Prelude to Eternity: A Romance of the First Time Machine

by Brian Stableford

  Marlstone looked at Escott suspiciously, as if he were afraid that he might be the butt of some subtle mockery—an entirely justified anxiety, in Michael’s estimation—and shook his head slowly. “It’s far too late to embark upon a lengthy explanation now,” he pronounced, perhaps a trifle regretfully, “especially in view of the fact that you’ve all been traveling all day and can hardly be at your intellectual peak. I hope to make time tomorrow evening to offer a full explanation of my modifications to Dee’s theories, and of the nature of my project, to all interested parties. I shall try to answer any and all questions that might arise then.”

  “I hope there’ll be time,” Hope said, smiling broadly. “After all, we have to fit in Dr. Carp’s experiment in somniloquism and Signor Monticarlo’s violin recital too. It’s going to be a very busy evening.”

  Marlstone had frowned slightly at the mention of Carp’s name, and the frown deepened further as he saw the man himself come through the drawing-room’s open double doors, followed, a few steps behind, by the red-faced Jeanne Evredon. Hope and Escott saw the frown deepen too, and Michael judged from the sly glance they exchanged that the two pranksters had immediately come to a mutual decision that they ought to effect an introduction between the manufacturer of time machines who disliked the term “ghost” and the conjuror of spirits who loved it. Since Marlstone was far too large to be easily moved, they rushed off together to collect the more maneuverable Carp.

  Fortunately, Carp’s belated appearance had also prompted the butler, Heatherington, to signal the maids that the cocoa should be served, and because Marlstone’s armchair happened to be situated next to the sideboard on which the crockery had been set, Michael and the inventor were among the first to be awarded their cups.

  Michael was thirsty, and glad of the relief in more ways than one—so glad, in fact, that he scalded his tongue and the roof of his mouth endeavoring to take too hasty a gulp. He blinked furiously, turning away from his companion in order to conceal his distress—and found himself looking straight at Cecilia, who had given her father the slip.

  “I don’t believe you’ve ever seen the drawing of the Langstrade Maze, Mr. Laurel,” she said, in a honeyed tone that was music to his ears. “Might I show it to you—if Mr. Marlstone doesn’t mind my interrupting?”

  Marlstone seemed to be on the point of saying that he would rather like another look at the famous diagram himself—presumably in order to avoid being pitted against Augustus Carp while Hope and Escott looked on, eager to nurture their mutual embarrassment—but he thought better of it and nodded graciously.

  Gratefully, Michael followed Cecilia to the mantelpiece, where she gestured expansively with her arm in order to make it obvious to any chance onlooker that she was merely discharging her obligation as a hostess and could not possibly be suspected of having any other motive for separating the young man from his male companions. In support of the pretence, Michael studied the framed diagram intently, confident that his artist’s eye would enable him not only to memorize the design but also—when the time came—to navigate his way through the network of hedges without going astray.

  “It’s believed to be very old,” Cecilia told him, speaking a little more loudly than was strictly necessary. “It’s reputed to have a religious or magical significance, although no one knows exactly what it is. It’s something to do with Dedalus of Knossos, I understand, and the legacy he left to the Celtic druids.” She dropped her voice to a virtual whisper to add: “I’m extremely glad to see you, Mr. Laurel. I’ve been making conversation with that dreadful Mr. Marlstone for nearly an hour, while mother and father were busy fluttering around making arrangements for everyone’s arrival.”

  Somewhat at a loss for words, Michael found himself mumbling: “Is he dreadful, then?”

  “Perfectly,” Cecilia assured him. “He scowls all the time, almost as if he can’t help it. I could almost have been glad to see Mr. Hope.”

  Michael was nonplussed by the almost, the precise significance of which eluded him, but he thought was safe to say: “I’ve been in the company of Mr. Hope and Mr. Escott for several hours, almost solidly, and it’s a great pleasure to find gentler company here. I hope you’re keeping well, Miss Langstrade.”

  “You’ve been in the company of Signorina Monticarlo too,” Cecilia observed, in a neutral tone. “Don’t you find her charming?”

