Infernal Devices

by KW Jeter

  "Never mind – just get out there." He placed both hands in the small of my back and pushed with some violence. I found myself next to the grand piano, blinking at my audience, with the violin in one hand and its bow in the other.

  Sir Charles frowned as he gazed at me. He leaned forward, cupping his chin in the angle between thumb and forefinger as he studied the actions of what he assumed to be a mechanical automaton. As before, he took no notice of the disturbing interest – of an entirely different sort that his wife signalled with her small half-smile and unnerving gaze.

  Unseen by their intimidating eyes, my mind was spinning through ever-faster revolutions. The violin Paganini – what did I know about either? As a trickle of salt ran from my upper lip into the corner of my mouth, I racked my brain for some fragment of memory, some overheard and half-forgotten scrap of information cursed myself for having paid no attention to the breathless accounts of the virtuoso's performances that had appeared in various journals; how was I to have known that the topic would ever have any importance to me?

  I could recall nothing, not a word of anything that anyone had said about this musical conqueror astride the world of concert stages and salons; a vague impression, gleaned more from occasional comment and witty allusion by those more au courant with the refined realms of culture – that was all my frantic scurrying through the cupboards of memory produced. Had one of my titled clientele, pleased with the restoration of his timepiece to working order, called me "a veritable Paganini of watch menders"? And had I not smiled at the compliment, as thought I had known exactly what had been meant, the two of us being such well-informed men of discernment and taste? A common failing, this; we pretend to knowledge, and never find out; until at some final assize, our ignorance becomes both accusation and confession.

  Sir Charles continued to stare disconcertingly at me how soon would he guess the truth? My life had already been threatened at short notice; it was easy enough to imagine that this grey-haired, erect gentleman would also be capable of issuing such an order on behalf of the mysterious Royal Anti-Society. My fingers squeaked on the taut strings as I gripped the violin's neck tighter.

  A steel engraving – where had I seen that? The image of a sharp-faced man, of skeletal physique, his long fingers bending with the flying pressure exerted on the instrument, the sweep of dark hair tangling over his piercing mad eyes – it must have been some journal's illustration of the virtuoso. Mad; surely he was mad; in every picture of him I had ever seen, he had certainly looked mad. And satanic – yes, that sounded right. A hint of sulphur and brimstone clinging to him; hadn't there been some silly story of him having sold his soul to the devil in return for his proficiency? Moody; temperamental; towering rages – but then weren't all virtuosi supposed to be like that?

  Either they started out that way, or ended up so. Very likely a good number of the audience would be disappointed if there were no flash of temper, having come more to see that than to hear the music.

  I seized on this notion with the desperation of a man being dragged to his execution. "The–" I made a hopefully dramatic gesture with the bow. "The light is too bright in here. It – it's entirely unsuitable."

  Sir Charles leaned forward with evident interest. Beside him, Mrs Wroth opened her eyes a bit wider.

  Thus encouraged, I pressed forward. "How can I be expected to perform under these conditions?" For a moment, I wondered if I was merely sounding peevish. Stronger stuff was called for. "It is an outrage," I cried, my voice rising to what I imagined was a madman's pitch. "And for – for an audience the size of this? An insult! I play for hundreds, thousands – the whole world! Not for any mere gaping handful! The crowned heads of Europe take their humble places with the rest – I am no children's conjuror hired for a birthday fete."

  I heard Scape hissing at me from the alcove, and saw from the corner of my eye his frantic gestures to capture my attention. I ignored him; he had got me into this predicament; obviously it was up to myself to achieve extrication.

  Perhaps it was the repeated contact with so many obviously unhinged people, that gave my own enactment an edge of veracity. I strode back and forth in front of the onlookers, waving the violin above my head in a transport of emotion. "An outrage, I tell you. Such ignorant peasants do not deserve my genius!"

  Sir Charles and Mrs Wroth seemed more entranced as my display of anger mounted.

  I felt quite dizzy, as if all my breath had been exhausted through my shouting. Delirious, no longer mindful of any division between a placid shopkeeper and the insane virtuoso I had conjured up, I swung the violin aloft as if threatening violence. "The light! You, you fools! Great art cannot be born in these circumstances! Those hideous draperies! And–" I halted, gazing at the grand piano as if seeing it for the first time. "Where is my accompanist?"

  A red haze drifted over the faces watching me.

  "Where is my accompanist?" I thundered. My towering rage elevated me above the piano. I heard a crash of wood and a discordant echo; I looked down at my hand and saw my fist grasping only the neck of the violin, its strings curling loose around my wrist. The lid of the piano was scarred from the impact; splinters rained down upon me.

  "Magnificent!" I heard someone shout. Dazed, my mock virtuoso evaporated in the aftermath of the violin's destruction, I saw Sir Charles leap from his seat and dash towards me. He went past and pulled Scape from the alcove.

  "Simply marvellous," said Sir Charles, pumping Scape's hand in his. "A magnificent achievement – the exact duplicate the real Paganini's temperament in every detail! You are to be congratulated."

  Scape regained his composure after a moment's confusion.

  "Yeah, well… It's no big thing, really." He smiled modestly.

