Agamemnon Frost and the House of Death

by Kim Knox

  Conversation flowed, the natural ease of it surprising Mason. He’d attended enough dinners over the past three years and endured stilted manners, drunks, wealthy merchants groping the daughters of their hosts and tedious talk. But this drawing room...

  Perhaps Frost was right. They were Martians...and Martian society was clearly witty and well-mannered. Frost was the sparkling dandy, as perfect as the rest of the party.

  The dinner gong shimmered with sound, and as the ladies rose, the gentlemen followed. Lady Cadwallader took Frost’s arm and offered him a slip of paper. “We thought you would like the honour of being king tonight.”

  Frost took the card. Mason could just make out the caricature of a man in a short toga. His easy smile dipped as he stared at it. The hesitation of a moment. But there. “Agamemnon.” He glanced at Theodora. “And who is to be my queen, my Clytemnestra?”

  Lady Cadwallader gave him another one of her polished smiles and Mason’s instincts pricked him. Something about it was unnatural. Was this a part of Frost’s game? He somehow knew that the guests would tug at his gut, at the surety that had kept him alive for his time in the East? But the man couldn’t know him so well.

  Sir Randolph’s wife let out a slow sigh. “Twelfth Night has been changed so. We’re allowed few of its former festivities. Could we keep it as a surprise?”

  “As you wish.”

  “At midnight.” She grinned up at him, patting his arm. “We’ll tell you at midnight.”

  And there was another little stab at Mason’s instinct. He followed Williams’ silent order to open the doors to the dining room, pushing down the insanity of his thoughts. It was the country house of a prosperous Liverpool copper and shipping merchant. One who’d invited a rich brewer and his family, a doctor who was the medical officer to the city, and a soldier, his cousin, recently returned from Africa to dine with him. Dinners often ended at midnight. There was nothing suspicious. Nothing at all.

  That they were all perfectly genteel was a coincidence. Frost himself had impeccable manners. It was right that they would want him in their circle. The little niggle of a question dug into Mason’s mind. Why had they invited Frost now, when most of the country was frozen in the worst winter anyone could remember? Yes, his family was local—Greenbank Hall was a mile east—but Frost had been somewhere in Buckinghamshire. Some shooting party. Only the speed of an aeolipile had enabled him to attend.

  Sir Randolph, a tall, well-built man who looked younger and fitter than his reputed fifty-three years, led the way into the dining room with Lady Barend on his arm. Frost followed. A huge gasolier hissed and was set low over the long dinning table. Its yellowed light eased into every corner of the dark-walled room, mixing with the heat and flames from the huge fireplace.

  Mason moved forward to pull out Frost’s chair and offer him his napkin. Frost took it and gave him his white kid gloves in return. The light brush of the man’s fingertips against his palm forced Mason to pull on every ounce of his army training. He believed his face remained impassive.

  “Thank you, Mason.”

  That look was in Frost’s eye again. And damn it all, if he wasn’t believing there was something odd about...everything. Would this be his future? Him being driven slowly insane by his employer?

  He waited just behind Frost’s chair as the other guests found their seats. “Sauternes, sir?”

  Frost nodded and Mason poured the matured, copper-coloured wine into its rounded glass. He set the decanter on the table and stepped back, his gaze moving to the footmen at the sideboard with the tureen of soup. Williams ladled the clear soup into bowls and from the light of gasolier, Mason caught a fine mist drifting over one of the dishes.

  He kept expression from his face. He hadn’t imagined that sprinkle of...something over the surface of the soup. The butler waved a gloved hand and Mason moved forward. Williams gave him the dish with the tainted soup.

  He turned away, his chest tight. This was supposed to be a game, a tease played out by a bored rich man. But something was going on. Perhaps not Martians, but maybe Frost had connections, information that Sir Randolph wanted. Playing the dandy was Frost’s mask. Did the people around the table know that?

  He placed the soup before Frost, watching Lady Cadwallader as she picked up her spoon and turned to say something to Sir Arthur.

  “A light garnish, sir.”

