by Adrian Cole
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lives and Loves
“One things intrigues me,” Reverence said to Riderman. “You used a word with which I am not familiar. Cyberspace. Perhaps you’d be good enough to elucidate.”
“Of course,” nodded Riderman.
Apart from Reverence and Jameson, Mears and Miss Timkins, the others had now left the room, all with their respective tasks to complete, geared to the finding of the missing Barbarian and Mire-Beast.
“Miss Timkins,” Riderman said to his secretary. “If you’d like to take Mr. Mears through into the library, I’ll entertain these two gentlemen. I’m sure Mr. Mears doesn’t need a crash course in computers. Let’s reassemble again for mid-morning coffee.”
“Very good, sir,” said Miss Timkins, leading Mears to another door. Moments later he found himself in a tall room, two of its walls lined from floor to ceiling with books and journals. For a moment he felt the breeze of déjà vu: the room was not unlike the room in the Athenaeum where the archivist had taken him.
Miss Timkins closed the door behind them and a peculiar silence settled. “Is everything all right, Mr. Mears? Only you look a little anxious.” She was hugging her writing pad, peering over the top of her spectacles at him, ironically as though she were herself nervous.
“No, no, not at all. It’s just this room. It seemed familiar.”
“I suppose it’s a typical library of its period. A bit men’s-clubbish, if you know what I mean.” There was just a hint of disapproval in her tone.
He smiled. Of course, she’s not from the Victorian age, like Riderman, although he himself seems a curious mixture, given his apparent understanding of modern technology. The idea of Rider Haggard teaching Sherlock Holmes about cyberspace made him grin even more.
“What is it?” said Miss Timkins, curiosity stirred by his expression.
“It’s this world. Everything seems very confused. Well, to me, anyway, being an outsider.” How easy it’s been to accept it! Another world, for God’s sake.
She put her pad and pen down on the polished table. “Yes, I’m sure it must seem strange to you. As Sir Henry explained, it does have its eccentricities of time and space.”
Rocklyn’s odd warning came back to him. But it was impossible to imagine this girl having a dark side, inhabitant of Pulpworld or not. No doubt she was frighteningly efficient at her job and he was familiar with the type. He pulled away from the thought.
“Sir Henry is a fascinating chap. Can you tell me a bit about him? Or is that breaching confidence?”
“No, I don’t think so. Would you like to sit down?”
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, pulling out chairs for her and himself.
She sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s difficult to know where to begin.”
“He said something about being an explorer.”
“Yes. Quite renowned for it. Written lots of books, mostly about the remote parts of the world. This world,” she added. Her eyes met his for a moment, but then dropped. “I suppose it would be quite different from yours —”
“Possibly,” he said, trying not to stare at her face. She’s nice, he was thinking. Really very nice. “Uh, there are so many similarities, but then I’m never quite sure what’s coming next. What are his novels about?”
“Romances mostly. Adventure stories, lost races —”
“Anything about King Solomon’s Mines?” Beautiful teeth. Perfect, in fact. And I love the shape of her mouth. When you actually look at it —
“Oh, yes!” she smiled again. “The Mines of Wrath. Have you read it?”
He shook his head, again feeling a little awkward. “No. Well, sort of.”
“He’s also written novels about the future, just like Herbert Wells and that other strange man, Garrett Zeite. That’s why they call themselves the Prophets’ Guild. Shaping the future through the written word. It’s a bit conceited, but —”
“Did you say Zeite?” he cut in. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said at once, realising he had startled her. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“That’s all right. Yes, Garrett Zeite. I’m not sure what nationality he is —”
“Austro-Hungarian. Emigrated to the States when he was a boy —”
“That sounds right. But he’s resident in Pulp City now. I’m not sure how long he’s been here. You know him?”
“Well, yes and no. In my world he’s a comic book writer. Do you know what I mean by comic book?” he asked cautiously, afraid that he might be insulting her.
