“Deliberate treachery?” asked Bent. “But what does it mean? France and Spain have always been at each other’s throats.”
“Not always,” said Walsingham. “At various points in history the House of Bourbon has united French and Spanish territories to a greater or lesser extent. It is my belief that there are moves afoot to restore a Bourbon king to end the perpetual hostilities between France and Spain.”
“To what end?” asked Bent.
“To challenge the British Empire,” said Walsingham. “Apart, and warring, France and Spain are no threat to England. But united…”
Bent shook his head. “Neither France nor Spain would capitulate to the other, even to form an alliance that could be more powerful than Britain.”
“Perhaps not. But if a king came from outside those nations, a popular ruler who had the support and mandate of the people, then the current governments could conceivably be overthrown and a new House of Bourbon established to rule them both.”
Bent laughed. “Ridiculous. Who would have the clout?”
Walsingham looked at him. “How about Louis the Sixteenth?”
Bent stared at him. “You don’t mean those stories are true?”
“The most recent cause of the sustained hostilities between France and Spain dates back to 1781, when a fiery young Corsican named Napoleon Bonaparte marched into Paris to take control of a France that was in chaos,” said Walsingham. “What the history books don’t tell us is that Bonaparte was installed surreptitiously by Britain, who edged him into a war with Spain that he readily agreed to. France was in tatters following its support of the terrorists in the failed American rebellion of 1775; Britain punished France by forcibly taking most of its Canadian territories and with the help of our Prussian and Austrian allies forcing severe trade embargoes on the homeland.”
“That is in the history books,” said Bent. “It caused widespread starvation and suffering.”
Walsingham nodded. “Exactly the right conditions for Bonaparte to take control. Before that, though, France was facing a revolution of its own, and fearing for his life Louis the Sixteenth and his court fled to America and the one territory the French still nominally held.”
“Louisiana,” said Maria. “When Mesmer thought I was Charlotte Elmwood he said he would take me there.”
Walsingham smiled. “Then we know who Mesmer’s paymaster is, and therefore who your Sergio de la Garcia works for. And, ultimately, who has Professor Hermann Einstein.”
Lestrade spoke up at last. “You are talking of plots hatched by French kings who should have died a century ago.” He shook his head. “This is madness.”
Bent cackled. “Welcome to our world, George.” He stood and started pacing the study. “All right … so three years ago Walsingham sends John Reed to the arsehole of the Atlantic Ocean to retrieve one of what might be many ancient artifacts, this one ending up in Maria’s head. But the party is gate-crashed by agents of Louis the Sixteenth, who they say is kept alive by witchcraft in New Orleans. They’ve heard of these artifacts, too, we must surmise, though they don’t get away with this one.”
Maria said, “Not long after Professor Einstein … completed me, he showed me off at his club in London. The Elmwoods were there. He was a friend of theirs and had modeled me on Charlotte. But Einstein had not yet fully perfected me.… I am told I ran amok and ended up on Cleveland Street.”
“Where Annie Crook lived and died,” said Bent. “The poor girl whose brain you got.”
Maria nodded. “I fear poor Annie must have thought she had been raised from the dead. I was said to have been terrorizing the local people until Professor Einstein turned up to retrieve me. Caused quite a stir.”
Bent thumped his palm. “Which the Bourbons in Louisiana must, somehow, have heard about.”
Walsingham said, “With the likes of Markus Mesmer on their payroll, who knows how far their influence and spy network reach? We have ignored this simmering threat at our peril, I fear.”
“So they go and get Sergio de la Garcia from Uvalde, evidently aware of his dual identity as El Chupacabras, the greatest swordsman in New Spain,” said Bent. “And using some kind of leverage—his family, perhaps?—they send him to London. They’ve heard—mistakenly, through the grapevine—that the Atlantic Artifact is in the head of a whore. So they set Garcia to slicing open girls’ heads in the East End. And thus the legend of Jack the Ripper is born.”