  “I’ve hardly exchanged two words with her,” Michael hastened to say. “I sat in the coupé of the diligence, while she was inside, and I was in conversation with Dr. Carp all through dinner in York. She is rather charming, I suppose, although her charms inevitably pale in present company.”

  “Mademoiselle Evredon seems quite charming too,” Cecilia observed, deliberately misunderstanding his perfectly clear meaning. “She’s a little out of sorts, though, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “I overheard Dr. Carp quarreling with her when I passed the Violet Room on my way down,” Michael told her, confidentially. “I gather that their recent demonstrations have gone badly, and even though he’s trying hard not to blame her, he feels that she’s not quite delivering the goods the way his previous somniloquist used to do.”

  “He’s in the Blue Room, of course,” Cecilia observed. “Mother and Father had a long discussion about the propriety of putting them in rooms with a connecting door; it’s not as if they were father and daughter, after all. The rules of etiquette don’t seem to say anything about the proprieties pertaining to the relationship between a Mesmerist and his somniloquist.”

  “How unfortunate,” Michael murmured. From the corner of his eye, he watched Hope and Escott attempting to stir up trouble between Marlstone and Carp. They did not seem to be succeeding; Marlstone and Carp seemed to be making every effort to chat politely and pleasantly, probably being equally determined to deny Hope and Escott the pleasure of setting them at odds. He was still trying hard to think of a means of paying Cecilia another compliment when they were interrupted by Lady Phythian, who had probably been dispatched by one or both of the Lady Langstrades to make sure that nothing untoward was going on.

  “I told Mr. Laurel all about the Maze on the train,” the widow informed Cecilia. “The ghosts too. Well, Mr. Laurel, what do you think of our Dedalus design?”

  “It’s very interesting, Lady Phythian,” Michael said. “Most intriguing.”

  “Do you think the ghosts might appear tonight, Cecilia?” Lady Phythian enquired. “I’m in the Yellow Room, as usual—the same room from which I’ve seen them so many times before—but that fearful hedge wasn’t there when I first saw them, and it used to be quite discreet. It’s exceedingly tall now, isn’t it?”

  “It has to be tall,” Cecilia told her, “in order to make it easy for people to get lost. If they could look over the tops of the hedges, it would be easier to map out a route to the center. It has to be thorny too, to discourage people from taking illegitimate short cuts. Jefferies has done a magnificent job training and shaping it, over the years. I’m sorry if you find that it blocks your view of any supernatural events, although we’ve been rather hoping that Harold Longstride’s shade might prefer to patrol the battlements now that we’ve rebuilt his Keep. In any case, the anniversary isn’t until Saturday, so the ghosts might not appear until tomorrow night, at the earliest.”

  “The Keep is very tall too,” Lady Phythian observed. “You could use it as a bell-tower, if you wished—although I suppose you don’t really need one, being in ready earshot of Cribden Church.”

  “Father would never stand for that,” Cecilia replied, shaking her head as if the very idea were horrifying. “It’s supposed to be a military installation, not a religious one. He’s very insistent that the Langstrade Maze isn’t the same sort of maze that you find on the floors of churches, symbolizing the difficulty of the path to Heaven, but is more closely akin to prehistoric mazes, which were presumed to have m
agical properties.”

  “Or to house dragons,” Lady Phythian put in. “Mr. Marlstone’s fearful machine will serve that function, I suppose.”

  “Oh, Father doesn’t mind letting Mr. Marlstone install his time machine in the Keep,” Cecilia assured her guest, silkily. “Mr. Marlstone has urged him not to expect too much, but Father can’t let go of the frail hope that he might one day be able to obtain proof that Harold Longstride really did exist, and that there really was a Keep erected there a thousand years ago. Mind you, I think he’d settle for evidence that his Keep will still be there a thousand years in the future.”

  “A glimpse of the future might be a very reassuring thing,” Michael murmured, pensively, thinking about his possible future with Cecilia, and how wonderful it would be to obtain a sign that it might come to pass. The flirtatious attention that Cecilia was paying him now seemed to indicate the satisfactory extent of her attraction to him, but he was as fearful of reading too much into her words as he was of assuming that her father would bow to her sentiments in the matter of making a suitable marriage.

