She stood and moved to the aisle. The tart claimed the seat by the window and hoisted a small valise onto her lap. Did Eleanor really want to hold the eel or have it dance atop her feet on the floor? The train rocked. Maybe she ought to sit down before she fell down.
“Ain’t I good enough,” the tart said, “teh sit next teh the likes a ye?”
“‘Tis nothing to do with ye,” Eleanor said. “The eel’s the problem. He popped out in the station and nearly bit me.”
“Oh, is that all?” The tart reached for the eel sack and shoved it under her side of the seat. “Me and eels, we get along fine, we do.”
Eleanor nodded. She gathered her skirt and sat down. The tart opened her valise and removed a silver hip flask. Her gloved hands unscrewed the lid, producing a yeasty aroma but no spurt of foam. Flat beer. This woman prepared to tipple on a public train? How ill mannered.
“Well, ye don’t expect me teh drink water, now do ye?” The tart tossed back her head and took a swallow. “Water in London ain’t fit teh drink these days, if ye ask me. Will be the end of the empire if somebody don’t stop this bloody epidemic.”
“London’s seen cholera before,” Eleanor said. That had been in the 1850’s, hadn’t it? When London’s drinking water had mingled with its sewage. She’d heard about Master Harte taking sick back then. Luckily, she’d not been born until 1864.
“This cholera ain’t nothin’ like the old one, mark me words.” The tart took another swallow. “Everybody down in the East End’s sayin’ anarchists started it. Them blokes got a secret way of spreadin’ it, ye see. Tis the beginnin’ of the end of our world, I’m afeared.”
End of the world? Cholera wasn’t the plague. Not anyhow. Eleanor’s muscles tensed. There was that wretched odor of sulfur and bogwood again. Like in Master Harte’s library last night. She bolted to standing and surveyed the surrounding passengers. The ladies across the aisle pinched their noses. Where did the stink come from?
Eleanor moved into the aisle, clutching a seat back as the train swayed. Several high-pitched voices shrieked from behind her. She spun half-way around to face the tart. Only an empty window seat was there now. No tart. No eel. No valise. All three was blooming gone.
<<>>
Men in Eleanor’s train car barked conflicting orders. Ladies wailed. A young woman swooned. Only minutes had passed since the tart had dissolved in mere air. The panic around Eleanor spread faster than cholera ever could.
Now a whistle blast sounded. The underground train rolled into the Hyde Park station.
“Ladies and children out the door first,” a man shouted.
Several women carrying closed parasols jostled Eleanor and pushed their way around her toward the train’s exit. Did they think she was a blasted turnstile? She wanted off this train, too, even if this wasn’t Kensington Station.
“Excuse me,” Eleanor said. “A bit of order is in order.”
Her ears caught a muffled noise. She glanced behind her, where the tart had been. A round trinket lay on the seat. The color of gold, it was. Had the woman worn a lapel pin?
The thing moved, walking on tiny metal limbs. This was some sort of miniature clockwork toy: a beetle automaton with ruby eyes. Expensive looking. She grasped the bejeweled beetle and turned it over in her palm. No engraving. Just a tiny clockface rimmed by several pairs of limbs and an unmatched extra. Insect limbs always came in even numbers. One limb must have broken off. Master Harte sometimes built small automatons. This would interest him. She slid the trinket into her purse and followed the other passengers.
Eleanor climbed down from the coach car. The station clock chimed the hour of five. A memory bubbled up but she couldn’t yet grasp it. She headed down the platform. A crowd of passengers yammered at the conductor. She skirted around them. A shudder shot through her, the same as when entering Master Harte’s library the night before. The houndstooth coat man. She’d caught a glimpse of him on the train up from Brighton today. The bleeding rogue had followed her most of the afternoon.
Why hadn’t he followed Master Harte? Maybe the knave figured the Master would notice him. Too bad the eel and its secret was gone. One thing for sure, the rogue’s magic could pry windows in the air open. The tart’s beer must have closed the cavity. Why had the woman and Parker vanished when Master Harte had not? Where had their bodies gone? A passageway to Hell wouldn’t have swallowed up Parker, a good chap. Eleanor climbed the staircase toward the street. Nothing made sense.
