by Alan K Baker
Without looking at her, he said, ‘Let me assure you, Lady Sophia, that I don’t usually take this type of refreshment at this time of day.’
‘Not at all, Mr Blackwood.’
‘But I fear my manners have deserted me. Would you care for some tea, coffee?’
‘Thank you, no.’
Blackwood brought forward a chair from a far corner of the room. ‘Please sit.’
Sophia nodded her thanks and sat on the chair, while Blackwood, suitably fortified by the brandy and laudanum, busied himself with sweeping up the jagged shards of the cogitator’s scrying glass.
As he worked, he said, ‘Notwithstanding my gratitude, I must confess I’m puzzled...’
‘In short, you’re wondering who I am and what I am doing in your rooms,’ said Sophia.
Blackwood nodded.
‘The doorman let me into the building,’ she explained, ‘and when I reached the door to your apartments, I heard screaming coming from within. I entered as quickly as I could and found you in here, on the floor, with that... that unspeakable thing emerging from the cogitator’s glass. I knew that the only way to sever the link with the Æther was to smash the glass, so I took up the first object that came to hand, and...’
‘And saved me from shrieking madness,’ said Blackwood with a grim smile. ‘Again, thank you. But how did you get in so quickly?’
Sophia opened her purse and withdrew a small metal device from which several sharp prongs sprouted.
‘A lock-pick?’
Sophia nodded, a mischievous smile playing upon her lips.
‘Intriguing... but not as intriguing as the reason for your being here in the first place.’
The smile faded as Sophia replaced the device in her purse. Lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, she replied, ‘I was given your address by Grandfather...’
Blackwood barely hesitated as he swept the last of the shards into the dustpan. ‘Who?’
‘There is no need to feign ignorance, sir. You know of whom I’m speaking. I came here from the Bureau, at Grandfather’s suggestion.’
Blackwood stood up and regarded his guest with a frown. ‘If you’ll forgive my saying so, Lady Sophia, you are full of surprises.’
‘An observation which I shall take as a compliment, Mr Blackwood.’
He gave a slight bow, a sardonic glint in his eye, and was about to say something more, when a slight movement over Sophia’s left shoulder caught his attention, and he froze. One of the books on a far shelf had shifted a little, as if nudged forward from behind.
Sophia saw the expression on Blackwood’s face. ‘Sir...?’
He held up a peremptory hand, pressing one finger to his lips. Is something there? he thought. Could something from that God-forsaken world have remained when the glass was broken? Suppressing a shudder, he approached the bookshelf with slow, careful steps, his nerves drawn tight as strings, his breath held in his breast.
The book – a slim leather-bound edition of Bulwer-Lytton – was at his eye level. Reaching out, he placed his index finger on top of the spine and pulled the book suddenly from the shelf.
There was a miniature explosion of tiny wings and lilac haze, and a loud thrrrrrrr! as a diminutive, human-like figure flew from the shelf with a raucous screech.
Shocked, Blackwood recoiled halfway across the room, nearly colliding with Sophia, who had stood up and was watching him intently. ‘What the deuce?’ he shouted.
‘A denizen of Faerie!’ exclaimed Sophia in delight.
‘It’s not my fault, sir!’ cried the little man as he whirred about the room in the utmost agitation. ‘Please don’t blame me! There was nothing we could do!’
‘The Helper!’ cried Blackwood. ‘What happened to my cogitator, you little oaf?’
‘Mr Blackwood!’ said Sophia. ‘Kindly lower your voice. The poor little thing is half out of his mind with fear.’
‘He’ll have a good deal to be fearful of if I get my hands on him. Come here, you little blighter!’
‘Mr Blackwood, notwithstanding the fact that this is your home, I assure you I will hear no more talk like that.’
Blackwood stopped trying to catch the little man, who was still flitting here and there in panic, and turned to look at his guest. She was standing with hands on hips, regarding him with furious, unblinking eyes, her lips set in grim determination. The Special Investigator felt his own resolve draining out of him in the face of this striking example of womanly fortitude, and he realised, belatedly, that he must have cut a quite ridiculous figure, hopping and jumping around the room like a boy chasing a butterfly.
