Have kept contacts between V. and her ministers to a minimum. Let it be known that the Queen’s “neuralgia” prevents her taking much interest in matters of state. All ceremonial duties are indefinitely postponed. Don’t believe anyone suspects the imposture yet, though’ V. did eat an insect in public. I talked coolly right over the general consternation. The Ladies of the Chamber are hardest to put off. Many are the spies of Conroy and others. Have told them the Queen is experiencing an unusually difficult and prolonged menstrual period, and has armed herself with a pistol and threatened to shoot anyone who sees her naked, water-bloated form. The Ladies seemed one and all to comprehend. Yet how long can I believably prolong this . . .?
Frantically,
W.L.
June 5
Still no ray of light. Much of the time I might spend searching is taken up with satisfying K’s predatory sexuality in order to keep her tractable. Her capacity is awesome. Find myself drained. Losing hope.
Despairingly,
W.L.
Cowperthwait read these missives with growing concern. All his experiments were pushed aside and forgotten. Even the eight-legged calves from Letchworth failed to sustain his attention. His mind was preoccupied with Melbourne’s dilemma. The nation’s dilemma, though the general populace was all unwitting. What would happen if the real Victoria were not found by the day of her Coronation? Would a newt be solemnly consecrated by the Archbishop of Canterbury as the Queen of England? It would be worse for England than the papacy of Pope Joan had been for the Romish Church.
And what of the awful travails the real Victoria must be undergoing? Here was a girl who had never in her short life even been allowed to ascend a staircase by herself, for fear she might stumble and fall. Now she was adrift in the urban squalor that was London. Cowperthwait could not rid his mind of a series of images of degradation and humiliation that were both disturbing and strangely exciting.
In the end the hallucinations threatened to rob him of his sleep, and he realized that he had to do something to rid himself of this excess of nervous humours. Science had temporarily lost its allure. There was nothing for it but to join the search for Victoria himself. Any other option would leave him feeling he hadn’t done enough.
It would not do to tell Melbourne, however. The Prime Minister seemed somewise reluctant to further involve Cowperthwait, and the young inventor, as a loyal subject, was not willing to risk being told definitely not to contribute his help.
Thus it was that the nine-fold chiming of the tall timepiece in the hall one foggy evening found Cowperthwait, cape athwart his shoulders, standing indecisively at the door to his Mayfair residence.
Where should he begin to look? Where would a young girl on the run likely end up, here in this metropolis of sin and greed? Other than a brothel—and Melbourne had already had them all searched—Cowperthwait realized he hadn’t the slightest idea.
Cowperthwait felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to confront Nails McGroaty. His manservant was dressed for the night chill with a stained bandanna knotted around his otherwise bare throat, and obviously intended to accompany Cowperthwait.
In confirmation McGroaty said, “Don’t worry, Coz, it’s all jake. I ain’t lettin’ you go out alone. I knows the whole dismal story, knowed it since that first night when I was a-listenin at the study door. And though it don’t matter nuthin’ to me—your precious royalty bein’ jest a bunch of whangdoodles to a born demmycratic American—I cain’t stand by and let you expose yerself to all kinds of danger. You need a ripsnortin’ bobcat sech as myself by your side, when push comes to shove. As I says to Mike Fink when we was workin’ on the same barge up and down the Big Muddy, ‘Mike, there ain’t nuthin’ more important in life than friendship.’ That was jest before I walloped the tar out of the mean bastard and tossed him overboard.”
Cowperthwait felt vastly relieved, and showed it by warmly clasping McGroaty’s hand. “Your noble offer is accepted, Nails. Let’s go.”
As they were leaving, Cowperthwait’s eye fell on a malacca cane protruding from the elephant’s-foot umbrella-stand by the door, and he snatched it up.
“Just in case,” he told McGroaty with a wink.
“Air you sure, Guv? You remember the last time—”
“I’ve fixed it since then.”
“Suit yerself.”
As they left behind the exclusive district where Cowperthwait maintained his household, the streets became more and more thronged with citizens of every stripe. Blind beggars, elegant ladies, coarse streetwalkers known as “motts,” hurdy-gurdy operators, men with dancing bears, a fellow running a movable shooting-gallery where participants banged away with spring-loaded pellet guns at targets that moved like Cowperthwait’s writing pallet by a crank. . . . A fight broke out between two match-girls, and one knocked the other into a horse-trough. This was the least remarkable incident Cowperthwait and McGroaty witnessed.
