by Kage Baker
“What do I call it?” replied Lord Basmond, in rather a theatrical voice. “A demonstration, gentlemen. Here I come to the point and purpose of your presences here. All of you are men of means and influence; you would know whether your respective governments would be interested in a discovery so momentous it may grant ultimate power to its owner.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Sir George, who had got his breath back, as he peered around Maude. Lord Basmond cleared his throat and struck an attitude.
“When I was at Cambridge, gentlemen, I studied the vanished civilization of Egypt. I chanced to be taking a holiday in France when I was approached by an elderly beggar, a former member of the late emperor’s army and a veteran of the Egyptian campaign. In his destitution he was obliged to offer for sale certain papyrus scrolls he had looted, from what source he was unable to recall, in the land of the pharaohs.
“I purchased the scrolls and returned with them to England. When they yielded up their secrets to translation, I was astonished to discover therein the method by which the very pyramids themselves were built! The ancient priests had developed a means of circumventing the force of gravity itself, gentlemen, and not with charms or spells but by the application of sound scientific principles! Vast blocks of stone were made to float, as light as balloons. Sadly, the scrolls were later lost in a fire, but fortunately not before I had committed their texts to memory.
“Consider the confection floating before you. Do you see any wires? Any props? You do not, because there are none. I have been able to reproduce the device used by the Egyptians, and I intend to sell my secret to the highest bidder.
“Now, consider the applications! Any nation owning my device must swiftly outpace its rivals for dominance. Think of the speed and ease in public works, when a single workman may lift slabs of stone as though they were feathers. Think of the industrial uses to which this may be put, gentlemen. And—dare I say it—the uses for national defense? Envision cannons or supply wagons that might be floated with the ease of soap bubbles and the speed of sleds. Imagine floating platforms from which enemy positions may be spied out, or even fired upon.
“And he who offers the highest bid gains this splendid advantage, gentlemen!”
“What is your reserve?” inquired Prince Nakhimov.
“Two million pounds, sir,” replied Lord Basmond, as Sir George uttered an oath.
“You ought to have offered it to your own countrymen first, you swine!”
“You were invited, weren’t you? If you want it, you’re free to outbid the others,” said Lord Basmond coolly. “But, please! I perceive the ice cream is melting. Let us enjoy our treat, and hope that its effects will sweeten your temper. Pleasure before business, gentlemen; tomorrow you will be given a tour of my laboratory and witness further astonishing demonstrations of levitation. Bidding will commence at precisely two in the afternoon. Tonight, you will enjoy my hospitality and the ministrations of these charming females. Pilkins? Serve the sweet course, please.”
“At once, sir,” said Pilkins, climbing onto a chair. An orgy commenced.
ELEVEN:
In which our Heroine and her Benefactress Make Discoveries
HAVING BID RALPH a civil good-night, Mrs. Corvey edged past her trunk and seated herself on the narrow bed that had been made up for her. Her hearing was rather acute, an advantage gained from the years of her darkness, and so she listened patiently as Ralph climbed the creaking stairs that led to his room above the stables. He undressed himself, he climbed into bed, he indulged in a prolonged episode of onanism (if Mrs. Corvey was any judge of the audible indicators of male solitary passion) and, finally, he snored.
When she was assured Ralph was unlikely to wake, Mrs. Corvey rose and walked to the end of her room, where a single small window admitted the light of the moon. She looked out and beheld a view down the steep slope to the gardens behind Basmond Hall. Perhaps garden was an ambitious term; there appeared to be an old orchard and a few rows of cabbages and herbs, on the near edge of a vast overgrown park. Directly below, however, was a modern structure of brick and slate, perhaps twice the size of a coachhouse, and in sharp contrast to the general air of picturesque ruin characteristic of Basmond Hall.
Mrs. Corvey regarded it thoughtfully a moment, before turning from the window and opening her trunk. She undressed quickly and drew forth a boy’s clothing, simple dark trousers and a knitted jersey. Donning this attire, she opened a hidden panel in the trunk’s lid and revealed a box containing a dozen brass shells, roughly the size of rifle ammunition. Taking her cane, she made certain alterations to it and loaded the shells into the chamber revealed thereby. So prepared, Mrs. Corvey crept from her room and into the courtyard, keeping to the shadows along its eastern edge.