“But they kidnapped Professor Einstein a year ago,” said Maria. “And the killings continued.”
Bent nodded. “What delicious effing irony. Imagine if they took Einstein from his house with you—the very thing they were looking for—upstairs in a room, clockwork wound down, a drop cloth over you. Einstein obviously kept his mouth shut.”
“Mesmer knew it was an automaton he was looking for,” said Maria.
“Then Einstein must have told them, or hinted, that when you had gotten loose in London and made your way to Cleveland Street, you were never recovered. They were convinced that they were looking for a machine, wandering the streets of Whitechapel for more than two years. A swift strike of El Chupacabras’s sword, the top of a head cut off … then he would know he’d gotten the wrong girl. But for her, it would be too late.”
“And you have arranged a meeting with this Garcia?” said Lestrade.
“Tonight, in Hammersmith,” said Bent.
“Then I should arrange some support from my men,” said the inspector, standing.
There was a shrill rattle of bells. “That’ll be the door,” said Mrs. Cadwallader. “I shall see to it.” She rose from the footstool and left the study.
Walsingham clapped his hands together. “Bravo, Mr. Bent. Excellent deductive work all around.”
Bent sighed. “Doesn’t bring us any closer to getting Gideon back, though, nor finding Charles Collier, which we need to do if we’re going to get Rowena off the hook by ten tomorrow morning.”
There was a sudden shout of “Land sakes!” from the hallway, followed by a shriek. Bent looked up and moved quickly to the study door, calling, “Sally? Is everything—”
When he got to the hall he saw the front door wide open, the housekeeper sprawled against the wood-paneled wall. And bearing down on him was a figure that had evidently shoved Mrs. Cadwallader out of the way. Bent’s eyes widened.
“Gideon, lad, you’ve come home!”
But Gideon Smith said nothing, just kept coming at him with a feral look in his eyes, the blade of a knife flashing in the gaslight.
27
HEARTS’ DESIRES
Smith was a fury, an avenging elemental force, a thing of muscle and bone fueled by a red mist and a roar of pounding blood in his ears.
And yet, even as he barged past the fat man in the doorway that led to a dimly lit study lined with glass trophy cases, even as he held aloft the knife given to him by Fereng, even as he spied his target, a tall, thin man dressed in black with a hawkish nose and piercing eyes, even as all this happened, something seemed to churn and boil within him.
I know this place.
Ignoring the other people in the room, he crossed the floor and grabbed the shirtfront of the white-haired man, pushing him hard against the mantelpiece and holding him fast there. He brandished the knife. “You are going to pay for your crimes.”
The man, Walsingham, met his eyes with an ice-cold stare. “Crimes? I can see only one criminal here, Mr. Smith. Are you now a villain?”
“What if I convinced you that you were not the Hero of the Empire, but the enemy of Britain? Would you be able to fight that?”
Smith shook his head as though to clear away the sudden memories that clung to him. The fat man he had pushed out of the way said, “Gideon, what the eff are you doing?”
These people know me.
“The British Empire is the villain of the world,” he spat, forcing the blade against the thin neck of Walsingham. “And you are its shadowy architect.”
Walsingham raised an eyebro
w. “You mean to kill me?”
He pressed the blade tighter, digging into the pale parchment flesh. “Yes. For justice. For vengeance.”
“Gideon,” said the fat man again, “this isn’t you, lad. You’re under Mesmer’s spell. You’re an effing hero!”
“What are you doing here, Herr Smith? Playing the hero?” He paused for a moment. “But what is a hero? A man who does as he is told, or who finds his own way? And are heroes born or made, Herr Smith? Shall we find out?”
His resolve slackened, as did the pressure he placed on the knife. Then he thought of Fereng’s words, the pictures he painted of the starving hordes in India watching grain and rice transported to London, the island where he was abandoned by his government. He forced the knife harder against Walsingham’s throat.
Then she spoke. He had barely noticed her in the room, but her words were honey, oozing into his head.
