Tales From Beyond Tomorrow: Volume One

by Catton John Paul

  Gregory sighed. "So where did it all go wrong, Mr. Lentz? Because if it had not, you would not be talking to me."

  Lentz took a sip of tea to moisten his throat.

  "Spear was given a vision of a great machine. An invention like no other; a conception that, if realized, could transform the world in the way that the steam engine has."

  "In his trance, Spear was given the knowledge of how to broadcast electrical power by radio waves," Lady Padbury interjected. "This is the information Mr. Lentz has brought to Her Majesty's court."

  Gregory could not stop himself guffawing. "It's fantasy. We've got a few water wheels up and down the country that can light arc lamps, but sending electrical currents through the ether? You insult my intelligence, sir."

  "Be patient, good sir. Last year, we moved the Church to the town of Randolph, in New York, where we began our experiments. Spear received the plans for the mechanism in his trances, and we purchased supplies, and began construction…and then the tragedy struck. A hysterical, misinformed mob broke into the church, smashed the machinery, and destroyed the plans."

  Lentz came to a halt, his countenance visibly upset.

  "And Mr. Spear?" Gregory prompted.

  A strange, distant look came into the Colonial's eyes. "The father of our church was killed. Trampled by an ignorant, hate-filled crowd."

  Gregory stared. He noticed for the first time that beneath Lentz's long hair, at the point where the top of his ear joined the hairline, there was a fine crosshatching of delicate white scars.

  "Mr. Lentz was sent here as a delegation of the Church," Lady Padbury added. "Naturally enough, they felt they had been shamefully treated by their own countrymen. They offered the secret of broadcast electricity to the Church of England, and the British Empire…and just think, Mr. Gregory! Think of the potential!"

  Gregory leant forward, keeping his voice low. "I understand that you want to see your leader again, Mr. Lentz," he said, "but this cannot be done."

  "Yes, it can." Lentz seemed to recover his wits, and spoke in a blunt, matter-of-fact voice. "You just have to go far enough in to reach him."

  Mr. Gregory shook his head. "Not possible."

  "Lady Padbury gives me to believe that you were, at one point, the finest Spiritualist medium in the British Empire, and you have done this many times before."

  "Look at me. I'm a wash-out, a discarded rag. Do you really think I can do it again?"

  Lady Padbury tapped the point of her parasol sharply upon the flagstones. "Her Majesty's Government is not giving you a choice, Mr. Gregory."

  *

  The Cugnot waited at the entrance to Hyde Park, hissing contentedly. It was the larger version, the variety that seated up to six within its chocolate-brown wood and brass carriage, the barrel-shaped high-intensity coal turbine at the front. Mr. Gregory had always thought it amusing that these automobiles were decorated by a brass horse's head above the bonnet. An unnecessary, but somehow very British form of ornamentation.

  The assassin was also waiting.

  He looked like the typical bon vivant, with his satin-trimmed coat, highland trousers and silk puff tie. He sauntered towards the Cugnot as if he were simply out taking the air, and as the bodyguards scowled at him, he doffed his John Bull top hat in a friendly manner and raised his silver-headed cane.

  Lady Padbury was even faster than the bodyguards. Before they could throw their bulk in front of her, she snapped her parasol open and held it up before herself, Gregory and Lentz. Gregory heard the ziiippp! as the spring-fired poison dart sliced through the air and embedded itself in the parasol.

  The bodyguards swarmed upon the assassin, wrestling him to the ground beneath a heap of worsted, wool and leather, while Gregory, Lentz and Lady Padbury were politely but firmly bundled into the carriage, three valets accompanying them. The engine hissed and spat, and the Cugnot pulled away from the curb at the breakneck speed of thirty miles per hour.

  Inside the carriage, Lady Padbury fussed and smoothed her garments down. "Well, really. I must invest in new bodyguards." She held up the remnant of the steel dart between her gloved fingers. "And a new parasol; this one's got a hole in it."

  Mr. Gregory was looking out of the window, back at the struggling human knot on the pavement. "It's no use, you know. He'll have one of those cyanide pills that the Turks give all their agents."

  He turned away and sat back. He noticed that Lentz seemed curiously unconcerned at what had just happened. While talking about the father of his church, he had been moved to tears. But for his own personal safety…?

