Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl

by David Barnett

  The door was yanked open and a small man with a grease- blackened face appeared, dressed in oil-stained overalls and wearing a welding mask. Upon seeing Trigger, the man tore off his mask and smiled broadly, and then Gideon realized his mistake. It was not a man, but a woman . . . and not, on closer inspection, unattractive. She had shorter hair than Gideon had ever seen on a young woman, spiked and plum-colored, and a beaming smile of white teeth. Her overalls were unbuttoned scandalously low, and with the mask gone Gideon could see she was most shapely in the torso, and had slim legs and— when she turned to quiet the din of some kind of hammering machine behind her—a rather curvaceous backside. Bent whistled appreciatively and murmured, “Nice set of Cupid’s kettle drums on that one.”

  “Lucian!” she squealed, and threw her arms around Trigger. “It’s been such a long time. Have you news of John?”

  He shook his head sadly. “No. But that is why I am here. Allow me to introduce my companions. This gentleman is Aloysius Bent, of the London Illustrated Argus. The lady is Miss Maria. And the young man is Gideon Smith, of Sandsend. This is my good friend Rowena Fanshawe—”

  “The Belle of the Airways!” finished Gideon.

  Fanshawe wiped her hands on an oily rag and presented it to Bent, who slobbered a kiss upon it; Maria, who shook it primly; and Gideon, who held on to it and gazed into her eyes. “The Belle of the Airways,” he said again. “Miss Fanshawe, it is an honor to meet you.”

  She smiled broadly again. “A fan. Always nice to meet a good-looking one.” She glanced around and whispered, “Some of the aficionados of Lucian’s stories track me down, sometimes, and want signed photographs. Mostly to fetch mettle to, I suspect.”

  Gideon looked blankly at her, and Bent leaned in toward him. “She means to wank over. Can’t say I blame them. Have you seen those bubbies?”

  They stood in silence for a moment, then Fanshawe said, “If you’ll let me retrieve my hand, Mr. Smith, I’ll take you inside and find you something to drink, and you can tell me why you’re here.”

  The offices of Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavors were little more than a cluttered workshop with pieces of metal and machinery piled high on tables and a desk at one end, near a wall dominated by a map of the world, stuck with pins and scrawled notes. Fanshawe brewed a pot of tea on a gas burner and poured them all a tin cup, inviting them to grab stools, upturned crates, and rickety chairs.

  “Tell me again when you last saw John,” said Trigger.

  Fanshawe shrugged. “Like I told you before, Lucian. He employed me a year ago to take him to Alexandria. We parted there and I never saw him again.”

  “No one ever saw him again,” said Trigger sadly. They sipped the strong tea in silence.

  Fanshawe said, “I’m sorry if you were looking for more information, Lucian. I have none. And over the past year I have asked around, every time I’ve run into someone who might know John. There’s nothing.”

  “That is why I think we must employ you again, Rowena,” said Trigger. “Mr. Smith here has had recent adventures that could possibly provide some clue to John’s disappearance. He has suggested he might travel to Alexandria on his own mission, which dovetails most agreeably with the search for John.”

  “Bloody fantasy, if you ask me,” said Bent, laughing. “Mummies and nonsense.”

  Fanshawe tapped a finger thoughtfully on her chin. “It’s a strange world out there, Mr. Bent. What most of London would see as rank nonsense is the stuff of life and death in the distant, shadowed corners of the globe.” She looked at a ruled notebook on her desk. “I have a commission to take a cargo to Scandinavia, but not for another week or so. I suppose I could take you to Egypt.”

  Gideon stood. “When can we leave? Today? When would we arrive?”

  Fanshawe laughed lightly. “Mr. Smith, it is two thousand and seventy one miles from London to Alexandria. Even with a following wind we would take the best part of two days. And such a journey needs preparation. It will take me a day, at least, to have the Skylady II ready.”

  “A day?” said Gideon, his face falling. “And two days’ journey?”

  “I’m guessing you’ve never flown in a ’stat before,” said Fanshawe. “Perhaps you should come and see the Skylady II.”

  “Most folks call ’em airships or dirigibles,” said Fanshawe as she unlocked the door. “We in the trade refer to ’em as ‘stats. Short for aerostat.”