It somewhat discomfited her to discover that the portcullis had been lowered. A moment’s study of the grate, however, revealed that its iron gridwork had been constructed to block the entrance of great-thewed knights of old. Mrs. Corvey, by contrast, being female and considerably undernourished in her younger years, was sufficiently small enough to writhe through without much difficulty. She scrambled down the hillside and into the dry moat, and so made her way around to the gardens.
There she stepped out upon a short space of level lawn, somewhat ill-cared-for. Beyond it was the new structure, built close against the hillside. Mrs. Corvey wondered briefly whether it might be a hothouse, for the north face was almost entirely windows. Circling around it, she was surprised to note no door in evidence, nor did the windows appear to open.
Mrs. Corvey removed her goggles and extended her optics against the glass. Moonlight was illuminating the building’s interior clearly. She saw no plants of any kind; rather, several tables upon which were glass vessels of the sort associated with chemists’ laboratories. Upon other tables were tools and small machinery, at the purpose of which she could only speculate. The dark bulk of a steam engine crouched in one corner. In the other corner Mrs. Corvey spotted a door, and realized that the only entrance to the laboratory was from within; for the door was in the wall that backed up to the hill behind, and must communicate with a tunnel beyond that led upward into the tower above.
Nodding to herself, Mrs. Corvey proceeded to study the leading around the window panes. Near the ground she found a spot in which the pane had, apparently, been recently replaced, for the lead solder was brighter there. Drawing a long pin from her hair, she busied herself for a few minutes prizing down the lead, and after diligent work slipped out the glass and set it carefully to one side. Crawling through the gap thereby created was no more difficult than going through the portcullis had been; indeed, Mrs. Corvey mused to herself that she might have made a first-rate burglar, had fate decreed other than her present situation.
For the next while she examined the laboratory at some length, committing its details to memory and wishing that Mr. Felmouth would exert himself to build a camera small enough to be carried on such occasions. In vain she looked for any notes, papers or journals that might illuminate the purpose of the machines. At last Mrs. Corvey addressed the door with her hairpin, and a long moment later stood gazing into the utter darkness of the tunnel on the other side.
IN RETROSPECT, LADY Beatrice was obliged to admit that bedsheets made an admirably practical costume for the evening’s festivities. In the course of her employment she had become liberally smeared with ice cream, sugar icing, cake crumbs, rose petals and spilled wine. The last item had fountained over her breasts, not in an excess of Bacchic enthusiasm, but when Prince Nakhimov had been startled into dropping his glass by the sight of Sir George swallowing one of the jellied Cupids whole. (“The damned press claim I eat workers’ babies for breakfast,” Sir George had said smugly. “Let’s see if I can open my jaws wide enough!”)
Lady Beatrice serviced each of the guests in turn during the amusements, for they were, one and all, inclined to share the ladies’ favors. Lord Rawdon unbent so far as to permit himself to be fellatiated, when his guests i
nsisted he partake of the carnal blisses available, but declined to retire with anyone when the long evening drew to its close. Rather, Lady Beatrice found herself claimed by Prince Nakhimov; Ali Pasha took Dora off to his bed. Jane was taken, in a brisk and businesslike manner, by Sir George Spiggott, and Maude retired on the arm of Count de Mortain.
In the privacy of the bedchamber Prince Nakhimov divested himself of his garments, and proved to be a veritable Russian Bear for hairiness and animal spirits. The sheer athleticism required left Lady Beatrice somewhat fatigued, and therefore she was more than a little discountenanced when, after two hours of his attentions, the prince pulled the blankets up, rolled away from her, and said: “Thank you. You may go now.”
“But am I not to sleep here?”
“Shto?” The prince looked over his shoulder at her, surprised. “Sleep here? You? I never sleep with, please pardon my frankness, whores.” He turned back toward his pillow and Lady Beatrice, profoundly irritated, picked up the sticky remnants of her costume and held it against herself as she left his room.