She had put her hands on the table and tapped her fingers on the pad. Very slender hands, beautifully manicured nails, he thought, trying to concentrate on what she was saying. “Yes, I do. We have them here,” she grinned. “But I don’t think Garrett Zeite would be very pleased to hear himself described as a comic book writer! He takes his work very seriously.”
“How old is he?”
“About fifty, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“In my world he’s twenty-two. I mean, he was twenty-two when he, well, when he either died or disappeared. That was twenty five years ago. He used to write the Darkwing comic.”
“Mr. Rocklyn’s alter ego?”
“Yes, do you know about that?”
She shook her head. “Only what he told us next door. There’s no Darkwing here. But such people do exist here. Like the Black Bowman that Mr. De Gilbert spoke about.”
“What does Garrett Zeite write?”
“Science fiction. The Future History series is his most famous work.”
Mears frowned. It rang a bell, but served to confuse him rather than clarify anything. “I suppose he could have left my world and come here. If I did it, someone else might have.”
She was watching him intently. When his eyes returned to her face, she looked away, slightly embarrassed. “Yes, this is Pulpworld, so it could have happened.”
“Tell me more about Riderman. What else has he written?”
“The Mines of Wrath is his most popular book, that and Annabella. The story of a beautiful white queen in the lost mountains of central Africa, before the days of Empire. A doomed love affair with, of course, a white adventurer. It’s actually rather a lovely book, especially when you know the story behind it. Well, to a romantic like me, Mr. Mears.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he breathed. “Tell me about this story.”
“You mustn’t breathe a word of this. Sir Henry is in many ways a very private man. I —”
“That’s all right. None of my business. But, isn’t this place called the Hotel Annabella?”
“Yes.” She sighed, preparing to tell him more and as she did so, he recalled again the enigmatic warning Rocklyn had given him. How could Miss Timkins possibly be dangerous? Perhaps Rocklyn was just warning him not to get involved, not that Miss Timkins would necessarily want his attention. Mind you, she did seem quite friendly. She didn’t seem not to like him. Concentrate! He told himself. You’re not fourteen years old.
“Sir Henry was married for a long time, but his wife, Clarice, caught pneumonia and was very ill. She was nursed by a close friend of the family, Doctor Annabella Fortescue. She and Mr. Riderman had been friends since they were children, the two families having business connections going back years and years. It was no secret that Sir Henry had been in love with Annabella, but alas, she loved another. She married the dashing Sir Rodney Fitzwaters, although I think she later regretted it. I’m not boring you, am I?”
He leaned forward, fascinated. “No, no, do go on.”
“Well, eventually Sir Henry married Clarice. They were happy, devoted and if Sir Henry did have feelings for Annabella Fortescue, he kept them to himself all those years he was married. After Clarice died, he went into himself rather. Travelled very extensively.”
“And wrote Annabella?”
“Yes. She’s still married to Fitzwaters, of course. He’s a solid sort of chap, more fond of his horses than anything else, but Clarice is far too correct e
ver to divorce him.”
“You mean she regrets turning Sir Henry down?”
“I think so. If she were free, I think she would marry him. But instead, they are just good friends. Love unrequited,” she said with another little sigh. “You probably think that’s rather silly, Mr. Mears.”
“Not at all. It’s rather sad. In my world, people don’t tend to think about such things. They just go ahead regardless of the consequences. It’s a sadder place for it. Some of the old values were constrictive, but I often think it’s a pity they’ve been rejected.”
“My, then you are a bit of a romantic, too, Mr. Mears!” she laughed.
“It’s not considered very macho, but yes, I suppose I am.” He shared the gentle laughter with her for a moment.
“So he wrote his masterpiece, of how the white queen was loved by two men, but who could only ever love one of them. The story is told in the first person by the adventurer —”
“And the other is his best friend,” said Mears. “Wealthy, the sponsor for the expedition, who is the reincarnation of Annabella’s former lover, Egyptian, perhaps?”
