Bent looked at her curiously. “Sally. I had no idea.”
Mrs. Cadwallader blinked and waved her hands, as though flapping away the memories. “The point is, we spent a season one year doing zarzuela. That’s like … Spanish opera. Pan y Toros was the production. It was my first big part. I learned a lot of Spanish. I liked the language. So … poetic. So passionate.” Mrs. Cadwallader reddened and stared at the fire. “I kept my hand in, as they say. I know enough to get by. It’s amazing where you can pick bits up. Why, in your former newspaper, Mr. Bent, there have been of late these rather odd advertisements.…”
“What was it he said to you?” Bent asked Maria. “Our evidently Spanish friend in the alley?”
Maria closed her eyes, putting herself back in Hoxton Road. “Por fin te he encontrado,” she said, opening her eyes and looking to Mrs. Cadwallader.
Mrs. Cadwallader frowned. “Por fin is ‘at last.’ At last … I found it? I have found you.” She smiled. “At last, I have found you.”
* * *
While Maria was in the corner of the basement armory that she had converted to a workshop, effecting her repairs—he didn’t like to think too much about what that involved; it quite made him queasy—Bent had dragged out his carefully filed notebooks filled with shorthand notation, specifically the ones from their American adventure when they had all traipsed off to recover the brass dragon Apep from the Texan slaver-warlord to whom poor old Louis Cockayne had been trying to sell it—and Maria—for a quick profit.
By the time Maria and Mrs. Cadwallader emerged back into the study, the girl all cleaned up and in a fresh frock, Bent had spread out several sheets of plain foolscap paper on the table, on which he was rapidly writing names, dates, and places and connecting them with a spiderweb of lines and circles.
Mrs. Cadwallader tutted at the mess, but Bent shushed her. “I think I’m on to something here,” he said, jamming a pencil behind his ear and standing up straight to admire his handiwork, rolling a cigarette between his nicotine-stained fingers. He patted his pockets for his matches and said to Maria, “What did it put you in mind of, this outfit Jack the Ripper was wearing?”
“If it truly was him,” said Maria.
“Let’s assume it was for a minute,” said Bent, cupping the flaring match in his hands then sucking hard on his roll-up. “All in black, you said?”
“El hombre de negro,” said Mrs. Cadwallader softly. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Maria shrugged. “Boots, up to his knees. Sturdy cotton trousers. A shirt, silk or expensive cotton, perhaps. A black woolen jacket. All in black.”
“And the mask, of course,” said Bent. He pushed a notebook toward her. “Like this?”
Maria glanced at the rough pencil sketch surrounded by notes. “Yes, exactly like that.”
Bent sat down heavily in his chair. Maria said, “Exactly like the one Inez wore.”
Mrs. Cadwallader reappeared with a tray of coffee and a folded newspaper. She said, “Inez?”
“Inez Batiste Palomo,” said Bent. “She was the daughter of the governor of Uvalde, a one-horse town on the border between New Spain and Texas. She fell in love with an Indian boy from the Yaqui tribe, and together they were instrumental in setting up the town of Freedom. She was also a pretty effing nifty swordswoman. Destreza, she called it. It’s more of an art than a way of fighting. I watched her at it … it was like ballet. That’s what got me thinking, with those footprints in the alleyway at the last Ripper killing, and that idiot Great Detective prancing about, replicating them. I knew I’d effing seen them before.”
Maria sat down at the table, looking at Bent’s notes. “She took to wearing a black costume and a cowl,” she said. “There had been some … masked champion of the downtrodden New Spanish border peoples.”
“El Chupacabras,” said Bent, reading from his notes. “Means ‘goat-sucker,’ if you can believe that. He’d defended the New Spanish against incursions by the Texan slaver-gangs. He was something of a folk hero. But he’d disappeared a few years before. Inez sort of took up the mantle.”
Maria stared at him. “You don’t think … Jack the Ripper is this El Chupacabras? But how did he get from New Spain to London? And why?”
Bent took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. “Do you remember, though, it turned out that Inez’s father wasn’t her real dad. She was the illegitimate daughter of the previous governor of Uvalde.” He consulted his notes. “Don Sergio de la Garcia. Her father had taken on the mother and de la Garcia’s bastard as his own. And then…”
Maria gasped. “Sergio de la Garcia was called back to Madrid!”