When they reached Oxford Circus, McGroaty indicated that they were to cross the thoroughfare. Cowperthwait hesitated.
The actual streets of London were in many cases running sewers and rubbish bins. Offal and manure presented an obstacle ankle-deep. Springing up to capitalize on this phenomenon were the “crossing-sweeps,” homeless boys and girls who, for a token payment, would brush a path across the street for a citizen. Seeing his master’s hesitation to imbrue his footwear in the muck, McGroaty now moved to engage such a one.
“You there, ol’ carrot-top! C’mon and clear us a path!”
The shoeless youth thus addressed hurried over. His clothes were in rags and he was missing several teeth, yet he flashed a broad smile and radiated a kind of innocent happiness. His one possession appeared to be a broom worn almost to its nubbin.
Doffing his cap, he said, “Tiptoft’s the name, gents. Reasonable rates and swift service is my motto. Anytime you’re in the neighborhood, ask for me.”
Without further ado, the boy stepped squarely into the horrid slop with his bare feet and began to sweep industriously. Cowperthwait and McGroaty followed in his wake.
On the far side of the street Cowperthwait asked, “How much?”
“One pence apiece, if it’s agreeable, gents.”
Cowperthwait handed the lad a shilling.
The sweep was ecstatic with the over-payment. “Thank’ee, guv’nor, thank’ee! Won’t I eat elegant tonight!”
Cowperthwait and McGroaty moved on. The inventor seemed touched by the incident, and at last chose to comment.
“Here you see an example of the trickle-down theory of material improvement, Nails. Thanks to the fruits of the Cowperthwait-Brunel enterprises, I am enabled to endow those less fortunate. A rising tide lifts all ships.”
“I done heard that trickle-down stuff compared to a sparrow what gets whatever oats a horse shits out undigested.”
“A crude and imprecise analogy, Nails. In any case, someday, thanks to science, the streets of London will be clean of organic wastes, and such poor urchins, if they exist at all, will be maintained by a wealthy and benevolent state.”
“Ayup,” was McGroaty’s laconic comment.
Continuing their walk in silence for half an hour through the clammy streets—Victoria the Imposter would have no need of her atomizer in this weather—Cowperthwait finally thought to ask where they might be heading.
“Well,” said McGroaty, “I figger ol’ Horseapple is always needing people for the treadmills. Perhaps your little lady was press-ganged there.”
Cowperthwait nodded sagely, although he was truly no further enlightened.
Through the cobbled dismal streets, past shabby forms slumped against splintered doors in shadowed entryways, ignoring the outstretched hands and more lascivious solicitations of the ragged throng, Cowperthwait followed McGroaty. They seemed to be trending toward the Thames. Soon, Cowperthwait could contain himself no longer.
“Exactly
where are we heading, Nails?”
“Horseapple’s pumping station.”
Soon the air was overlaid with the murky odors of the river that flowed through the city like a liquid dump. Water sloshed over nearby unseen weed-wrapped steps. Cowperthwait heard the muffled dip of oars, presumably from one of the aquatic scavengers who made their meager living by fishing from the river whatever obscure refuse they might encounter—not excluding human corpses.
A building loomed up out of the fetid air. Light leaked out of its shutters. A vague rumbling as of vast machinery at work emanated from the structure. McGroaty knocked in a mysterious fashion. While they waited for a response, the servant explained to Cowperthwait the nature of the enterprise run by his friend.
“Horseapple heard they was lookin’ for someone to supply water to them new houses out in Belgravia. He greased a few palms with the old spondoolicks, and got the contract. He’s been addin’ customers right steady ever since. ’Course, every new client means more manpower’s needed.”
Cowperthwait was astonished. “They’re drinking Thames water in Belgravia? Why, this stuff is positively pestilential.”
“Oh, it ain’t so bad as all that. Since they put the grates up on the intake pipes, mithin’ bigger’n a rat can get through.”
The door opened and a belligerent poxed and bearded face thrust out. Squinting, the man recognized McGroaty.
“Come in, come in, Nails. Another volunteer for the treadmills, I take it. Does he need further persuasion?” Horseapple flourished a truncheon.