  As I watched them, I felt the uncomfortable sensation of another's gaze fastened upon me. I turned with the remains of the shattered violin in my hand, and saw Mrs Wroth, head tilted to one side, eyeing me with an even more disturbing interest.

  Before another word could be spoken by any of us, we were frozen by the sound of a window shivering into bits. A heavy curtain at the side of the room flapped with the impact of some missile. Sir Charles let go of Scape's hand and rushed to the spot. The shards of glass crunched under his boots as he flung aside the curtain, revealing the evening's fading light outside. "They're here!" he shouted. "The Godly Army!" He turned and rushed from the room, his face contorted with anger.

  There were shouts and more noises from without. I joined Scape at the window. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. "Why'd these turkeys have to show up now?"

  It required a few moments to perceive the shapes moving in the advancing darkness. A torch flared, revealing the cloaked riders I had seen pursuing the carriage that had brought us to Bendray Hall; now there were several score of them. A glitter of light on steel showed the weapons in their hands.

  "To arms!" sounded from the corridor. I heard feet running in the Hall's corridors, and excited shouting close at hand. Scape had disappeared from my side, taking Miss McThane with him; I crossed to the music room's doors and threw them open.

  From the head of the great staircase, I could see Lord Bendray with an antique musket under his arm. He was still in his shirtsleeves, with his magnifying spectacles perched upon his forehead, having been apparently summoned from his laboratory by this emergency. The household staff, butlers and footmen, milled about him. Swords and pikestaffs had been stripped from the various suits of armour that stood beside the doorways, and Lord Bendray was intent upon distributing these and organising the defence of the Hall. Some little distance away, Sir Charles concentrated upon the loading of a brace of pistols. As I watched, the front door boomed with the impact of a battering ram against it.

  "Come with me," said a voice at my ear. I turned round and saw Mrs Wroth. She pulled me away from the banister. "Quickly – there's not much time."

  I had no desire to be pressed into the martial preparations on the ground floor; as she led me down the corridor, I gl
anced nervously over. my shoulder as the shouts and clanging weapons sounded. "What is happening? Who is it outside?"

  Mrs Wroth pushed me up one of the house's rear staircases. "The Godly Army," she answered me. "Best to stay out of their path."

  "But Scape told me they were nothing to worry about."

  Behind me on the stairs, she laughed scornfully. "My husband may trust that fellow, and Lord Bendray may think equally highly of him; but I know that he is an unmitigated rascal. I would advise you to regard all of his assertions with the greatest scepticism."

  I was out of breath, having come up two flights at a quick pace. Panting, I halted at the next landing's rail. "Who – who are these people, then?"

  She stood beside me, her roseate bosom rising with her deep inhalation. "The Godly Army?" She reached up and solicitously brushed a strand of hair from my sweating brow. "Ah, they go a long way back – a very long way, Nearly as far as the Royal Anti-Society itself."

  I would have asked her about the latter organization as well, but I was distracted by straining to listen for the noises of attack and repulse filtering up the stairwell.

  "Some of the more Puritanical elements of Cromwell's forces," said Mrs Wroth as she playfully wound a lock of my hair around her forefinger. "They heard about what sorts of things the noblemen in the Royal Anti-Society were getting up to – all sorts of… mmm… deviltry, they probably thought it was."

  Her last few words were whispered in my ear, as she leaned close to me. I drew away, seeing in her intent gaze the same disturbing expression I had spotted there before.

  Voices, shouting but incomprehensible, came from downstairs. "Perhaps… we'd better–"

  She brought her hand down, caressing my neck. "So you've got one secret organization," she went on, "and another secret organization combating it. They've both rather declined in number over the years – I'm afraid those… old passions… die out after a while. Like old families – the blood gets thin." She levelled her disconcerting stare straight into my eyes.

  I slid away against the bannister. "Are – are we safe here?"

  Taking my hand, she drew me to the next flight of steps. "We don't want to be disturbed," she said, smiling.

  A musty odour of long-shut-off rooms greeted us on the next storey. In the dark, Mrs Wroth pulled me along. "Quickly – they won't find us in here." Enough moonlight filtered in through an uncurtained window for me to discern her fumbling about at a small table. A safety match flared, then the warmer glow of a candle cast about us. A cloud of dust blossomed as she sat down on the side of a bed. "Now let's see." Her smile grew as she grabbed me by the wrist.

  "God in Heaven! What? Mrs Wroth–" Clasped to her bosom, I tumbled back with her full-length on the bed. Her arms, as slender and delicate as the rest of her, were imbued with the fierce strength of her desire. I struggled vainly, scarcely able to breathe, by the force of her embrace. "Please – what are you doing–?"

  She rolled over, pinning me against the bare mattress. I looked up into eyes glittering with a lust bordering on madness; her gown had become disarrayed in the sudden assault, revealing an expanse of pearl-like flesh shining with perspiration. "Tick-tock," she said, and giggled as she bent low to bring the sharp points of her teeth into my chin.

  "What?" I managed to wriggle one arm free, but only for a moment until she had bound it with hers again.

