by Unknown
“You know, Uncle,” Mary said, leading Simon into the hall, “our little family could really use a butler.”
Folly Blaine lives in the Pacific Northwest and is a Clarion West graduate. Her fiction has appeared at Every Day Fiction, Mad Scientist Journal, and in the anthologies Dark Tales of Lost Civilizations and Beast Within 4: Gears and Growls. In addition to writing, she also narrates short stories and audiobooks. (www.follyblaine.com)
Randy Henderson is a milkshake connoisseur, Writers of the Future grand prize winner, relapsed sarcasm addict, and Clarion West graduate. His “dark and quirky” contemporary fantasy novel, Finn Fancy Necromancy, is out now from Tor Books (US) and Titan Books (UK); the sequel, Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free, will be available in February 2016. (www.randy-henderson.com)
The Misplaced Body of Fitzhugh Alvey
Jessica Corra
When Dr. Alvey finally opened his eyes, he was delighted to find himself in his own home. He had no recollection of having gotten there, but one did not question good fortune. The fact that he was indeed questioning it indicated that he was a scientist, and questions were simply his order of business. More importantly, Fitzhugh Alvey had never in his life encountered good fortune when bad fortune would do.
Fitzhugh remembered testing the portment chamber as planned and that it had worked. That at least explained how he had come to be on the floor of his study. He must’ve returned from his trip. He stood up slowly and attempted to straighten his clothes.
Fitzhugh shrieked. For despite solving one mystery, a bigger one had just presented itself. He could see through his hands. He was entirely transparent, in the manner of one of the spiritualists’ ghosts. But he did not remember dying. Surely, if the portment chamber had killed him, his body would be in the chamber and not just his ghost. Only a scientist of Dr. Alvey’s caliber would posit a hypothesis upon finding himself probably dead, but science was his first love, and he was only probably dead. Panic was not necessary until he had obtained more facts.
In the next room, he could hear his secretary, Miss Windless, moving about. A glance at the clock indicated tea time, but Fitzhugh was not hungry. He thought to write down that observation, as it seemed to support that he was dead, but he could not hold a pen. He growled his frustration.
“Dr. Alvey? Have you returned?” Miss Windless called.
Fitzhugh froze. His clothing was still mussed, but he couldn’t fix it, and that was the lesser concern if Esther should see him now. Clearly, she was aware the machine had worked to some degree. He hid behind his desk as the doorknob rattled and watched. Esther’s buttoned boots stepped into the room. “Dr. Alvey?”
Esther knew almost as much about the chamber as he did, being his assistant as much as his secretary. If anyone would be able to help him, it was her. Fitzhugh straightened. “Do not be alarmed, Miss Windless, but there was a mishap with the machine.”
Esther’s mouth puckered in astonishment, her blue eyes wide. She swayed, and Fitzhugh said, “Please do not faint. I am unable to catch you.”
Esther pursed her lips. “Well then. Do tell.”
“It would appear that the portment chamber was not able to bring back my body with my soul, and I cannot operate the machine to return for it,” he theorized. It was easier to theorize than to reflect personally upon the matter, or he might faint himself. Could ghosts faint? They were pure consciousness according to the most current journals. But then, he had awoken on the floor, indicating either that he was not technically a ghost, but something else, or that current science was wrong about ghosts. He would write that down as evidence neither for nor against the theory that he was dead. If he could write.
“Miss Windless, a new journal, if you would,” he snapped and began to dictate everything he could remember about his trip and his discovery upon return.
“Yes, sir,” she said, and for a time, the only sounds were the scratch of her pen and his quiet tenor.
Esther Windless was no stranger to the unusual. She had a knack for it, which was how she found herself the assistant to Dr. Fitzhugh Alvey in the first place. Her first cousin Dorothea on her mother’s side had become a medium, and a lady scientist was only slightly more bizarre to the Windless family. But these were progressive, modern times, so allowances must be made for such eccentricities as Esther and Dorothea.