She faced now the choice of wandering downstairs in her present state of undress and searching for her trunk, there to change into a robe, and afterward to seek repose on one of the chaise-lounges in the dining room until morning, or simply opening one of the other bedroom doors and seeing if any of the other couples had room in bed for a third party. Being desirous of sleep, Lady Beatrice opted for the chaise-lounge.
She descended the stairs and made her way along the gallery that led to the grand staircase. Strong moonlight slanted in through the windows at this hour, throwing patches of brilliant illumination on several of the portraits that hung along the walls. Lady Beatrice slowed to examine them. It was plain that Lord Basmond was a true Rawdon; here in face after face were the same lustrous eyes and delicate features, to say nothing of a certain chilly hauteur common to all the portraits’ subjects. Lady Beatrice remarked particularly one painting, upon which the moonlight fell directly. It was of a child, she supposed, a miniature beauty in Elizabethan costume. The wide lace collar framed the heart-shaped face. A silver net bound the hair, so fair as to appear white, and the contrast of the dark eyes with such ethereal pallor was striking indeed. Hellspeth Rawdon, Lady Basmond, read the brass plate on the lower frame.
Lady Beatrice, conscious of the cold, walked on. She had passed the last of the portraits when she spied a door ajar, through which the corner of a bed could be glimpsed. Hopeful of finding a warmer resting place for the night, Lady Beatrice opened the door and peered within.
The room was feebly lit by a single candle, much reduced in height, beside the bed. Lord Basmond lay across the bed, still fully dressed. His eyes were open and glistening in the candlelight. Lady Beatrice saw at once that he was dead. Nonetheless, she stepped across the threshold and had a closer look.
His mouth was open in a silent cry of protest. No wounds were in evidence; rather the unnatural angle of his neck told plainly what had effected Lord Basmond’s dispatch. He can have been dead no more than two hours, and yet in that time seemed to have shrunken within his evening clothes. He looked frail and pathetic. Lady Beatrice thought of the ancestral portraits, all the centuries fallen down to this sad creature lying sprawled and broken, last of the long line.
Lady Beatrice swept the room with a glance, looking for obvious clues, but found none. She stepped back into the corridor and stood pensive a moment, considering what she ought to do next.
TWELVE:
In which Still More Discoveries are made
LADY BEATRICE DECIDED fairly quickly that nothing much could be accomplished in her present state of undress, and therefore she went down to the kitchen. The fire there was banked, the range still radiating pleasant warmth, and so she pumped a few gallons of water and heated them sufficiently to bathe herself by the hearth.
Having located her trunk, she dressed herself in the firelight and went out by the side door, making her way across the courtyard to the stables. She found the room that had been assigned to Mrs. Corvey and knocked softly, intending to report her discovery. When no reply came to her knock she opened the door and saw the empty bed. Returning to the kitchens, Lady Beatrice encountered Dora, just coming down the stairs in a state of sticky nudity, trailing what remained of her costume.
“Oh, good, the fire’s lit,” Dora exclaimed, tossing aside her costume and going to the sink to pump water. “If I don’t bathe I shall simply scream. Did yours snore too?”
“No; he pitched me out.”
“Ah! They do, sometimes, don’t they? My pasha went at it like a stoat in rut until he fell asleep, and then he snored so loud the bed curtains trembled.”
“You never got a chance to drug him, then?”
“What, with my little buttons? No. In the first place he wouldn’t drink any wine, and anyway, what would have been the point of drugging him? We know as much as he does. If we want to find out any more about the levitation device, the one to drug would be Lord Basmond.”
“That would be rather difficult now, I’m afraid,” said Lady Beatrice, and told what she had found on entering his lordship’s bedchamber. Dora’s eyes widened.
“No! You’re sure?”
“I know a dead man when I see one,” said Lady Beatrice.
