Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl

by David Barnett

  However . . . with her liberty came something else. Her acceptance of what she was—and what she wasn’t, because thanks to Captain Trigger she now knew she most definitely wasn’t Annie Crook—had brought a thing she had never dared allow herself.

  Hope.

  Hope that she might live her own life. Hope that she might make her own way in the world. And . . . could she even think it? Hope that even she, Maria the clockwork girl, could find . . . love?

  Mr. Gideon Smith. When he had appeared out of the fog on Embankment, she had almost swooned. Handsome, strong, Gideon Smith. He had no family, very much like herself; no roots laid down, but instead a desire to see the world and all it offered; a thirst for adventure. The horizon never came any closer, no matter how far you traveled, considered Maria. Wouldn’t it be a thing, to chase that horizon, for ever and ever? And wouldn’t it be a thing to do it with Mr. Gideon Smith by her side?

  She sighed again, recognizing the tiny differences in the emotions that seemed to emerge almost constantly now, since she had confronted what she thought she might be in Cleveland Street, and since she had learned what she actually was. This sigh was flecked with longing and fear. Mr. Smith had shown her kindness, but not love. She closed her eyes and wished very hard that he might come to her there and then.

  One step at a time. Clockwork girls might be allowed life, of a sort. But were clockwork girls allowed wishes?

  She started, and smiled, as she heard the soft padding of feet on the carpet outside her room, and very slowly the polished doorknob began to turn. Perhaps, just perhaps, they were.

  Gideon paused with his hand on the doorknob, his fist raised to knock gently on the paneled wood. The breeze from the open window kissed his face once more, the curtains twisting and revealing the full, fat moon in the sky—framed within the jagged outline of shards of glass. Gideon frowned and let go of the door. The carpet beneath the small window was littered with smashed glass. Something had broken it.

  Someone had entered the house.

  Too late, he remembered the conversations downstairs.. If the Children of Heqet had traced Maria to London all the way from Sandsend, what on earth had made Trigger and the others think she would be safe in Mayfair? With dread he flung open the door to Maria’s room to find it empty. A tall-backed chair lay on its side, and Einstein’s journal was cast haphazardly on the polished wooden floor. The bay window was open, the curtains blowing fiercely in the wind.

  Maria, once again, was gone.

  “Gone?” asked Bent. “She can’t stay in one place for ten minutes, that one.”

  “She hasn’t wandered off this time,” said Gideon. “She’s been taken.”

  He led them upstairs to the room and showed them the smashed window. Trigger said, “We can’t be sure it was the Children of Heqet. . . .”

  Stoker turned to Bathory. “You did not sense anything?”

  Bent was on him, sharp as a tack. “Sense anything? What do you mean?”

  Stoker coughed. “Countess Bathory has . . . she can sometimes know where the Children of Heqet are.”

  “No, Bram, I did not,” said Bathory. To the others she said, “I do have certain . . . abilities. But they must be fueled. By . . .”

  “By fuel we do not have,” said Stoker quickly.

  Gideon shook his head. “We must find Maria. Bent, can’t you get those urchins on it again?”

  “The Fleet Street Irregulars?” Bent scratched his head. “It’s late. Even mudlarks like that have to sleep sometime. Besides, we got very lucky earlier.”

  “They won’t be in London now,” said Bathory. “Not with a prize like Maria in their grasp. They have the Atlantic Artifact. They’ll be taking it back.”

  “Back?” said Gideon.

  Bathory shrugged. “Have we not established that the Children of Heqet are connected in some way to the Rhodopis Pyramid? It makes sense they would head there with their bounty.”

  “And to whoever’s waiting for them.” Bent nodded. “Mr. effing Walsingham, my money’s on.”

  “Gideon,” said Trigger, “while you were up here we decided we would still travel to Egypt tomorrow. I need to know what happened to John. Countess Bathory wishes to take vengeance against the Children of Heqet—and whoever their master might be—for the murder of her husband. Mr. Stoker is accompanying the Countess, and Mr. Bent . . .”

  “Mr. Bent’s not letting go of the story of the decade,” cackled Bent. “What about you, Smith?”