  "The Lord hath a task for each of us, and it is vanity to speculate upon its nature," Lentz said at length.

  Gregory scowled. "Is it vanity to speculate whether the Lord will get my gentlemanly posterior out of this mess?"

  Lady Padbury leaned forward, her violet eyes twinkling. "Her Majesty's Government will, Mr. Gregory. Although your task may be arduous, and the secrecy of its nature means that none shall know of your achievement except the Lord, Mr. Lentz, and the agents of Queen Victoria, rest assured; that will be sufficient."

  Gregory could not resist smiling. "Very well," he said, nodding assent.

  *

  His confidence was short-lived, however, as he saw through the windows the looming destination of the Cugnot.

  "Waterloo Bridge Station?" Mr. Gregory cried. "What the blazes do you think you're doing? Every station and locomotive in London is going to be crawling with enemy agents. It's why I went to ground in Limehouse in the first place."

  "We are not entering the station," Lady Padbury said smoothly, as the Cugnot puffed its way past the Victory Arch, "and we are not taking a train. Not a public train, at last."

  They turned a corner and made their way down a small, quiet road leading around the back of the main station. A gloom fell upon the carriage interior as they entered a vast, echoing shed ribbed with iron girders and walkways. On either side sleek black locomotives waited, their polished metal and brass glowing warmly in the gaslight. Huge ornamental clocks suspended from the rafters measured out departure times in regimented seconds.

  The Cugnot pulled up outside one locomotive and halted, bubbling quietly to itself. Gregory dismounted with the others, his boot steps echoing in the vast interior, his breath frosting slightly in the chill. He glared at the copper-plated inscription upon the locomotive's door.

  "But this is…"

  Lady Padbury was clearly enjoying this. "Yes, Mr. Gregory, this is the Necropolis Line. An express journey from Waterloo Necropolis Station to the metropolitan cemetery at Brookwood. The driver is one of my finest men, and our agents will collect you at Brookwood and escort you to the safe house. So, you see, there is nobody to witness your escape from London, Mr. Gregory. Nobody among the living, that is."

  At her gesture, he climbed aboard the train and entered the carriage. Inside, coffins were arranged in smart rows leading away into a hushed, murky darkness, the papered walls of the carriage lit softly by gas-burners.

  In front of him, one coffin lay with its lid swung open.

  "You cannot be serious."

  "What do you have to fear, Mr. Gregory? Surely, as a spiritualist, you are familiar with the dead?"

  "I do not particularly wish to travel with them," he muttered. "At least, not just yet."

  He looked down at the coffin, with its smooth walnut lid and red satin-lined interior. Lifting his legs, he climbed inside, and lay down. He stared up at the faces of Lady Padbury, Mr. Lentz, and the bodyguards, smiling in sympathy.

  "Things could be worse," said Lady Padbury. "We could have put you with the coffins in Second Class."

  The lid swung down, and Mr. Gregory lay flat, encased in darkness.

  Two

  From Brookwood cemetery, a horse-pulled carriage with shuttered windows took Gregory out into the countryside, as he could tell from the freshening of the air, and the chirping of the birds. When they pulled to a stop, the door opened, and he stepped down into the c
hill of the winter dusk.

  He stood at the end of a road that led to a canal lock. Before him, an old stone bridge led away to more fields and trees, and a narrow-boat lay moored to a towpath a few yards away.

  Someone waited for him. A barrel-shaped man almost as tall as Gregory, with a florid face adorned by a luxurious mustache and mutton chops, a brown bowler crammed tightly onto his large head. An enormous great coat encompassed his bulk, but Gregory could tell that the weight on his frame was not obesity, but muscle.

  "Perishing cold day, sir," said the man. "This ain't the time of year to be without a coat and hat! The name is Voss. Lady Padbury has asked me to take care of you for a while."

  "That's very…considerate of her."

  "Allow me to escort you to the safe house, sir."

  "Where is it?"

  "Why, it's just over there."

  Gregory followed the man's pointing finger and stared at the narrow-boat.

  "That's not a house."

  "Well, the idea is, sir, to keep you moving around, so we're going to be cruising the Oxford Canal for a while. It'll make it harder to anyone to track you down."

