Donna Isobella moved a fraction closer to Jherek and he caught the mingled scents of violets and Egyptian cigarettes. Bishop Castle had begun to kiss her hand, the nails of which were painted to match her dress.
The whizzing noise from overhead grew louder again and Brannart Morphail drifted in, chest once more towards the floor. "Get back to your own times, while you may!" he called. "You will be stranded — marooned — abandoned! Take heed! Take hee-ee-eeeed!" And he vanished. Jherek, for one, was glad to see him go.
Donna Isobella flung back her head and flashed a bright smile at Jherek, apparently replying to something Bishop Castle had said, but addressing Jherek. "Love love, my love," she announced, "but never commit the error of loving a person. The abstraction offers all the pleasure and nothing whatsoever of the pain. Being in love is so much preferable to loving someone."
Jherek smiled. "You sound a bit like Lord Jagged over there. But I'm afraid I am already trapped."
"Besides," said Bishop Castle, insistently keeping his hold of the lady's hand, "who is to say which is sweeter — melancholia or mindless ecstasy?"
They both looked at him in mild astonishment.
"I have my own preferences," she said, "I know." She returned her full attention to Jherek, saying huskily: "But there — you are so much younger than I."
"Is that so?" Jherek became interested. He had understood that, through no choice of their own, these people had extremely short life-spans. "Well, then, you must be at least five hundred years old."
Donna Isobella's eyes blazed. Her lip curled. She made to speak and then changed her mind. She turned her back on him. She laughed rather harshly at something Bishop Castle murmured.
He noticed, on the far side of the room, a shadowy figure whom he did not recognize. It was clad in some kind of armour, and stared about in consternation.
Lord Jagged had noticed it, too. He drew his fine brows together and puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.
The figure disappeared almost immediately.
"Who was that, Jagged?" enquired Jherek.
"A warrior from a period six or seven centuries before this one," said Mr. Jackson. "I can't be mistaken. And look!"
A small child, the outline of her body flickering a little, stared about her in wonderment, but was there for only a matter of seconds before she had vanished.
"Seventeenth century," said Jagged. "I am beginning to take Brannart's warnings seriously. The whole fabric of Time is in danger of diffusing completely. I should have been more careful. Ah, well…"
"You seem concerned, Jagged."
"I have reason to be," said Lord Jagged. "You had better collect Mrs. Underwood immediately."
"She is singing, at present, with Mr. Underwood."
"So I see."
There came a chorus of whistlings from the street and into the restaurant burst a score of uniformed policemen, their truncheons drawn. The leader presented himself to Inspector Springer and saluted. "Sergeant Sherwood, sir."
"In the nick of time, sergeant." Inspector Springer rearranged his ulster and placed his battered bowler hard upon his head. "We're cleaning up a den of forrin' anarchists 'ere, as you can observe. Are the vans outside?"
"Plenty of vans for this little lot, inspector." Sergeant Sherwood cast a loathing eye upon the assembled company. "I allus knew wot they said abart this place was true!"
"An' worse. I mean, look at 'em." Inspector Springer indicated the Lat who had given up the fight and were sitting sulkily in a corner, nursing their bruises. "You'd 'ardly believe they was yuman, would yer?"
"Ugly customers, right enough. Not English, o' course."
"Nar! Latvians. Typical Eastern European political troublemakers. They breed 'em like that over there."
"Wot? special?"
"It's somefin' to do with the diet," said Inspector Springer. "Curds an' so forth."
"Oo-er. I wouldn't 'ave your job, inspector, for a million quid."
"It can be nasty," agreed Inspector Springer. "Right. Let's get 'em all rounded up."
"The — um — painted women, too?"
"By all means, sergeant. Every one of 'em. We'll sort out 'oo's 'oo at the Yard."
Mr. Jackson had been listening to this conversation and now he turned to Jherek with a shrug. "I fear there is little we can do for the moment," he said philosophically. "We are all about to be carried off to prison."
"Oh, really?" Jherek cheered up.
"It will be nice to be a prisoner again," he said nostalgically. He identified gaol with one of his happiest moments, when Mr. Griffiths, the lawyer, had read to him Mrs. Amelia Underwood's declaration of her love. "Perhaps they'll be able to furnish us with a time machine, too."