  That dangerous glint was back in Frost’s eyes and Mason was relieved the man had a quick mind. He wet his lips. “Something sharp to the palate?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Frost stirred his spoon through his soup and took a deepened breath. “Simply a little extra salt.”

  Mason blinked. The salt was on the table and no one else had had their soup helped that way. “If you’re sure you approve, sir...?”

  “I approve.”

  Mason stepped back, the knot in his stomach one of embarrassment at overreacting mixed with the fact that they had tampered with the soup. It wasn’t salt. And he had the uneasy suspicion that Frost knew it too.

  “That contraption of yours, Frost, how fast can it go?” Colonel Whitney looked up from his soup. He sat across from Frost, the fire a halo of gold around the sharp tailoring of his dinner jacket. The glow from the gasolier dropped a sheen of light into his eyes. “I have colleagues in India. They’ve a new model to rival the locomotive. A great beast of a machine that pulls troop sleds.” He shook his head. “Fifty miles an hour over rough terrain. Incredible.”

  Frost swallowed his first spoonful of soup and Mason held his breath...and nothing. No choking, no gagging. He closed his eyes for a brief second. He was seeing conspiracy and subterfuge where there was none. Frost had twisted his instincts.

  “I hired one of the newer models. Less work.” Frost dipped his spoon again. “Where possible, I prefer to be driven. My attention can wander. The dials did say it was over forty.” A dark smile pushed at his lips. “I will admit that someone raced a train and possibly waved at its passengers.”

  Laughter rippled around the table, and Mason began to doubt himself again.

  “Isn’t that a touch illegal, Mr. Frost?” Lady Cadwallader asked, a smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.

  “I imagine if the driver were caught, then yes, the law wouldn’t look favourably on that man. But then policemen are mostly on bicycles.”

  “How did it handle?” The colonel again. Even with his money and connections the new vehicles were beyond his means. They were vehicles of select regiments and the playthings of the very wealthy. “It skims. It hovers. Insanity.”

  “It is indeed. The engines are almost silent. Just a whisper. I startled more than one sheep.” Frost grinned at him. “Take it out after dinner, Colonel. It’d be my pleasure.”

  Colonel Whitney returned the grin, the light sharp in his eyes. “Thank you, Frost. It would be my pleasure too.”

  Conversation moved on, the table discussing the great fire that had consumed the docks months before. Sir Randolph bemoaned the thickening of the air with smoke and the stench of destroyed cargoes. Mason helped Frost to the salmon—which had the same dusting of salt—as the conversation turned back to Frost’s aeolipile locked up in the stables.

  Theodora laughed at something Arabella had said before she turned to the man beside her. “Your brother started this aeolipile revolution, did he not, Mr. Frost? With his finds in Egypt.”

  Mason noted the slight tensing of Frost’s shoulders, another moment of hesitation. Barely a flicker, but there. “Yes. He discovered a scroll by Hero–or is it Heron–of Alexandria? Some sort of previously unknown book of the Pneumatica. Gave the scrolls to the War Office.” He gave her one of his practised smiles. “Beyond that I know little. My brother is bookish. I prefer lighter pursuits.”

  “Egypt!” Sir Randolph declared. “Heat, the emptiness of the de
sert, clear bright skies. A perfection of a place.”

  Lady Cadwallader smiled indulgently at him. “I refuse to relocate to Egypt, my dear. We live in the second heart of the empire. Why would we leave?”

  “Yes, there’s that.” Sir Randolph expression was rueful. “My business, my work must be here.”

  Frost held up his hand and Mason moved to his side. He poured more wine, his hand steady and his face respectfully blank. He was close enough to pick out the hints of the other man’s body scent in the warm room, and it made his blood beat hard. “Anything else, sir?”

  The dark gaze that held his was speculative and Mason was happy to blame the heat of his skin on the growing stuffiness of the air.

  “Not as yet, thank you, Mason.”

  Sir Arthur picked up his own full glass of hock, this thick fingers stroking the long stem. “Do you have much to do with your brother, Mr. Frost?”