“Damn and blast! So convenient to murder someone when there are whores about to blame for it. I suppose now we’ll have to run all screaming and hysterical to the butler and report it. Jane and Maude will have firm alibis, at least. First, however, we’ll need to report to the missus.” Dora set a bucket of water on the fire.
“She isn’t in her room,” explained Lady Beatrice.
“No? I suppose it’s possible she did for his lordship.”
“Would she?”
“You never know; I should think it was a bit treasonous, wouldn’t you, offering an invention like that to other empires? She may have made the decision to do for him and confiscate the thing for the Society. If she did, she may be out making arrangements to cover our tracks.”
“Let’s not go running to Pilkins yet, then,” said Lady Beatrice. “What became of the rest of the Dessert?”
“That’s a good question,” said Dora. “Pantry?”
They left the silent kitchen and, following a trail of cake crumbs and blobs of creme anglaise, located the remaining Dessert in the pantry, as expected. Thoroughly ruined now, it lay spilt sideways on the flagstones, its grain carrier leaning against the wall.
“Once more, damn and blast,” said Dora. “Where’s the marvelous flying thing? The box or plank or whatever it was Pilkins carried in?”
“Not here, at any rate,” said Lady Beatrice.
“You don’t suppose the missus took it?”
“Might have, but—” Lady Beatrice began, as a prolonged bumping crash came from above. They looked at each other and ran upstairs, Lady Beatrice lifting her skirts to hurry. Dora, being nimbler in her present state of undress, arrived in the great hall first. Lady Beatrice heard her exclaim a fairly shocking oath, and upon joining her discovered why; for Arthur Fitzhugh Rawdon, Lord Basmond, lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the great staircase.
The two ladies stood there considering his corpse for a long moment.
“Frightfully convenient accident,” said Lady Beatrice at last.
“I think it will look better if you do the screaming,” said Dora, with a gesture indicating her nudity.
“Very well,” said Lady Beatrice. Dora retreated to the kitchen. Lady Beatrice cleared her throat and, drawing a deep breath, uttered the piercing shriek of a terrified female.
MRS. CORVEY PAUSED only to switch on the night-vision feature of her optics before advancing down the tunnel. Instantly she beheld the tunnel walls and floor, stretching ahead into a green obscurity. She had expected the same neat brickwork that distinguished the laboratory building, but the tunnel appeared to be of some antiquity: haphazardly mortared with flints, here and there buttressed with timbers, and penetrated with roots t
hroughout, threadlike white ones or gnarled and black subterranean limbs.
As she proceeded along the tunnel’s length, Mrs. Corvey noted in several places the print of shoes. Most were small, not much bigger than her own, but twice she saw a much larger track, a man’s certainly. Moreover she perceived strange and shifting currents of air in the tunnel. About a hundred yards in she spotted what must be their source, for a second tunnel opened where some of the flint and mortar had fallen in, creating a narrow gap in the wall.
Mrs. Corvey studied the tunnel floor in front of the gap. Someone had gone through in the recent past, to judge from the way the earth was disturbed. She turned and considered the main course of the tunnel, which ended a few yards ahead where a ladder ascended, doubtless to the tower above. Yielding to her intuition, however, she turned back and slipped through the gap into the second tunnel.
Here the walls seemed of greater antiquity still, indeed, scarcely as though shaped by human labors at all; rather burrowed by some great animal. There was an earthy damp smell and, distantly echoing, the sound of trickling water. Mrs. Corvey peered into the depths and spotted something scarlet ahead in the green gloom, an irregular mass against one wall.
She lifted her cane to her shoulder and went forward cautiously, five feet, ten feet, and then there was a sudden burst of hectic illumination and a blare of—sound? No, not sound; Mrs. Corvey was at a loss to say what sensation it was that affected her nerves so painfully. She swayed for a moment before regaining her balance. Two or three deep breaths restored her composure before she heard a groan in the darkness ahead. And then:
“You know,” said a male voice, “If I’m to die here I’d much rather be shot. All this blinding me and chaining me to walls and so forth is becoming tedious.”
THIRTEEN:
In which Mr. Ludbridge tells a Curious Story