‘My apologies, Lady Sophia.’
‘That’s better,’ she said, and raised her eyes to the ceiling, where the Helper was still fluttering. ‘Come here, little fellow,’ she called gently. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
‘It’s not you I’m worried about!’ cried the little man.
‘He won’t hurt you either... will you, Mr Blackwood?’
Blackwood sighed. ‘No... no, of course not. Come down from there, there’s a good chap.’
After several moments’ hesitation, the Helper descended from the ceiling, alighting in Sophia’s outstretched hand. ‘There now,’ she said with a smile of great affection. ‘I take it you are from Mr Blackwood’s cogitator?’
‘That I am, ma’am,’ replied the little man with a low, theatrical bow.
‘He’s the Helper,’ said Blackwood. ‘Although I’m bound to say that appears to be something of a misnomer.’
‘If you please, sir!’ said Sophia in an exasperated tone. ‘Now, my little friend, won’t you tell us what happened?’
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’m awful parched. Do you think I might prevail upon you for a thimbleful of milk?’
‘Of course. Mr Blackwood, would you be so kind?’
Blackwood sighed and stalked from the room, wondering whether the Helper might also like a slice or two of roast beef and half a dozen oysters to go with it. Sophia and the Helper listened to him exchange a few curt words with Mrs Butters, who was in the kitchen preparing the vegetables for dinner.
‘It wasn’t my fault!’ said the Helper in a frightened whisper.
‘Hush now,’ Sophia replied in a gentle voice.
Blackwood returned to the study, holding one of his housekeeper’s thimbles between thumb and forefinger. He handed it to the Helper, who held it before him and breathed in deeply. He thanked Blackwood and handed the thimble back to him. Blackwood noted that the milk was still in it, although it appeared to have taken on a greenish tinge, as if it had suddenly gone sour.
‘That is how faeries drink in our world, Mr Blackwood,’ Sophia explained.
‘I see,’ he said, placing the thimble carefully on his desk beside the ruined cogitator. ‘Now, my good chap,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you could tell us what happened here.’
‘First,’ said Sophia, ‘tell us your name, for I am quite certain it is not “Helper”.’
‘Indeed not, ma’am. My name is Shanahan.’
‘A fine name,’ Sophia smiled. ‘It means “ancient” in the Gaelic tongue, does it not?’
‘That it does, my lady!’ exclaimed Shanahan, clearly delighted. ‘And may I enquire as to your own name?’
‘My name is Sophia.’
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance!’ said Shanahan, bowing again.
Blackwood raised his eyes to the ceiling and gave a loud sigh. He felt his headache returning and considered another drop of laudanum... and then considered downing the whole bottle. ‘If the pleasantries are concluded,’ he said, ‘might we now return to the matter at hand?’
‘Very well, sir.’ With a brief flutter of his dragonfly wings, Shanahan sat himself down in the palm of Sophia’s hand. ‘We completed the initialising procedure on the cogitator yesterday, just after you left, sir. All was well and in good order with the machine, and so we returned to the realm of Faerie to await your summons...’
‘My sum
mons?’
‘Indeed, sir. We don’t spend all our time inside a cogitator. Only when the machine is switched on do we return and resume our duties within the processing chamber, according to the terms of our contract.’
‘I see,’ said Blackwood. ‘So how did my machine become infected with an ætherial virus? I thought you fellows had taken great pains to avoid such an occurrence.’
‘We did, sir, I assure you! But the one that came through when you connected to the Æther... well, that was a monstrously powerful one. It flooded the processing chamber and swept my colleagues back to Faerie in an instant! There was nothing we could do in the face of its hideous potency.’
‘Why weren’t you swept back to Faerie along with the others?’ asked Sophia.
‘I managed to escape into this room through the maintenance hatch in the side of the cogitator. I couldn’t allow myself to be sent back... I had to stay here. I couldn’t leave Mr Blackwood!’
