkestone said, smiling. “I am meeting Lady Cynthia for dinner. Why don’t you come along and join us? I’m sure she’d be very pleased to see you again.”
For a moment, Hand wavered between his own plans and the Captain’s proposal. More than a month had passed since he had last seen Lady Cynthia Barrington-Welles. He had known the Admiral’s daughter exactly as long as he had known Captain Folkestone, and had met them under the same circumstances—on patrol years earlier he had found them in the lost lands after their aethercraft crashed, a portentous encounter that resulted in discovering the chamber of the last sea king of Mars, and defeating the entity that nearly escaped it. His meeting with Folkestone had resulted in friendship and respect; with Lady Cynthia, the result was also friendship and respect, but also a bit more…but only for Hand.
Hand shook off the persistent bonds of past memories and drew himself back to the present. While he carried a sense of romantic affection for the girl, he knew it would never be more than a one-sided admiration from afar. Besides, it was obvious Lady Cynthia only had eyes for Captain Folkestone, even if she refused to admit it, and he was too stone-headed to see it. Hand sighed as he thought of the infuriating blindness of his two favorite humans.
“Sergeant?” Folkestone asked.
“Sir?”
“This evening?” the human reminded him. “Dinner? With Lady Cynthia and me? Are you interested?”
“Oh, sorry, sir,” Hand said with a nervous laugh. “I don’t know where me mind was, I don’t.”
“How about it, then?”
“Thank you, sir, but no,” Hand answered. “Just a quiet night in my room. Besides, if I’m going back to my regiment, I need to get my kit in order.”
“I could arrange for a permanent assignment to the Admiralty, you know,” Folkestone offered. “No orderly room duties.”
“And you could transfer out of the 1st Space Dragoons, but you don’t,” Hand pointed out.
“Well, there’s a difference, isn’t there?” Folkestone replied. “The 63rd Martian Rifles protest when you are away on assignments, and the 1st Dragoons complain when I am not. I suspect the Admiral maintains my regimental commission as something of a Damocles’ Sword, to keep the commander in line.”
Hand shook his head. “I don’t mind being sent hither and yon by the Admiralty, but I don’t want to work here. Too many bloody brass-hats walking about. No offense, sir.”
“None taken. I can’t stomach most of them either,” Folkestone admitted. “Are you sure about tonight?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“As you wish, Hand, but Lady Cynthia will be disappointed,” Folkestone said. “She is quite fond of you, you know.”
“Good night, sir,” Hand said. “Have a pleasant evening, and do give my regards, and regrets, to Lady Cynthia.”
They parted, Folkestone heading to the fashionable districts of northern Syrtis Major, Hand treading southward, where gaslamps were set farther apart, entertainment was coarser, and people, both human and Martian, were quite a bit more desperate.
And the pubs don’t charge nearly as much as some jumped-up frog restaurant, Hand thought. But, he had to admit, the broiled mutton and potatoes had been the best he had ever had.
About a block away from the Admiralty, Folkestone hailed a passing steam-hansom, climbed in after the driver above cranked open the knee-doors, then gave the address of the Conservative Club, where he had arranged to meet Lady Cynthia. He had been rather surprised when a commissionaire delivered a message, that Lady Cynthia had returned from Earth and would be pleased if he would join her for dinner. The invitation was as pleasant as it was unexpected, for the Admiral’s daughter provided such delightful companionship that Folkestone was, at times, almost able to forget she was the Admiral’s daughter.
Over the years, they had shared many adventures, most of which fell under the auspices of the Official Secrets Act. She was the only daughter of Lord Admiral Sir Geoffrey Barrington-Welles, but her exact status within Her Majesty’s Government continued to elude him. At times, she seemed a member of the Diplomatic Corps, while at other times she seemed attached to the Foreign Office, the Ministry of Space and Provinces of the Sky, or the Home Office. She also sometimes acted at the behest of her father (more than once, the Admiral had burdened him and Hand with her for no reason he could understand), and had at least once carried out some vague mission for Section 6. Not long ago, in a fit of exasperated forwardness, Folkestone had breached the subject of Lady Cynthia’s activities, for which he received the answer that she was a ‘Jill of all trades’; she also told him it was none of his business, but with a fond smile. Despite all the ambiguity surrounding her, the one thing Folkestone knew for certain was that wherever Lady Cynthia went, trouble was usually not far behind.