  "Ridiculous! I tell you I'm not using that old, smelly, primitive–"

  Voss moved in closer, his voice low and threatening. "Don't be more of a donkey's arse than you have to be, sir. Just get in the boat."

  Gregory got in the boat.

  The drably colored narrow-boat – called the Jolly Boatman, as Gregory could see from the peeling paint along the hull – was a long one, perhaps seventy feet from prow to stern. Gregory gingerly climbed on board and went down the steps into the main cabin – a long space dominated by a circular table and chairs, with more chairs along the sides of the hull. He could see down a corridor almost the length of the ship; his view was blocked on one side by a heavy velvet curtain but on the left, he saw through to a galley, past the cabin where the bunks obviously were. The floor hummed beneath his feet with the power of the steam turbine in the stern, ready to get the vessel on its way. The interior smelt strongly of leather and pipe tobacco; the ceiling sloped from door to window to match the roof above, meaning that he had to stoop while moving around. The floor was plain wooden boards covered with Persian rugs. The decoration was minimum, but it did have one feature that Gregory approved of: a reproduction of Constable's Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop's Garden hanging on the port side bulkhead.

  As Gregory stood looking disparagingly around him, at the cabin and at the other members of the crew as they prepared to cast off, he became aware of Voss lingering at his side.

  "Do you mind if I ask you, sir, why are the Turks trying so hard to tip you over?"

  "What? Oh…I see. Last year I held a séance where I contacted one of their recently deceased military officers, General Omar Pasha. From him, I learned the plans for the Ottoman Empire's Sevastapol campaign, and passed them to Lady Padbury. The Ottoman agents have orders to abduct me to Turkey, to force me to use my abilities for them – and if that's impossible, then they'll just kill me."

  "To stop you talking to any more big-wigs who've coiled up their ropes. By Jove, sir, that's a rum do." Voss tapped out his pipe on the fire grate with a harsh clanging sound. "Well, rest easy, sir. The enemy won't find you here."

  "But what if they do?" Gregory snapped. "What are you going to do, choke them with your pipe smoke? Or just bore them to death?"

  Voss winked, and the gesture seemed to involve the entire left side of his face. "Keep your hair on, Mr. Gregory. We'll make sure your peace is not disturbed."

  *

  And so, they fell into an uneasy routine. As the Jolly Boatman took them chugging along past fields and hamlets on their way to Banbury, they went to bed early, rose early, and went for long, bracing walks along the countryside near the canal. They watched the goshawks wheeling overhead – real ones this time, not mechanical. They smelt the woodsmoke, the dry bracken and lavender, the smell of wet barley from the nearby breweries; they listened to the sound of chopping wood and chattering looms from the red brick and thatched reed houses in the nearby villages. Voss pointed out the flowers and berries that were safe to eat, told Gregory how to make a camouflaged shelter out of dead branches and moss, and other things necessary for survival in the wild, if the worst came to the worst. In the evening, Gregory dined on meat pies with thick pastry, hocks of lamb, fillets of freshly caught salmon, with vegetables and fruit to build up his strength.

  At night, Gregory lay on his bunk inside a solitary cramped cubicle, staring at a daguerrotype that he kept in his wallet during the day, and attached to the wall by his pillow at night. A faded picture of a young lady smiling. She held a child; a girl who could not have been more than two years old.

  One day, he kept thinking. One day, I promise you.

  And he lay awake, his eyes smarting with tears, the last of the opium sweats racking his body, listening to the hooting of the owls and the screaming of the foxes outside, until his exhausted brain claimed defeat.

  *

  On the fifth night, the Jolly Boatman took them through the winding series of locks and cuttings in the Cherwell valley. The cabin crew and their reluctant passenger sat in front of the wood-burning stove, smoking their pipes and drinking port wine after a meal of kidney pie and potatoes, when Mr. Voss announced that he had received a telegram earlier in the afternoon.

  "Seems like Mr. Lentz is losing his patience," he said. "He's coming here for a seance tomorrow evening. Lady Padbury asks you to be ready, so for your sake, sir, I hope you will be."

  Gregory looked cooly back at his protector. "You don't like me, do you, Mr. Voss?"

