The Gentleman

by Forrest Leo

  At the door we are met by a butler. He is aptly suited to the place in appearance, by which I mean he is strange looking. He is improbably tall, gangling, with an Adam’s apple which would jut out further than his nose had he not such a staggeringly enormous nose. All ridiculousness halts however at his eyes, which are black and sharp and brook no nonsense.

  Before I can utter a word, he says, ‘No women allowed in the club.’ His voice is high and grating.

  ‘Good Christ but you’re a rude one,’ exclaims Lancaster, rushing to Lizzie’s defence. ‘That’s no way to speak to a lady!’

  ‘I am very sorry, sir,’ says the butler. ‘It is not my intention to be rude, but club rules forbid women from crossing the lintel.’

  ‘Damn your rules!’ says Lancaster, clenching his fists.

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ says the butler, ‘but rules are the foundation of this very Empire of Britannia.* Without them we should be living in mud huts and eating dung. I do not care if you enter the club or no, but upon my life and honour the lady shall not pass.’

  Lancaster, I can see, has reached a boil. I believe deep down he has as little regard for convention as I have.

  ‘It’s alright,’ says Lizzie before her champion can do anything rash. ‘I’m tired anyway.’

  It’s a boldfaced lie and we all know it. I see Lancaster preparing to do something gallant and stupid—but Simmons hurriedly says, ‘As am I, miss. Let’s go home.’

  ‘My knight!’ says Lizzie, kissing him on the cheek.

  Lancaster looks a little jealous. ‘We won’t be long,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, take all the time you need!’ says Lizzie airily. She is dreadfully disappointed to leave, and trying her hardest not to show it. ‘This looks like a thrilling adventure, and I expect a full report! I’ll wait up.’

  ‘Thank you, Simmons,’ I say.

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ he replies. With a venomous look at the butler (Simmons is acutely pained by lesser practitioners of his profession), he puts a protective hand on the small of Lizzie’s back and the two of them start off down the cobblestones.

  ‘Well,’ says Lancaster, returning his attention to the ciconian butler, ‘are you happy now?’

  ‘I am neither happy nor unhappy, sir,’ replies the gatekeeper. ‘But the impasse resolved, we may now proceed.’

  ‘Excellent,’ says Lancaster, and attempts to cross the threshold. But the butler does not surrender the portal.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he says, ‘but you cannot yet enter.’

  ‘Why in God’s name not?’ demands Lancaster. ‘We’ve sent away the lady, what else do you want from us?’

  ‘You may not enter the club until you have answered three riddles.’

  ‘Riddles?’ he thunders. ‘You want me to answer riddles?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but unless you are a member of the club you are subject to the entry rules.’

  ‘I’m not answering riddles, by Christ!’*

  ‘Then you are not entering the club,’ replies the butler.

  We all look at one another for a moment. Then Lancaster says, ‘I have a riddle for you: which would you prefer—to step aside, or for me to throw you aside?’

  ‘That isn’t a riddle,’ says the butler.

  “Course it is,’ says Lancaster. ‘And I’m waiting for your answer.’

  The butler does a strange shuffling sort of dance with his feet and shifts a few inches to his left. I wonder why. Lancaster tries to grab him, but the butler kicks with his left toe at a spot on the flagstones and the ground opens beneath our feet. Lancaster and I plunge into darkness.

  We fall perhaps fifteen feet. Straw cushions our landing, but I nevertheless feel rather battered. I take in our surroundings—we seem to be in a sort of dungeon. The walls are lit by blue lights in sconces which do not flicker but certainly are not gas. Lancaster is on his feet in the blink of an eye, itching for a fight; but there seems to be no one to fight. Our cell is small and square, three walls of stone and an iron gate for the fourth. We are quite trapped.

  Above our heads, the trapdoor through which we fell snaps shut.

  ‘Damn,’ says Lancaster in fury. Then, looking around for a moment, he says it again in admiration. ‘This is a pretty pickle, eh?’ he chuckles. He is in an abruptly excellent mood that I cannot fathom.

  ‘It does seem rather dire,’ say I, getting shakily to my feet.