A staircase was like a passageway. Could the world have secret passageways? Only a spirit or a devil would do well in using them, all stinking of sulfur and bogwood. Crikey. Master Harte could be in danger right now. Eleanor reached the street. At least them anarchists today’s newspaper reported about had left. She set off in the direction of Kensington.
A hansom cab waited beside the lamppost ahead. A cab was a luxury for her. Brighton House money sat in her hidden pocket. Eleanor hailed the driver. He passed her an odd look as she prepared to climb inside.
“Ye haven’t been over near Whitechapel,” he said, “now have ye?”
“No,” she replied. No doubt the epidemic of cholera concerned him. She gave him the address of the inventors’ club. “Please hurry.”
Once inside the cab, Eleanor leaned back in her seat. The horse trotted, shod hooves clicking against cobblestones. It would be best to transfer cab money to her purse. She unbuttoned her coat and slid her hand into her hidden pocket. Next, her fingers loosened the drawstrings on her bag. Something tickled the side of her finger.
Her fingers plucked up the clockwork beetle. The trinket had a soft tick and whirr. A murky memory ruminated in the back of her mind. Fading daylight filtered in through the window. She turned the beetle on its back and counted its moving limbs. Well, this was no proper beetle. The bejeweled bug would have had ten limbs if one hadn’t broken off. A beetle with nine limbs, indeed!
Nine legs? Wait a bleeding minute. Eleanor sucked in a quick breath of air. The message Master Harte had given her had said to beware the nine. This was a “nine.” Plus she’d heard the same faint whirr and ticking after she’d purchased her train ticket. Eleanor swallowed hard. The houndstooth bloke must have planted this beetle in her eel sack. What evil was the automaton designed to do? Could the thing open windows in the air? Did the clock mechanism determine when? Holy saints and Trinity! Eleanor’s heartbeat sounded in her ears.
The hansom cab lurched one way and then the other. Eleanor thrust the beetle back into her purse and pulled the drawstrings tight. She’d heard no whirring in Master Harte’s library last night. Still, the cavity could have opened earlier in the evening before Parker unknowingly carried the beetle to London. No, someone would have noticed the offensive odor.
Maybe the beetle only unlocked the air’s window. A person might have to step in the proper place to vanish. Yet why had a fermented beverage helped Master Harte but not Parker or the tart? Eleanor clasped her hands together. Did the closeness of the beetle to the beer trigger the violent swallowing action? After taking Parker, had the beetle returned to the houndstooth knave through a secret passageway in air?
The cab slowed. It would be time to pay the driver soon. Secret passageway—them words wouldn’t leave her mind alone. A clockwork beetle... a cholera epidemic. The tart had claimed anarchists had a secret way of making cholera spread. What could be more secret than invisible holes in the air?
Earlier, Eleanor had wanted important responsibilities. Now one had crawled her way. Something was wrong in more than the Master’s library. Even the Queen wasn’t safe. For the sake of Her Majesty and the Master, Eleanor must turn wrong into right.
<<>>
Master Harte wasn’t waiting on the pavement in front of the inventors’ club when Eleanor arrived. Stern-faced temperance ladies was, clad in starched black dresses. Nary a one of the old shrews looked Eleanor’s age. The woman who had warned the Master wasn’t here, probably got found out. A shiver cut between Eleanor’s shoulder bl
ades.
“Down with daemon beer,” the shrew ladies shouted to the beat of their leader’s drum. “‘Tis as evil as rum.”
In other words, down with whatever might seal up them holes in the air and keep good folks from disappearing. At least when clockwork beetles wasn’t around. Had Master Harte been targeted because he knew so much about science and inventions?
Eleanor pushed her way through the temperance throng. A matron with a beak nose and black eye moved in front of her and blocked her way to the front door.
“Go home,” the shrew said with a thick accent Eleanor couldn’t identify. “While you still can.”
Eleanor’s reply caught in her throat. This menacing matron couldn’t know about the automaton in Eleanor’s purse. Still, Eleanor clutched the drawstrings tighter.
“Go home yerself,” Eleanor said.
