The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF

by Kevin J. Anderson

  All ladies resident at the house near Birdcage Walk proved goodnatured upon further acquaintance. Lady Beatrice found it pleasant to sit in the common parlour after dinner on Sundays (for Nell Gwynne’s did no business on the Sabbath) and attend to her mending while Herbertina read aloud to them all, or the Misses Devere performed a medley of popular songs, as Miss Rendlesham arranged a vase of flowers from the garden. It was agreed that Lady Beatrice ought not alter her scarlet costume in any respect, since it had such a galvanic effect on customers, but Mrs. Corvey and Herbertina went with her to the shops and the dressmaker’s to have a few ensembles made up, in rather more respectable colors, for day wear. Mrs. Otley presented her with a small figure of the goddess Athena from her collection of antiquities, for, as she said, “You are so very like her, my dear, with those remarkable eyes!”

  All in all, Lady Beatrice thought her new situation most agreeable.

  Oh, Major, sir, you wouldn’t cane me, would you?” squeaked Herbertina. “Not for such a minor infraction?”

  “I’ll do worse than cane you, you young devil,” leered the Major, or rather the Member of Parliament wearing a major’s uniform. He grabbed Herbertina by the arm and dragged her protesting to a plush-upholstered settee. “Drop those breeches and bend over!”

  “Oh, Major, sir, must I?”

  “That’s an order! By God, sir, I’ll teach you what obedience means!”

  “Look through this eyepiece and adjust the lens until the image comes into focus,” said Mrs. Corvey in a low voice, from the adjacent darkened room. Lady Beatrice peered into the camera and beheld the slightly blurry Major gleefully dropping his own breeches.

  “How does one adjust it?” Lady Beatrice inquired.

  “This ring turns,” explained Mrs. Corvey, pointing. Lady Beatrice turned it and immediately the Major came into focus, very much in flagrante delicto, with Herbertina looking rather bored as she cried out in boyish horror.

  “Now squeeze the bulb,” said Mrs. Corvey. Lady Beatrice did so. The gas-jets flared in the room for a moment, but the Major was far too busy to be distracted by the sudden intense brightness, or the faint click.

  “Have we produced a daguerreotype?” inquired Lady Beatrice, rather intrigued, for she had just been reading about them in a scientific periodical to which Miss Rendlesham subscribed.

  “Oh, no, dear; this is a much more advanced process. Something the Society gave us.” Mrs. Corvey slid out the plate and slipped in another. “It produces an image that can be printed on paper. That shot was simply for our files. We’ll have to wait until he’s a bit quieter for an image we can really use. Herbertina will give you the signal.”

  Lady Beatrice watched carefully as the Major rode to his frenzy and at last collapsed over Herbertina. They ended up reclining on the settee, somewhat scantily clad.

  “Now,” said the Major, wheezing somewhat, “Tell me how enormous I was, and how overpowered you were.”

  “Oh, Major, sir, how could you do such a thing to a young man? I’ve never felt so helpless,” said Herbertina tearfully, making a sign behind her back. Lady Beatrice saw it and squeezed the bulb again. Once more the lamps flared. The Major squinted irritably but paid no further heed, for Herbertina quite held his attention over the next five minutes with her imaginative account of how terrified and submissive the young soldier felt, and how gargantuan were the Major’s personal dimensions.

  Sadly, neither Mrs. Corvey nor Lady Beatrice heard her inspired improvisations, for they had both retreated to a small room, lit with red De la Rue’s lamps and fitted up like a chemist’s laboratory. There they had fastened cloth masks over their mouths and noses and were busily developing the plates.

  “Oh, these are very good,” said Mrs. Corvey approvingly. “Upon my soul, dear, you have a talent for photography.”

  “Are they to be used for blackmail?”

  “Beg pardon? Oh, no; which is to say, only if it should become necessary. And if it should, this one – ” she held up the second photograph, with the Major lying on the settee – “can be copied over onto a daguerreotype, and presented as an inducement to cooperate. For the present, the pictures will go into his file. We keep a file, you see, on each of the customers. So useful, when business is brisk, to have a record of each gentleman’s likes and dislikes.”

  “I expect it is indeed. When does it become necessary to blackmail, if I may ask?”