Lord Jagged did not seem quite as cheerful as Jherek. "We shall be needing one very much," he said, "if our problems are not to be further complicated. In more ways than one, I would say, time is running out."
There was a sudden click and Jherek Carnelian looked down at his wrists. A newly arrived constable had snapped a pair of handcuffs on them. " 'Ope you like the bracelets, sir," said the constable with a sardonic grin.
Jherek laughed and held them up. "Oh, they're beautiful!" he said.
In a general babble of excited merriment, the party filed out of the Café Royale and into the waiting police vans. Only Mr. Harris was left behind. His snores had taken on a puzzled, melancholy note.
The Iron Orchid giggled. "I suppose this happens to you all the time," she said to Donna Isobella, whose lips seemed a little set. "It's a rare treat for me, however."
Mr. Underwood beamed at the policemen as Mrs. Underwood led him through the doors.
"Be of good cheer," he told Inspector Springer, "for the Lord is with us."
Inspector Springer shook his head and sighed. "Speak for yourself," he said. He was not looking forward to the night ahead.
18
To the Time Machine, At Last!
"The 'Ome Secretary," declared Inspector Springer importantly, " 'as bin informed." He stood with his fists upon his hips in the centre of the large cell. He looked about him at his prisoners with the self-satisfied expression of a farmer who has made a good purchase of livestock. "I should not be surprised," he continued, "if we 'ave not uncovered the biggest load of conspirators against the Crown since the Gunpowder Plot. And, 'opefully, we shall in the next few days flush a few more from their fox-holes." He gave his particular attention now to Captain Mubbers and his crew. "We shall also discover 'ow the likes o' you are smuggled inter this country."
"Groonek, wertedas," mumbled Captain Mubbers, staring up placatingly at Inspector Springer. "Freg nusher, tunightly, mibox?"
"So you say, my lad! We'll let an English jury decide your fate!"
Captain Mubbers abandoned his attempts to reason with Inspector Springer and, with a muttered "Kroofrudi!" retired to the company of his crew in the corner.
"We'll need a translator, inspector," said Sergeant Sherwood, from where he stood by the door, taking down details on a clipboard. "I couldn't get their names. All the rest," he continued, "seem pretty foreign, with the exception of those three." With his pencil he indicated Mr. and Mrs. Underwood and the man who had given his name as "Mr. Jackson."
"I have a pill left," offered Jherek. "You could take that and it would enable you to converse with them, if you were on your own…"
"Pills? You stand there and offer me, an officer of the Law, drugs?" He turned to Sergeant Sherwood. "Drugs," he said.
"That explains it." Sergeant Sherwood nodded soberly. "I wonder wot 'appened to that other one you mentioned. 'Im with the flying machine."
" 'Is whereabouts will come to light in time," said Inspector Springer.
"Absolutely," said Jherek. "I hope he got back all right. The distortion seems to have subsided, wouldn't you say, Jagged?"
"Jackson," said Jagged, but he was not very emphatic. "Yes, but it won't last unless we act quickly."
Mr. Underwood had stopped singing and instead was sha
king his head from side to side a good deal. "The tensions," he was saying, "the strain — as you say, my dear." Mrs. Underwood was soothing him. "I apologize for my outbursts — for everything — it was un-Christian — I should have listened — if you love this man…"
"Oh, Harold!"
"No, no. I would rather you went with him. I need a rest, anyway — in the country. Perhaps I could go to stay with my sister — the one who runs the Charity House at Whitehaven. A divorce…"
"Oh, Harold!" She clutched his arm. "Never. It is all right, I will stay with you."
"What?" said Jherek. "Don't listen to her, Mr. Underwood." But then he wished that he had not spoken. "No, you must listen to her, I suppose…"
Mr. Underwood said more firmly. "It is not merely for your sake, Amelia. The scandal…"
"Oh, Harold. I am sorry."
"Not your fault, I'm sure."
"You will sue me?"
"Well, naturally. You could not…"
"Harold!" This time her tears seemed to be of a different quality. "Where would I go?"
"With — with Mr. Carnelian, surely?"
"You cannot realize what that means, Harold."