“Gideon. Gideon, it’s me. Maria.”
Maria?
“Yes, Herr Smith. Are heroes born or made? What if we took away all your heroic doings? What if we wiped the slate clean?”
“Maria?” he said uncertainly.
She moved into his sight line, and he gasped at her beauty.
She said, “When I brought Charlotte Elmwood out of Mesmer’s influence, I used a doll she had loved since childhood. Look around you, Gideon. Here are the things you love, the trophies of Captain Trigger and John Reed. The heroism you have worshipped all your life.”
But he couldn’t look, couldn’t tear away his eyes from Maria’s perfection, the blond hair cascading over the knitted shawl on her shoulders, the flawless skin, the eyes that danced with bright intelligence.
No, he didn’t love these trinkets in glass cases. He loved … he loved …
“Or,” she said, “I can give you this.”
He didn’t protest as she moved toward him, felt the strength drain out of him and his knife fall away from Walsingham’s throat as she took his face in her beautiful hands, and allowed her to turn him to face her.
He loved. He loved.
She kissed him.
He loved Maria.
He was …
He pulled away, and blinked. “I’m Gideon Smith,” he said.
The fat man—no, Aloysius Bent—cheered. “Thank eff for that! Now lad, quickly, where’s Charles Collier?”
Gideon looked at him. “Collier? Fereng? Why, he’s outside.”
Bent’s eyes widened. “Lestrade!”
But the man with the mustache and pinprick eyes was already running toward the door.
* * *
Lestrade was out of the door like a ferret, and by the time Bent reached it the policeman was tearing across the square toward a figure limping near the railed-off garden at the center. The inspector’s quarry was wiry and thin, hobbling on what looked like a wooden leg protruding from his right knee, with long, gray hair tied into a ponytail. Charles Collier? He looked a damn sight different than he had on the cover of the penny dreadful. What was it Gideon had called him? Fereng? But there was no time to ponder as Lestrade dove in a very effective rugby tackle at the fleeing man, bringing him down in a drift of blackening snow.
“Go on, George! Hit him!” called Bent, hurrying across the road just as a figure loomed out of the gathering dusk and slammed into him. Bent spun around and onto his backside, glaring at the thickset Indian in a black turban who had shoved him out of the way.
“Watch where you’re going, fatty!” yelled Bent.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Hark at yourself, you elephantine fool!”
Bent tried to climb to his feet, but the man kicked him, hard, in the guts, and he fell back with a groan. He looked across the road to see Lestrade and Collier rolling in the snow, and three other turbaned shapes materializing out of the gloom. Two of them made for where Collier and Lestrade fought, the other running up to the fat one who had felled him.
“Phoolendu?”
“It is all OK, Naakesh. This one is no threat.”
“I’ll give you no threat,” said Bent, rolling onto his belly to push himself up. But the one called Phoolendu sat heavily on his back with a laugh.
“Irresistible force meets immovable object!”
“I will help Fereng,” said the other, running across the road.
With Phoolendu on his back, Bent could only watch helplessly as the Indians hauled Lestrade off Collier and threw him against the railings, where he lay woefully still. They helped the one-legged man up and, one on each side of him, began to lope across the square.
“Gideon!” shouted Bent. “Gideon, where are you?”
“Time to leave!” said Phoolendu, jumping up and heading with remarkable fleetness of foot after the others. Bent pushed himself onto his knees just as Gideon emerged with Maria and Walsingham in his wake.
“George is down,” said Bent as Gideon helped him up. “Your mate Collier … God effing knows.”
They hurried across the square to Lestrade and Bent turned him over, drawing back in shock at the blossom of bright red blood that colored his shirtfront.
“Good God, George,” said Bent. “Has he killed you…?”
Lestrade stirred, evidently just stunned. His eyes widened as he looked at the blood on his shirt, and he patted himself down. “He had a knife, but … I don’t think…” He pulled himself to his feet. “I think he must have stuck himself in the struggle. This is his blood.”