  Mason stepped back again. Perhaps the men around the table wanted influence with Frost’s brother, Menelaus? From what Mason had read, the man was a new force within the Liberal party. The right-hand man to Gladstone. Drawing out that connection made sense...and he held onto it. Even as the little hairs on the back of his neck told him otherwise.

  Frost sipped at his wine. “As little as he will allow.”

  “You read History at Oxford.” Colonel Whitney waved to a footman for more wine. “That marks you down as a government bod-in-waiting.”

  And there was Frost tensing again. Was it real or another one of his masks? It was hard for Mason to read Frost, even his sure instincts skewed. He didn’t know if it was a part of the game with him or if the man played with the guests too.

  “There’s still time.” The colonel peered into his glass. “The War Office always needs capable men.”

  “I could recommend my tailor. Alexander Mere is very good.”

  Frost lifted a hand and Mason moved to the side of his chair. Waiting. His gut told him something was changing. He could almost taste it in the air. What had he fallen into by accepting this seemingly simple one-night post?

  “Come now, Mr. Frost.” Lady Cadwallader’s expression was almost stern. “There is more to you than clothing.” Her eyes gleamed with a white light that had nothing to do with the golden glow of the gasolier. “We’re all very aware of that.”

  “Yes, so it seems.” Frost pulled his napkin from his lap and laid it beside his plate. He rose. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, ladies, gentleman.”

  “Leaving us so soon, Frost?” Sir Randolph leaned back in his chair and dropped his arm against the rest. He tapped the table were his Twelfth Night card lay. “We’ve yet to play our characters.”

  “I know how the mythical Agamemnon met his end, Sir Randolph. I believe it’s a little too chilly for a bath.”

  Sir Randolph frowned. And the atmosphere...changed.

  The easy bustle of a dinner party vanished. The servants stilled, as did the guests, every eye turned to Frost and himself. Mason’s heart missed a beat, and another, and he had to remind himself to breathe. It was suddenly no longer a game played between themselves.

  Sir Randolph tilted his head, and the little hairs on the back of Mason’s neck pricked. The man’s hand slipped over the wooden armrest, slow and sure. “Please. Stay.”

  Frost smiled, something open and touched with charm. “I fear—”

  “Stay.” The host’s voice had dropped and a hard edge cut it. His hand came back up and he held a gun. His fingers flexed around the grip. “If you please.”

  Mason straightened, willing his body loose and ready. He’d faced down the barrel of a gun more than once. But never one quite like this. Shining silver edges and completely transparent, as if it were moulded from glass. Its innards crackled with colours and charges of current.

  “Sir Randolph...” The light inflection to Frost’s voice said the dandy mask was still firmly in place. “Is this more of your game for Twelfth Night? If so, it’s completely novel. I applaud you.”

  Sir Randolph’s hand squeezed. Lightning tore from the gun, and instinct made Mason grab Frost and pull him back, but the surge of blue-white light, burning with electricity, scorched past them.

  Half of the sideboard vanished. No ash. No sound. One second it was there, ready with soup and decanted wine. The next—it was gone, the skeleton of its interior glowing white hot.

  Mason swore. “This isn’t a game, is it?”

  “No.” Frost shoved him forward, urging escape. Mason grabbed his wits. Run. They had to run. Now. “And a good guest always knows when to leave.”

  Mason barrelled past the footmen blocking the door to the passage. Pain lanced down his shoulders. They were little more than skinny boys, but they had the brine-hardened bodies of prize fighters. He swore, grabbed Frost’s arm and dragged him from the room.

  “Your aeolipile?”

  “This way.” Frost pulled free of him and turned before the stairs. Williams had shown him around Holt Hall. Frost wasn’t heading for the stables to the back of the house, but past the library to the old entrance. He didn’t stop, and with a loud cry Frost charged the doors with his shoulder.

  Glass shattered, the frame of the door splintered and cold air rushed the hall.

  Frost stumbled out into the night and Mason had to follow him. He had little idea what was really happening and Frost seemed to know more than he was telling. “What was that? That...weapon.”