"You are used to foreign climes. If you left England, set up a new home somewhere…"
She wiped her eyes, staring accusingly at Jherek. "This is all your doing, Mr. Carnelian. Now see what has happened."
"I can't quite see…" he began, but then gave up, for she had given her attention back to Mr. Underwood.
Another policeman entered the cell. "Aha," said Inspector Springer. "Sorry to get you out of bed, constable. I jest wanted to clear somefin' in my mind. You were at the execution, I believe, of the Mayfair Killer?"
"I wos, sir."
"And would you say this chap's the one that got 'anged?" He pointed at Jherek.
"Bears a resemblance, sir. But I saw the Killer go. With a certain amount o' dignity, as wos remarked upon at the time. Couldn't be the same."
"You saw the body — after?"
"No, sir. In fac', sir, there was a bit of a rumour went rahnd — well … No, sir — 'e looks sort o' different — shorter — different colour 'air an' complexion…"
"I've changed them, since you —" began Jherek helpfully, but Inspector Springer said: "Quiet, you!" He seemed satisfied. "Thank you, constable."
"Thank you, sir." The constable left the cell.
Inspector Springer approached Mr. Underwood. "Feelin' calmer now, eh?"
"A little," agreed Mr. Underwood warily. "I hope, I mean, you don't think I…"
"I think you wos mistaken, that's all. 'Aving 'ad a chance ter — well — see you in different circumstances — I would say — well — that you wos a bit 'ighly-strung — not quite right in the — um —" He began again, almost kindly. "With your missus runnin' off, an' all that. Besides, I'm grateful to yer, Mr. Underwood. Not knowing, like, you 'elped me unmask this vicious gang. We've bin 'earing abaht a plan to assassinate 'Er Majesty, but the clews 'ave bin a bit thin on the ground — now we've got somefin' ter work on, see?"
"You mean, these people…? Amelia — were you aware…?"
"Harold!" She gestured imploringly to Jherek. "We have told you the truth. I am sure that nobody here knows anything about such a terrible plot. They are all from the future!"
Again Inspector Springer shook his head. "The problem will be," he said to Sergeant Sherwood, "in sortin' the out an' out loonies from the conscious criminals."
The Iron Orchid yawned. "I must say, my dear," she murmured to Jherek, "that you have your dull moments as well as your amusing ones in the Dawn Age."
"It's not often like this," he apologized.
"Therefore, sir," said Inspector Springer to Mr. Underwood, "you can go. We'll need you as a witness, of course, but I don't think, as things stand, we want to keep you up any longer."
"And my wife?"
"She must stay, I'm afraid."
Mr. Underwood allowed Sergeant Sherwood to lead him from the cell. "Goodbye, my dear," he said.
"Goodbye, Harold." She did not seem very moved now.
The Duke of Queens drew off his magnificent hunting hat and brushed at its plumes. "What is this stuff?" he asked Mr. Jackson.
"Dust," said Jackson. "Grime."
"How interesting. How do you make it?"
"There are many ways of manufacturing it in the Dawn Age," Mr. Jackson told him.
"You must tell me some of them, Jherek." The Duke of Queens replaced his hat on his head. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And what are we waiting for now?" he enquired eagerly.
"I am not quite sure," Jherek said. "But you're bound to enjoy it. I enjoy everything here."
"Who could fail to, O banisher of boredom!" The Duke of Queens beamed benignly upon Inspector Springer. "And I do love your characters, Jherek. They are in perfect key."
Sergeant Sherwood returned with a stately-looking middle-aged man in a black tailcoat and a tall black hat. Recognizing him, Inspector Springer saluted. " 'Ere they are for you, sir. I don't mind admitting it took some doing to nab 'em, but nabbed they are!"
The stately man nodded and cast a cold eye, on Lat, on Jherek, heaving a sigh. He allowed no expression to come to his face as he inspected the Iron Orchid, the Duke of Queens, Bishop Castle, My Lady Charlotina, Donna Isobella and Mrs. Underwood. It was only when he took a close glance at Mr. Jackson's face that he breathed a barely heard: "Good heavens!"
"Good evening, Munroe — or is it morning, yet?" Jagged seemed amused. "How's the Minister?"