  Gideon looked back at the broken window. Maria had trusted him, had thought she was safe. He had let her down. He said, “Then I’m going to Egypt as well.”

  “Just one thing,” said Bent. “We’re not exactly the Duke of Cornwall’s Light effing Infantry, are we? In fact, the only weapon we seem to have is Trigger’s cane, and that didn’t come off too well against that thing back on Embankment— though Mr. Smith was exceedingly inventive with it.”

  Trigger allowed himself a small smile. “Mr. Bent, I think it’s time I showed you the armory.”

  “John did like to collect items from his various adventures,” said Trigger as he opened the doors to the first-floor room. “And weaponry was no exception.”

  “Good Christ,” said Bent as he wandered into the long, narrow room. Rifles were ranked in cases all down one wall, and handguns were fixed to boards on the opposite side. Further down there were trays of grenades and larger, industrial- looking machines of war and killing that Trigger and Reed had collected over many years.

  “We should perhaps take one or two items, as insurance,” suggested Stoker.

  Bent, his eyes shining, took down a four-barreled revolver from the wall. Trigger smiled. “The Lancaster. Fitted to take brass cartridges. Quite a kick.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Bent. He turned to the rifles. “Hang on, though . . . what’s this?”

  “Ah,” said Trigger proudly. “The Lee-Enfield bolt-action repeater. One of John’s favorites. Very new in design.”

  Bent put it down and selected a larger weapon. “This?”

  “The Martini-Enfield. Rechambered to take .303 cartridges. You have to watch for inferior Khyber Pass copies; that’s an original.”

  “I like it,” said Bent, hefting it to his shoulder. Then his eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, good effing Christ.”

  He laid down the Martini-Enfield and walked reverently to a huge, gray barrel mounted on a tripod. “What is this?” he whispered.

  Trigger smiled. “The QF three pounder Hotchkiss. Designed as a coastal defense anti-dirigible gun.”

  “I’m having this,” Bent said. “In fact, I’m taking them all.”

  “Mr. Bent, the Hotchkiss fires three-pound shells. I do not think Miss Fanshawe will be enamored of the extra weight.”

  “Miss Fanshawe can kiss my arse,” said Bent. “She isn’t going looking for blood-crazed mummies with teeth like a butcher’s knife rack. Don’t bother to wrap ’em, Trigger, I’ll take them as they are.”

  Gideon took in his hand a straight-bladed, hilted sword. Trigger nodded. He liked the boy. He had a certain . . . simplicity of approach Trigger appreciated. “The Pattern Infantry Officer’s Sword. Not yet in common use among the forces, but about to be rolled out, as I understand. John had very good contacts in the weapons industry.”

  “This will do for me,” said Gideon, turning the sword so the blade caught the light from the electric lamps on the wall. “When I meet the Children of Heqet again, I want to be close enough to see the look in their eyes when they die.”

  Stoker awoke just after dawn, while the rest of the house was sleeping. Mrs. Cadwallader fixed him a breakfast of scrambled eggs, and he asked her to inform Captain Trigger and the rest he would be back before they departed for Highgate. Then he let himself out into the warm morning and went in search of a cab.

  He liked London best in the morning, just before the bustle and squalor rose to the surface. On those rare quiet moments the city reminded him of Dublin, and if he closed his eyes he cou
ld imagine himself walking down Grafton Street or over the Ha’penny Bridge. Not for long, though; he was always brought short by a screeching cockney twang or the clank and hiss of some mechanical marvel or other. He hurried to hail a steam-cab and it conveyed him in no time at all to St. George’s Square. He stood for a long time outside the door to number twenty-six, feeling as though he were some adulterer returning with his tail between his legs.

  Despite the hour, Florence was in the kitchen, drinking tea while Adelaide prepared breakfast. She looked up at him, but her eyes betrayed no emotion; it was as though she had only seen him an hour before, not several weeks ago.

  “Ah,” she said. “You have returned.”

  “How is Noel?” asked Stoker, taking off his hat. “Asleep,” said Florence, sipping her tea.

  “And in general?”