  ‘It’s superb!’ he cries. ‘Look at us, old boy! Trapped beneath Pall Mall by a bunch of inventors and their half-cocked butler!’

  I know what is coming next.

  ‘It’s an adventure, by Christ!’

  I expect to be exasperated by him, or frightened by our predicament, or concerned about such-and-such. But to my surprise I discover that my heart is beating quicker than usual and my senses seem preternaturally acute and I am on the edge of entirely unhysterical laughter.

  ‘So it is!’ I say. ‘So it is.’

  Lancaster looks shocked, and exclaims, ‘That’s the spirit, Savage! I believe we’re going to be friends after all!’

  I cannot I think convey to you the warmth I feel upon hearing this silly statement. Something must be dreadfully wrong with me. I am not by nature a man who has friends, but then I am not a man who believed I needed friends. Perhaps I am ill. I have made three friends in two days, though it feels much longer. Granted, one of them belongs to an organisation which has imprisoned me in a most cowardly manner, the other is my brother-in-law who tried not long ago to kill me, and the third is the Devil; but, then, I have never been conventional.

  Lancaster is pacing the room like a lion—have I mentioned before how like a lion he is? He is at times wolfish, but I believe him to be much more like a lion. There is a pride about him which is very leonine. In any event, he is pacing. He goes first to one wall, then another, looking for chinks. There are none. He examines the iron gate minutely. He tests his strength against it. It does not bend. From this, I surmise it must not in fact be iron, for I have no doubt that the man before me could bend an iron bar.* As he struggles with the gate, I begin to seriously fear for the well-being of his clothes. The muscles bulging beneath his eveningwear are waging a war with his seams which cannot end well.

  ‘Lancaster,’ say I at length, ‘I do not think you are going to break the gate.’

  ‘No,’ he says in disgust. ‘It seems not. Damned strange sort of metal.’ He is embarrassed by his failure. ‘Reminds me of a time I was in Afghanistan. Got locked up in the Shah’s dungeon—you read about it?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘No, ’course you didn’t. Sometimes I wonder about you, Savage. For all the books you purport to read, you can be awfully ignorant sometimes.’

  ‘Now see here, Lancaster!’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry, old boy. Don’t let’s quarrel. It’s my fault, and I retract the comment. One of the dangers of imprisonment, turning on your comrades.’

  ‘No doubt,’ I say. I am inclined to be magnanimous. ‘You were speaking of the Shah?’

  ‘Quite so. Locked up most dreadfully.’

  ‘How did you escape?’

  ‘Escape? I didn’t. Spent eighteen months there until Mummy convinced Whitehall that I was a national treasure and they intervened and secured my release.’

  That sobers me. ‘But we don’t have eighteen months! Vivien could be dead by then!’

  ‘Vivien could be dead now, old boy. Don’t suppose she is, but all the same let’s not lose sight of the reality of things.’

  I know that he says it meaning well, but it throws me horribly. It isn’t a possibility that had occurred to me. That Viv could be dead even now is not something I can think about at the moment. With an effort, I thrust it from my mind.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘this is turning out to be a different evening than I had expected.’

  ‘I
should have answered the riddles,’ he says, settling himself upon the floor. ‘But no use crying over the milk, by Christ! Breathe it all in, that’s what I learned in Tibet, breathe in disaster and breathe out goodwill toward mankind and your utter confidence that things will turn out alright. That’s how it’s done, you know. Sit down, Savage, and I’ll teach you to meditate. It’ll do you good.’

  I am saved this fate by the sound of approaching footsteps and of voices which I cannot quite make out.

  ‘Tally-ho,’ says Lancaster, springing up. ‘Here come our captors.’

  The voices become more distinct.

  ‘You’ve done well, Benton,’ says one. ‘Very well indeed. These are not times to take unnecessary risks.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly, sir,’ says the other, grating and unpleasant. ‘Additionally, there was a woman with them.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says the first. ‘Yes, yes, you have certainly done the right thing.’