“Not this one, old man. It’s my mate, Cosmo. He’s lookin’ for a lady friend of his, and thought she might be gracin’ your establishment.”
“Let him look then. But don’t disturb their rhythm. It makes for bad water pressure and the toffs complain.”
Horseapple conducted the visitors through some cobwebbed antechambers and into a dimly-lit cavernous interior. The building must have been at one time a brewery or warehouse. Now, however, ranked across the quarter-acre or so of floorspace were five dozen wooden treadmills, all hooked by an elaborate system of gears, cams and shafts to a brace of huge pumps. The treadmills were manned by rag-clad wraiths chained to their stations. Whip-bearing overseers marched up and down, applying persuasion whenever a unit flagged.
Cowperthwait turned angrily to Horseapple. “My Christ, man, this is absolutely barbaric! A steam engine or two would easily outperform all these poor wretches.”
Horseapple stroked his hirsute chin. “You’re talking heavy capital investment now, Carmine. The bleedin’ pumps cost me enough as it was. And besides, what would these poor buggers do with their free time? Just drink themselves silly and lie in the gutter. As it stands, they’ve got a roof over their head and three meals a day, albeit it’s usually only whatever’s fouling up the grates.”
McGroaty laid a hand on Cowperthwait’s shoulder. “No time for social reform now, Coz. We got an important lady to find.”
So saying, the pair trooped up and down the ranks, looking for the missing Queen. For purposes of comparison, Cowperthwait carried a silhouette that had been published in the daily papers.
No luck. Horseapple invited them to check the sleeping off-shift laborers, which they quickly did, making all haste to escape the urinous and bedbug-ridden common dormitory.
Horseapple saw them to the door. “Remember, Nails—ten shillings a head. The way this city is growing, I’ll be forced to double my operations in a year.”
The door slammed behind them, and Cowperthwait stood motionless a moment, stunned and disheartened by the experience. With such pits and cesspools of inhumanity, how could he ever hope to imagine the Queen was still alive and unhurt, and able to be found? The task seemed hopeless. . . .
McGroaty was whispering in Cowperthwait’s ear. “Don’t let on, but there’s someone watchin’ us. To your left, behind that pile of crates.”
Cowperthwait slowly turned his head. A glint of light flashed off something silver.
“I’ll handle this,” Cowperthwait whispered back. He raised his cane. Then, in a loud voice: “Step forward and declare yourself, man!”
From the shadows emerged the form of a giant. A swarthy native of India, he appeared at least seven feet tall, although some of that height might have been attributable to his voluminous headwrap. Dressed in colorful silks, he bore a long scimitar by his side.
“Holy Andy Jackson!”
“Have no fear,” declaimed Cowperthwait, his voice quavering. The inventor raised his cane and pressed a spring catch in its handle. The lower portion of the cane shot off, taking the concealed sword-blade with it and leaving Cowperthwait holding a stubby handle.
The two waited for the Indian to advance and decapitate them both with one mighty blow.
Instead, the thuggee was joined by another figure.
The Man with The Silver Nose.
Lord Chuting-Payne.
In his late fifties, Chuting-Payne possessed the athletic build of a Olympian. Impeccably attired, the master of vast ancestral estates at Carking Fardels, he had once been deemed the most handsome man of his generation. That had been before the duel he had fought with Baron Leopold von Schindler of Austria.
One evening in the year 1798, the eighteen-year-old Chuting-Payne, only scion of his line, had been hosting a dinner for various ambassadors, in an attempt to further his political ambitions. Present had been his sovereign, the demented King George the Third. The Austrian Baron von Schindler, somewhat tipsy and of a fractious nature, had criticized with Teutonic wit Chuting-Payne’s wine list in front of the royal guest of honor. Humiliated beyond tolerance, Chuting-Payne had immediately challenged von Schindler to pistols at twenty paces.
Von Schindler, revealing himself as coward and caitiff, had fired while Chuting-Payne was still turning, blowing off the man’s nose.
Immense quantities of blood streaming down his face, Chuting-Payne had then calmly drilled von Schindler through the heart.