  “A glimpse of the future might also be a very alarming thing,” Lady Phythian said, in flat contradiction to Cecilia’s judgment. Michael forgave her, on the grounds that the dowager must be only too well aware that the future could not hold a great deal of promise for a woman of her age. After a pause, the old lady added: “I do hope that Mademoiselle Evredon is not going to play the oracle. I prefer it when somniloquists restrict themselves to facilitating conversations between the living and the dead.”

  “Have you seen a great many somniloquists, Lady Phythian?” Cecilia asked, innocently.

  “Not so very many,” the dowager told her, primly and rather defensively. “I do remember Dr. Carp’s previous assistant, though. She was very good. It’s such a shame that she died so suddenly. Influenza is a terrible scourge, especially for those of delicate constitution. I live in mortal fear of it myself.”

  “Indeed it is,” Cecilia agreed. “I expect that Dr. Carp was heartbroken. He seems a trifle distraught even now.”

  That was certainly true, Michael observed, although whether the distress in question was due to Hope and Escott’s continuing attempts to set the Mesmerist at odds with Gregory Marlstone or to his recent altercation with Mademoiselle Evredon was anyone’s guess. While he was pondering the enigma, Michael finished off his cocoa, which had cooled sufficiently to be very welcome in his mouth and stomach alike.

  “I expect that you gentlemen will be repairing to the smoking room any minute for a glass of brandy,” Lady Phythian observed, with an envious sigh.

  “I’m rather tired,” Michael said. “I expect that I’ll go straight up to bed once the ladies retire.”

  “Indeed you will not, Mr. Laurel” Cecilia said, very firmly indeed. “You will converse with Father and his friends, as a good guest should. I’m sure that you want to make a good impression. Don’t you agree, Lady Phythian?”

  Lady Phythian was clearly unsure as to what she was being invited to agree to, or why, but she murmured faint assent.

  “Mr. Laurel is a painter,” Cecilia continued, still addressing herself to the dowager, almost as if Michael were not there—although he felt sure that her remarks were primarily addressed to him. “He has a clever hand for portraiture. You should commission him to paint you, for the edification of future generations of Phythians, Pottses, and Ashersons. I hope that Mother might persuade Father to commission a portrait of her, or even the whole family—including Jack and the dogs, of course.”

  “I shall be interested to see what Mr. Laurel makes of the Keep,” the dowager said, dryly. “Always provided that he can find his way through the Maze.”

  “I’m sure that we could find him a guide,” Cecilia replied, “if there were any danger of his getting lost. It won’t be necessary, though. My mother, attentive as ever to the needs of her guests, had one of her maids make a dozen copies of the diagram, which she intends to supply to all the guests, in order to help them navigate.”

  “That won’t be enough to prevent people from getting lost,” Lady Phythian said, with a faint snort of derision. “I speak from experience. Maps are fine things when you know where you are, but when you don’t.…”

  “Lady Phythian is being too modest,” Cecilia said to Michael. “Like her namesake, Ariadne, she is quite at home in the Maze. She has watched it grow up year by year, and she never fails to spend time there when she visits, in order to commune with her ghosts.”

  “The coincidence of names has been pointed out far too often to be amusing any longer,” Lady Phythian said, seemingly a trifle nettled. “Nor are they my ghosts. You have a better claim to their ownership than I do.”

  “I fear not,” Cecilia said. “Although I can find my way through it with perfect accuracy nowadays, I would never aspire to the title of Mistress of the Labyrinth. I haven’t an atom of magic in me.”

  Lady Phythian did not contradict her—which seemed to Michel to be a little ungracious, although he dared not do so himself lest he overstep the ever-inconvenient bounds of etiquette. Michael also refrained from saying that he would not need a copy of the diagram, now that he had seen the original, because he felt that any such remark might too easily have been mistaken, even by Cecilia, for vulgar boasting.