Bent peered across the square. “No sign.”
“They’ll have gone into the sewers,” said Gideon. “That’s where they’re hiding.”
Lestrade straightened his coat and tie and said, “I shall get back to Commercial Road station immediately and organize some patrols.”
“Bloody hell,” said Bent, smacking his palms together. “Collier. We nearly had him. We nearly saved Rowena.”
Gideon frowned. “Rowena? She needs saving?”
Bent looked at his watch. “A lot’s happened while you’ve been away, son. We need to get ready to reel in Jack the Ripper.” He wrinkled his nose. “You could probably do with a bath first. You don’t half stink. Come on, I’ll bring you up to date indoors.”
* * *
Gideon stood on the landing on the upper story, looking out the picture window at Grosvenor Square and the rooftops of London beyond, while Mrs. Cadwallader drew a hot bath for him. He had been informed over a welcome pot of tea of everything that had happened while he had been in the sewers with Fereng.
“It’s good to have you back, Gideon.”
He hadn’t heard Bent padding up the stairs. Without turning he said, “It’s good to be back. I think. I feel … odd. Empty.”
Bent joined him at the window. “Mesmer did a right number on you, by all accounts. Don’t blame yourself for anything that’s happened, lad. The hypnosis … it made you susceptible to Collier’s poison.”
Gideon shook his head vehemently. “It’s not that, Aloysius. Not just that. It’s…” He turned to look at his friend. “Despite everything, I can’t condemn Fereng—Charles Collier—for what he’s done. Not even murder. Not even sending me to kill Walsingham. The things he told me … It’s as though all our enemies, their villainy is forged in the furnaces of Britain’s relentless march across the globe.”
“He has Tiddles, doesn’t he?” said Bent. “I mean … he has a dinosaur. The baby tyrannosaur he nicked from Professor Rubicon’s.”
“So that’s where it came from,” said Gideon, nodding. “Yes, he does. But I have no idea what he plans to do with it.”
“We’ll have to find him,” said Bent. “For Rowena’s sake. I’m going to call George Lestrade at the Commercial Road station in a minute. Think you can remember where Collier’s hiding out?”
Gideon shook his head. “I’m not sure. Underground, somewhere near Whitechapel.” He gazed out the window and then said, “Do I really want to be a hero for this empire, Aloysius? Do I really want to work for Walsingham?”
Bent chuckled. “I remember
asking you that way back when we were on the airship chasing the dragon from Egypt to London. I told you what governments are capable of. Especially ours. But…” He put a hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “Look. Out there. At London. It’s not Walsingham you work for, not really. It’s them. There’s good and bad out there, Gideon, angels and devils. But they’re all just people, really, trying their best to get on with life in all the myriad ways they know how. And it’s them you’re the hero to, Gideon. It just so happens that most of the time their needs and the government’s needs match up.”
Gideon turned to look at him. “And when such time arrives that they don’t?”
Bent smiled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh? Now, I think your bath’s ready.” He wrinkled his nose. “You really do stink, you know?”
* * *
Bent found Mrs. Cadwallader in the study, righting the tables and potted plants that had been upended during the struggle. “Gideon in his bath?” he said.
She nodded, smiling a thank you as Bent took hold of the edge of a chair with her and stood it up. “Life doesn’t get any less exhausting, does it?”
“Not around here, Sally. I mean—”
She smiled again, somewhat wearily. “It’s all right, Mr. Bent. Aloysius, if you prefer.” She paused. “You will be careful tonight? All of you?”
“Of course, Sally!” said Bent, his heart suddenly banging in his chest. “I…” He paused, cocking his head. “Did you hear that?”
They both turned to the glass cabinet in the corner, where a contraption of wires and lenses sitting on a velvet cushion had begun ticking like a clock.
“That’s the old Hypno-Array of Markus Mesmer,” said Bent, frowning. “From years ago, when Dr. Reed ran into him.…”
Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper Page 30