  Fanshawe pointed at the balloon. “She’s a rigid ’stat. See the skeleton, made of wood? It holds four different cells, and they’re filled with helium. Helium’s lighter than air, see, so it wants to rise up, even with the gondola and cargo or passengers. We crank her up and the engine powers the propellers, which drag her forward.”

  “Clockwork?” snorted Bent. “That’s going to get to Egypt on clockwork?”

  “Like the gearships,” said Gideon quietly. “Our trawler back home was a gearship, same principle.”

  Fanshawe nodded. “The clockwork engines ain’t as fast as the steam ’stats, and they take a hell of a lot of winding, but we save on space and coal. She’ll get to Alexandria, no problem, provided Mr. Smith here is prepared to lend a hand with the winding.” She put her own hand on Gideon’s upper arm. “My. A bit of cranking shouldn’t be a problem for you.” She grinned at Trigger. “I’ll have two of whatever he’s had for breakfast.”

  Bent asked, “What happened to the Skylady I?”

  Fanshawe smiled. “I believe there are bits of her still hanging off the north face of the Eiger.” She paused. “That was a John Reed escapade, too. Why is it that when that man’s name is mentioned, nothing is ever straightforward?”

  Trigger coughed. “So you’ll do it, Rowena?”

  She looked at them all. “I’ll do it. Who’s coming? Just Mr. Smith?”

  “Against my better nature, having seen that crate, I’m coming, too,” sighed Bent.

  “And I, also,” said Trigger.

  Everyone looked at him. Gideon said, “Captain Trigger? But I thought you to be indisposed . . . ?”

  Trigger smiled. “Mr. Smith, I have been indisposed since John went missing. I have been in perpetual decline, some days not even rising from my bed. And so it would have continued, had you not come knocking at my door. You are vital and alive, Mr. Smith, and selfless. Could I let you go halfway around the world looking for John Reed, while I stay at home awaiting news? I could not. I am, after all, Captain Lucian Trigger, and I have my reputation as the Hero of the Empire to uphold.”

  Gideon clapped his hands delightedly and noticed that even Bent allowed himself a small smile. Fanshawe said, “And the girl?”

  Gideon looked around. “Maria?” She was not there. He frowned. “Maria?”

  “Perhaps she went back into the offices, out of the sun,” suggested Trigger.

  As Gideon went to look, Bent said, “An odd girl, that one. Something about her puts me in mind of something. Can’t put my finger on it.”

  “She’s a pretty little thing,” conceded Fanshawe. “Beautiful, even. For an automaton.”

  “Automaton?” said Bent, frowning. “You mean like those mannequins that dance in Regent’s Park with the German circus? You’re effing joking.”

  Fanshawe shrugged. “Best I’ve ever seen. Most lifelike I’ve clapped eyes on, even better than the Bavarian ones, and they’re mad for ’em over there.”

  Trigger stroked his moustache. “She certainly had me fooled. I thought she was a real girl.”

  Bent gaped at Fanshawe. “You can’t actually mean she’s not real? That she’s like a toy, or something? That’s impossible.” He screwed his face up. “But how can a clockwork girl have dreams of London?”

  Gideon appeared at the door of the office. “She’s gone!” he said breathlessly. “I’ve looked all over. Maria’s gone!”

  14

  Maria Alone

  Maria didn’t know where she was going, and didn’t care. None of them would care. Since they had arrived in London, Gideon Smith ha
d been terribly cold toward her, where he had shown such gentle kindness before. What had changed his mind? She was not angry at him, though, but at herself. She had made the mistake of allowing herself something like hope. He had shown her kindness and taken her away from the house of Einstein, and she had invested far too much in that. Stupid, she told herself. Stupid clockwork girl.

  Maria walked away from the bustle of the Highgate Aerodrome. She had taken the bag with the brass key, and a few coppers. She thought she might find her way back to Einstein’s house and throw herself on the mercy of Crowe. It was all she could expect. In an alleyway she tried to wind herself up. The awkwardness of the operation and the lack of leverage meant she only managed a couple of turns; it was enough, though, to give her the strength and energy to continue walking.

