Senior cravat-folder never learnt. He leant closer again.
‘I have a gun, sir...,’ and proof was shown in the form of an enamelled gambler’s pistol of exquisite design.
‘‘So I see,’ said Talleyrand, though not actually deigning to look. ‘Good boy...’
For a second there had been the implied offer that the Prince might actually take up the weapon! Talleyrand kindly let the awkward moment die in silence as if it had never been.
Comparative silence. The fighting was almost in the room beyond now, proxy revealed in every particular by a libretto of nasty noises. Hostile boots blundered in haste towards the sanctity of Talleyrand’s bedroom. En route, firearms boomed in confined spaces and sharp steel screeched horribly together, ten times worse than chalk on a blackboard.
Actions have consequences—serious for some, judging by the sound effects. One life ended groaning at the bedroom’s threshold before the door was slammed shut in the face of French imprecations. Then they heard Talleyrand’s four-poster bed (of so many, so much sweeter, memories) heaved across the floor to serve as barricade.
An impasse. Both sides re-evaluated their options in the light of recent developments.
Talleyrand sat up straighter still and smiled, hands at ease atop the silver top of his walking cane. However, like all the others with him, the unseen scene in the room beyond was vivid in his mind. Every sound was interpreted into instant pictures probably even worse than the reality.
Evidently, the attack on Loseley House was no impulse action. The invisible enemy had come well informed and equipped. Axes began hacking at the bedroom door.
Musket balls have little respect, even for hallowed oak; even less than axe-heads. ‘Fire!’ said the Guards officer in charge, and a volley ripped through the wooden panels.
The sound of an axe-head hitting the floor delighted most ears, but soon after the blade was taken up again, and reinforced by another. Simultaneously, French firearms replied through the splintered barrier. Talleyrand heard a Guardsman expire and greatly feared the body had fallen atop his beloved black silk sheets. Meanwhile, the wrenching of wood and hinges announced the death of the bedroom door. A babbling gaggle entered into the room beyond, shooting profusely. Grunting hand-to-hand conflict ensued. Or else they were mating.
Talleyrand was nearly alone now. In ones and twos his attendants deserted the scene via the back door. To the best of the Prince’s knowledge that led to a servants’ staircase and various obscure underling sorts of places. It had never crossed his mind to investigate before and he didn’t intend to start now.
Only the core cravat team—his sartorial elite force—had lingered. He addressed them in farewell.
‘Gentlemen,’ (for such they’d proved themselves to be), ‘I think you should go now. My guests are almost here.’
They gulped, they were pale, but they shook their heads.
Talleyrand sniffed in suppressed amazement. Who would have expected the most from the least? Life-lessons still kept on coming, even at its end.
‘Well, then, bravo!’ he said. ‘But, if that is your considered decision, oblige me one last time. Am I presentable?’
They craned round, giving the rouged old man their full professional scrutiny. A minor adjustment to a lock there, a straightening of a cuff there, but nothing serious.
‘Perfectment!’ their captain cried and dashed two fingertips off his lips in tribute.
Prince Talleyrand was reconciled and awaited the inevitable.
Sight unseen, there were a few more shots and stabs, plus a few, quite excusable in the circumstances, extreme reactions to them. Then there was hush.
The Prince adopted a polite but non-committal smile.
The door handle turned. The door opened. A Frenchman strode in. He pointed a pistol straight at Talleyrand ‘s head. He pulled its trigger.
However, being preoccupied with dying because of the bayonet in his back, his departing mind quite forgot the weapon was already discharged. Its hammer sparked upon an empty pan and sparked only residual powder. A ‘flash in the pan’ as the English say.
Realising it was his last observation on earth, the would-be assassin moved on to whatever lies beyond, meanwhile folding gracefully to the floor.
Next in was a Guards officer, double-armed with red sword and cocked pistol. No friend of the effeminate (even those with the good excuse of being female), he observed the cameo before him with ill disguised distaste.
‘Right...,’ he said. ‘So…, how’s things wi’ ye?’
Talleyrand let his composed countenance answer for him. But one lace-fringed hand went so far as to wave gracious thanks.