  The speakers come into view. The leader is a short man in middle age, paunchy, bandy-legged, and possessed of the largest cranium I have ever seen. He has very tiny eyes which are shadowed beneath bushy brows from which rises a forehead of Jovian breadth.* He is trailed by the butler whose acquaintance we made previously and whose name is apparently Benton. He looks somehow at home under the earth.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ says the one who is not the butler, ‘welcome to my club.’ He has a jitteriness of voice and manner which give the impression that he is trapped in a zoetrope. He rubs his hands together continually and touches his face more than is necessary.

  ‘Not what I’d call a warm welcome,’ remarks Lancaster. ‘And hardly sporting. Who are you and what the deuce do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I apologize for the precautions, but these are troublous times. My name is Asquith, and I am the president of the Hefestaeum Club.’

  I give a start. I have read of Asquith, who in point of fact is Lord Asquith, seventeenth Baron of Gullsworth, and whose mind and industry are responsible for many of the most ingenious of modern inventions. I had expected to like him more than I do.

  ‘Now,’ he continues, ‘who sent you? Are you from the Admiralty, or are you Intelligence?’

  Lancaster and I look perplexedly at one another.

  ‘We weren’t sent by anyone,’ I say.

  ‘You will forgive me,’ says Asquith, scratching at his nose compulsively, ‘but I find that difficult to believe. You have in the middle of the night attempted to gain entrance to my club with a woman, and, most damningly, you have refused to answer Benton’s riddles.’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ demands Lancaster.

  ‘The riddles, as you doubtless know already, were designed by Lane, whose understanding of psychology is acute. He crafted three perfect questions, the answers to which allow Benton to tell beyond a shadow of a doubt whether a stranger’s intentions are good or ill. Yet you refused to answer them. What other conclusion can we draw but that you are spies?’

  ‘But we aren’t spies!’ I say.

  ‘We’re looking for a chap named Kensington,’ adds Lancaster—which, it turns out, was not the correct thing to say. Asquith’s face becomes bleak.

  ‘You have sealed your fate, gentlemen,’ he says, and turns to leave.

  ‘What?’ I cry. ‘Where are you going? How did that seal our fate? We’re acquaintances of his!’

  ‘You are the third government delegation to try to apprehend him in the last seven hours,’ Asquith says, his back still to us. ‘The first two were turned away at the door, having incorrectly answered the riddles. They were warned that another attempt would be seen as a declaration of war. Benton, stay here. If they try to speak, you may beat them. I will alert Kensington that the club is no longer safe for him.’

  He turns the corner and disappears from view. Benton eyes us with malevolence. ‘Well, this is a pickle, by Christ,’ says Lancaster.

  ‘No speaking,’ croaks Benton. He picks up a broom handle which was leaning against a wall and brandishes it threateningly. I imagine him attempting to beat Lancaster. It makes me smile to myself.

  ‘Now see here, old chap,’ begins Lancaster, but Benton sticks the handle through the bars and delivers me a smart rap on the arm.

  ‘Ow! You’re supposed to hit him!’ I say indignantly.

  ‘He is large,’ says Benton, and hits me again. Lancaster laughs loudly, which results in two more bruises upon my person.

  ‘Shut up, Lancaster,’ I say, as Benton lands another blow.

  Thereafter we sit in silence, waiting for I know not what. I try to be indignant, but there is a mischievous voice in the back of my head which suggests I’m having rather a good time.

  After several hours* we hear the sound of footsteps, and my heart leaps as Will Kensington comes into view. In the eerie blue light he looks even younger than I had remembered.

  As soon as he sees me, he rushes to the gate and exclaims, ‘Mr Savage! Oh sir, I am so sorry! I had no notion it was you. Benton! The keys, quickly! Come, man!’

  The butler blinks. ‘But sir,’ he says, ‘Lord Asquith and I are in agreement that these men are spies of the most insidious sort.’

  ‘They aren’t spies, Benton! This is Mr Savage who is an old friend, and I don’t know his companion, but he doubtless is every bit as admirable.’

  ‘If you don’t know him,’ says Benton tenaciously, ‘how do you know he’s not a spy?’

  ‘Damn it, man, open the cell!’

