End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  At last, their guide finally pointed out the lank figure lurking in the Medieval Court, intent on the close examination of a tapestry dating back to the twelfth century.

  Blank thanked their escort and sent him scurrying back to his duties, more than a little confused why he had agreed to act as impromptu guide to complete strangers when he had important work to be about.

  “Mr. Fawkes?” Blank said, carefully approaching the man, his hat in one hand, his cane in the other. “I was wondering if we might have a word with you.”

  The man started and wheeled around to face them with a quick intake of breath.

  “There's no cause for alarm,” Miss Bonaventure said soothingly. “We'd simply like to ask you a few questions.”

  The man regained control of himself and regarded them with evident suspicion. He was short and thin, standing no taller than Blank's shoulder, with a mass of wiry hair and a stringy beard. The elbows of his coat were shiny with age, his cravat all askew, and periodically his left eye and the left corner of his mouth would twitch in concert, some sort of unconscious tic. “Who are you?” he asked, evenly.

  “You'll have to forgive our rude manners,” Blank said, and presented one of his calling cards. “My name is Sandford Blank, and this is my companion Miss Bonaventure. We are consulting detectives, assisting the police on a matter most grave.” The barely audible thrum pulsed beneath his words, to no apparent effect.

  The man squinted at the featureless calling card, and then raised a suspicious brow at Blank. “What's that to do with me?”

  “Are you Mervyn Fawkes?” Miss Bonaventure asked as Blank tucked the card back into his pocket.

  The man allowed that he was, albeit reluctantly.

  “Now that we know each other,” Blank said, comradely, “perhaps we can adjourn somewhere a bit more comfortable and chat for a moment.” He looked from Fawkes to Miss Bonaventure and back. “I don't know about the two of you, but I'm absolutely ravenous.”

  A short while later, the three of them were seated in a private dining room in the Refreshment Department of the Crystal Palace, a cold collation of meats, entremets, and pâtés spread before them. Blank sipped a glass of lemonade, while Miss Bonaventure sampled a bottle of ginger beer. Fawkes sat opposite them, his hands spread on the tabletop, regarding them coolly.

  “I'm sorry,” Fawkes insisted, “but I just can't help you. Yes, I'll admit I went ’round to Baron Carmody's place the other week, to ask a few questions, but that was an end to it. I'd never seen any of those people before, and I've never seen any of them since.”

  Blank fixed him with a dazzling smile and nodded. “Certainly, I understand. These questions are a mere formality, you understand.”

  Fawkes glowered.

  “Tell me, Mr. Fawkes,” Miss Bonaventure said, “where do you currently reside?”

  Fawkes narrowed his eyes. “I keep rooms in a lodging house in Camberwell.”

  “Ah.” Miss Bonaventure nodded. “And you've lived there since your return from Iceland.”

  “Yes, I…” Fawkes began, and then broke off, realizing he'd said too much.

  “So you were most recently in Iceland, then?” Miss Bonaventure asked, pressing the advantage.

  “Perhaps,” Fawkes said warily. “What of it?”

  “You left England on a steamer bound for Reykjavik in 1889,” Blank said, casually. “Just what have you been doing there in the cold, all these years?”

  Fawkes drew his mouth into a tight line and remained silent.

  “Ah, you'll have to forgive me,” Blank said airily, chuckling slightly. “My curiosity gets the better of me.”

  “Camberwell is quite close to Lambeth,” Miss Bonaventure observed. “Have you ever had occasion to visit the School for the Indigent Blind, by any chance? It's quite lovely.”

  Blank watched Fawkes's reactions closely, but if the mention of the blind asylum had generated any emotional response, the other man kept it well concealed.

  “I've really got to be back to my duties.” Fawkes's tone was gruff as he pushed his chair noisily back from the table and stood. “If you'll excuse me.” With that, he was out the door and gone.

  The two of them were left alone in the small dining room. “He seems somewhat suspicious in manner, wouldn't you say?” Miss Bonaventure said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Quite.” Blank sipped his lemonade. “And if he met Dickson's description of the man seen fleeing the scene of Miss Villers's murder, I would say that his manner was sufficient grounds to haul him before Melville with a bell around his neck.”