‘You couldn’t leave Mr Blackwood,’ Sophia echoed, shaking her head at her host in such a sad and admonitory fashion that he averted his eyes in embarrassment. ‘Even though you could do nothing to help, and might very well have been destroyed along with him... you stayed.’
‘That I did, ma’am,’ Shanahan replied, with a furtive glance at Blackwood.
‘I think perhaps you owe our little friend here an apology, sir,’ said Sophia.
Blackwood opened his mouth to protest, caught the look in Sophia’s eyes, and thought better of it. In any event, the odd little chap had shown remarkable courage. ‘Oh, very well,’ he sighed. ‘I apologise for my earlier behaviour, Mr Shanahan. I acted peremptorily, and without due thought to the reality of the situation.’
Shanahan stood up and bowed to him. ‘Your apology is gladly accepted, sir!’
‘Can you tell me what kind of virus came through?’
‘From the looks of it, sir, it was a djinn, summoned by means of Arabian Star Magick.’
Sophia gasped, and put her free hand up to her mouth.
‘Good grief,’ said Blackwood, glancing at the dustpan containing the shards of glass. ‘Star Magick... the most powerful and dangerous form of magick known to man.’
‘And it was meant for you, sir,’ said Shanahan.
Blackwood glanced at him. ‘What? How do you know that?’
‘This was no ordinary ætherial virus, sir. The djinn was summoned with the express purpose of destroying you, by someone with a profound knowledge of Arabian Star Magick. I know about these things, Mr Blackwood. I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Yes,’ Blackwood murmured. ‘Yes, I’m sure you do.’
‘But who would want to do such a beastly thing to you?’ asked Sophia, appalled.
Blackwood gave a humourless laugh. ‘In my line of work, Lady Sophia, one makes more than one’s fair share of enemies... although I must admit that the timing is most intriguing.’
‘The case you’re working on at the moment,’ Sophia said.
‘Yes. Has Grandfather told you about it?’
‘He has. And it is the very reason I came to you today.’
Blackwood stood up. ‘We clearly have much to discuss, your Ladyship, but we will have to do so en route.’
‘En route? To where?’
‘To Cottingley’s Cogitators of Mayfair.’
‘Are you... going to tell them what happened here?’ asked Shanahan tremulously.
‘Of course I am, sir! If I can get to the bottom of this, I may be a step closer to a solution to the other matter.’ Blackwood looked at the Helper, and continued in a softer tone, ‘But you may be assured, Mr Shanahan, that I will comment favourably on your conduct.’
Shanahan heaved a tiny sigh of relief. ‘I’m much obliged to you. Things wouldn’t have gone well with me, otherwise.’
‘How so?’ asked Sophia.
‘It never looks good when a Helper loses an operator. In fact, when it does happen, the chances of keeping one’s job are slim to say the least – in this world, that is.’
‘Then we shall do our very best to ensure your continued employment,’ said Sophia, rising from her chair. ‘In the meantime, what do you wish to do?’
‘I would like to come with you, if I may,’ said Shanahan. ‘In fact, I really should show my face there, after what has happened.’ He looked at the ruined cogitator and shook his head despondently.
Blackwood looked from Shanahan to Sophia. ‘Very well,’ he sighed.
CHAPTER TWO:
Cottingley’s of Mayfair
Blackwood was surprised when Shanahan declined to join them in the hansom. However, when the Helper said that he would go on ahead and would see them at Cottingley’s, promptly vanishin in a puff of lilac smoke, Blackwood remembered that faeries did not need to take cabs.
He helped Sophia up the steps and joined her on the seat, calling their destination up to the driver as he did so. As the cab pulled away from the curb and began its clattering journey to Mayfair, Blackwood placed the large black valise which he had procured from his dressing room, and into which he had put the cogitator, on his knee and said, ‘Perhaps you should tell me a little about your conversation with Grandfather and your involvement with the present matter, your Ladyship. And let us converse quietly,’ he added, indicating the unseen cab driver with an upward glance.