In addition to being her cousin, Dot was also her best friend and the person to consult about her employer’s matter. Esther had convinced him that research always facilitated action, no matter how badly he wanted to retrieve his body. She had done this less by argument and more by a simple refusal to work the machine.
Esther explained Dr. Alvey’s experiment and his hypothesis.
Dot whistled. “So he thinks he’s dead somewhere?”
“I believe it is his primary theory, the one that makes the most sense, but I do not think he believes it, no,” she said, then paused. “It is perhaps a bit too metaphysical to believe one is dead when one is conscious to ponder it? Descartes’s ‘cogito ergo sum,’ I would say.”
“So you do not believe he is dead either?”
“I am withholding my opinion until you tell me what you know of ghosts,” Esther said and smiled.
Dot frowned and sat upright. “This calls for tea.” She rang the bell.
A discussion followed, the likes of which would have horrified the Windless family into disownment, and it was accompanied by the most delightful lemon cookies.
Dot concluded, “We have accepted the notion of ghosts, insofar as a soul exists. Consciousness is quantifiable in that sense. A soul is potential energy in a body, which becomes a sort of sustained kinetic energy apart. Ghosts. How the energy sustains itself is a fascinating question, but it is enough for now to posit that it can.”
“How exciting! You should be a scientist, too,” Esther exclaimed.
Dot tutted in an unladylike fashion. “If you will pardon, science could not handle me. I am best left to spiritualism.”
“Science could not handle you? What does that say of me, then?” Esther was incensed.
Dot said, “I expect you will force science into line eventually, and you will start by sorting out Dr. Alvey’s latest mess. I suggest you try the most recent jump first. I can’t imagine the machine would have left his body somewhen else and continued jumping without his notice.”
Esther had the distinct impression that Dot did not think much of Fitzhugh Alvey. True, he was a bit unkempt but in a striking way. His black hair stuck up in the back but it framed a handsome face behind horn-rimmed spectacles. He was altogether not unpleasant to work with in any capacity.
Rather than say that , Esther nodded. “I thought so, too. I suppose there’s nothing for it. We’ll go tonight. That is the other reason I wanted to consult you. In case the machine malfunctions again,” Esther swallowed, “you might know what had become of me.”
“I would never give you up to your parents, dear one,” Dot said, patting Esther’s hand. Esther relaxed until Dot added, “I would simply tell them you eloped with the doctor and we would never hear from you again.”
Esther choked and said, barely withholding her own laughter, “The truth would be easier on their constitutions than that.”
Fitzhugh was quite enthused to try the portment chamber again.
Miss Windless said, “Really, sir? I would think given your condition . . .” she trailed off, unsure how to politely finish.
He smiled. His assistant had always been a forthright young lady, one of the reasons he had hired her. Laboratories were not the place for dainty specimens of either sex. Miss Windless had presented herself at an opportune time, and he could not resist. That she had saved him from a dilemma involving his latest automaton and a tree had only been part of his consideration.
“Alright then, shall we?” He had spent the hour she had called upon her cousin confined to the study. The internal debate over how he might pass through a wall, given the conservation of energy, had occupied him so thor
oughly he had hardly noticed the time.
Miss Windless had explained her cousin’s theory of energy states, which was his preferred conclusion as well, but it didn’t account for a great many things. His mind reeled at the implications of being a cognizant ghost if, indeed, he were dead. And if he weren’t, the implications were greater still and best left to someone in possession of a body for an appropriately overwhelmed response.
He followed Miss Windless into the portment chamber. It was not designed for use by multiple persons, though Fitzhugh would construct a bigger one if it proved successful. A simple chair sat inside a casing of aluminum into which he had built a console containing the wiring and mechanisms necessary to power the machine.
Miss Windless sat in the chair, and Fitzhugh crowded in beside her. He was lanky and had to bend nearly in half to fit. “My sincere apologies, Miss Windless.”
“It’s alright, Dr. Alvey,” she said, but sounded constricted. “I’ll shut the door.”
