Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper

by David Barnett

  She was a damned handsome woman, was Sally Cadwallader. He was almost surprised he hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Oh, Mr. Bent!” she said, standing and turning, the tray held in a pair of thick oven gloves. “You quite startled me, standing there. Has he gone?”

  “He has,” said Bent.

  “Good. I never liked him, not when he was bossing poor old Captain Trigger and Dr. Reed around, and not now.” She laid the tray down on the wooden work surface and lowered her voice. “It was him who sent Dr. Reed over the edge, I’m sure of it. Him and his … his machinations.”

  Mrs. Cadwallader raised an eyebrow expectantly, as Bent continued to stare thoughtfully in silence.

  “Mr. Bent? Did you want me to bring you some ale to the study?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “No. I think I’ll just pop out for a moment. Tell Gideon I’ll be back soon.”

  * * *

  Gideon poured tea into the china cups on the small table in front of the Elmwoods and sat back. Henry Elmwood was stiff and frowning, his collar high and tightly buttoned, his gray suit expensive and neatly tailored. His hair was parted in the center and brilliantined, reflecting the gaslights in the sconces fizzing and popping over the fireplace. Martha Elmwood was small and mouselike with a huge bonnet hiding her face, staring down at her fingers, which she constantly knitted and unfastened, speaking rarely and with a tiny, childlike voice when she did.

  “We appreciate you seeing us, Mr. Smith,” said Mr. Elmwood.

  Gideon sat back in the chair, putting his left boot on the right knee of his serge trousers, tugging at the open collar of his plain white shirt. It was warm in the parlor, warm in the entire house, with every fire blazing at Mrs. Cadwallader’s insistence. He ran a hand through his thick, black curls and said, “I was very touched by your letter. I’m just not that sure what I can do.”

  Mrs. Elmwood looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. “But you’re the Hero of the Empire, Mr. Smith,” she almost whispered.

  Yes, the Hero of the Empire. Charged by none other than Queen Victoria to keep Britain and her interests safe from threats at home and abroad. Dinosaurs and metal men and Texan warlords that were more machine than human, mummies and vampires and things that screamed in the night. Villains and monsters were Gideon’s bread and butter. But not …

  “Not missing persons, I’m afraid,” he said as gently as he could. “This is really a matter for the police…”

  “Pah, we’ve tried them,” said Elmwood with disgust. “Can’t do a thing for us. It was my wife’s idea writing to you. I told her, I said, ‘He’s the Hero of the Empire, he won’t be bothering with the likes of us.’”

  Elmwood made to stand, but Gideon held up his hand. “Wait.” He had the Elmwoods’ letter in front of him. Their daughter, Charlotte, had been missing for three days now. It was indeed, he would have thought, a matter for the Metropolitan Police. Aside from one thing.

  “Your letter mentions Markus Mesmer,” he said. “Perhaps you had better start from the beginning.”

  * * *

  Gideon knew the name Markus Mesmer well, though not from firsthand experience. He had been a regular in Captain Trigger’s adventures in World Marvels & Wonders—adventures that Gideon, when he read them as a callow youth, had no way of knowing were actually the escapades of Dr. John Reed, disguised as the travails of Captain Trigger to present a more heroic digest of events for the reading public and to preserve Dr. Reed’s covert operations.

  Gideon could, even now, remember the words in the story “Escape from Bedlam,” from the April 1887 issue. My tale picks up where last month’s ended. You will recall that I had confronted Markus Mesmer, the criminal mastermind and grandson of the much gentler pioneer of “animal magnetism,” who had been controlling, through hypnosis, the minds of members of polite London society in order to fleece them of their valuables.…

  It was the central tale in a triptych of stories featuring the dastardly German, beginning with “The Mind-Forged Manacles of Markus Mesmer” and ending with the thrilling “The Final Battle.” Mesmer was one of the most exciting recurring villains in the Captain Trigger adventures, though that final story had concluded with Trigger turning Mesmer’s own Hypno-Array upon him and convincing the crook that he was actually a force for good.

  Of course, as Gideon had swiftly found out upon meeting Trigger earlier that year, the adventures did not often live up to the lofty claim that began each story: This adventure, as always, is utterly true, and faithfully retold by my good friend, Doctor John Reed.—Captain Lucian Trigger

  With a start, Gideon realized Mr. Elmwood was speaking to him, and not for the first time reprimanded himself: He was no longer a mere fan of Captain Trigger’s adventures. Now he was living them.

  * * *

  “Our daughter Charlotte has just turned twenty-one,” said Henry Elmwood. “She is a very beautiful girl, though you would perhaps expect a father to say that. Beautiful and vulnerable. I confess, Mr. Smith, that I have tried to protect Charlotte from the worst excesses of this world as much as possible, but there comes a time … well. You cannot keep them cosseted forever. My wife thought it would be a good idea to have Charlotte mix more with girls her own age, so a year ago we enrolled her in a finishing school in Holborn. Last Sunday one of the girls who attends her classes held a birthday party, to which Charlotte was invited. The entertainment was provided by Markus Mesmer.”