  “Why, when the Society requires it. I must say, it isn’t necessary often. They’re quite persuasive on their own account, and seldom have to resort to such extreme measures. Still, one never knows.” Mrs. Corvey hung the prints up to dry. She turned the lever that switched off the De la Rue’s lamp and they left the room, carefully shutting the door behind them. The two women walked out into the hidden corridor that ran between the private chambers. From the rooms to either side of the corridor could be heard roars of passion, or pleading cries, and now and again the rhythmic swish and crack of a birch rod over ardent confessions of wickedness.

  “Are all of the customers men of rank?” Lady Beatrice inquired, raising her voice slightly to be heard over a baritone bawling Yes, yes, I did steal the pies!

  “Yes, as a rule; though now and again we treat members of the Society. The fellows whose business it is to go out and manage the Society’s affairs, mostly; the rank and file, if you like. They want their pleasures as much as the next man, and most of them have to work a good deal harder to earn them, so we oblige. That is rather a different matter, however, from servicing statesmen and the like.

  “In fact, there’s rather a charming custom – at least I find it so – of treating the new fellows, before they’re first sent on the Society’s business. Give them a bit of joy before they go out traveling, poor things, because now and again they do fall in the line of duty. So sad.”

  “Is it dangerous work?”

  “It can be.” Mrs. Corvey gave a vague wave of her hand. They entered the private chamber that served as Mrs. Corvey’s office, stepping through the sliding panel and closing it just as Violet, the maid-of-all-work, entered from the reception area beyond.

  “If you please, Mrs. Corvey, Mr. Felmouth’s just stepped out of the Ascending Room this minute to pay a call. He’s got his case with him.”

  “He’ll want his tea, then. How nice! I was hoping we’d be allotted a few new toys.” Mrs. Corvey lifted a device from her desk, a sort of speaking-tube of brass and black wax, and after a moment spoke into it: “Tea, please, with a tray of savories. The reception room. Thank you.”

  She set the device down. Lady Beatrice regarded it with quiet wonder. “And that would be another invention from the Society?”

  “Only made by them; it was one of our own ladies invented it. Miss Gleason. Since retired to a nice little cottage in Scotland on the bonus, I am pleased to say. Sends us a dozen grouse every Christmas. Now, come with me, dear, and I’ll introduce you to Mr. Felmouth. Such an obliging man!”

  FIVE:

  In Which Ingenious Devices

  Are Introduced

  The reception room was rather larger than a private parlor, with fine old dark paneling on the walls and a thick carpet. It was lit by more De la Rue’s lamps, glowing steadily behind tinted shades of glass. A middle-aged gentleman had already removed his coat and hat and hung them up, and rolled up his shirtsleeves; he was perched on the edge of a divan, leaning down to rummage in an open valise, but he jumped to his feet as they entered.

  “Mr. Felmouth,” said Mrs. Corvey, extending her hand.

  “Mrs. Corvey!” Mr. Felmouth bowed and, taking her hand, kissed it.

  “And may I introduce our latest sister? Lady Beatrice. Lady Beatrice, Mr. Felmouth, from the Society. Mr. Felmouth is one of the Society’s artificers.”

  “How do you do, sir?”

  “Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Ma’am,” Mr. Felmouth said, stammering rather. He coughed, blushed, and tugged self-consciously at his rolled-up sleeves. “I do hope you’ll excuse the
liberty, my dear – one gets so caught up in one’s work.”

  “Pray, be seated,” said Mrs. Corvey, gliding to her own chair. At that moment a chime rang and a hitherto concealed door in the paneling opened. A pair of respectably clad parlormaids bore in the tea things and arranged them on a table by Mrs. Corvey’s chair before exiting again through the same door. Tea was served, accompanied by polite conversation on trivial matters, though the whole time Mr. Felmouth’s glance kept wandering from Lady Beatrice to the floor, and hence to his open valise, and then on to Mrs. Corvey.

  At last he set his cup and saucer to one side. “Delightful refreshment. My compliments to your staff, Ma’am. Now, I must inquire – how are the present optics suiting you, my dear?”

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Corvey. “I particularly enjoy the telescoping feature. It’s quite useful at the seaside, though of course one must take care not to be noticed.”

  “Of course. And the implant continues comfortable? No irritation?”

  “None nowadays, Mr. Felmouth.”

  “Very good. Happy to hear it.” Mr. Felmouth rubbed his hands together. “However, I have been experimenting with an improvement or two . . . may I demonstrate?”

  “By all means, Mr. Felmouth.”