  Their conversation was interrupted again, then, this time by Augustus Carp, who seemed to have been driven to desperate measures to escape the clutches of Hope and Escott. “Please excuse me, Lady Phythian, Miss Langstrade,” he said, “but I wonder if I might borrow Mr. Laurel for a moment.”

  “There you are, Lady Phythian,” Cecilia observed, coquettishly. “Mr. Carp is about to commission a portrait—perhaps a commemorative image of him placing Mademoiselle Evredon in a trance.”

  Carp seemed utterly bewildered for a moment, and then leaned forward conspiratorially, to say: “I’m afraid not, Miss Langstrade. To tell the truth, I was beginning to feel a trifle browbeaten in the abrasive company of Mr. Marlstone, Mr. Hope and Mr. Escott—although I must admit that Mr. Marlstone had some very interesting speculations to offer on the nature of time and the possibilities of time travel, when prompted. I was fortunate enough to have a rather pleasant conversation with Mr. Laurel at dinner, and I had hoped to take refuge in a renewal, if you don’t mind.”

  The last thing Michael wanted was to be dragged away to some corner in order that Carp might use him as a shield against less-than-polite society, so he intervened by saying: “Have you seen the parchment containing the diagram of the Langstrade Maze, Dr. Carp? It really is a most intriguing document. I’m sure that a knowledgeable man like you might have some interesting observations to make regarding its possible origins and mystical significance.”

  Carp evidently realized that there was a certain safety to be obtained in that fashion, so he obligingly stepped right up to the mantelpiece and thrust his face forward in order to study the framed parchment at close range. “Now that is interesting,” he said. “I wonder if it might be worth trying an experiment tomorrow. If we were to allow Jeanne to handle it while entranced, she might be able to pick up some interesting impressions from it. She might be able to cast some light on its origins and significance.”

  “What a good idea, Dr. Carp,” Cecilia said. “Don’t you think so, Lady Phythian?”

  “I do,” said the dowager, who obviously felt that handling mysterious documents left over from the distant past might be safer than prompting the somniloquist to “play the oracle” in a futuristic sense.

  “I wonder which hypothesis you favor regarding the original function of prehistoric mazes, Dr. Carp,” Cecilia continued, evidently seeking to give the old man a chance to show off. “Were they intended as tracks for religious processions and dances, do you think, or were they intended as traps for demons and dragons?”

  Carp considered the question for a s
uitable interval, but then replied, with undue wariness: “I’m not really in a position to make an informed decision. Which hypothesis do you favor, Mr. Laurel?”

  “I have no idea,” Michael said, blithely. “I’m only an artist, after all—I’m concerned with visual and imaginative impressions rather than historical speculations. I hope the Langstrade Maze doesn’t end up trapping a dragon or a Minotaur, though. I’d much rather think of it as a guide to the dancing footsteps of some modern Ariadne, offering up a rhythmic prayer to the mysterious Mistress of the Labyrinth. Did the Druids believe in a Mistress of the Labyrinth too, do you think?”

  “Druids?” Carp parried, still very wary. “What do Druids have to do with the matter?”

  “The Druids were my suggestion, I’m afraid,” Cecilia put in, her tone replete with a feminine innocence that was somewhat contrived. “Father’s convinced that the parchment, or at least the design copied on it, is pre-Christian. The Celts who were living here before the first Christian missionaries arrived had Druid priests, didn’t they? Sacred sickles, mistletoe and wicker men—that sort of thing.”

  “We know almost nothing about Druidism, I’m afraid,” Carp said, apparently finding a foothold on firmer intellectual ground at last, “except for a few lines penned by disapproving Romans, who can hardly be counted as reliable witnesses. What Julius Caesar wrote about them in the Gallic Wars is mostly idle hearsay. If the Langstrade Maze has anything to do with Celtic religion, I fear that there’s nothing in the literature to offer us a clue as to what the connection might have been.”

  “In that case,” Lady Phythian suggested, “any enlightenment that your somniloquist might be able to provide would be doubly welcome.” She did not sound overly confident.