Only he was blocking it. Esther could see the door through him but had no way of reaching it as they were positioned. Embarrassment swept over him, and he would have blushed had he the systems to do it. He said, “Maybe I could go back out and come in after you’ve shut it.”
Esther said, “My own sincere apologies, Dr. Alvey,” before plunging her hand into his abdomen and sliding shut the door to the chamber. She gasped and withdrew.
Fitzhugh felt nothing, only watched in horror as his assistant clutched her hand. He’d have felt sick, but he was more concerned for the lady, who looked pale in the dim interior, lit only by the burning polyaetherate beneath the desk. “Are you well?”
“You’re hot, sir,” she said, astonished. “Give me a moment to write it down, but I think this supports our conclusion that you are in some sort of energy state.”
“Very good, Esther.” he said. He had just called her by her Christian name, and she’d said our, but he didn’t correct her or apologize for his own gaffe. She had just stuck her hand through his soul. They were a bit past formalities.
Under his careful instruction, Esther started the machine. It sounded much like a storm had unleashed itself inside the chamber. Esther said, “Is it supposed to sound like this?”
“We are fine,” Fitzhugh reassured her. The chamber filled with the diffuse, cloying scent of elderberry as the polyaetherate gas burned. “Brace yourself, Esther!”
With a shudder, the portment chamber blinked out of the study. It appeared simultaneously in the alley behind Dr. Alvey’s brownstone, ten years previous.
Inside the portment chamber, Esther had fallen off the chair. She was a wisp of a girl, and the sort of bounce the chamber made as it landed would have toppled almost anyone. Dr. Alvey said, “I fell off, too. Excuse me for not helping you up.”
“Yes, sir.” Esther righted herself on the seat and checked her dress. Nothing was askew enough to be indecent, and Fitzhugh found himself disappointed. Miss Windless was a model example of a modern lady in terms of intellect and bearing. She said, “Your body should be near here, then?”
“Let’s hope.”
Esther was oddly disenchanted. She hadn’t felt the time travel. Opening the chamber door to the alley and not the inside of the study was the only indication they’d gone anywhere. Given the noise and shuddering, Esther could believe the machine had fallen out the study window. The past didn’t look much different from the present.
“It was only ten years. I didn’t want to tax us,” Dr. Alvey defended the machine.
Esther smiled. “Alright, let’s search the alley. You ought to be here somewhere.”
It occurred to Esther that should they find his body and Dr. Alvey couldn’t put himself back, she would be required to finagle it into the portment chamber with her. Regardless of its condition. Esther was suddenly quite ill.
“Whatever is the matter?”
She explained. Dr. Alvey’s eyes widened, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m so very sorry, Miss Windless. I’m a horrible scientist not to have thought this through.”
“That’s not true, Dr. Alvey. I didn’t think of it either,” she said. They walked the length of the alley, trepidation mounting with each step. The only part of Dr. Alvey present was the one which had arrived with her. “ I thought for sure your body would be here.”
“The machine was slightly closer to the house. Perhaps in the garden?”
Esther didn’t know how a soulless body could get itself to the garden without help, but she kept the thought to herself. She could hear the twinge of desperation in her employer’s voice. She said, “I shall check.”
The gate to the garden was not latched, and she could tell someone had indeed been this way. The dust was disturbed as though something had been dragged through the gate. Esther swallowed. “It looks like something went into the garden. Shall we follow? I don’t wish to trespass. I’m afraid I might be seen.”
“I can scout ahead,” the doctor offered. “Wait here.”
Esther did as instructed. Dr. Alvey returned moments later. “I’m sure I went this way.”
“Why do you think that, sir?”
“One of my shoes fell off about halfway down the path,” he said and grinned.
His face looked boyishly young. Esther didn’t have the heart to say that she doubted he’d been walking. Fitzhugh Alvey was a smart man intellectually, but common sense was sometimes lacking. Rather, the man could be naïve. That was how the automaton and the tree had gotten the best of him.