“Why, yes, that’s right! So you have read it!”
“No, but in my world, there are parallels.”
“Yes, I see. Well, when the book came out, everyone who knew Sir Henry recognised the truth behind the fiction. Especially Annabella Fortescue. But she would always deny that she was the inspiration for the book and smile.”
“And the hotel?”
“Sir Henry bought it some years ago and renamed it in her honour. He did it quite openly, saying that it was in recognition of Annabella’s nursing of Clarice for her last few months of life. But, of course, it was also another clear statement of his feelings for her.”
“Didn’t Sir Rodney Fitzwaters cotton on?”
“Lord, no. I shouldn’t say it, Mr. Mears, but he’s as thick as a brick. Nice chap. But he’d have to, well, catch them —” she stammered, as if whatever she had been about to say had embarrassed her. Her cheeks blushed.
“I see what you mean,” he nodded.
“Anyway,” she quickly went on, “Annabella is still a practicing doctor. As a matter of fact, she examined the American, Mr. Bannerman —”
“Cyberwolf. Yes, I can’t quite get over the fact that he’s dead. It would never happen in his own world. Those guys never peg it. At least, only very rarely.”
“Well, they seem pretty convinced he’s dead. Did you know him?” She leaned closer to him, eyebrows puckered in concern, and he caught the faintest breath of her perfume. He prayed that the effect on him was not visible.
“Not really. Only what I’ve read of him.”
“Yes, I see. But it’s very disturbing that Fung Chang has the power to kill such people. Whether he meant to or not. It means that our own people are more vulnerable than we realised.”
“Like the Black Bowman and Nick Nightmare?”
She shuddered and he felt the overwhelming urge to put an arm around her. Stop being ridiculous! he told himself. “Yes. No one is invincible.”
“What about you?”
She drew back in slight consternation. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, uh, well, your own background. I mean, how did you come to be mixed up in all this?”
She laughed softly. “I’m not mixed up in anything, Mr. Mears, though sometimes I wish that I were. No, I’m just a secretary, working for a living. It’s very dull. I was recommended by an agency. I’m quite good at my job, you see. And long hours don’t bother me.”
He relaxed again. “So you don’t transform overnight into a winged avenger?” Idiot! What a stupid thing to say.
She screwed her face up and laughed again. “Would that I could! Although, no, I don’t think it would be me. I’d much rather curl up with a good book. I’m afraid I’m a bit of an armchair avenger, if there is such a thing.”
“Me, too. To be honest with you, I’m way out of my depth in this caper. Like I said in there, I’m just a fan!”
“Really? You seemed to be coping rather well. And they certainly need your calm and collected approach.”
“You’re pulling my leg! Calm! My blood pressure must be way up.”
“Well, the Lord Protector saw fit to bring you here.”
“Yes and you don’t know how much that worries me.” Why am I telling her this! She’ll think I’m a moron. Or a coward.
But before she could respond, the door behind them opened and the cocoon of tranquility that had wrapped itself around them was torn aside as Grimsfeather rushed in, his face even more lined than usual. “Come quickly!” he gasped.
“Whatever is it?” said Miss Timkins, getting up hastily and knocking the chair over in the process.
Mears picked it up and followed the two of them back into the main room. Here they found an extremely agitated Sir Henry and a seemingly slightly aloof Palgrave Reverence.
“Sorry to panic you,” said the novelist. “But we have a crisis on our hands.”
“Fung Chang?” said Mears.
Riderman nodded. His face was almost grey, his eyes lined with acute anxiety. Miss Timkins guessed at once what was wrong. Only one thing could possibly distress Sir Henry Riderman like this. “Annabella,” she breathed and beside her, Mears heard the name.
“That devil has abducted her. God alone knows how he did it. Armand had taken every precaution to protect her.”