‘Aye, well...,’ said the officer, and withdrew.
Prince Talleyrand sighed. A twisted corpse was paying homage at his feet. Gales of gunpowder perfumery offended his upturned nose. Worse still, he could imagine the ruin of his precious boudoir, site of his second most important remaining life ambitions.
‘England!’ he said sadly to the remaining faithful, ‘What can one say about it? My dears: the noise! The people!’
Chapter 9: THE COUNCIL OF BOX HILL
In after-times they came to call it ‘The Council of Box Hill’: the first time Ada’s awful ambitions were revealed in their full glory. In fact, it took place on nearby Betchworth Station but Ada preferred Box Hill—and what Ada preferred she tended to get.
Also, it was more of a monologue than a debate.
‘It must be so!’
Ada’s assertion cut the conversation’s throat. All contradiction was curtailed—because she said so. It was good enough for Foxglove: he wandered off along the platform.
Not so Doctor Frankenstein: his curiosity was pricked. Such certainty shouldn’t flow from all the cold water he’d been pouring. He turned to his travelling companion.
‘Why?’
Lady Lovelace looked to the hills—and beyond—for salvation. She obviously thought Julius was being slow.
‘Because I want it to be!’ she replied. And then realising that sounded too ‘spoilt brat’ out here in the big wide world (though the inmost conviction of her heart), hurriedly added. ‘And logic dictates it also.’
Frankenstein sighed and returned to repose on the station bench. He suddenly found the birds overhead fascinating. Unlike him, animals and mad-people had freedom, sweet freedom—and the great gift of understanding nothing.
They’d got off their most recent train when awareness of travelling without aim struck home. Just getting out of London had been objective enough in the first hours, but soon the little branch lines became samey and wearisome. They were comparatively safe now for a while: a little while. If there was pursuit it had been shaken off and their trail muddied by complexity. Time to take stock.
It was a nice day and place to do so: the sun shone bright on Betchworth, but all debate had been throttled at birth. Ada’s plans proved to be concrete.
Julius sighed again.
‘So you’ve recruited logic to your side too, have you? And to think I considered him my supporter. Pray tell how it was done...’
Ada knew when she was being humoured. She’d had a lot of that from Lord Lovelace.
‘It simply stands to reason. They would not have revived Bonaparte without a reason. The French Convention worships reason! But if there were no serum to fully revive him—not the feeble stuff you gave me, but spark and all—then there would be no cause to. No? But revived he was, therefore ipso-facto, such a serum exists...’
Julius would have tipped his hat to such a bedlam-fresh parade of ‘logic’ had he not been so tired. They’d barely rested all day. Even this uncomfortable iron seat on a station platform was siren-calling him to sleep.
‘Amazing...,’ he ‘replied.’
And it was really. Ada’s thought processes were amazing. The fact of their escape from London after one close shave too many was amazing. Their ‘success’ in reaching this sleepy Surrey station was... well, amazing—in a spectacularly un
helpful way.
The big question was, where to next? And then, just as important, why? Julius Frankenstein had the disquieting suspicion that, right beside him that very moment, Ada Lovelace’s insanity was assembling an answer to both.
Meanwhile, the scenery was enchanting: green hills spread before them shone, basking in the sun, and the few trippers who’d disembarked at Betchworth as they had, could now be seen as dots ascending the white ‘Zigzag’ path to Box Hill. Allegedly, a spectacular view over multiple counties awaited them. Further away, toiling along another approach to the same slope, cantered a hunt; matchstick figures resplendent in their ‘pinks,’ in pursuit of Mr Fox. Probably. Hopefully.
All very charming; all very English, but nothing to do with them. Back on the platform, there was no one about to bother about. After announcing that the next train anywhere wasn’t for an hour or more, the Stationmaster had taken himself and his suspicions about this trio off to some private citadel. Betchworth village was too tiny and remote to merit waiting cabs and so the ensuing space constituted solitude and interlude. Julius decided he might as well spend it exploring the delusions of a dead mad-woman.
‘You’ll surely concede,’ said Lady Lovelace, returning to the fray, ‘that he has been attended by success...’
