Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl
Page 33
When Bent had returned, admiring his medal, Victoria allowed herself another of her rare smiles. “And, finally, Mr. Gideon Smith of Sandsend.”
Gideon took up his position, and Victoria looked at him for a long time. “The others who were involved in this enterprise were no strangers to such endeavors. Even Mr. Bent, as a journalist, is more worldly-wise than an ordinary citizen. But you, Mr. Smith . . . we find it quite astonishing that one such as yourself would embark upon such a dangerous mission and give such a soaring account of yourself in the bargain. You galvanized those around you, Mr. Smith, and acted with the greatest heroism any ruler could wish to see from her subjects. In recognition of your efforts, we would like to present you with the highest honor available to us. The Victoria Cross.”
Burning with pride, Gideon lowered his head to receive the medal. He waited for Victoria to dismiss him, but she tapped her dry lips thoughtfully with a long fingernail for a moment, then said, “Mr. Smith, we have been giving a certain matter much thought since your valiant battle in the skies over London, and its rather sad consequences for certain individuals in your party.
“Britain has thrilled to the adventures of Captain Lucian Trigger for some time now. We assembled here know the truth of those adventures, and how they came about. But that is information for ourselves. It would not do for the people of Britain to find out their heroes had feet of clay.”
She mused again, then said, “It does, however, leave us something of a problem. There is suddenly a Captain Trigger– shaped hole within the fabric of Britain. It needs filling.” Gideon raised an eyebrow. Victoria said, “Mr. Smith. Britain needs a hero, one whose adventures can inspire, delight, and soothe. We would very much like it if you would become that hero.”
Gideon gaped at her and said, “Me?”
“You, Mr. Smith.” Victoria smiled. “Our new Hero of the Empire. One to take us into the future. We would very much appreciate it if you would become an agent of the Crown, and look after the more outlandish, shall we say, threats that are leveled against Britain from time to time.” She leaned forward.
“To begin with, there is the problem of a purloined dragon that has the potential to cause much embarrassment for our interests in the New World.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Gideon.
“Yes would be a good start,” said Victoria. “And a thank-you would not go amiss.”
He broke into a beaming smile. “Yes, of course, Your Majesty. And thank you. Thank you so very much.”
Outside, in a sunlit courtyard, Bent lit a cigarette and the adventurers admired each other’s medals. “Looks like you’re going to search for Maria after all,” he said.
Fanshawe embraced him. “Oh, Gideon, I’m so pleased. If you need any help in America . . .”
“I will,” he said. “Can I count on you?”
She kissed him. “Of course. The Yellow Rose is called the Skylady III now, by the way. Consider her at your service.”
“You sure you want to work for this gang? You’ve seen what they can do,” Bent said.
Gideon shrugged. “I can only be the best I can, Mr. Bent. If I can make the world a better place, save perhaps one life . . . Like Mr. Cockayne said, it’s about balance.”
Bent shook Gideon’s hand. “Give me a shout when you get back. You’ll need someone to tell your story to the world.” Bent watched them leave. In his opinion, Gideon should forget that clockwork girl and make a go of it with Fanshawe. She was a right saucy little number. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to his pit of a bed in the Fulwood Rents, if he was honest with himself. Perhaps he should think of bettering his position. As he finished his cigarette, he became aware of a figure walking toward him, a pale, thin man in a black overcoat despite the sunshine, with a drooping white moustache. Bent narrowed his eyes. Where had he seen him before? That was it. In the newsroom.
“Mr. Bent,” said the man.
“Mr. Walsingham.” Bent nodded. “I was wondering when you’d show your hand. Is this where you confess to being Jack the Ripper?”
“Jack the Ripper? Mr. Bent, I have done many things in the service of this country, but killing prostitutes is not one of them.”
“Someone’s doing it,” said Bent. “Someone who thinks there’s a treasure in the head of some whore. You gave Annie Crook’s brain to Einstein. Bit of a schoolboy error, eh? Considering what memories she had?”
Walsingham looked piercingly at Bent. “We could not have known what Einstein was going to do with Annie Crook’s brain. But if we had wanted it back, we would have taken it from Einstein, not skulked around in the shadows. Yes, Mr. Bent, someone is slicing prostitutes’ heads. It is not us. We know full well where the automaton is, and it is not on the streets of London. But we shall find out who is doing it.” He paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps it will be a job for our new Hero of the Empire.”
Bent shrugged and picked his nose. Walsingham said, “What are your immediate plans?”
Bent scratched his bandaged head. “Not been into the Argus since we got back. Only got out of hospital two days ago.” He sniffed. “Thought the effers would have come to visit me, bring me some grapes.”
Walsingham smiled thinly. “No one came to visit because you are no longer part of the staff.”
Bent gaped at him. “They sacked me? For going off to Egypt? But I’m a bloody hero! And I’ve got the biggest story in history to tell!”
“They sacked you because I told your editor to,” said Walsingham. “And you are not telling your story to anyone.” He looked out across the lawns of Buckingham Palace, at the spires and ziggurats of London beyond. “The public does not need to know in such detail the measures we have to take to protect it.”
Bent pointed his cigarette at him. “Forget it. I’ve been on the Annie Crook story for two years. You’re not taking it off me now I’ve had firsthand experience. No effing way.”
“Mr. Bent, need I remind you we can be quite persuasive?”
Bent opened his mouth and then paused. “You’ll have me seen to?”
“As I say,” said Walsingham. “The measures we must take to protect the public.” He shook his head sadly.
Bent’s shoulders slumped. “So that’s it, is it? You swap me a medal for a job, and my silence? What do I do now?”