Reverence remained calm, though beside him Jameson was evidently concerned. “Forgive my ignorance, Sir Henry,” said the detective, “but is there a specific relevance attached to the doctor? Apart from the obvious humanitarian reasons for your distress?”
“She’s a very dear friend of mine and of the family. Fung Chang knows that he can hurt me through her. Which is why she is constantly protected, even more than she knows. It’s always annoyed her and she can be, well, a bit bloody-minded about it. But she wouldn’t take risks.”
“Has Fung taken her for any other reason?” Reverence asked Grimsfeather, who had brought the news.
“He has, sir,” the little man said with a deep scowl, as though it pained him to be the bearer of such dire news. “He wants the American’s body. Mr. Bannerman.”
“Ah,” nodded the detective. “A trade, is that it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Grimsfeather, bunching his fists in frustration and fury.
Mears looked from one face to another. “You aren’t going to be able to trust Fung Chang, are you? This is going to be a trap.” That’s what would happen in the script.
“He wants us all,” said Reverence. “The good doctor will, of course, be his bait. You are absolutely right, Mr. Mears. It would be safer to trust a serpent.”
“Damn!” snapped Riderman. “He’s got us over a barrel. What the hell do we do now?”
“I rather fancy,” said Reverence, “that we take the fight to him. The next move is indisputably ours.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Abduction
“The building will be completely surrounded,” growled Riderman, pacing the carpet, almost frantic with the effort of trying to think of way to hit back at his enemy. “And we’re cooped up here like damned chickens.”
“There may be another way to alleviate the position,” said Reverence calmly.
Riderman swung round to face him. “What is it?”
“I can appreciate your concern for the lady, but is there a particular attachment? Forgive me, Sir Henry, but I ask this for good reason.”
Riderman nodded, trying to mask his obvious embarrassment.
“Then have you anything of the lady’s, something personal, that I could see?”
Riderman’s face clouded. He glanced at Miss Timkins, but she looked away. “Such as?”
“There is something I can try,” said Reverence. Beside him, Jameson was scowling even more deeply than Riderman, as if he disapproved of the detective’s intent. Mears knew exactly what Reverence had in mind. The pentacle and the storm flashed back to him.
“Something personal,” Reverence went on. “I have the ability to exercise certain psychic skills. It may be that I can see what happened to the doctor. And possibly trace her whereabouts.”
“Then by all means, do it,” breathed Riderman. He went to a writing desk, took a tiny key from his breast pocket and unlocked one of the small drawers. He turned back to the detective, proffering a hand-written envelope that clearly contained a letter. “Something very personal. From Annabella to me. I’d appreciate it if you’d treat that with the utmost confidentiality.”
“Of course. It is not necessary for me to read it.” Reverence did not remove the letter from the envelope, but slipped it instead into a pocket of his jacket. “Now, there are other things I will need. This room will be adequate, but we will need to roll back the carpet.”
* * * *
Annabella Fortescue was arranging flowers in the front room of her spacious town house, when she heard the tinkling of the front door bell. She smoothed down her dress, brushing off a stray rose petal and tucking a loose curl of hair into place. A cursory glance at the mantel clock told her it was not yet mid-morning. Busy day so far, what with that odd affair at Armand’s and the unfortunate American.
The housemaid tapped the door and entered with a curtsey. “Pardon, ma’am, but there’s a gentleman asking for you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Thank you, Mary, show him in.” Annabella had been warned to be cautious: both Henry and Armand were forever telling her to have eyes in the back of her head. It was tedious, but apparently necessary. And Armand had been particularly anxious after this morning’s business. She moved behind the solid mahogany table, her hands inches from the concealed button that would bring several of Henry’s guards rushing in. Thinly disguised, she thought with a wry grin, as footmen and the like, they hovered no more than a few yards away in every corner of the large house. And besides them, there were others outside and across the road, watching the house like hawks. How men loved these intrigues. Still, a man had died last night.