Well, yes, Julius surely would. ‘He’ could only be ‘the Wolf of Europe,’ the revived Napoleon, dragged from the grave to win battles anew. Frankenstein considered ‘The Great Breakthrough,’ and ‘The Month of Marches,’ followed by ‘The Masterstroke of Mons’: epic victories to ten times over wipe away the shame of Waterloo. A time when every newspaper every day reported shattered armies streaming back whence they came, and thrones toppling. And since then other, equal, triumphs had been added. Recent rumours said that Prussia (what little was left of it) had been swept out of the anti-Conventionary alliance. Russia waited, trembling, next in line. The Grande Armée, living and otherwise, stood masters of the continent. But for neo-Nelson’s navy they’d be in England too! So no, Ada’s contention, as far as it went, could hardly be denied.
Of course, she had to drag it further, beyond all reasonable bounds.
‘Accordingly,’ said Ada, like she was administering a coup de grace to a fallen foe, ‘not only does this royal serum exist, but it clearly works!’
‘‘Royal serum’?’
‘My term: the invention of a second ago. It fits, n’est pas?’
Frankenstein quibbled for the sake of it.
‘He’s not Emperor this time round; not royal.’
Lady Lovelace brushed his pedantry aside with a sweep of her fan.
‘Give it time, mein herr, give it time...’
Likely so, but time was one resource the trio were short of. And sleep. And clean clothes. In fact, they must each have looked as wretched as Julius presently felt. One of the trippers from the train had been moved to pity and offered them a spare ham-sandwich and swig of ginger-ale. Frankenstein, for one, now secretly repented of spurning that charity. Out in darkest Surrey there was no question of a station buffet.
Meanwhile, though no mathematician such as Lady Lovelace, Julius was adding her two plus two to arrive at an alarming five—or more...
‘You want to go and borrow some, don’t you?’ he asked, resignedly. ‘To tap on Versailles Palace door and ask if Field Marshall Napoleon Bonaparte has any ‘royal serum’ he can spare...’
Ada admitted all with a smile. Though robbed of their living sparkle, her eyes were still lustrous; even beguiling. She turned them on Frankenstein and he could not turn away.
‘Borrow... steal... whichever,’ she said coquettishly.
With an effort, Frankenstein disengaged gazes.
‘Could you not consider somewhere nearer home?’ he said, mock grave. ‘Neo-Nelson is at Portsmouth I believe…’
Ada pondered the option for all of a second.
‘No. I think not. Does he have the spark? Doubtful. What has he achieved since revival? More mere victories such as he gained in life. Trafalgar, Yarmouth Harbour, the Battle of Botany Bay. Decisive victories, I grant you, but the same old stuff, much as before. Not a country-crusher amongst them. No, mein herr, I tip Old Boney as the sure-fire certainty if you ask me…’
Julius wasn’t sure he had, or if he had now wished he hadn’t. He sighed yet again and adjusted his collar. It felt over familiar, even grimy.
Yet he had no grounds for complaint, not really. What had she promised him? ‘Escape and adventure.’ Well, this proposal contained both those, beyond all arguing.
After all, what else was death but the ultimate escape and adventure?
Julius beamed at her—or something.
‘Very well, my dear Ada, France it is!’
She frowned at such familiarity but he’d already tipped his hat over his face and settled down to doze. Soon his breathing became shallow. Like many soldiers he had somewhere acquired the knack of seizing sleep in small packages, as and when required.
No longer needful of sleep, Lady Lovelace sat stiff-backed awaiting the next train, watching the colourful galloons, both civil and military, floating over Box Hill.
In her previous life, she and Lord Lovelace had their own private airship. The scarlet and gold dirigible was garaged in a private aerodrome at Horsley Towers, with stables for its Lazaran crew alongside. Husband and wife had been free to fly anywhere their hearts desired—instead of which Ada stuck to her calculations in confined spaces, and Lord Lovelace to politics in Parliament. Now it could have wafted her to France as easy as pie, if things were back as they once were…
But they weren’t. Ada put the possibility out of her mind, along with all related baggage. Awaiting mere public transport and the fourth class carriage that Lazarans were confined to, she felt no nostalgia for those pampered days. Mansions, family, fine meals and clothes, all such refinements of life sought to grip on a place Ada didn’t have, either pre or post-mortem. All she missed was her spark, and that lack would shortly be attended to.