  “But he's not exactly tall, and not exactly hairless.” With a look of disdain, she reached down and plucked a stray hair that had fluttered to the tabletop when Fawkes had risen and made his exit. “More's the pity.”

  “He didn't betray any knowledge of the blind asylum, either.”

  “He's a canny one, though if he's skilled at concealing guilt he's no dab hand at miming innocence.” She sighed and turned to face Blank. “Well, shall we be off?”

  “What's your rush, my dear?” Blank leaned back in his chair. “Have you tried the foie gras? It's better than it has any right to be.”

  The next days passed without incident. No further victims of the Jubilee Killer surfaced, but neither did any new evidence on the previous murders come to light. The heat, which at the month's beginning had been approaching uncomfortably warm, was now positively sweltering. It seemed only fitting, somehow, that Victoria should celebrate the anniversary of her ascendance to the throne in such a climate. After all, Blank mused, hadn't her subjects carried the “torch of civilization” to the globe's far corners? And if they sometimes set fire to the peoples and lands they found there with the self-same torch, well, what sort of thing was that to mention on such a splendid occasion? The conflagrations hadn't yet reached this sceptered isle, so it was hardly a subject worthy of polite conversation.

  Blank burned, too, though the fires that raged in him had nothing to do with the climate. He'd once been a loyal subject to the crown. He had been, though there were times when he had to remind himself of it. And, come to that, there had been a time when he was a lacuna, a loyal agent of Omega, as well, happy to enter the School of Thought and receive his marching orders without a second's hesitation. But then he had been exposed to the writings of the Romantics, and those of William Blake in particular, and Blank had gradually had the scales removed from his eyes. He had lost his faith in empire, first, but then gradually, as he learned to conceal his thoughts, he broke with Omega as well, though the latter still had no notion of the split, so far as Blank was aware.

  Blank was for self-determinism and the end of empire. Both empires in the here and now, and those which existed past tomorrow's horizon. It was the purpose to which he had pledged what remained of his long life and devoted what energy and time he could. There was some irony, then, that he found himself, on the twenty-second of June, joining the throngs who cheered the figurehead of empire herself, Queen Victoria.

  It hardly mattered to Omega who sat upon the British throne; come to that, it hardly mattered to Omega whether Britain dominated the globe or some other, so long as one power did. In the days when the late Monsieur Void had been Omega's sole living lacuna, the sun had shone upon France. But as Michel Void passed beyond the mortal coil, so too did hopes for a French future. For a time, Blank and Quexi both toiled as lacunae in Omega's service, and it was even odds whether Britain or China would hold sway, but Quexi had learned too well Blank's lessons about freedom of will and expression and turned anarchist, and lacking her influence the Orient fell further under the dominion of the West.

  Blank preferred to work at bringing down the system from within. While giving the appearance of carrying out Omega's wishes as outlined to him in periodic visits to the School of Thought, he worked in secret to undermine his master's plans. In the same way, while seeming to help ensure the stability of empire, through casual words in certain ears and covert action, he gradually e
roded the empire's foundations, setting the stage for its eventual dissolution. His every intention was for a peaceful breakup of the established order, though he knew that some bloodshed would be inevitable. Still, he placed his hopes in figures such as Mohandas, whom he had met nearly a decade before while the young Indian was studying at University College London. Trained as a barrister, Mohandas was now in South Africa, fighting for the rights of Indians in that country, but eventually he would return home, and when he did, Blank hoped that he would put into action the nonviolent methods they had discussed. With men like Mohandas taking up the cause of self-determinism, it was possible that in the future men might one day put off the yoke of authority and be the captains of their own destiny. And was it too much to hope that, in such a world, men and women would be free to love who they willed, and society's prejudice be damned?

  If such a world waited beyond tomorrow's horizon, though, it was difficult to see any hint of it today. Rather than celebrating a free and independent India, the forty Indian potentates who rode in the Jubilee Procession carried an enormous banner, upon which was written a sentiment in English and Hindustani, proclaiming that Victoria alone was Queen of Earthly Queens.