  Maria didn’t know where she was going, but her feet took her there all the same. With each moment she spent in London, she felt something infuse her, a sense of familiarity, a feeling that she was home. She walked through Regent’s Park, watching with a faint prickle of jealousy the lovers who walked hand in hand, then she struck out east and found herself in the hubbub of the Tottenham Court Road. She smiled as a young hawker placed a rose into her hand, and a man with a dented brass instrument curled around his waist belted out a jolly tune while a monkey in a fez danced at his feet. More than once, a passer-by glanced at her. Did they know her, perhaps? What if they merely sensed something about her, something out of place? Maria began to feel unnerved by the weight of humanity and took herself off down a side- street. She gasped as whatever it was that lived in her head told her she knew this place, knew it well.

  Maria looked up at the metal plate affixed to the sooty wall. Cleveland Street. She put a hand out to steady herself on the warm bricks. As she did so she saw a shape veering toward her on the pavement: a gentleman in a long black coat and a black topper, wearing a concerned frown.

  “Ma’am?” he said. “I saw you stagger. Are you . . . ?”

  “Mr. Sickert,” she said. Her legs buckled and her eyes dimmed, and she fell into his arms.

  She awoke in a mild panic, in a shadowy room lit by gas lamps, the walls covered with framed portraits of women. Maria hadn’t fainted before, didn’t know she could. The man who had spoken to her was sitting opposite, staring at her.

  “Oh!” said Maria, sitting up straight. “Where am I?”

  “I do apologize,” said the man. “You went into a deep swoon. I would not normally bring an unescorted lady back to my quarters, but under the circumstances . . .” He peered through the window, where the sun sank over the rooftops. “I did not consider it prudent to continue our discussions on the street.”

  “Prudent?” said Maria. “Who are you, sir?”

  “My name is Walter Sickert,” said the man, looking curiously at her. “You recognized me on the street. Do I know you?”

  She shook her head tightly. “I . . . I do not know, Mr. Sickert. I do know you, but I cannot remember how or why. I am very much afraid I am afflicted with some strange malady.”

  Maria stood and walked over to the wall, steadying herself on the mantel. The painting above the fireplace depicted a lady resting in a sun-drenched park. “You are a painter, Mr. Sickert?”

  “I was,” he said, joining her. “After what happened . . . with Annie . . . well. I did not consider it judicious to continue taking young women into my studio.”

  “Annie . . . ,” said Maria. “Do I know Annie?”

  “Annie Crook,” he said, then put a fist to his mouth. “I swore never to utter her name again.” He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Where do you know me from, really?”

  She indicated the portrait. “Who is this?” she asked. “She looks familiar.”

  “That is she.”

  “Annie Crook? A shopgirl, yes?” Sickert nodded miserably. She asked, “Might you take me to her?”

  He sat down, shaking his head. “No. Two years ago. She was found, horribly mutilated. She had . . .”

  And there, in the shadows of the studio, Maria remembered. “She had no brain,” she finished for Sickert. “They stole her brain.”

  He nodded miserably, then stood again, and clasped Maria’s hands. “You must never speak of Annie Crook, hear me? Never utter her name. It would be bad for you, and bad for me if they knew I’d been talking to you. She was out of her depth. Mixed up in something big. She didn’t even know who Eddy was . . . but no, I’ll not have another visit by those men. I’ll not say.”

  “Perhaps I should go,” said Maria. “If you will not speak, then perhaps there are others who know me around here.”

  “But who are you?” he asked.

  She shrugged delicately. “I am Maria. But I think I might also, once, have been Annie Crook. Or part of me might have.” She tapped her head. “I think something of Annie Crook is up here.”

  Sickert giggled. If he had been high- strung before, his mind was becoming quite undone in Maria’s presence. “Oh, there’ll be others who remember Annie Crook,” he said. “There’ll be plenty who knew her. Perhaps not the sort you want to mix with.”

  She turned to him. “At the very least, Mr. Sickert, tell me this: Was she a lady of means? Was she highborn?”

  Sickert laughed. “Highborn?” he said. “Dear Maria, Annie Crook was nothing but a lowly shopgirl, with a dash of common prostitute.”

  Outside the Argus offices, Bent ran into one of the urchins from the Fleet Street Irregulars and gave him a full description of Maria. “You’ll not miss her,” he told the snot-faced boy. “Right pretty little baggage. And, apparently, an automaton.”