‘Very well, Mr Blackwood. For some time, we at the Society for Psychical Research have been investigating the activities of the villain known as Spring-Heeled Jack...’
Blackwood immediately recalled his conversation with Peter Meddings the previous day and made a dismissive sound.
‘I’m well aware that many people consider Jack to be no more than a figment of ill-educated and over-active imaginations,’ Sophia continued pointedly. ‘But I can assure you, sir, that he is quite real and every bit as evil and dangerous as the reports claim.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Blackwood.
‘In fact, I can personally attest to his savagery...’
Blackwood glanced at her. ‘Good grief, my dear – you don’t mean to say...’
She shook her head. ‘No, I have not personally suffered at the hands of the brute, but I have spoken to a family of good standing, whose house was laid siege to by him only yesterday evening.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Blackwood decided that it would probably be better to humour the young lady than to contradict her openly, so he asked her to continue.
Sophia related the dreadful incident which had befallen the Alsops and the interview she had conducted with Mr Alsop and two of his daughters. ‘On examining the wreckage of the front door,’ she concluded, ‘I discovered a fragment of very strange metal...’
‘What do you mean “strange”?’
‘It was – how shall I put it? – iridescent; its surface displayed very unusual colours. In fact, it was quite unlike anything I have ever seen.’
‘And you believe that this metal fragment came from one of Spring-Heeled Jack’s talons,’ said Blackwood.
‘Indeed I do.’
‘Where is the fragment now?’
‘At the headquarters of the SPR. It is at present undergoing analysis by metallurgists and psychometrists.’
‘Psychometrists? Then you hope to ascertain something of the object’s nature and history through psychic means?’
‘We do.’
Blackwood nodded. ‘I must commend you on your thoroughness, Lady Sophia.’
She threw him a sidelong glance and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Blackwood.’
‘Now, perhaps you would tell me what all this has to do with the assassination of the Martian Ambassador, which, after all, is what you came to see me about.’
‘I must admit that coming to see you was not my idea,’ she replied. ‘My intention in contacting the Bureau was to alert them to the possibility that we are not dealing with some run-of-the-mill ruffian, and that the singular abilities Jack is alleged to possess are quite genuine, as evidenced by
the shard of metal which apparently came from one of his talons. Grandfather is intrigued at the possibility that the creature is not of this world and suggested that I join you in your own investigation of Lunan R’ondd’s assassination.’
Blackwood grunted and shook his head. ‘Just like Grandfather...’
Sophia gave him an enquiring look.
‘It’s his habit to make tenuous connections in complex cases such as this,’ he explained. ‘Grandfather has a way of throwing apparently disparate items into the pot, giving them a good stir and seeing what comes out at the end. It’s a curious method, but I must allow that it’s given capital results in the past.’
‘Intuition can be a powerful tool,’ Sophia agreed. Her voice had suddenly grown strange and dreamy; she turned from her companion and gazed through the window at the passing streets.
Blackwood glanced at her, noting that she seemed to have become a little distracted. He wondered at the cause but decided not to pursue it. ‘Timing is everything,’ he continued, ‘and I learned long ago not to believe in coincidence. The death of the Ambassador, the infiltration of my cogitator by an ætherial virus, your evidence for the reality of Spring-Heeled Jack and the possibility that he is not a human being... these things may or may not be connected, but I believe that we should proceed under the assumption that they may well be.’
‘Then you don’t mind my accompanying you?’ said Sophia, her voice still distant.
‘Not at all, my dear. The Society for Psychical Research and Her Majesty’s Bureau for Clandestine Affairs have collaborated on many investigations in the past. There is no reason why they should not do so now – especially since Grandfather has deemed it appropriate that they should. I shall be most interested to see the results of the analysis of that metallic fragment. When do you think they will become available?’
Sophia didn’t reply, and Blackwood turned to her. ‘Lady Sophia?’
She glanced suddenly at him, as if startled out of a profound dream. ‘Oh... forgive me, Mr Blackwood. My mind was elsewhere. You were saying?’
‘About the metal fragment: when may we expect the results of the analysis?’