  "You clockwork confection, you." Her bite, going lower, brought a yelp from me. "Tick-tock, mmm." Her hands busied themselves at my clothing. "Let's just see if we can find the key to wind you up."

  "Madam – good God–" I gasped for air. Somewhere far off, voices were shouting. "Don't… most improper–"

  "Just a moment – what–" She suddenly reared back, pushing herself away from me. She gazed down at me, her eyes wide. "What's the meaning of this? You're not clockwork at all!"

  I caught enough breath to speak. "No… no, I'm not…"

  "You're flesh and blood!" she shouted angrily. "You're no Paganinicon!"

  I pulled my shirt. together. "I'm afraid not, madam." The back of my head bumped against the wall as I pushed myself away on my elbows. "I'm sorry…"

  "That bastard." Mrs Wroth's face darkened, her eyes narrowing to slits. "He told me…"

  "Pardon?" I was relieved that her attention had turned elsewhere. "Who's that?"

  "Sir Charles," she muttered. "My husband. I'll pay him out for this. He informed me that there would be a clockwork replica of Paganini here tonight. An exact duplicate, in every detail." She gnawed furiously at one of her fingernails.

  "Well… I'm afraid I can't play the violin." I looked past her to the door; the shouting sounded louder.

  "To hell with the bloody violin. It was the other thing I was interested in. That blackguard…"

  "'Other thing?'" I inquired.

  She glared at me, as if I were the general representative of the gender that included her perfidious husband. "You know very well what I'm talking about. The great Paganini… he has a reputation for virtuosity in more areas than just music. He's cut a swath through the rich and titled ladies of every country in Europe. Some of them – my friends, ha! Bitches – have told me what it was like. Those eyes… those piercing eyes…" Her own drifted away in contemplation of this romantic vision, then swung viciously back. "And what do I find here? You!"

  I shrank back from her fury. "There… has been a misunderstanding," I allowed.

  She snorted in disgust and stood up from the bed. Straightening her bodice, she marched out of the room.

  After I had managed what repairs I could to my own clothing, I went to the door and looked out. There was no sign of her in the hallway, but the sounds of pitched battles were frighteningly closer. The Godly Army had apparently managed to penetrate Lord Bendray's defences, and the struggle had climbed relentlessly up through the Hall's storeys.

  Crossing to the head of the stairs, I looked downover the rail. A mistake on my part; no sooner had I done this, than one of the combatants, face sweating, spotted me above. "There it is!" he cried, pointing me out to his cohort. "The devilish machine itself! Blasphemous parody of God's creation!" Thus inspired, they renewed their attack. They mounted the stairs, flailing about with fist and stick, only slightly impeded by Lord Bendray's rapidly flagging household staff. "Destroy the mocking puppet!" cried their leader.

  I stood frozen in horror for a moment, then darted back to the room. There was no bolt on the inside of the door; if there had been, it would not have provided security for long against the furious tide rising towards me. I ran to the window.

  In the darkness, the horses milled about, their riders engaged in the battle inside the Hall. I crawled up on to the sill and grasped the ancient vine growing up the stones. The shouts rang in the corridor as I clambered out into the chill air.

  No sooner had I descended but a few feet, scraping my knuckles and shins against the wall, than my weight began to pull the vine loose from its moorings. With a sound of ripping cloth, the vine dangled me as though I were a fish on a line. Desperately, I scrambled to get my bootsoles a purchase on the rough wall, but to no avail. The vine pulled free along its entire length, dropping me stone-like to the ground.

  My fall was impeded sufficiently by the foliage to save my spine from shattering when I landed on my back. The stars whirled overhead as I struggled to regain the breath that had been knocked from my chest. Still gasping, I managed to wobble upright.

  The shouts came from above me now. I looked up and saw faces in the window from which I had made my exit; they scanned the grounds for any sign of me.

  Panic overcame any further thought of strategy. Trailing the vines that had become wrapped about my limbs, I ran towards the darkest limits of the Hall's gardens, the castellated walls and the sheltering marshes beyond. I tumbled headlong when the vine reached its full length, the other end of it still being rooted to the ground at the foot of the building. Tearing myself free, I picked myself up and renewed my flight.

&nbs
p; 10

  Mr Dower is Pursued

  Years of neglect had taken their toll on the wall circling Lord Bendray's estate. I easily found footholds where stones and mortar had crumbled away, and had soon gained the top. Breathless from running through the dark gardens, I looked back towards the Hall, and was gladdened to see that Lord Bendray's household staff had summoned their strength for a counter-attack against the forces of the Godly Army. Across the wide porticoes of the house, the battle raged anew, torchlight gleaming on the clashing weapons. The shouting voices and clang of metal against metal drifted through the night air to me; for the moment at least, my pursuers had their hands full with more pressing business.

  All was dark on the other side of the wall; I could not even discern the ground at its base. At some distance, across the marshy fields that I had observed from the carriage, a few yellow lights glinted feebly through the intervening mist. That must be the village of Dampford, I decided. It was just as well that I could not make out the narrow ribbon of the road leading from the gates of Bendray Hall to the village; doubtless I would be less subject to detection, as I sought the villagers' aid, if I struck out across the countryside.