Walsingham smiled. “We have procured another position for you.”
“Oh aye?” said Bent suspiciously.
“A role in the same stable of periodicals as the Argus. World Marvels & Wonders, to be precise.”
“The penny blood? What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Bent,” said Walsingham. “Did you not hear Her Majesty say Mr. Smith is to be the new Hero of the Empire? His endeavors will only be useful to the Crown if they are properly presented, to inspire the citizenry. That is where you come in. I can see it now: This adventure is utterly true, and faithfully retold by Gideon Smith’s constant companion, Mr. Aloysius Bent.”
Bent sighed. “Can I refuse?”
“No. It’s a great opportunity, Mr. Bent. You will travel the world.”
Bent stared at him. “You mean I actually have to go with him on these crackpot exploits? Won’t it be dangerous?”
Walsingham nodded. “Very. But time is wasting. You may recuperate for a short while as Mr. Smith undergoes a period of military training, and then you will receive a message to present yourself at Highgate Aerodrome. There will be a dirigible leaving for New York, and you will be on it.” He smiled. “Don’t forget your notebook, and in the meantime, please remember: Careless talk costs lives.”
Walsingham turned and left without another word. Bent watched his receding back for a while, then lit another cigarette. “Eff,” he said, with feeling.
Epilogue
Two Weeks Later
August was hot and sunny, but it was cool inside twenty- six St. George’s Square. Thick drapes kept back the light, though Florence Stoker thought them not conducive to Noel’s recuperation. One more wee
k, and they would ease back their mourning. Life must go on.
She sat listlessly in the study, rereading the same page of her book. The sound of the doorbell intruded into the silence, and Florence groaned. She called, “Tell them I am not receiving visitors, Adelaide. And if it is another journalist, tell them we have told our story to Mr. Aloysius Bent and he has quite admirably handled Mr. Stoker’s obituary.”
There had been a stream of visitors since Bram’s death. Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, a slew of famous actors and actresses. Theatrical types, literary types, all kinds of people. Dour men in black who had told her she must not discuss too much of anything Bram had told her before he died, and made her sign papers to that effect. As if he had told her anything! All she could think was that their last meeting had been so strained and painful. She wished she had told him how much she loved him.
There were other visitors, too. Mr. Gideon Smith, who told her such a tale she could scarcely believe it. In fact, she didn’t believe it. But they said Mr. Smith was a hero, and he told her Bram was a hero, too, and he had died trying to stop that terrible brass dragon attacking London.
Adelaide shrieked, and Florence looked up. What now? With a sigh, she crossed the study, opening the door to see Adelaide crumpled on the floor. In the doorway was a tall figure, the sun behind him.
“I’m afraid she’s fainted.”
Florence feared she would, too. That voice . . . a cruel joke. She said weakly, “Bram?”
He stepped over the threshold. Bram indeed. Tall, strong, smiling through his beard. He wore tight breeches and a loose white shirt. She looked at him, bewildered. “They said you’d died.”
“They thought I had. Oh, Florence, I have such stories to tell.”
“Why didn’t you telegraph? How did you get home?”
“I flew.” He flapped his arms. “Most exhausting.”
She cried then, tears of joy, and Bram took her in his arms. “It’s really you,” she said.
“Where is Noel?”
“I shall get him directly. Let me hold you for a moment. I’m worried you will disappear like a phantom. They said you were crushed under the pyramid’s stones.”
“I was,” he said, smelling her hair. “Somehow, I found the strength to escape. I crossed France. When I reached Calais I was bereft of the accoutrements a gentleman requires, having lost my wallet and most of my clothing in Egypt. I procured a peasant’s outfit from . . . well, a criminal.”
“I shall swoon, Bram, I swear. You had dealings with the underworld? French criminals to boot?”
“Briefly.” Bram smiled. “We . . . had lunch together. After a fashion.”
She shook her head and they held each other until Adelaide stirred. Florence stepped back, smoothed her dress. “When she is recovered, we shall have brunch. You must be starving.”
Stoker wiped an almost imperceptible red spot from the corner of his mouth, and smiled. He ran his tongue over his keen canines. He, too, had thought he’d died, especially when Elizabeth took his blood. But before she left, as he hovered in darkness, she’d gifted him a few drops of her own blood into his parched mouth. An acquired taste, but one he’d come to relish.
“It is quite all right,” he said, his eyes shining, where before they had only twinkled. “I have already eaten.”
Table of Contents
GIDEON SMITH and the MECHANICAL GIRL
Acknowledgments
Prologue Two Years Earlier
1 The Smiths of Sandsend
2 The Fate of the Cold Drake
3 Son of the Dragon
4 The Shadow Over Faxmouth
5 A Most Unusual Dinner
6 The House of Einstein
7 The Imitation Game
8 The Children of Heqet
9 Bent of the Argus
10 London
11 Captain Trigger, at Last
12 Dr. Reed’s Casebook
13 The Belle of the Airways
14 Maria Alone
15 Vampires of Shoreditch
16 The Attack on Embankment
17 The Last Testament of Annie Crook
18 Clockwork Wishes
19 To Egypt!
20 Alive, Alive-o
21 The Sky Pirates of the Yellow Rose
22 Countess Bathory Unleashed
23 Red Hot in Alex
24 The Astonishing Mr. Okoth
25 The Lost Pyramid of Rhodopis
26 Beneath the River, Beneath the Sand
27 Your Fear Is a Lie
28 What Happened to Dr. John Reed?
29 The Tale of Rhodopis
30 A Dragon to Eat the Sun
31 Apep
32 The Battle of London
33 The Hero of the Empire
Epilogue Two Weeks Later