  At once he delved into his valise and brought up a leatherbound box about the size of a spectacle case. He opened it with a flourish. Lady Beatrice saw a set of optics very similar to those revealed when Mrs. Corvey had removed her goggles, as she did now. Lady Beatrice involuntarily looked away, then looked back as Mr. Felmouth presented the case to Mrs. Corvey.

  “You will observe, Ma’am, that these are a good deal lighter. Mr. Stubblefield in Fabrication discovered a new alloy,” said Mr. Felmouth, unrolling a case of small tools. Mrs. Corvey’s optics extended outward with a whirr as she examined the new apparatus.

  “Yes indeed, Mr. Felmouth, they are lighter. And seem more complicated.”

  “Ah! That is because . . . if I may . . .” Mr. Felmouth leaned forward and applied a tiny screwdriver to Mrs. Corvey’s present set of optics, losing his train of thought for a moment as he worked carefully. Lady Beatrice found herself unable to watch as the optics were removed. “Because they are greatly improved, or at least that is my hope. Now then . . . my apologies, Ma’am, the blindness is entirely temporary . . . I will just fasten in the new set, and I think you will be pleased with the result.”

  Lady Beatrice made herself look up, and saw Mrs. Corvey patiently enduring having a new set of optics installed in her living face.

  “There,” said Mrs. Corvey, “I can see again.”

  “Splendid,” said Mr. Felmouth, tightening the last screw. He sat back. “I trust you find them comfortable?”

  “Quite,” said Mrs. Corvey, turning her face from side to side. “Oh!” Her optics telescoped outward, a full two inches farther than the range of the previous set, and the whirring sound they produced was much quieter. “Oh, yes, greatly improved!”

  “It was my thought that if you held your hands up to obscure them at full extension, you could give anyone observing you the impression that you are looking through a pair of opera glasses,” said Mr. Felmouth. “However, permit me to demonstrate the real improvement.”

  He rose to his feet and, going to the nearest lamp, extinguished it by turning a key at its base. He did this with each of the lamps in turn. When he had extinguished the last lamp the room was plunged into Stygian blackness. His voice came out of the darkness:

  “Now, Ma’am, if you will give the left-hand lens casing a three-quarter turn . . .”

  Lady Beatrice heard a faint click, and then a cry of delight from Mrs. Corvey.

  “Why, the room is quite light! Though everything appears green. Ought it?”

  “That is the effect of the filter,” said Mr. Felmouth in satisfaction, as he switched on the lamp again. “But it was, I think, bright enough to read by? Yes, that was what I’d hoped for. We will improve it, of course, but from this moment I may confidently assert that you need never endure another moment of darkness, if you are not so inclined.”

  “How very useful this should prove,” said Mrs. Corvey, in satisfaction. “My compliments, Mr. Felmouth! And please extend my thanks to the other kind gentlemen in Fabrication.”

  “Of course. As it happens, I do have one or two other small items,” said Mr. Felmouth, as he went from one lamp to another, switching them back on. He sat down once more and, reaching into his bag, drew out what appeared to be a locket. “Here we are!”

  He held it up for their inspection. “Now, ladies, wouldn’t you say that was a perfectly ordinary ornament?” Lady Beatrice leaned close to see it; Mrs. Corvey merely extended her optics.

  “I should have said so, yes,” said Lady Beatrice. Mr. Felmouth raised his index finger, revealing the small hole in the locket’s side, with a smaller protrusion a half-inch below.

  “No indeed, ladies. This is, rather, positively the last word in miniaturization. Behold.” He opened it to reveal a tiny portrait. “And—” Mr. Felmouth thumbed a catch and the portrait swung up, to display a compartment beyond, in which were a minute steel barrel and spring mechanism. “A pistol! The trigger is this knob just below the muzzle. Hold it so – aim and fire. Though for best results I recommend firing point-blank, if at all possible.”

  “Ingenious, I must say,” said Mrs. Corvey. To Lady Beatrice she added, a little apologetically, “We do find ourselves in need of self-defense, now and then, you see.”

  “But surely the bullet must be too small to do much harm,” said Lady Beatrice.

  “You might think so,” said Mr. Felmouth. He brought up an ammunition case, no bigger than a pillbox, and opened it to reveal a dozen tiny pin cartridges ranged in a rack, with a pair of tweezers for loading. “No bigger than flies, are they? However – one point three seconds after lodging in the target, they explode. Not with a quarter of the force of a Guy Fawkes squib, but should the bullet happen to be lodged in the brain or heart at the time, that would be quite enough to drop an assailant in his tracks.”