  Frost grabbed his arm and slithered off the ice-covered steps. “Just a gun.” His breath fogged around him, the light from the hall pushing out to cover them. Frost yanked him out into the darkness, their boots crunching across cold grass. “A very special gun.”

  He broke into a run, away from the house and away from the stables.

  Behind them, raised voices echoed across the grounds. Mason swore. The chill wind blowing up from the river whipped at his exposed face, the fast breeze cutting away the usual pall of fog and smoke. Where had Frost gone? The crunch of gravel cut through Sir Randolph’s shout to stop. The drive. He was on the drive. The clouded curve of the moon silvered the grass and showed a dark figure running at great speed.

  More cursing ripping from him, Mason gave chase. A simple night. Easy money. Putting up with the vagaries of a dandy. No, not for him. He’d assaulted staff, smashed a door and escaped with one of the guests. How was he going to explain this to the registry?

  Light flashed behind him, but there was no following rumble of thunder.

  “Gunner Mason, I order you to halt!”

  The colonel’s bellow ripped the night air and it almost, almost stopped him, years of orders still thick in his blood. Mason stumbled but recovered his pace. The dark and Frost were more secure than whatever awaited him back at the house.

  The freezing air burned in his lungs, but he caught up with Frost on the long curve of the drive leading to the front gates. “Your aeolipile.” Mason bit out the stupid word. “Sir.” He pointed back to the house. “We need...”

  “It’s one of their machines.” Frost flashed a hard smile. “I doubt if it’s more than a pile of metal and soft innards on the stable floor.” He straightened. “Do you trust me, Mason?”

  “I don’t know, sir. This is all—”

  Lights flashed through the trunks of the beech trees lining the drive. “No time.” Frost hauled back the heavy iron gate with one hand, the hinges grating and groaning in the broken silence. “We need to make for the railway station.”

  “How did you...?” Mason stared at the open gate before he took off after Frost, running across the slippery cobbles of the narrow road and vaulting the stone wall beyond it. “No one’s that strong.”

  Frost didn’t break his stride as he replied, “I am.”

  The grass crunched under their boots, the echoing shouts of the men—and women—of
the house following them out into the darkness. Spots of light far below the brow of the hill offered the hope of habitation from a row of houses lived in by senior men in the shipping offices. Beyond them stretched the London railway line into Liverpool. The nearest train station was under half a mile away.

  It could’ve been China for all that short distance did for Mason’s morale.

  “What does all this mean, sir?” He kept pace with Frost, the man’s footing sure, his breathing enviously even. He was as fit as an army runner. More so. “You came here and you knew—”

  “Yes.” Frost scrabbled down the steep dip of the hill. His voice echoed back. “It’s all a part of my plan.”

  Mason stared after him as he vanished into the freezing darkness, the tracks in the white frost the only sign of his passing. Behind him, the shouts of men and that dazzling flash of chemical light spurred Mason into following him. “This is a plan?”

  Frost clambered over the stone wall edging the field and into the yellow fall of light from a street lamp. His smile was sharp, almost unnatural. “Yes. It’s a simple one. We run. And then we let the Martians catch us.”

  3. Night Escape through the Streets

  “Then why the hell are we running?” Mason pressed his hand to his mouth, the slap of cold skin against his lips the shock he needed to get a grip of the wildness churning through him. He shinned over the wall and dropped to the pavement. “I apologise, Mr. Frost.”

  Frost put a hand on his shoulder. “This is a testing time. Lesser men crumble.” His fingers squeezed and Mason drew strength from the gesture. “I’ve seen it. Too often.” He brushed crystals of ice from the front of his ornately patterned waistcoat, his finger snagging on a tear in one of the buttonholes. He frowned. “This is one of my favourites too.”

  Light flashed over the crest of the hill, a brilliant flare of blue-white light. “Time to run.” His first stride had him sliding and Mason grabbed his arm to keep him upright. “Or we walk quickly.” His sole slipped over the curves of the cobbled road. “Well, as quickly as we can.”