Eleanor dodged to one side. The shrew reached for her but missed. A forward lunge brought Eleanor to the club’s front door. It was locked. Her fist pounded against the wooden barrier.
“Master Jeremy Harte,” she cried. “Help!”
Two hands grabbed Eleanor’s shoulders from behind. She hurled herself at the door with all the might she could muster. The front door to the inventors’ club opened. Freed from her pursuer, she lunged into the dim entryway. Her toe stubbed against something firm. She flew in the direction of a gray-haired gentleman. She thrust her arms in front of her. Her body collided with his. The monocle popped out of his eye. Blimey.
“Excuse me, sir,” Eleanor said.
The front door slammed behind her. She turned. The doorman shoved a wide wooden bolt in place. He must have opened the door. At least the temperance shrew couldn’t get her now.
“Please direct me to Master Jeremy Harte,” Eleanor said to the doorman. “It’s urgent, it is.”
“This is most irregular,” a man said behind her.
Eleanor wheeled around. A clerk in a blue uniform dashed from behind the registration desk, then planted himself in front of her.
“Highly irregular,” the clerk added.
“Indeed it is,” Eleanor said to him. “Some rogues are trying to do the Master in.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here,” the clerk said. “Women aren’t allowed beyond this point.”
This chap worried about some stuffy rule? She could bleeding well vanish any moment. The world could start to end. She needed to tell Master Harte what had happened to her today, at a bit of a distance, that is. She thrust her hand into her purse and pulled out the clockwork beetle.
“Beware the Nine.” Eleanor brandished the beetle like she held a dagger. “Let me by or I’ll make the likes of ye join Mr. Parker.” She’d better not be near a pint of beer.
Eleanor pushed her way by the clerk and ran down a dim corridor with a musty odor. Master Harte and the others could be in the gentlemen’s smoking room. Was that room on the main floor or one level above?
“Master Harte,” she shouted. The thud of footsteps behind her grew louder.
“Eleanor,” the Master’s voice called. “What on—”
Up ahead, he stood just outside the doorway to a side room. She raced toward him.
“Don’t step near me,” she said. “No time to explain.”
He motioned her into a large mahogany-paneled parlor. A cluster of gentlemen wearing tweed suits gave her disapproving glares. A silver-haired toff in black set his tall glass on the book table next to a high-backed leather chair. The rich amber color of the liquid—the foam on top. The glass contained beer. Would the nearness of the beetle trigger instant disappearance? What could she do to make sure she stayed in this world and the beetle didn’t?
“Move back,” Eleanor said, “the lot of ye.”
Several steps brought her to the book table. She dropped the beetle into the beer. She dove in the opposite direction, knocking a gentleman off balance. ‘Twas the fellow with the monocle again. This time he crashed into the seat of an overstuffed chair. Eleanor landed on top of him. He groaned.
The stink of bogwood and sulfur flashed out of nowhere, so strong her stomach retched. Eleanor belched. She’d blooming never hear the end of all this embarrassment. Not anyhow.
“Excuse me, sir,” she whispered, her chest still flopped against his. “So sorry.”
“By God,” the voice of Master Harte boomed. “It’s gone.”
“Extraordinary,” another man exclaimed.
Mumbles sped through the room. The men was saying it’s gone, wasn’t they? Not he’s gone or she’s gone. Eleanor sat up in the pudgy gentleman’s lap. Her hands touched her nose and shoulders, her upper arms, waist and knees. She seemed all here. Facing Master Harte’s back, she pulled herself to her feet. The Master and another gentleman blocked her view.
“What’s gone, sir?”
“The side table,” Master Harte said. He turned to face her, his brown eyes wide. “The table. The pint. And whatever you tossed into it.”
The men stepped aside. Four ruts in the blue-and-gold Oriental carpet marked where table limbs had pressed. The table wasn’t there, though. A deep breath of air filled her lungs. The odor of bogwood and sulfur had subsided. The window in the air must have closed. For now?
“Are you,” Master Harte said with an uneven voice, “all right, Eleanor?”
He took a few steps toward her, then stopped. He motioned for the other inventors to see to their colleague, the poor fellow still wedged in the overstuffed chair.