The jewelry firm of Rundell, Bridge Rundell—the very makers of the new lightweight crown that was to be used in frail Victoria’s upcoming coronation—had been employed to melt down some family sterling and fashion a prosthetic silver nose to replace Chuting-Payne’s missing flesh one. They had exerted all their skill, and the resulting simulacrum was a marvel to behold. Affixed by gutta-percha adhesive, the nose was said to be capable of exciting the most jaded of women.
But the attainment of a new nose was hardly the end of the affair. Pressed by the Austrians, King George had sworn out a warrant for Chuting-Payne’s arrest. The man had been forced to flee the country. As the tale went, he had ended up in India, in the Province of Mysore, still an independent nation at the time. Turning his back on his own country, Chuting-Payne had allied himself with the Maharaja of Mysore, Tippoo Sahib, and his French backers against the British. He had lived in Mysore for a year, until it fell to a joint attack by British and Mahratta troops.
Escaping from the siege of Seringapatam, Chuting-Payne had then traveled among the other independent Indian nations—Sind, Rajputana, Punjab—until the death of George the Third in 1820. Somehow he had amassed a large enough fortune to bribe King George the Fourth to rescind the long-standing warrant against him. He had returned to his native land over a decade ago, a figure of enigmatic Oriental qualities, sunbrowned and distant, more wog than limey.
Having been mistreated by Victoria’s ancestor, Chuting-Payne had conceived a stupendous hatred of their whole line. As Melbourne had intimated to Cowperthwait, the man would like nothing better than to involve the throne in any sort of scandal.
“Mister Cowperthwait, I believe,” said the silver-nasaled nobleman, his voice imbued with queer resonances. “I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. My name I assume you know. Allow me to introduce my servant, Gunputty.”
Gunputty bowed. Cowperthwait croaked out someth
ing. The bizarre pair completely unnerved him.
“What brings you so far from your retorts and alembics, Mister Cowperthwait? Looking for more amphibious subjects among the slime? By the way, where is your creation lately? I’ve noticed her absence from de Mallet’s.”
“She’s—I’ve—that is—”
“No matter. She’s not the only unique lady missing. Or so my spies report.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean. . . .”
“Oh, really? I think differently. In fact, I believe we are both abroad in search of the same thing, Mister Cowperthwait. Lest the hoi polloi overhear, we’ll just call her ‘Vee’ among ourselves, shall we?”
“You’re—you’re hallucinating.”
“Far from it, Mister Cowperthwait. Although I must admit that your addlepated clodpoll of a servant, who appears the byblow of a New World savage on a warthog, does resemble some of my less pleasant nightmares.”
“Put up your dukes, Tinface, them’s fightin’ words.”
Chuting-Payne snugged his white gloves for a more precise fit. “Tell your man, Cowperthwait, that the last fellow who engaged in fisticuffs with me is now so much wormsmeat, and that he would be well-advised to steer clear of his betters. Gunputty—fetch the carriage. Mister Cowperthwait, farewell for the nonce. I sense our paths will cross again.”
In a moment Lord Chuting-Payne’s phaeton was rumbling away. Cowperthwait felt his wits gradually returning, and was mortified that he had let Chuting-Payne treat himself and McGroaty in such a cavalier fashion.
Seeming similarly embarrassed, McGroaty said, “I thought you said you done fixed that cane.”
“It acted precisely as I wished,” extemporized Cowperthwait. “Had it struck that lascar, it would have knocked him senseless.”
“I suggest more diereck tactics in the future, Coz. That air Gunputty don’t seem the type to be stymied by no flyin’ baton.”
“Suggestion acknowledged, Nails.”
4
A WOMAN CALLED OTTO
COWPERTHWAIT SPREAD MINT jelly across his scone. The transparent greenish substance reminded him of the egg mass of the Hellbender. He still recalled the shivery thrill he had felt upon receiving the crate from his American compatriot, S. J. Gould of Harvard, containing the glass vials packed with fresh Hellbender eggs, nestled snugly in wooden cradles set in sawdust and straw for their transatlantic journey. The many nights of feverish experimentation, the innumerable abortions and teratological nightmares which had to be destroyed, the refinements in technique and purification, all resulting in the unique miracle that was Victoria. . . . A wave of sadness and nostalgia crossed over him. Would he ever see his progeny again, or would she remain forever immured inside Buckingham Palace, a slave to the needs of the state?
The Steampunk Trilogy Page 3