Bent smiled. “About the same effing time that El Chupacabras hung up his mask, for reasons never really explained. I did wonder about that, but to be honest we were so knee-effing-deep in steam-powered warlords and mechanical giants and dinosaurs, I never gave it too much thought.”
“You think Sergio de la Garcia was El Chupacabras?”
Bent shrugged. “Very coincidental, the masked champion disappearing at the same time as the governor is called back to the old country. And the way Inez handled a sword … maybe it was in the blood. And maybe it wasn’t just de la Garcia’s blood in her veins. Maybe it was El effing Chupacabras’s, too.” He stubbed out his cigarette on a saucer, ignoring Mrs. Cadwallader’s gasps, and immediately began to roll another. “But as to how he got here, and why … I’ve no effing clue.”
“I have,” said Maria. “He’s working for Markus Mesmer.”
Bent gaped at her. “How the hell do you know that?”
It was Maria’s turn to smile. “When I was … encouraging Mesmer to tell me what had happened to Gideon, and I revealed my true nature to him, he told me that his masters had dispatched an agent to find the Atlantic Artifact. He has not had much success, though he has looked inside many heads, he said.”
Bent puffed hard on his cigarette. “But we can’t be sure he was talking about Jack the Ripper.… It might have been a figure of speech.”
“If I might interrupt?” said Mrs. Cadwallader. She brandished the newspaper she had brought in with the coffee. “I have been trying to tell you, Mr. Bent, about some advertisements that have been running in the Illustrated London Argus this past week.”
“This isn’t the time for talk of a new washing mangle, no matter how much of a bargain it is,” said Bent, but when he caught her glare he said sheepishly, “Ah, sorry, Sally. Do go on.”
“It’s in Spanish,” she said, arching an eyebrow at Bent. She passed it over and he looked at it.
El Hombre de Negro! Usted debe ponerse en contacto con nosotros inmediatamente para ponernos al día sobre su misión. Tenemos que reunirnos con usted urgentemente. Puedes dejar un mensaje para nosotros en el teatro Britannia. Su compatriota, el señor Cerebro.
“Um, you couldn’t read this for us, could you?”
She took the newspaper back. “Very roughly speaking … ‘The Man in Black! You must contact us immediately to inform us how your mission proceeds. We must meet with you urgently. You can leave a message for us at the Britannia Theater. Your compatriot, Mr. Brain.’”
“Sally, you’re a marvel,” said Bent. “I could kiss you.”
“Please don’t, Mr. Bent,” she said, making a face.
“Mr. Brain,” said Bent, cackling. “He’s not going to win any prizes for effing modesty, is he?”
“But undoubtedly Mesmer,” said Maria.
Bent noisily pushed the coffee pot and cups to one side and spread out his sheets of paper on the table. “I have been trying to put a timeline together. But one thing I can’t work out … Mesmer and his gang only kidnapped Professor Einstein a year ago. If de la Garcia is really Jack the Ripper, and it’s all been a search for what’s in your pretty little noggin, how come he’s been slicing heads open since 1888? How did they know about you?”
Maria said quietly, “When I went to visit the Elmwoods, they told me something of which I have no real memory. Shortly after Pro
fessor Einstein installed Annie Crook’s brain within me, he decided to show me off at a club of which Mr. Elmwood was a member. I … in their words, I ran amok. I was found some time later, in Cleveland Street.”
Bent put his hand to his mouth. “Then word could have gotten out, somehow,” he said. “And with you fetching up on Cleveland Street, probably scaring the effing life out of people, claiming to be dead old Annie Crook … anyone who might have some prior knowledge of the Atlantic Artifact and what it did, coupled with an understanding of Professor Einstein’s work … they might have put two and two together and come up with five, thinking that Einstein had put the Artifact in the brain of a street girl.” He took a long slurp of coffee. “Jesus. All this time, they’ve been looking for you, Maria.”
She met his eyes. “All those women dead, because of me.”
Bent didn’t know quite what to say to that. She was right, of course, but it was hardly her fault. “At least we know who he is, now. At least we can try to stop him.”