  “I would fire into my assailant’s ear,” said Lady Beatrice thoughtfully. “The entrance wound would be undetectable, and anyone looking at him would suppose the man had died of a stroke.”

  Mrs. Corvey and Mr. Felmouth stared at her. “I see you are not disposed to be squeamish, dear,” said Mrs. Corvey at last. “You’ll do very well.”

  The Misses Devere came wandering sadly into the reception area, dressed in costumes representing a doll, Puss in Boots and a harlequin respectively. “Our four o’clock gentleman sent word to say he is unavoidably detained and can’t come until tomorrow,” said Jane, “and we can’t get the catch on the back of Dora’s costume unfastened. Lady Beatrice, will you see what you can do? Oh! Hello, Mr. Felmouth!” Jane skipped across the room and sat on his knee. “Have you brought us any toys, Father Christmas?”

  Mr. Felmouth, who had gone quite scarlet, sputtered a moment before managing to say “Er – yes, as it happens, I do have one or two more items. H’em! If you’ll permit me . . .” He pulled the bag up on his other knee and took out a couple of the pasteboard cards of buttons generally to be found at notions shops. There were approximately a dozen buttons on each card. One set resembled oystershell pearl buttons; the others appeared to be amber glass.

  “The very thing for unruly customers,” Mr. Felmouth said, waving the pearl buttons. “Sew them onto a garment, and they appear indistinguishable from ordinary buttons. They are, however, a profoundly strong sedative in a hard sugar shell. You have only to drop one of these in a glass of port wine, or indeed any beverage, and within seconds the button will dissolve. Any gentleman imbibing a wineglassful will fall into a profound sleep within minutes.”

  “And the amber buttons?” inquired Lady Beatrice, who had risen and was unworking the catch on the back of the Puss in Boots costume.

  “Ah! These are really useful. One button, dissolved in a man’s drink, will induce a state of talkative id
iocy. Gently questioned, he will tell you anything, everything. Not all of it will be truthful, I suspect, but I am confident in your powers of discernment. When the drug wears off he will have absolutely no memory of the episode.” Mr. Felmouth presented the cards to Mrs. Corvey.

  “Splendid,” said Mrs. Corvey.

  “Oh, won’t the amber ones look lovely on my yellow satin?” cried Dora, popping out of the top of her costume as Lady Beatrice freed her hair from the catch. Mr. Felmouth coughed and averted his eyes.

  “They would, dear, but they really ought to go to Miss Rendlesham. She would make the best use of them, after all,” said Mrs. Corvey. Dora pouted.

  “Dear Mr. Felmouth, can’t you make up some more in different colors? Miss Rendlesham never wears yellow.” Dora leaned close and tickled Mr. Felmouth under his chin with her paw-gloved hand. “Please, Mr. Felmouth? Pussy will catch you a nice fish.”

  “It, er, ought to be quite easy,” said Mr. Felmouth, breathing a little heavily. “Yes, I’m sure I should find nothing easier. Rely on me, ladies.”

  “As ever, Mr. Felmouth,” said Mrs. Corvey.

  SIX:

  In Which Disquieting Intelligence

  Is Conveyed

  Sir Richard H. was of advanced years, quite stout, and so he preferred to lie on his back and engage the angels of bliss, as he called them, astraddle. He lay now groaning with happiness as Lady Beatrice rode away, her gray gaze fixed on the brass rail of the bed, her red mouth curved in a professional smile in which there was something faintly mocking. Her mind was some distance off, wondering how The Luck of Barry Lyndon was going to turn out, for she had not yet seen a copy of the latest Fraser’s Magazine.

  At some point her musings were interrupted by the realization that Sir Richard had stopped moving. Lady Beatrice’s mind consented to return to the vicinity of her flesh long enough to determine that Sir Richard was, in fact, still alive, if drenched with sweat and puffing like a railway engine. “Are you quite all right, my dear?” she inquired. Sir Richard nodded feebly. She swung herself off him and down, lithe as though he were a particularly well-upholstered vaulting horse, and checked his pulse nevertheless. Having determined that he was unlikely to expire in the immediate future, Lady Beatrice gave him a brief, brisk sponging off with eau de cologne. He was snoring by the time she drew the blanket up over him and went off to bathe in the adjacent chamber.