Twenty minutes later, he alighted from the steam-hansom, and had waited in the foyer of the club less than five minutes before Lady Cynthia appeared. She greeted him with a warm smile, and he kissed her on the hand.
“How pleasant to see you again, Robert,” she said. “Is Sergeant Hand not joining us? I did not mention him in my note, but I assumed he would. I thought it would take a diamond-saw to separate the two of you.”
“I asked, but he declined.”
“I rather hoped to see him,” she said. “I am very fond of him.”
“So I told him, but he wants to get his kit on order.”
“Oh?”
“With no assignment in the offing, Hand wants to return to his regiment rather than loiter about the Admiralty,” he explained.
“Understandable in a way,” she admitted. “Too many admirals, brigadiers, commanders and captains around for anyone to feel comfortable, wouldn’t you say?”
Folkestone almost frowned. The girl had an odd sense of humor and it was often difficult to tell whether she was saying something in all seriousness or merely jesting. Her expression rarely gave him any clues.
“Shall we go on in?” he suggested, as a way to avoid giving an answer to the question she may, or may not, have asked.
She gave him a crooked little smile and nodded.
Lady Cynthia Barrington-Welles was, Folkestone mused, quite lovely, very slender and petite, with unblemished skin the color of moonlight. He liked the way the gaslight caught and flashed in the highlights of her ebony hair. She was garbed in an evening gown of blue silk. If there anything which might mar the perfection she represented to Folkestone, it was her black leather eyepatch, held in place by a silk ribbon, and, yet, as far as he was concerned, it was not an imperfection; what might have been a fault for any other person was, for her, nothing but a touch of the exotic. She had lost her eye long before they met. She gave no explanation, and he did not ask for one. Certainly she could have had an artificer replace it was a construction of crystal and brass, or even an old-fashioned glass eye, but she seemed to prefer the eyepatch, and, if pressed, he would have admitted that she would not be the same without it.
Yes, a very lovely girl, he admitted as they walked side by side into the dining room of the Conservative Club. So lovely, he wished he could forget she was the Admiral’s daughter. Sometimes.
The waiters had just put their soup before them when a young subaltern entered the room, looked about, then headed directly for their table. Both Lady Cynthia and Captain Folkestone appeared ready to receive the message, but it was to Folkestone that the junior officer veered. He leaned forward and whispered into Folkestone’s ear. The Captain nodded and the subaltern departed.
“What is it, Robert?” Lady Cynthia asked.
“I fear our evening has been cut short,” he answered. “I have been called back to the Admiralty. I must leave immediately.”
“I’ll come with you,” she offered.
“No, you stay and enjoy your meal,” he protested, “There’s no need for you to forego your pleasure simply because some worried colonel feels I must forego mine, and for something that will likely turn out to
be nothing.” He stood, reached across the table and again kissed her hand. “Now, if you will excuse me, Lady Cynthia, I must be going. My regrets.”
Lady Cynthia Barrington-Welles keenly watched Folkestone as he made his way across the dining area of the Conservative Club. Once she was sure he was gone, she signaled a waiter, signed a chit, and made her way out to the street. Out of a long-held cautionary habit, she let the first two steam-cabs go to others, then took the third for herself. She headed to Government House.
When Folkestone arrived at the Admiralty, he found Hand just inside the doorway. “You too?”
“Yes, sir,” Hand grumbled. “A jumped-up fresh-faced junior grade caught me right between my pastie and my treacle tart.”
Folkestone smiled. “Hope you set him right, Sergeant.”
“Too right, sir.”
“Well, let’s go face the music, as they say.”
“Any idea what…”
“Not a bean, Sergeant, but I know the Admiral does not like to be kept waiting.”
“Wonder if the old boy made it home.”
“Hope not,” Folkestone remarked. “It will be worse if he did.”