  "It's not my place to like or dislike, sir. You're a job. A piece of work. Sometimes I'm paid to keep people from harm, and sometimes I'm paid to put them…in harm's way, if you catch my drift. You, Mr. Gregory, I'm supposed to nanny you. And what for, I might ask?"

  Gregory's eyebrows went up. "Queen and country?"

  Voss snorted. "Lady Padbury says you're a talented man. She also says that sometimes, you're an impossible man."

  "You can tell Lady Padbury, when you send your little men to the telegraphist, that I shall indeed be ready for tomorrow evening."

  Voss nodded. "Can I ask you a question?"

  "I don't see how I can stop you."

  Voss leant back in his seat, peering closely at the other man. "Well, it's just I never really went for all this Spiritualist lark, you know. All this table-tapping and chair-thumping malarkey. I'm a practical man, sir, I'm concerned with what I can see and touch, and to me, I think of mediums a bit like drawing-room entertainers. When the nobs want a thrill, they hire a tenor, a fiddler, or a medium."

  He leant forward again. "So what's it like, sir? The spirit voices? The visions?"

  Gregory stared at him for a long time. "It is a gift from the Almighty," he said eventually, "and also a curse. It is my mission in life to see, and to communicate with, the souls who have gone before us on the Great Journey; and I bring back messages of hope and comfort to those of us who one day will follow."

  "At ten guineas a pop," came a sour voice from the galley.

  "Get on with your work, Kilby, there's a good chap!" yelled Voss. Resuming his expansive mood, Voss gestured with his pipe. "I would like to know, sir, how exactly you are going to pull this off. I mean, if you're on the level, and you can actually parley with…the deceased…then how are you going to reach this Murray Spear cove? Where in Heaven or Hell are you going to look for him?"

  "Not in Heaven, Mr. Voss, and not in Hell." Gregory stood, and collected some chart paper, ink and quills from the sideboard. "Let me explain."

  He seated himself and drew a circle on the paper with a wide sweep of the quill. Within that circle, he carefully drew a number of smaller ones.

  "Try to think of Heaven, Hell, Purgatory and Limbo as a number of geometric spheres," he said, "spheres that are orbiting around God in the Empyrean, but at the same time all existing in the same space. To enter the sph
eres, or to cross between the spheres, there is no physical traveling; it is a matter of ascending or descending to a different level of existence. The most difficult to navigate is Hell, but the hardest to contemplate – for a human intelligence – is the realm of Heaven. It is 'a hyperspace that exists in four dimensions', as my spirit guide once described it to me."

  Voss breathed in deeply. "I didn't understand a word of that, sir, but I'll let it pass. In which part of this four-dimensional thingummibob do you intend to find old Spear, then?"

  Gregory drained his brandy glass, and waited while Voss refilled it.

  "Lentz admitted that Spear was a nonconformist, which means, I presume, he is in Limbo. It is the first and outermost circle of Hell, known in the Spiritualist world as the Gardens of Melancholy. It is reserved for heretics, virtuous heathens, and unbaptized children who died without the knowledge of Jesus Christ. They do not suffer torments but live forever without hope, or the possibility of salvation, which some say is the worst torment of all. They essentially do what they did when they were alive, without the distractions of sleep or eating."

  Voss shrugged. "Doesn't sound such a bad place."

  "It depends on your level of faith." He took a sip of brandy. "When I…travel…in my state of trance, I work with a guide. A personage who once lived on this earth, but has moved on to a spiritual plane higher than ours. This guide, I trust, will take me to where Spear is in the Gardens of Melancholy."

  "Amazing," said Voss with a loud guffaw. "I can see now why Lady Padbury wanted you back. I can't see why you ever left."

  Gregory leaned across the table, the brandy flaring up inside him. "Would you like me to tell you, Mr. Voss?"

  He pushed the chart paper towards the other man. "I resigned because to Lady Padbury and her ilk, life and death are simply matters of geography. Heaven and Hell are locations in space, which the British Empire intends to explore, map, colonize, and eventually – conquer. Just as it's done with the Far East and darkest Africa. Their ultimate aim is the construction of airships and steam-walkers that can carry living souls into the world beyond the veil. And do you believe they will not be carrying weapons? Guns? Rifles? Explosive charges?"