  Some fifty thousand troops marched in the procession, making plain the source of Victoria's strength. At its head was Captain Ames of the Horse Guard upon his charger, and Field Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar, astride the gray Arab, Vonolel, which had borne him from Kabul to Kandahar on his victorious march two decades before. In their train came cavalrymen from New South Wales, Hussars from Canada and Carabiniers from Natal, camel troops from Bikaner and Dyak headhunters from Borneo, the Chinese Police from Hong Kong in their coolie hats, Jamacians in white gaiters and embroidered jackets, and Maori and Te'Maroan warriors who rivaled each other for tattooed ferocity.

  The crowds along the route cheered and sang patriotic songs, though many hissed the Cypriot Zaptiehs in their fezzes, supposing in error that they were Turks. And it was not simply martial prowess that the crowds celebrated, but the privilege and power of those sovereigns and potentates that rode in the procession, as well. All of the nations and states in Victoria's dominion were represented, even the tiny Pacific principality of Kensington Island, whose headman walked the route from beginning to end, having little trust either in carriages or in the horses which drew them. And other powers, both those who shared authority with Victoria and those which could be her rivals, made an appearance, though often made strange bedfellows, as when the Papal Nuncio was forced to share a carriage with the representative of the Emperor of China.

  Tens of thousands of Union Flags snapped in the summer breeze, flying from towers, draped from windows and awnings. But despite the wind, it was beastly hot, only amplified by the crush of bodies in the crowd. The Queen, in her stately carriage, cooled herself in the shade of a silk parasol, the ostrich feathers of her bonnet wilting slightly in the heat.

  Sandford Blank and Roxanne Bonaventure were among the crowd, of course, as was every able-bodied member of the Metropolitan Police, all of them watchful of any sign of threat, whether to the Queen herself or to any of those who marched in her honor.

  Blank and Miss Bonaventure were making their way through the crowd that lined the south side of the Strand when an ancient Chinese man collided with them, nearly knocking Miss Bonaventure off her feet. Blank caught her elbow, righting her, as the ancient Oriental leaned in close, bowing repeatedly in abject apology. Blank had dropped his cane, and the old man retrieved it for him. As Blank leaned forward and reached out to receive it, the old man whispered something in his ear, and then in a heartbeat had disappeared back into the throng.

  “What was that about?” Miss Bonaventure asked, smoothing her skirts.

  Blank settled his bowler back on his head, which had been knocked off kilter in the collision. Then, with the silver head of his cane, he pointed here and there in the crowd. Miss Bonaventure looked, and saw the Chinese scattered strategically throughout the crowd, nearly invisible in the mix of skin tones and nationalities.

  “That gentleman was merely reporting in, letting me know that there's been no sign of a tall, hairless man with chalky skin, nor of a shorter man with a stringy beard and flyaway wiry hair.”

  “The agents of the Ghost Fox, one assumes?” Miss Bonaventure said. “On the lookout for Dickson's fleeing man and Mervyn Fawkes?”

  Blank smiled. “They can go places and see things which are denied such as you and me, Miss Bonaventure, to say nothing of the police.”

  “At this point,” Miss Bonaventure said, dabbing at her neck with a handkerchief, “the only place that I want to go is somewhere in the cool shade and out of this throng, and the only thing I want to see is a tall glass of lemonade. Preferably iced.”

  Blank took her arm. “I think the maddening crowd is fairly well watched at the moment.” He led her towards a side street, away from the procession route. “And if Victoria happens to notice our absence, I'm sure a nice note and a fistful of flowers will make amends.”

  The procession was bound for St. Paul's, where the Prince of Wales awaited on horseback to receive the Queen, and so Blank and Miss Bonaventure went in the opposite direction. It wasn't until they crossed High Holborn, near the British Museum, that they found a public house that was open and not too crammed with patrons for them to gain entrance. Miss Bonaventure mourned the loss of her lemonade, but quickly decided that in a pinch a pint of ale would do just fine. So it was that while London was on its feet, cheering the Queen and celebrating the long years of her reign, the pair of investigators were secreted in a cool, dark booth at the rear of a nondescript public house, enjoying their pints in blessed silence.