Esther picked up the shoe. She was sure they’d be apprehended as trespassers at any moment. Or she would since Dr. Alvey was half invisible and entirely unarrestable. “Dr. Alvey, from whom did you purchase the house? Are they . . . nice?”
Dr. Alvey sobered. “I suppose that depends on one’s perspective. They are my parents.”
She had not met them, but if their son was any indication, Sir Alvin Alvey and Lady Alvey were awkward sorts, though no more challenging than her own parents. At least they were not peerage.
“They seem to have taken you into the house,” she observed. “Or their butler has.”
“I can’t be dead, then,” Dr. Alvey rejoiced, perhaps prematurely. “Why don’t I go in and have a gander?”
“Yes, why don’t you?” Esther said, her nerves fraying by the second. “You could simply join your body and sneak out.”
“That seems smart,” he said. “Thank you for your help, Miss Windless.”
“Of course, Dr. Alvey, I am your assistant. It is my job.” She bit her lip.
“Yes, but this goes above and beyond duty, I should say,” Dr. Alvey said.
Was he going to offer her compensation? Esther didn’t want that kind of reward, only recognition.
Thankfully, Fitzhugh Alvey, for his naiveté, knew his secretary well enough. “You have performed most admirably. I couldn’t ask for a better assistant.”
Esther blushed. That was a bit much. The affection in his voice was rather personal sounding. She looked up at Dr. Alvey through her lashes. He gazed back fondly. She wasn’t sure what to make of that. He had always been a kind boss and friendly. She trusted him explicitly, even in such mishaps as this. “We are not home yet. Go on.”
“Of course, Esther,” he straightened and marched through the back door. Esther rather liked how he said her name.
Fitzhugh had been obtuse in regards to the current owners of the house. The Alveys were a controversial family, given their progressive leanings, but a wealthy one. Sir Alvin was the first Baronet of Blakeley where he owned a much nicer home than this brownstone, having had the title conferred upon him for scientific advancements.
Sir Alvin had a somewhat paranoid leaning, which his wife, a beautiful, much younger woman, did not discourage. The more time Sir Alvin spent locked in his laboratory, the more time she had to dally. It was Fitzhugh’s poor fortune that the Alveys were in residence at the brownstone and not Blakeley when he tried his experiment.
Fitzhugh took a moment to reco
ver from walking through the door. It was like walking through mud, if he were the mud. He suspected his energy flowed around or through the matter of the door, rather than the door parting around him.
He followed voices from the front rooms, careful to stay in shadow. He peeked into the parlor to see his body slumped on a lounge and his parents arguing. Fitzhugh wished he had not waited the hour for Esther’s visit to her cousin.
“We have to call someone,” Sir Alvin said. “We can’t just let him—it—rot here.”
Fitzhugh’s mother was beside herself. “I am not sure which is worse, that you have another son or that he’s dead! We can’t call the doctor and say we found him like this!”
Another son? Fitzhugh had two sisters. He crept closer.
“We have a little more time before his condition matters, my dear, so calm yourself and let us approach once more. I have let you rant for near an hour, but the servants will be back soon, and we must have done something. Firstly, I do not have another son. I do not know who this young man is or why he resembles me. I suspect he is a stranger who wished to capitalize upon the fact and ask for money. How he came to be dead in the alley, I cannot say. Biology is not my specialty!”
Fitzhugh was saved from having to create a distraction by a noise in the hallway. The servants had returned, with a struggling Esther between them. As the Alveys’ attention turned toward the noise, Fitzhugh dashed through the piano and launched himself into his body, praying he would stick, although he was not a man of faith.
Upon sinking into the body, his soul tethered itself. Fitzhugh had a moment to wonder if this would have happened with any other inanimate body but his own, presuming enough preservation to function, before he felt the exertion of his body restarting and began to cough and ache.
All present turned toward the couch.
“Do beg your pardon,” he wheezed. His voice was rusty, his body not certain it should respond to his commands. “Esther, the notebook, if you please.”
