“Your adventures,” said Gideon hollowly, looking down at the inscription.
Bent murmured, “Sorry you had to find out like this, lad. Old Trigger’s nothing but a fraud. A romancer. You didn’t . . . you didn’t really think all that guff was actually true, did you?”
Gideon looked at the sad figure of Trigger and felt a sudden wave of loathing. He had placed his trust in Trigger, and it had been trodden into the dust. What of This adventure, as always, is utterly true, and faithfully retold by my good friend, Doctor John Reed? A lie. Nothing but a fiction. He shook his head in disgust. “So that’s it, then? I cannot entreat Captain Lucian Trigger to help me in my hour of need?”
Trigger held his hands, palm upward, by his sides. “I am sorry. I am in no position to help anyone. I wish you luck in your endeavors, Mr. Smith.”
The housekeeper put her face into the gap between Trigger and the door and frowned at the three of them on the doorstep. As she began to close the door Gideon said, “So I am expected to just go back to Sandsend and deal with the mummy by myself?”
Bent nudged Maria. “There he goes again. Mummies. Have you got a clue what he’s on about?”
Trigger held the door as it swung toward its frame. He waited a moment, then opened it again, despite Mrs. Cadwallader’s protestations. He leaned out and looked quizzically at Gideon. Slowly he said, “Did you say mummies? As in Egyptian mummies?”
“You remember The Shadow Over Faxmouth? From the December issue last year?”
“Of course,” said Trigger.
“The creature that threatens my home is the same,” said Gideon. “Exactly the same.”
Trigger’s eyes widened, and as the housekeeper tried to take over the job of shutting the door he shooed her away with a wave of his thin hands. “Mr. Smith,” he said, “I rather think you had better come in.” He tapped his long forefinger against his chin. “Mrs. Cadwallader, I think we shall require some coffee in the trophy room.”
Trigger led them into the gloomy wood-paneled room hiding behind a net-curtained window in the shadowy rear of the townhouse. It was like walking straight into the pages of World Marvels & Wonders. Each wall was covered by a glass cabinet, and in each cabinet was a memento from every one of the adventures Gideon had devoured for as long as he could remember. He drifted, wide-eyed, past every display, his face reflecting dully in the glass. Here was hard evidence that, just as he had always believed, Captain Lucian Trigger’s adventures were indisputably real.
“The Tongan Fetish,” he said in wonder. “And the claw from the Exeter Werewolf. Lord Dexter’s top hat! And is this . . . ?”
“The Book of the Expurgated Apostles,” said Trigger, his own sallow reflection appearing beside Gideon’s. “You are clearly an aficionado of the adventures, Mr. Smith.”
Mrs. Cadwallader, glaring with hostility at the visitors, brought in a tray of coffee and fancies. “I’ll thank you to not overly excite Captain Trigger,” she said tartly. “He is very weak at present.”
When the housekeeper had bustled out and closed the door behind her, Maria poured coffee for them all and Trigger sat lightly in his easy chair, resting his head on an antimacassar. He closed his eyes for so long Gideon feared he had fallen asleep, but just as he was about to clear his throat Trigger said, “Mrs. Cadwallader is quite correct, unfortunately. I am not the man I was.”
“Like my old mum always said, you’re only as old as the man you feel,” cackled Bent.
Trigger opened his eyes and blinked at Bent, as though noticing the journalist for the first time. “It is not age wearies me, sir, but loss. However, I think it is about time introductions were effected. Mr. Smith has already stated his name and an intent causing my heart to beat like a drum. Who are you, sir?”
Bent extended a hand while he used the other to shovel fancies into his mouth. “Aloysius Bent, Captain Trigger, of the Illustrated London Argus. A lowly scribe, like your good self.”
“A journalist,” said Trigger primly.
Gideon said, “You’ve got it wrong, Mr. Bent. It isn’t Captain Trigger who writes up the adventures, but Dr. John Reed.” He looked around. “Is Dr. Reed not with you? I was given to understand you two spent much time together.”
“In each other’s pockets,” guffawed Bent. “You might say, in each other’s trouser pockets.”