They took the steam-lift, which wheezed upward with its usual lack of rapidity, to the top level
“How was Lady Cynthia?”
“Lovely as ever,” Folkestone replied. “And charming.”
“Any word on what she’s been at of late?”
“Didn’t really have a chance to…”
“So, they recalled you before the two of you had a chance to cheese each other off?” Hand grinned.
Folkestone fidgeted. “If you want to put it that way.”
“I do.”
“She did ask about you, by the way.”
“Oh?”
The lift-door hissed open.
“Later.”
Hand scowled.
“Ah, Captain Folkestone, Sergeant Hand,” the Lord Admiral greeted after they were shown in by his adjutant. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Please be seated.”
Lord Admiral Sir Geoffrey Barrington-Welles was a white-haired, wide-bodied old man, thickly muscled, and red-faced as much from the winds of the open seas as from the harsh glare of the solar disc above many worlds. His tunic was inexpertly buttoned, as if he had just shrugged it on. He handed a communiqué to Captain Folkestone with his right hand, not wanting to hear the unavoidable clickings and whirrings that inevitably accompanied any movement of his left arm; the artificers of the Empire were very clever, but even they could only approximate the perfection of God’s creation.
“Your message to the Foreign Office seems to have opened a huge can of worms,” the Admiral said.
Folkestone passed the message to Hand.
“How does Section 6 fit into this, sir?” He gave it to Hand.
“How does Section 6 fit into anything?” Hand demanded as he pushed the parchment across the desktop.
“Quite right, Sergeant Hand!” Barrington-Welles agreed. “It’s bad enough they play their blasted Great Game in our bloody bailiwick, but they want my officers to play it for them.”
“Why doesn’t Section 6 have one of its own operatives take over the investigation?” Folkestone asked.
“Two reasons, I imagine,” the Admiral replied. “No doubt they would claim that since the investigation has to be taken from the jurisdiction of the Court of the Red Prince, from this…”
“Baphor-Ta,” Folkestone supplied.
“…from this Baphor-Ta chap,” the Admiral continued, “it will be for the best if it is done by you and Sergeant Hand. He initially called you in as consultants. I understand from your earlier memo that you did some casual…” He paused. “…snooping, and he has a better opinion of the military on Mars than he does Her Majesty’s Government in general.”
As there was no denying the obvious, Folkestone and Hand nodded in agreement.
“But the real reason should be obvious,” the Admiral said.
“The slugs don’t like to crawl from under their rocks,” Sergeant Hand muttered.
“Well put, Sergeant!” Barrington-Welles agreed. “We know a few of the more inept agents, the ones we’re supposed to know.”
“But not the agents they don’t want us to know about,” the Captain added. “If this did not have to be taken from the auspices of the Court, they would quietly take over…”
“Quite right,” the Admiral agreed. “I know it is late, but if we are to carry out our orders, you shouldn’t let any moss grow…”
“We’ll go to the Court immediately?” Folkestone said.
“Your chap will still be there?” the Admiral asked.
“He never leaves before midnight.”
“Good man.” The Admiral said. “Off you go!”
A half-hour later, Folkestone and Hand found themselves under the gimlet-eyed scrutiny of a pair of guards at a side entrance to the Court of the Red Prince, though Hand received much more scrutiny than did the human. Both sentries were newly posted and fresh from training camp, still trying to acclimate themselves to the higher oxygen level of the Lowlands, and likely still trying to overcome the awe at being assigned a royal posting.
“It’s very late,” the first guard said.
The second guard gripped his spear tightly. “Extremely late.”
“We must see Baphor-Ta,” Folkestone insisted.
The two guards ignored the human, focusing on Sergeant Felix Hand. Both gave their fellow Martian what Hand would no doubt have described as ‘twin stink eyes.’
“Why for are you in a human uniform?” asked one.
“What House be you?” demanded the other.
“It’s not a human uniform, it’s mine, you air-grubbers,” Hand snarled, “and the other is none of your bleeding business.”
“Listen you…” the first guard started to say.
“You listen,” Hand snapped, pushing forward till his belligerent face was inches from their own. “You do what the Captain requests or I’ll take those brand-new spears and shove them up your…”
“What’s going on here?” shouted a voice behind the guards.