Lady Lovelace’s dulled eyes ranged confidently across the living world, in anticipation of better days.
* * *
Toiling up the Zigzag path, Alfred Sturgeon clapped one hand to the back of his neck.
‘Strewth!’ he exclaimed to wife and ankle-biters. ‘Someone’s dancing on me grave!’
‘Have a rest, Alfie love,’ said Mrs Sturgeon, concerned. Foundry work took its toll and he wasn’t the man he once was. This slog up a sheer hill on a hot day might well do their breadwinner a mischief. She proffered a bottle of lemon-cordial from her picnic bag.
‘Here, ‘ave a swig. It’ll cool yer down.’
Mr Surgeon shook his head but accepted anyway.
‘It’s warming up I need. Blimey, Elsie: someone slid a ton of ice down me spine just then.’
He looked back in the perceived direction of the assault, but was none the wiser. All he could see was the tiny dot of someone on Betchworth Station staring up at him.
* * *
The only other people in the fifth (or ‘Revived-person’) class compartment were an obvious miser and some Welsh slate roofers, en route to some job somewhere far from home. Plus, of course, various Lazarans—but they didn’t count.
Julius and Foxglove sat either side of Ada on the slat seats to show she was escorted, and the ticket collector had to mask his disdain. After ordering some refreshments brought through from the buffet car they were soon as comfortable as they were ever going to be in a cattle wagon. Along they went, sometimes in excess of thirty miles an hour, chugging away to the south coast.
Paradoxically, down amongst the lowest of the low was where you had greatest freedom of speech. Even if you crossed the bounds, who would believe anything that riffraff claimed to have overheard?
Frankenstein’s natural curiosity had risen from the grave precisely parallel with Ada. Now, as they rolled through the Surrey countryside wreathed in steam, it was a convenient time to indulge it.
‘Can you remember anything fr
om being dead?’
The query was without preface or address but Lady Lovelace accepted delivery. After all, it was unlikely her companion was addressing the Lazaran chain-gang opposite: their low moaning, and indeed existence, had swiftly merged into the general background.
Foxglove frowned at such forwardness.
‘‘No.’ Ada’s reply was considered but succinct.
It was a disappointment, though not unexpected. Frankenstein studied the smoke-dominated view from the window.
‘No, none of you do. Or at least that is what your sort say. If true, it is a great pity: how one longs for a fore-glimpse of Paradise...’ He paused and then reluctantly added, out of honesty: ‘or premonition of Hell. Alas, we must conclude that the chasm between life and death is absolute, too wide to bridge or even glimpse the other side.’
Lady Lovelace dislodged a glowing smut from her bodice with a deft flick of the fan.
‘There is an alternative explanation, mein herr’
‘There is?’
Julius looked for it in vain. So Ada assisted.
‘We may remember nothing because there is nothing. Have you not considered that, dear doctor?’
No, he hadn’t. A sheltered Swiss upbringing, fortified by formative years in the Vatican, plus Frankenstein family guilt, evidently ruled such a hypothesis out of court. Julius was as shocked, shocked, as a maiden menaced by a drunken sailor.
‘Apparently not...,’ Her ladyship observed, and smiled, relishing her naughtiness’ effect on him. Whatever else the grave did to Revived folk she was still her Father’s daughter. ‘Well, such is my conclusion. Personally, I draw great comfort from it...’
Fear of report-backs from the afterlife had fuelled the Church’s earliest and most vociferous objections to Revivalist science. That none ever arrived barely stilled the disquiet. The whole business had... implications—as now.
Ada Lovelace’s irreligion left Julius aghast. Like beholding a blasted heath where you thought to find a garden. When the motion of the train caused their bodies to collide he perceived the chill from her dead flesh anew. Even Foxglove had to assume a stony face.
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