“But we have no idea where he is,” said Maria.
Bent stretched and yawned. “We’ll come at it again in the morning.” He slapped his head suddenly. “Oh, effing God! I almost bloody forgot about Rowena!” He looked at Maria. “I’m going to have to go to the Old Bailey tomorrow. Her trial’s starting properly. I want you to stay indoors, do you hear? And if you have to go out, don’t go anywhere near Whitechapel, for God’s sake. Sally, can you watch the newspapers, look out for any more of these advertisements?”
Mrs. Cadwallader nodded. “I think we could all do with some sleep now.” She smiled kindly. “Come, Miss Maria. Things will look better in the morning.”
Maria nodded. “Perhaps,” she said, with a smile Bent could see was forced. As he stood, stretched again, and headed for the door, he heard her say, in the tiniest of voices, “And perhaps not.”
* * *
There were no steam-cabs, or horse-drawns, or anything that could get her away from that foul, accursed place. Charlotte Elmwood felt like sitting down in the filthy street and weeping. But she knew she could not. She had no full understanding what had just happened, save that a woman who looked exactly like her had come in through the door and brought her back to her senses, with Dolly of all things. The last few days felt like some kind of fever dream; she could remember what she had done, what she had said—what was about to befall her—but it was as though it had all happened to someone else, as though it were a play unfolding on a stage, and she was merely a member of the audience.
This, though, was no production, these harsh, snow-filled streets no stage setting. Charlotte Elmwood was cold and alone and scared—and so hungry!—and on the streets of Whitechapel. Heaven knew what that strange woman was doing, after she had lowered Charlotte ungracefully down from the window of her prison. All she had said was to get away, find a cab or a policeman if need be, and get to 23 Grosvenor Square.
Charlotte kept repeating the address to herself under her breath. She had a home, she knew, and a loving mother and father, but the exact location seemed to bob around the periphery of her fogged brain. So all she could focus on was 23 Grosvenor Square, and the need for steam-cab or a policeman.
But there were no steam-cabs, and there were certainly no policemen. In fact, there was nothing in the supernaturally quiet Whitechapel alleys.
Nothing, save for the sudden crunch of boots on fresh snowfall.
Charlotte whirled around, but there was no one there. Then there was another sound, a soft whisper, and she turned quickly again, seeing nothing but her own shadow cast by a distant gas lamp. Panicked, she began to run, though she had no idea where. Another sound caused her to spin again, almost weeping. But the alley behind her was empty.
She turned, heaving a ragged sigh, and almost walked straight into the man blocking the alley. At first she thought it was Henry Savage or one of those horrible people from that house.
Then she saw that he was dressed all in black, a mask covering his face.
He smiled at her and held out his hand. In it he held a thin, cruel-looking sword. He said softly, “Por fin. No voy a perder de nuevo.”
Charlotte Elmwood started to scream, though with a growing desperation that almost smothered her cries she knew that no one in Whitechapel would pay her much heed at all.
20
FERENG’S STORY
Deep down in the cavernous brick room where the shadows danced from the curiously smokeless fire, he had no idea what time of day it was. He knew he must have slept a long time, though, because he felt physically refreshed and rested, if no closer to piecing together his fractured mental state. Also, his bladder was full to bursting. Fereng and the four other men slumbered quietly on rolls alongside the walls of the room. At the entrance to the tunnel, the young dinosaur slept fitfully also. He noticed that the chain that kept it secured to the wall had been lengthened; the beast lay across the entrance to the room now, a nasty surprise for anyone who stumbled on it … or anyone who tried to escape.
As if sensing that he was awake, the others stirred also, and began to rise, yawning, from their beds. Fereng rolled up his mat and pulled a battered fob watch from his trouser pocket. “Seven o’clock,” he said.
Smith rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “In the morning? I slept all night?”
“You were exhausted,” said Fereng.
“I also need the lavatory,” he said, gesturing to the tyrannosaur, which opened one yellow eye and grumbled loudly.
Fereng nodded. “Deeptendu. Distract the beast.”