"Is it you, Jagger?"
"I'm afraid so."
"But, how —?"
"Ask the inspector here, my dear chap."
"Inspector?"
"A friend of yours, sir?"
"You do not recognize Lord Charles Jagger?"
"But…" said Inspector Springer.
"I told you it was," said Jherek in triumph to Mrs. Underwood, but she silenced him.
"Did you explain anything to the inspector, Jagger?"
"It's not really his fault, but he was so convinced we were all mixed up in this business that there was no point in trying to get through to him. I thought it best to wait."
Munroe smiled sourly. "And got me from my bed."
"There's the Latvians, sir," said Inspector Springer eagerly, "at least."
Munroe made a stately turn and looked sternly at the Lat. "Ah, yes. Not friends of yours, are they Jagger?"
"Not at all. Inspector Springer has done a good job there. The rest of us — all my guests — were dining at the Café Royale. As you know, I take an interest in the arts…"
"Of course. There is no more to be said."
"So you're not even a bloomin' anarchist?" complained Inspector Springer moodily to Jherek. "Just a well-connected loony." And he uttered a deep sigh.
"Inspector!" admonished the stately gentleman.
"Sorry, sir."
"Ferkit!" said Captain Mubbers from his corner. He seemed to be addressing Munroe. "Gloo, mibix?"
"Ugh," said Munroe.
None of the Lat seemed to have taken their imprisonment well. They sat in a sad little group on the floor of the cell, picking their huge noses, scratching their oddly shaped heads.
"Did you have any reason to suspect Lord Jagger and his friends, inspector?" asked Munroe distantly.
"Well, no, sir, except — well, even that wasn't … these green and blue women, sir —" Inspector Springer subsided. "No, sir."
"They have not been charged?"
"Not yet — er, no, sir."
"They can go?"
"Yes, sir."
"There you are, Jagger."
"Thank you, Munroe."
"This other business," said Munroe, waving his stick at the disconsolate aliens, "can wait until morning. I hope you have plenty of evidence for me, inspector."
"Oh, yes, sir," said Inspector Springer. In his eyes there was no light of pleasurable anticipation in the future. He stared hopelessly at the Lat. "They're definitely forrin',
sir, for a start."
As they all entered the wide avenue of Whitehall, Lord Jagger's friend Munroe lifted his hat to the ladies. "My compliments on your costumes," he said. "It must have been a marvellous ball if they were all as fine. See you at the club, perhaps, Jagger?"
"Perhaps tomorrow," said Jagged.
Munroe made his stately way up Whitehall.
Light began to touch the tall buildings.
"Oh, look!" cried My Lady Charlotina. "It's a proper old-fashioned dawn. A real one!"
The Duke of Queens clapped Jherek on the shoulder. "Beautiful!"
Jherek still felt he had earned the Duke's esteem rather cheaply, considering that he had done nothing at all to produce the sunrise, but he could not help indulging an immensely satisfying sense of identification with the wonders of the 19th century world, so again he shook his head modestly, but allowed the Duke to continue with his praise.
"Smell that air!" exclaimed the Duke of Queens. "A thousand rich scents mingle in it! Ah!" He strode ahead of the others who followed him as he turned along the embankment, admiring the river with its flotsam, its barges, its sheen of oil, all grey in the early dawn.
Jherek said to Mrs. Underwood. "Will you now admit that you love me, Mrs. Underwood? I gather that your connection with Mr. Underwood is at an end?"
"He seems to think so." She sighed. "I did my best."
"Your singing was marvellous."
"He must have been fairly unstable to begin with," she said. "However, I must blame myself for what happened."
She seemed unwilling to speak further and, tactfully, Jherek shared her silence.
A tug-boat hooted from the river. Some gulls flapped upwards into a sky of soft and glowing gold, the trees lining the embankment rustled as if awakening to the new day. The others, some distance in front of Jherek and Mrs. Underwood, commented on this aspect and that of the city.
"What a perfect ending to our picnic," said the Iron Orchid to Lord Jagged. "When shall we be going back, do you know?"
"Soon," he said, "I would think."
Eventually, they left the embankment and turned into a street Jherek knew. He touched Mrs. Underwood's arm. "Do you recognize the building?"
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