  “Tolerable,” she said. “He will be pleased to see you.” Stoker stared at his hands. “I cannot stay long.” Florence dismissed the maid, who hurried away, and looked at him. “So now we have it. You have come to tell me you have made a match with another, and you are leaving us. Or, rather, you want us out of here, so you can set up home with the other woman. Noel and myself are to put ourselves on the mercy of the parish, are we? Is it to be the poorhouse for us? The life of a street urchin for him?”

  Stoker looked at his wife in horror. “Florence! What are you talking about?”

  Tears flowed from her eyes freely. “You have hardly made a secret of it!” she said with controlled fury. “Hardly been discreet! Why, you are the talk of Whitby, Bram, and most of London too. Gallivanting around in the company of some . . . some strumpet!”

  The penny, finally, dropped. “Elizabeth?” he said. “You mean Elizabeth?”

  “So she has a name!” said Florence, her lip trembling.

  Stoker paused. How exactly was he going to explain this? “She is a noblewoman from Transylvania.”

  “How awfully exotic.”

  “Her name is Elizabeth Bathory. Countess Bathory. I have been assisting her with a problem.”

  “I daresay you have. While I have been here, nursing your sick son, you have been walking arm-in-arm with Countess Elizabeth Bathory, and holding secret assignations in the ruins of the abbey in Whitby. Oh, Bram, how could you? We took romantic walks there ourselves, have you forgotten?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, pinching his nose.

  Her face crumpled. “Is she very beautiful, Bram? Is she younger than me?”

  He laughed, this time without humor. “Younger? No. No, she is much older.”

  Florence looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Then why? Why have you abandoned us?”

  He stepped forward and took her in his arms, despite her protestations. “You silly, silly old thing,” he murmured. “I have not abandoned you. I do not feel that way about the Countess. It is merely . . .”

  “Merely what, Bram?” she said, looking up at him, desperate to trust him.

  He sighed. “I doubt you would believe me. But I must ask you to have faith.”

  “Father?”

  He turned to see Noel standing at the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Stoker went to hug his son and held him at arm’s length. “You are at least twice as strong as you were when I saw you last,” he said.

  “Are you home, father?” asked Noel, yawning.

  Stoker turned to Florence. “I shall be, soon. I must first make a journey, but then I will come back and get you and we shall all repair to Whitby for the remainder of the summer.”

  “A journey?” said Florence. “To where?”

  “Egypt.”

  “Egypt?” said Florence, aghast. “Bram, you are not serious.”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “I am, my darling. And I must go, now.”

  She shook her head. “I will not allow it. Egypt! Fancy!”

  Stoker held her hands, and kissed them also. “I must, Florence. I will return. It should not take long.”

  “And is she going? Your Countess Elizabeth Bathory?”

  He could not lie. “She is.”

  Florence’s face hardened into a spiteful mask he had never seen before. She said, “Then go, if that is your will. But you should consider yourself very lucky if you have a family waiting for you when you choose to return.”

  “Please, Florence.” He was not too proud to beg. “I must do this.”

  “You will do what you wish,” she said, her words heavy with ice. “Do not worry yourself unduly about your son and your wife.”

  “Not in front of the boy,” murmured Stoker, looking into Noel’s wide eyes.

  Florence snorted. “If only you were so discreet yourself.”

  With a heavy heart, Stoker kissed Noel on his head and let himself out into the sunshine. Despite his protestations, he still felt as though he had, in fact, betrayed Florence, that he was lying to her. Elizabeth was indeed very beautiful, and he could not deny her presence excited and thrilled him. He turned to see Florence at the window, staring sadly at him. She had been ever so good to him, allowing him his time to go off to Whitby and seek inspiration for his story. He had taken her goodwill for granted, and he had now stretched it to its limits.

  He had gone to Whitby in search of art and ended up chasing monsters. Now, as he put his hat on his head and hurried to find a cab to take him back to Grosvenor Square, he briefly wondered if he had not, at least in the eyes of his beloved wife and son, become one.

  19

  To Egypt!