  “Like the dancing puppets in Regent’s Park?” asked the boy, wide-eyed.

  “Aye,” said Bent, and gave him Trigger’s address. “Just like that. You’ll put the word out, yes?”

  “Mr. Bent,” said Bingley, leaning back on his chair as Bent stumbled into the office. “How nice to have you with us today.”

  Bent went straight to his desk and opened his drawer to retrieve his Jack the Ripper files. He stuffed them into a manila envelope and walked over to the news desk.

  “On a big story, Bingley,” he said, eyeing up a half-eaten pastry on the City Editor’s desk.

  Bingley looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t trust you, Bent, that’s the top and bottom of it. Now you sit down and tell me all about this big story of yours, or you make yourself available for whatever tasks I see fit. I have a paper to fill, you know.”

  “Can’t do it, Bingley old chap,” said Bent. “Utterly top secret right at the moment. But it’s going to be the biggest story ever to grace the front page of this rag, I can tell you. Now, toodle-pip. I’ll be in touch.”

  Bingley looked at him, aghast. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Mayfair,” said Bent. “Then Egypt, perhaps.”

  “Egypt?”

  “Big place in North Africa, full of sand.”

  “I know where Egypt is, Mr. Bent, and I can most assuredly say that you are not going there. Now sit down.”

  Bent held up his hands. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I’m back.”

  “Bent!” roared Bingley, standing up. The journalist was already walking down the newsroom. “Bent! You get back here or you might not have a job to come back to when you return!”

  But Bent had already gone.

  Gideon paced the study at Grosvenor Square, ignoring the tea Mrs. Cadwallader was trying to press upon him. “We should be out looking for Maria, not sitting here eating fancies,” he said.

  “London is a big place, with more than six million souls residing here,” said Trigger gently. “This is the only place she knows; she will return here.”

  “If she’s able,” said Gideon. “She might be in trouble.” He should have spoken to her at least, told her he would still help her to find Einstein. She must be feeling he’d abandoned her. She’d not be far wrong. He’d been so wrapped up in the thought of the trip to Egypt, so consumed by adventure . . .


  Bent was sitting at the table, flicking through the journals and notes Trigger had piled high the previous night. Bent’s investigations in the newspaper archive had turned up a little on Rhodopis, but nothing very useful. He said, “Who’s W? His name crops up a lot.”

  “John’s contact in the Government,” said Trigger. “A shadowy figure; I don’t even know his real name.”

  Gideon paused. W? That sounded somewhat familiar. Bent said, “You met him?”

  Trigger shrugged. “Tall. Thin. Always well turned out. Mustache. Rather hawkish nose. Piercing eyes.”

  Bent slapped his hand on the table. “That’s the effer who had me taken off the Jack the Ripper story.”

  “How curious,” said Trigger as Bent began to leaf through the journals again. Gideon snapped his fingers and went to find his bag. Maria had taken her key but left behind the book he had taken from Einstein’s laboratory.

  When Gideon had finished reading Einstein’s book, Bent shook his head. “This just gets more and more effing grotesque. Clockwork innards? But a human brain?” He coughed and murmured, “And she showed you her bubbies?”

  Gideon ignored him. “The man who brought the Atlantic Artifact to Einstein is referred to merely as “W.” Surely the same person? But what does it mean, if anything?”

  Trigger took one of the journals from Bent and flicked through it. “Look here. These are John’s notes on a mission he undertook with a Royal Navy submersible.”

  “I read that,” said Bent. “W. took that . . . that brain-thing from him.”

  “. . . and gave it to Einstein,” said Gideon. “W. then provided him with a real brain—”

  “Oh. My. Effing. God,” breathed Bent. “I’ve just read this here about Lord Somerset.”

  Trigger frowned. “Mr. Bent, please limit yourself to the relevant entries. John’s journals are not fuel for your salacious yellow journalism.”

  Bent shook his head violently. “No, no. Look. The Duke of Clarence was knobbing some shopgirl. W. had her seen to.” He looked up, the ruddiness draining from his flabby cheeks. “W. provides Einstein with a brain at about the same time. That’s when Annie Crook turned up dead by the banks of the Thames. With the top of her head sliced off, very definitely sans effing brain.”