  The butler stares at Kensington for several long moments, and seems on the edge of refusing—but at last he sighs, saunters to the gate, and begins trying various keys in the lock. Kensington seems paralysed. I believe he would like to thoroughly dress down Benton, but his excellent good nature forbids it.

  For mine own part, I am immensely cheered to see the young Northerner. My mind, which was preparing itself for a lengthy stay in the dungeon—eighteen months! and with only Lancaster for company!—is very much eased.

  ‘Lancaster,’ I say, ‘this is Will Kensington, the inventor and my—friend. The one we came here to see. Kensington, this is Ashley Lancaster.’

  ‘But you’re a baby, by Christ!’ exclaims Lancaster. ‘This is marvellous! It’s a pleasure, Kensington’—pumping his hand through the bars—‘truly a pleasure! Read all about your work, think it’s damned exciting!’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ says Kensington, no less pleased by the acquaintance. ‘My brother Bernard is an explorer of sorts, too! Nowhere near your calibre, of course—but he takes great joy from climbing mountains and such. He’ll be terribly jealous to hear I’ve met you. But did you say you came to see me? What on earth could— Well never mind, I’ll take you to my rooms and we’ll have it all out.’

  Benton is entirely unimpressed by Lancaster’s celebrity; but he at last finds the key and with a scowl releases us. Kensington leads us along the corridor, which seems much less sinister now that we are out of our cell. This subterranean chamber is not, as I had surmised, a dungeon—our cell is the only one in it—but more of a cellar or basement. It is cluttered with all manner of strange objects which I suppose to be the raw materials necessary for inventors to make marvellous things.

  We reach a stairway, which having ascended we find ourselves just within the front door of the club. The room is high-ceilinged and rather grand. It seems much like any other club, and I am surprised by how ordinary it is.

  ‘I’m very sorry you were received so unceremoniously,’ Kensington says, leading us through a doorway. ‘There has been trouble with the police, you see—we daily expect a siege. Harriston designed the trapdoor for emergencies, and Benton has been trained to admit strangers only with the utmost caution.’ He turns to the butler and adds, ‘Please tell the president that all has been resolved and I am taking the guests to my rooms.’ Benton bows stiffly and stalks off.

 
‘But what in God’s name could the police want with a clubful of inventors?’ asks Lancaster. I am listening with only half an ear. Any semblance of normalcy the place might have had vanished the moment we left the foyer, and my attention is now consumed by the peculiar sights all around me. We follow Kensington through room after room packed with workbenches and drafting tables at which sit men of every conceivable description. Their only unifying trait is the quickness of their eyes and deftness of their fingers. Everywhere are the strangest and most marvellous clockwork contraptions—gadgets, I should say. In the centre of one room, surrounded by dozens of hushed onlookers, is a sort of mannequin that is moving of its own accord. Its motions are jerky, halting, uncertain; but without a doubt autonomous. Another room is filled with smoke, and liveried footmen bustle to and fro with buckets of water and damp blankets, stamping out pockets of embers.* I suppose I must be observing the after-effects of the explosion we had heard from the street.

  ‘The government doesn’t approve of our work, I’m afraid,’ Kensington says. ‘They feel that we represent a threat to social order, and accuse us of anarchic leanings.’

  ‘That’s preposterous!’ exclaims Lancaster.

  ‘No doubt,’ says Kensington, ‘but after all, they are the government.’*

  ‘Quite so,’ nods Lancaster. ‘But still, it’s strange. You’d think they would want to nationalise Progress, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, they do,’ agrees Kensington. ‘But only at a certain speed. Exceed that and they feel things are moving too quickly and it makes them nervous. Their philosophers—’

  ‘The government’s?’

  ‘Yes, yes, or whatever you call them. Theorists. They say that there is a fixed rate at which a society may evolve, particularly on a technological and industrial front. Above that rate, they say, the potential for social unrest increases exponentially.’

  ‘And this club is full of people who invent above the rate?’

  ‘I don’t mean to boast, but this club is full of people who invent at such a rate that the store of human knowledge doubles on a weekly basis.’