“I think I’m all right,” Eleanor said.
“What about other things?” Master Harte added.
No doubt that temperance shrew and houndstooth bloke still mucked about, up to no good. Was they anarchists, bruised from yesterday’s riot in Hyde Park? Did they want the cholera epidemic to spread beyond control? Regardless, they could cause a lot of mischief smashing beer kegs and setting loose an army of clockwork beetles. All sorts of important people who might oppose them would disappear.
A spell of dizziness came on. Eleanor clutched the side of a leather chair. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She glanced toward the floral wallpaper. Firmly anchored, it was. Not the slightest hint of peeling from the shock of what she planned to say next.
“I’d be most grateful, sir.” Eleanor smiled. “If someone would please fetch me a cuppa tea and a crumpet.” She curtsied, then sat down on the leather chair. “Before ye—you—get back to stopping the cholera, I’ve some knowledge about other things you’d best consider.”
The gaslights in the room flickered. Master Harte folded his arms against his chest. One of his eyelids twitched.
“I suppose you’d fancy both sugar and cream,” the Master said.
“And lemon curd for the crumpet,” Eleanor replied. “If you please, sir.”
Master Harte grinned, although something remained wrong in England—and still would after he filed their report with Scotland Yard. Beer could save the world or destroy it. To stay on the saving side, she and the Master had best tote a pint about, even to church.
A teacup rattled in a saucer. Master Harte himself served her a cuppa.
“Thank you, sir.” She sipped her tea.
She ought to begin her story with what had happened at the fish market. Odd, how the houndstooth knave had known she’d shop in London today, then meet up with the Master. It was almost like someone— The backs of Eleanor’s hands tingled. When Parker’s death had shocked all of Brighton House, Mrs. Blake had insisted Eleanor travel with the Master and go buy a blasted eel. May Britannia rule forever! Mrs. Blake must have let the knave know. That shrew might even have handed him the reward he’d referred to.
“I think, sir,” Eleanor said, “you’ll need a new cook by sunrise.”
No doubt Master Harte would soon agree.
BEER TODAY, GONE TOMORROW
Clayton J. Callahan
Jack couldn’t help falling in love every time he looked at her, this thing of absolute beauty. She had nice curves, sleek design and he even liked the c
olor, a luscious cherry red. Better still, she was almost paid off.
He had borrowed thousands of credits and pawned everything he owned to buy the Sundancer, a Valkyrie Class light star freighter. He’d gotten her second hand, at one of the Confederation Customs Agency’s auctions of confiscated craft. She’d gone up for auction just as he was walking away from the Navy; fifteen years of fighting other people’s wars and he’d been ready to look out for himself for a while. This made the Sundancer a kind of ‘rebound’ relationship for him, and it was love at first flight.
He climbed up the gangway on a bright sunny morning, and felt the warmth of her exhaust vents mixing with the spice-scented air of the planet Tortuga. The hatch recognized him instantly, sliding open as he approached.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called, as he stepped aboard. Of course, the empty ship gave him no reply.
Captain Jack Galloway liked being his own boss. He made his own plans and minded his own business. He could fly the ship in his bathrobe if he pleased; but he preferred his old, black leather jacket with the logo of a New Vegas bordello on the back. Jack didn’t recall exactly how he acquired the jacket; much of that night would always be a blur to him. He did seem to recall seeing the bordello’s bouncer wearing it as he entered the place. However, he wasn’t so sure about when or how he left. It could have been through the door or the window? Anyway, the Sundancer didn’t have a crew to comment on his fashion sense. The ship’s numerous automated features made her a one-man starship. Just the way he liked it.
Striding through the curved, modern passageways, he felt the cool air circulating through her internal vents. He took his seat behind the controls. With Sundancer’s state of the art console; he only had to look at the access control for a moment for the software to scan his eye and automatically pull up the gangway. He never installed the autopilot protocols however; he enjoyed flying. Lovingly, he took hold of the control stick and focused his eyes on the commo unit. The ‘transmit’ light came on a half second later.
In a clear voice he announced, “This is MJS Sundancer to Tortuga Control, request permission to depart.”
How Beer Saved the World Page 13