Trigger stared at Bent. “I am glad my life offers such amusement to you, Mr. Bent. Little more than I would expect from your publication, though.”
Bent waved a protesting hand. “We’ve got the same paymasters at the end of the line, Trigger.”
Trigger ignored him and addressed Maria. “And you, my dear? Mr. Smith’s sweetheart, perhaps?”
Gideon saw a flush rise on Maria’s pale cheeks. Einstein really had left nothing out of his automaton. She kept her eyes averted from him and gifted Trigger with a small smile, which caused Gideon’s breath to catch in his throat. “We are merely traveling companions, Captain Trigger.”
They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment, Gideon itching to stand and inspect further the trophies lining the cabinets. But then Trigger said, “I believe mummies were mentioned. Mr. Smith, I would be extremely grateful if you could tell me your story.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Bent. “He’s giving me the tale, that’s the deal. I bring him to you, he gives me the story of the Wolf of Whitby.”
Gideon sighed. “For what seems like the hundredth time, there is no wolf in Whitby, Mr. Bent.” He turned to Trigger. “Of course I shall tell you my story. That is why I am here. But you may have trouble believing it.”
Trigger smiled, and for the first time since meeting him Gideon thought he detected a little of the elusive something that had made him the Hero of the Empire. “Oh, I doubt it, Mr. Smith,” he said. “I am, after all, Captain Lucian Trigger.”
“That,” said Bent, “is possibly the most ridiculous, fanciful, and far-fetched thing I have ever heard, and trust me, I’ve heard some fucking bullshit. Pardon my French.” He paused. “Actually, no, don’t pardon my fucking French. You’ve just wasted half my day on a wild goose chase. You should be in the bloody Bethlem Royal Hospital, chained to a wall, not running around loose in London.”
Trigger continued to regard Gideon. “Is that right?” he asked. “Are you a lunatic? Is that a pack of lies?”
Gideon laid his hand on his chest. “Sir, it is the God’s honest truth.”
“Yes,” said Trigger thoughtfully. “I do believe it is.”
Bent stared at him. “Then you’re as mad as he is. I’m in a house of madmen. True? Frog-faced mummies from Egypt attacking people in bloody Yorkshire? And let’s say I could begin to stretch my credulity enough to accept such things exist. Do I need to point out the only person to see the thing is a sevenyear-old boy?”
With some effort, Trigger got to his feet and strode to the trophy cabinet. “The stories in World Marvels & Wonders are, aside from a touch of literary license and the necessary alteration of details here and there to protect certain individuals, faithful reports of what happened. That particular case Mr. Smith alludes to, which appeared under the title The Shadow Over Faxmouth, occurred around two and a half years ago. A mummy liberated from the sands of Egypt was taken to Arkhamville, and was later revived by unknown means. It stole a ruby pendant and made for the sea. The mummy escaped but the pendant was recovered and brought back here, to this trophy room. It used to reside in this very cabinet.”
“Used to?” asked Gideon, rising and joining Trigger at the glass case. There was indeed a velvet cushion, slightly indented but otherwise bare, and a small card inscribed with the words “Arkhamville necklace (originally Egyptian).”
“It has gone, with John. With Dr. Reed.”
“He stole it?” asked Gideon, aghast. “He has abandoned you?”
Trigger shook his head. “Mr. Bent? What was it you said about me earlier? What did you call me?”
“A bum-jockey?” said Bent. “Oh, no, that was before
we got here, in the cab. A fraud, that was it.”
Trigger nodded. “A fraud. Quite. You see, Mr. Smith, Mr. Bent is correct. I am a fraud.”
“But you said the stories were true!” protested Gideon. “And so they are,” said Trigger, smiling sadly. “But although they purport to be the adventures of Captain Lucian Trigger, that is not strictly correct. I said, did I not, that some things had been changed? The largest lie of all is that it is Captain Trigger who sallies forth into the world while his faithful companion Dr. Reed stays at home and transcribes his notes and journals. Quite the reverse is true. It is I, Lucian Trigger, who sits alone at the desk in the study and transforms into thrilling prose the rousing episodes of peril and triumph. And it is Dr. John Reed who is truly the Hero of the Empire.”