  It had been days since Miss Bonaventure had been able to indulge her love of the cheaper press, spending hours poring over the penny papers. Now that she had a moment of relative peace, she hoped to dip briefly into the sordid news and purple prose of the day. As it happened, though, the only papers the publican seemed to have on hand were those left behind by patrons: the day's edition of the Daily Mail, a special Jubilee issue which carried a headline about the “Greatness of the British Race”; a week-old copy of the Shoe and Leather Trade Chronicle; a copy of Anti-Vivisectionist of recent vintage, and a month-and-a-half-old edition of the Standard. Having had quite enough of the greatness of the British race in the streets outside, and having little interest in the shoe and leather trade nor in the campaign against vivisection, Miss Bonaventure perforce busied herself studying the yellowed pages of the ancient Standard that, if it did not rise to the level of purple prose which she usually sought in her periodicals, the Conservative audience of the paper preferring a more terse style, at least contained a rather detailed section on crime and punishment which suited her taste for the sordid.

  After passing some quarter of an hour flipping through the aged pages of the Standard, Miss Bonaventure stopped short. Blank caught a hint of a smile on her lips as her eyes tracked back across a section, first once and then again. Then she looked up to meet Blank's gaze and took a long draught of her ale.

  “The city's become dreadfully crowded, wouldn't you say, Blank? All of these well-meaning well-wishers underfoot. I don't know about you, but I think I could fancy a little excursion. Say, to Somerset?”

  Blank cocked an eyebrow.

  In response, Miss Bonaventure turned around the section of paper she'd been reading and indicated a small article with an outstretched finger.

  Blank nodded, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

  “You know, Miss Bonaventure, they say Taunton is lovely this time of year.”

  The brief article, dated the first of May, concerned a murder that had taken place in Taunton, in Somerset. A body had been discovered in Taunton Castle, the home of the Somerset Archeological and Natural History Society. Otherwise unremarkable, the report made mention of the fact that the victim's left hand, and right arm below the elbow, had been completely severed, the bones and flesh cleanly sheared away. The seve
red appendages had been found nearby the body the following morning, and the county coroner had been unable to account for how they had been removed, concluding that some inordinately sharp blade much have been utilized with considerable force.

  The fact that the incident predated the earliest reported murders of the Jubilee Killer by some weeks, and had taken place hundreds of miles to the west, suggested to Blank and Miss Bonaventure that they might have been looking in the wrong place for clues, all along.

  The trains and stations were congested with travelers returning home from coming to the city to see the Jubilee Procession, and so it was later that week before Blank and Miss Bonaventure were able to book passage on the Great Western Railway. The journey from London to Taunton was scheduled to take a little under four hours, barring mishap, and so along with their overnight bags the pair brought along novels they'd purchased at a bookstall in the station to keep themselves entertained en route.

  Miss Bonaventure had purchased a recent edition of Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, by the Sieur Louis de Conte, published the previous year by Chatto & Windus of Piccadilly. Mark Twain was credited as “editor,” but it was apparent that de Conte was himself a fiction, as likely was the Jean Francois Allen who was credited with translating the work from the original French. Blank remembered what Michel had told him about Joan, years before, and on seeing the image of the young girl embossed on the cover, a sword in her hand and a halo round her head, he could not help feeling sorry for the poor thing. It must have been a terrible thing to have been plagued for so long by voices one could never understand.

  For his part, Blank had selected a copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula, published only the month before. From the character's physical description and mannerisms, it seemed apparent that the author had based his count upon the thespian Henry Irving, who so often trod the boards at Stoker's Lyceum. Less apparent, though clearly evident on further reading, was the fact that the author seemed to have been inspired, at least in part, by the real-life events of the Torso Killings of the previous decade. When he reached this unsettling conclusion, Blank found his taste for the fiction altogether lost, seeing too easily the skeleton of fact beneath the skin, and so closed the book with an expression of distaste. He remembered the events of those days too well to need reminding of them.