The Thuggee took up a hunk of meat from a large bowl and waved it at the dinosaur, until it got sluggishly to its feet, pushing itself up onto its powerful hind legs with its tiny arms. As it snapped at the meat with its powerful jaws, scar-faced Kalanath slid around the side of the room and began to turn a makeshift wheel set into the brickwork, pulling the chain that tethered the dinosaur tighter until it was close up against the wall, and Kalanath nimbly leaped out of its way. It was secured in the corner once again, and the tunnel entrance was clear.
“You thought I might flee in the night?” said Smith.
Fereng shrugged. “Would you have?”
Smith thought about it. “I don’t know. I have no idea why I’m here, but then again I have no clue who I was up there anyway.”
Phoolendu had set a kettle boiling above the hot embers of the fire, and he was preparing tin cups of sweet chai. Fereng said, “So you stay because you have nowhere else to go.”
Smith said, “Perhaps. And perhaps I stay because I want to know what you are planning, and why.”
Phoolendu was digging into the sack where the food was kept. “Crumpets!” He declared. “I will toast them now for our breakfast.”
Fereng nodded to the tunnel. “Come. Let us piss.”
Smith followed him into the cold shadows and they emerged into the stinking thoroughfare of the sewer. He held his breath as he loosed his bladder against the wall, Fereng doing the same.
“I’ll tell you, if you like, some of what I am up to,” said Fereng.
“Only some?” said Smith.
Fereng finished and rearranged his clothing. “Yes, some. I cannot trust you fully yet, Smith. But you deserve to know a little. Let us see if Phoolendu has managed to not completely ruin those crumpets.” He sighed and looked a little longingly into the darkness. “It is a long time since I enjoyed a hot, buttered crumpet.”
* * *
In the summer of 1870 (said Fereng, as they sat cross-legged around the fire, eating Phoolendu’s not-too-ruined crumpets and drinking hot, sweet chai) my life was at something of a crossroads. I had enjoyed a career as an airshipman since I was young, first as an indentured pilot with some of the passenger and freight lines, followed by a spell in the Fleet Air Arm where I earned my wings and came to the attention of other, more secret agencies working for the furtherance of the British Empire.
Not long after my military service I had married and started my own freight business. I
was occasionally called upon—with increasing frequency—to fly covert missions for the British Government, largely ferrying agents and equipment to distant lands, sometimes taking a more active role in adventures and escapades.
But as thrilling as a life in the air was to me, it was not conducive to a happy domestic situation. My wife became increasingly concerned and frustrated with the government calling upon me for its secret journeys, and she issued me an ultimatum: If I wanted to remain married to her and a father to our young daughter, I would have to give up being an aerostat pilot.
I acceded to her request—I loved her, and she was fearful of what might happen to me on my increasingly dangerous missions—on the condition that I could continue to fly freight, as being a pilot was the only business I knew, the only way of providing for my family. But I found it a promise that was hard to keep. I was selfish. I maintained my business but continued to accept commissions from the government. Inevitably, my wife found out. When I should have been taking wool to Switzerland, I was getting shot at by spies in Shanghai. She said we must part, and divorce.
Thankfully, she did allow me to continue to see my daughter, and between the missions I flew for the government and the cargo commissions I continued to take to keep my business viable, I would spend wonderful yet brief days with my tiny girl.
Then, things subtly changed. The government wished me to take a more public role, and assigned me to missions that were widely reported in the press and the penny blood magazines. I was something of a hero; if I told you my name, Smith, I believe that you may have heard of me. It suited the government—or at least the department that gave me my orders—to have a familiar face the citizens could cheer on and follow.
Then I was given a most unusual job: a retrieval mission from an island in the Indian Ocean that was so tiny it did not appear on any maps. I was to fly there, alone, and obtain a … an artifact, I suppose you would call it, that had been lost for millennia but which I was assured would be there. I visited my former wife and child; this was in 1870, and my daughter was six years old. For reasons I still cannot explain, I felt troubled by the mission I was about to undertake. I hugged my daughter and asked her if she would like a present. She asked for a monkey. I begged my wife’s forgiveness for my past behavior. She told me that it was too little, too late. While we had been apart she had been courted by another, a man with a stable position who was most unlike me, not about to dash off to the far corners of the world at the drop of a hat. They were to be married, and my daughter was to take his name.
Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper Page 22