“We’re here to see Chief Investigator Baphor-Ta, Honorable Overseer,” Folkestone explained. “On Admiralty business.”
“Oh, it’s you, Captain Folkestone,” the Overseer of the Guards greeted. “And Sergeant Hand. Welcome.” He slapped both guards against the backs of their heads simultaneously. “What is the matter with you slugs? Did they not identify themselves, state they were from the Admiralty, and ask to see the Chief Investigator?”
Neither guard wanted to distinguish himself to the Overseer. Both nodded nervously.
“Then have them sign the night-log and let them pass!”
“Yes, Honorable Overseer!”
“This way,” grudgingly said the other, “Please sign here.”
Once Folkestone and Hand had been admitted to the confines of the Court’s ancient edifice, the Overseer glared at the two guards.
“If you are unsure of a visitors status, call the Captain of the Guard,” the Overseer instructed. “Do not try to think for yourselves until your brains are sufficiently developed.”
“Yes, Honorable Overseer.”
“As you command, Honorable Overseer.”
As they walked away, the Overseer murmured with a sly smile: “Probably too much oxygen for those two thistle-seeds from the Highlands, but they will do well once they rid themselves of their provincial prejudices. You two can find your own way to Baphor-Ta’s office, I presume?”
“Yes, Honorable Overseer,” Folkestone said. “Thank you.”
“Thanks,” Hand echoed. “Glad your boys didn’t get hurt.”
“Sergeant Hand,” Folkestone said when they were alone. “One day you might try diplomacy before brute force.”
“I might, when I can figure out how to use diplomacy to stop a sword thrust or a bullet,” Hand quipped.
Folkestone sighed.
The corridor they traversed
to Baphor-Ta’s suite of offices was ill lit, only every third gas-jet burning, and that at half-strength. All the doorways were darkened except one at the end, yellowish light flaring onto the wall opposite. The sound of a steam-typer echoed softly along the lonely passageway. They knew Baphor-Ta had a home, but they wondered when he ever had a chance to see it. As they approached the doorway, the sound of the machine stopped abruptly. When they stepped into the doorway they found Baphor-Ta aiming a needle-gun at them.
“I take it you do not think highly of the Court’s security either,” Folkestone suggested.
“Can’t say I blame you none,” Hand agreed.
Baphor-Ta activated the weapon’s locking mechanism, slipped it back into its hidden holster.
“When I heard the footfalls, several people came to mind, only a fraction of whom I would be pleased to see,” he said. “You two were not on my list, but I am please to see you…I think.”
“It depends,” Folkestone said.
“Depends on what?”
“On how heart-set you are on investigating the murder of Professor Jean Louis Poulpe,” Folkestone replied.
Baphor-Ta nodded. “When I learned of the Sûreté’s interest in Professor Poulpe, I thought I might see you.”
“We did not know you had contacted the Sûreté, or they you.”
“Your Section 6 does not know all or see all, at least not as much as they believe,” Baphor-Ta said with a smile.
Hand glanced at Folkestone, saw that the Captain did not so much as twitch, and tried to emulate him.
“We were asked by Lord Admiral Barrington-Welles to assume responsibility for the investigation,” Folkestone explained. “I think it came about because of the communication we sent the FO.”
“Well, it does not really matter, for I am glad to be rid of it; investigations involving dead humans are too much trouble for all,” Baphor-Ta said after a moment. “For the sake of good relations, we will agree you were asked by the Admiral, and not wonder who gave him his orders. However, I shall continue to harass Honorable Phylus-Zant.”
“If we are going to follow…”
“No, I expect you to annoy Phylus-Zant as much as possible,” Baphor-Ta interrupted. “My interest in that unpleasant fellow is for other crimes than murder. He has many secrets, and I believe one of them is smuggling, an activity which does not amuse the Court of the Red Prince, less for the affront to divine authority than for the loss of revenue, but for that as well. Me, I just find him repulsive and needing to be taken down a rung, but, as you know, I am a simple man, existing to serve the Court without personal goals.”
Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2) Page 6