“Then it is Dr. Reed I need to see,” said Gideon.
Trigger sighed. “Would that were possible. He has been missing for more than a year. He embarked upon an adventure in Egypt. I am quite bereft without him.”
“He’s kicked the bucket?” said Bent.
Gideon glared at Bent. “Captain Trigger? Is he . . . ?”
Trigger shook his head sadly and touched his hand to his chest. “I do not know for sure. But if he were gone, I think I would feel it, here.” He fixed his watery eyes on Gideon. “My heart aches every day, Mr. Smith, and I am convinced John is still alive.”
Dusk had landed heavily on Grosvenor Square. Trigger sighed and lit the electric lamps in the room.
Eventually Gideon said, “Then it seems evident to me what must happen.”
Trigger nodded sadly. “There is no help here, I am afraid. When you spoke on the doorstep of mummies, I dared to hope you might have some news of John. But it is not to be. You must face your peril in Sandsend without Captain Trigger, Mr. Smith.”
Gideon stared at him. “That isn’t what I mean at all, Captain Trigger.”
“Then what, young man?”
Gideon looked at Trigger, then at Bent, then to Maria. “Isn’t it obvious? If John Reed is really the man who tackled the Faxmouth mummy, then I’ve no choice. I have to go to Egypt and find him.”
“Egypt?” said Bent. “Oh, this is getting priceless now. I’ll give you this, Mr. Smith, you’re awfully good value for money.”
“But how do you anticipate traveling to Egypt?” asked Maria quietly.
Gideon began to stalk up and down the trophy room. “I do not know. How did Dr. Reed get there?”
“I believe on this occasion he secured the services of Rowena Fanshawe,” said Trigger.
“The Belle of the Airways!” said Gideon. “From the adventures! Then she will be able to take me straight to where she saw him last.”
“I have already spoken to her,” said Trigger. “She merely transported him to Alexandria. Where he went from there, and how, I have no idea.”
“I must see her, nonetheless,” said Gideon. He paused, his face falling. “But . . . how much do you suppose passage to Alexandria would cost?”
“More than a steam-cab from Fleet Street to Grosvenor Square,” chuckled Bent. “And you’re broke, remember?”
Trigger was standing thoughtfully at the window, gazing out as the lamps flared into life in the square. “Mr. Smith,” he said slowly, “if you truly mean to travel to Egypt in search of John . . .”
“I do,” said Gideon. “I must have his help. That is, if the creature hasn’t slaughtered the entire village by now.”
“. . . then I will finance your expedition,” said Trigger. “John and I, we are not without resources. We are rather . . . affluent.”
“Can we go to see Rowena Fanshawe now?” asked Gideon.
“I would suggest tomorrow,” said Trigger. “This evening, I would like to extend to you an invitation to be my guests for dinner. I shall tell you . . . I shall tell you of John, and we can plan our next move in comfort. Do you and Miss Maria have somewhere to stay in London?”
“No,” said Gideon. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“Then you must stay the night here,” decided Trigger. “We have rooms, and you shall be quite comfortable.”
“Sounds lovely!” Bent beamed.
Trigger looked at him. “You wish to stay too, Mr. Bent? You may, of course. But I thought you considered Mr. Smith somewhat mad.”
“He is mad,” said Bent. “Mad as a hatter.” He pointed at Trigger. “You’re as much of a lunatic as he is, and you’re a shirt-lifter to boot. She’s a pretty little thing, but barely says a word and doesn’t even know her own name. You’re each as mad as the rest. But never let it be said that Aloysius Bent can’t smell a good story when he steps in it.” Bent put an arm around Gideon, who flinched at the smell of stale sweat wafting from his armpits. “I’m sticking to you like Lyle’s Golden Syrup, my lad. Whitby, Egypt, or the fucking moon, you’re going nowhere without me.”
12
Dr. Reed’s Casebook
I had (said Captain Lucian Trigger to his dinner guests) a long and largely illustrious career with the 1st Battalion of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, traveling all over the world and rising to the rank of Captain. At the rear of this room, on the mannequin between those two cabinets, you will see my uniform. The brass buttons on the blue double- breasted tunic are polished every week, the red sash and trouser stripes are as bright and vital as they were in the merciless Indian sun, and the rapier is as keen as it was when I single-handedly faced a gang of bloodthirsty Thuggees in ’76.