  Rowena Fanshawe was waiting for them by the Skylady II. She wore black boots to her knees and a pair of tight jodhpurs. Gideon marveled at how little they left to the imagination regarding the lower regions of her female shape. Above the jodhpurs she had a crisp white shirt, the top three buttons open, and on her head was a brown leather helmet, upon which perched a pair of leather goggles with round glass lenses. Bent nudged Gideon as they unloaded their bags from the steam carriage. “She scrubs up well.”

  “The old girl’s wound up and ready to fly,” said Fanshawe. She looked at the assembly. “Passenger manifest changed somewhat since yesterday? No luck finding the girl?”

  Trigger stepped forward and embraced Fanshawe. “We found Miss Maria, but she was cruelly snatched from us again. We believe she may well already be on her way to Egypt.”

  “White slavers?” frowned Fanshawe.

  “Worse,” said Trigger. “It is a long, fantastic story; its telling will give us something to do to while away the long journey.”

  Fanshawe cocked her head to one side and Gideon saw her regarding him as he piled cases up on the rough dirt. “I can think of one or two diversions to help pass the time,” she said with a half smile. “But I’ll listen to your story, Lucian. Who’s the lady?”

  Bathory stepped forward and held out her hand. “Countess Elizabeth Bathory,” she said, inclining her head. “You are a brave woman, Miss Fanshawe, piloting this dirigible. It is an activity that I believe is commonly referred to as men’s work.”

  Fanshawe shrugged. “I get by. You’re awful beautiful, Countess.”

  Bathory smiled. “And you are as bold as you are brave, Miss Fanshawe.”

  “And this is Bram Stoker,” said Trigger.

  Stoker kissed Fanshawe’s hand, and she said, “You’re a writer, yes? Have I read some of your literary reviews in the London Telegraph?”

  “How come she knows his stuff but has never read mine?” complained Bent.

  Stoker looked impressed. “To Countess Bathory’s list of adjectives I would add intelligent and, if I may dare, beautiful also.”

  Fanshawe waved him away with a small laugh, and Gideon felt Bent’s elbow in his ribs. The journalist whispered in his ear, “She’s got it all, that girl. And a pretty good rack with it. I tell you, son, you could be in there like a rat up a drainpipe.” Gideon made a face and whispered for him to be quiet, but Bent ignored him and turned to glance at Bathory. “Maybe we could bunk up on a double date, you and the flygirl and me and the Count
ess.”

  As Bathory moved forward to admire the dirigible, she paused by Gideon and Bent and murmured, “I have exceptionally good hearing, Mr. Bent. Like a bat, you might say.”

  Gideon suppressed a smirk as Bent coughed and reddened. “Ah, well, Countess, no disrespect, and all that.”

  She gave him a smile. “It would be a very cold day in hell when I found myself in your arms, sir.”

  Bent shrugged cheerfully. “Worse things happen at sea, Countess. Never say never.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked at Gideon.

  Fanshawe went to survey the baggage that had been unloaded from the steam carriage. “What’s in the big box?”

  “That is mine,” said Bathory. “I am afraid it is vital that it accompanies us. Will it be a problem?”

  Fanshawe shook her head. “We aren’t taking other cargo, and five passengers plus me isn’t a problem for the Skylady II.” She paused. “Anyone flown in a ’stat before?”

  Gideon certainly hadn’t and was keen to get on board. Stoker said, “We traveled to London on a passenger dirigible.”

  Fanshawe grinned. “I’m afraid you won’t get the same level of luxury here, Mr. Stoker. Let me show you around the old girl.”

  Gideon followed Fanshawe up the steps into the cramped cabin of the gondola. The pilot waited until they were all in, Stoker having to crouch beneath the low roof, and said, “This is the communal area. Space is at a premium, so there are fold-down tables and seats fixed into the wall.”

  She indicated an oval doorway. “Back there’s the general hold. Sometimes I leave it as one big space for cargo; as we don’t have much I’ve divided it with drapes into sleeping quarters. Don’t expect too much in the way of privacy.”

  “I’m happy to share with the Countess, if space is a problem,” said Bent.

  Bathory gave him a withering look. “You wouldn’t want to, Mr. Bent. I shall need to be with my belongings, especially the long box.”

  Fanshawe nodded. “That can go at the back. We have a basic water closet and washroom, so there’ll be no baths, I’m afraid.”