Alas, that career came to a rather abrupt end a little over a decade ago. The British Army takes a rather dim view of sodomy. You might have heard from your Mr. Bent that I was, variously, accused of visiting indignities upon youths in Calcutta, corrupting the junior ranks with the threat of disciplinary proceedings should they not succumb to my perverse demands, and even engaging in intercourse with a farmyard animal that differs in every version of the tale I have heard. The simple truth was, I fell in love. Unfortunately for the army, and for me, it was with a man.
Dr. John Reed was a medic attached to the regiment while we were stationed in Goa, formerly a Portuguese interest on the southwest coast of India. If paradise exists on Earth, then truly it is there. We would walk at sundown on Candolim Beach, where the sea fizzed with a most becoming phosphorescence as it broke on the golden sands. The fronds of palm trees swayed in the warm evening breeze and cows roamed freely while native women walked by in bright saris, holding fruit above their heads and murmuring in hypnotic, singsong voices mango, banana, papaya, over and over again.
Perhaps it was that sense of otherworldliness in Goa that caused us to drop our guard, but we consummated our love on the woodsmoke-wreathed dunes, and we became ever more careless about covering our tracks. Our indiscretions were duly discovered, and a court martial took place.
My previous good character and exemplary military service ensured I received an honorable discharge with the minimum of fuss; I was already known to the readers of the more breathless periodicals for my adventures and achievements. But what I did not know until the court martial was the past of my lover, Dr. Reed. No mere medical man was he: he was an explorer, archaeologist, adventurer, and more. He had signed up for a spell of military service to further his knowledge and experience, and the authorities decided his curriculum vitae was too good an opportunity to throw away for a mere punishment. So they offered us, behind closed courtroom doors, a deal.
Released from the shackles of military service, Dr. Reed would continue his adventures, free and without interference from the Crown. He would, however, be sometimes called upon to perform special tasks or undertake missions for Britain. Furthermore, as something of an inspiring fillip to the British public, his adventures would be recounted for publication on a regular basis. To ensure John could pass unhindered across the world’s borders and boundaries, his identity would remain innocuous; as someone with a proud military service behind me, I would instead be the figurehead for these stories, which, having something of a poetic bent, I would
also pen.
And so began a long and fruitful association. And, yes, a happy one. John and I were in love, and if his enforced absences were bitter, then our reunions were oh so sweet. I see you wincing, Mr. Bent. Perhaps you are also wondering why I did not accompany John on his missions and tours. The truth was, after a lifetime of military service, I had had enough of traversing the world and putting myself in peril. To sit at home in Grosvenor Square and await John’s return while I crafted the tale of his latest adventure . . . that to me was bliss.
And so it continued. But in the last few years, John was called upon more and more by the Crown, much more often than they had ever indicated they would. His travels became an imposition; the danger mounted in each new mission. And sometimes, when he did have the satisfaction of earning the ancient artifacts and lost treasures he had fought so hard for, the Government would remove them from his possession. It troubled me to see John growing increasingly bitter and jaded.
Then, a year ago, he announced he was going to Egypt. During that very episode you mention, Mr. Smith, the Shadow Over Faxmouth event, John had learned from Professor Halifax about a lost tomb in the desert, the fabled Rhodopis Pyramid. It was said to hold great treasures and artifacts lost to humanity for two and a half thousand years. John was determined to find the lost pyramid and breach its walls. Last summer he departed upon his quest.
And I have not seen him since.
I contacted many of his traveling companions and regular acquaintances, of course, but aside from confirmation that he had indeed flown by dirigible to Alexandria, there was nothing. Why did I not go out there myself to find him? Alas, I have grown soft and weak since I left the regiment. When there was no word from John I sank into even deeper decline, and a melancholia has gripped me that I fear will never be shaken off. It is as though my heart has been rent in two, and half of it has whispered away. I very much expect I shall die before I ever seen John again, merely fading away in the shadows of this house.
Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl Page 13