  “After all that has been written about Mesmer, someone thought him a suitable choice for a young woman’s party?” asked Gideon.

  Elmwood frowned. “I understood the stories in that penny dreadful were mere fantasies … but yes, Mesmer was the entertainment. We attended, of course, as chaperones. Mesmer put on quite a show, and hypnotized the girls to perform a variety of comical tasks. One quacked like a duck, and another danced around as though she were an African savage. Then, with a snap of his fingers, they were back to normal.”

  Gideon shook his head. Elmwood said, “Mr. Mesmer seemed to take an inordinate interest in Charlotte.… He seemed very taken with her blond hair. He asked us many questions about ourselves, and seemed rather peeved at our responses. When it came to Charlotte’s turn to be hypnotized…”

  Elmwood coughed and glanced at his wife. “I am sorry, Mr. Smith, but this is very delicate, and there is no easy way to tell you. Mesmer hypnotized her into believing she was nothing more than a common whore.”

  A small, strangled cry escaped Mrs. Elmwood’s lips, and her shoulders began to shake. Elmwood placed a hand on her and said softly, “Control yourself, Martha.”

  “It was a terrible sight!” Mrs. Elmwood blurted out. “She cavorted around the room, approaching all the fathers of the other girls and propositioning them! We shall never show our faces in society again!”

  “But did Mesmer not fix the hypnosis?”

  “The scoundrel claimed his so-called Hypno-Array was suddenly broken!” said Elmwood with barely contained fury. “A scaffold of lights and lenses which he wore upon his head. He took me into the corridor and said that it would be costly to fix, and he would require funds to be able to return Charlotte to herself.”

  “You refused?”

  “He wanted five thousand guineas, the villain!” spat Elmwood.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, then Gideon said, “So…?”

  “Mesmer left and gave me a card with the name of the hotel in which he was staying should we change our minds. We took Charlotte home, of course, and locked her in her room—she made overtures to the cab driver and even our butler. She was like … like an alley cat, Mr. Smith! Our beautiful, sweet daughter, swearing like a dockworker and—and rubbing herself against any man she met!”

  “You consulted a doctor?”

  “Several. They could do nothing. We went to the police, but would you believe there is no crime on the statute books that deals with hypnosis? It is something I shall be writing to my MP to have him remedy at the earliest opportunity.”

&
nbsp; “And Charlotte…?”

  “On Wednesday,” said Mrs. Elmwood tremulously, “she slipped out of her room when the maid forgot to lock it behind her. She hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Obviously, given her state of mind, she could be … well, anything could happen to her,” said Mr. Elmwood. His wife sobbed wildly, and he looked imploringly at Gideon. “Please, Mr. Smith. Can you help?”

  Gideon felt at a loss. If the police couldn’t intervene, then what could he do? He said carefully, “You will appreciate that this is not my usual purview, Mr. Elmwood. I have no jurisdiction greater than the Metropolitan Police, and—”

  “I have brought a photograph of Charlotte,” said Mr. Elmwood quietly, the fight seeming to have gone out of him. “Perhaps if you will just look at it…”

  Gideon took the picture and said, “I still cannot … oh.”

  He stared at the photograph: Charlotte Elmwood in her Sunday best, holding a parasol in a photographer’s studio, a painted backdrop of a sun-drenched park behind her. He stared at it for a very long time.

  “Mr. Smith?” asked Mr. Elmwood.

  “Yes,” said Gideon eventually. “Yes, I’ll help you.”

  He held the photograph in his hands and could not stop them from shaking.

  Charlotte Elmwood, said her parents.

  But the photograph was the image of Maria. The living image of his beloved Maria.

  INTERMEDIO: NOT ENOUGH, NOT ENOUGH

  He sat in candlelight in his rooms, the leather bag on the table, its clasp shut tight. Beside it was a newspaper, freshly bought.

  JACK THE RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN! screamed the black ink. It was the late edition, detailing in lavish, grotesque language the scene in the alley where he had stood earlier that day. The victim had a name: Emily Dawson, a young woman in the employment of Professor Stanford Rubicon. He shrugged.

  He was bored already. And so was the blackness in his soul. Where once he—and it—had thrilled at such murders, now they were old hat.

  Not enough, the imaginary ghost had said. Not enough.

  Familiarity breeds contempt. Man cannot live on bread alone. Variety is the spice of life.

  He reached forward and unfastened the bag, the candlelight glinting off the metal that scraped and shrieked together as he lifted the leather case onto his lap. One by one he took out the items.

  His hungry soul received no succor anymore from the clean, clinical swipe across the forehead. It thirsted for sweeter blood, that which was torn with greater violence and passion from its host. It had to be fed, lest the blackness grow and consume him from the inside. It had to be quieted.

  He turned the saw, which had tiny, vicious teeth and a wooden handle, this way and that, the dancing candlelight glancing off its wide blade. For the severing of bones. He laid it on the table and took out a pair of long-handled tongs, each of the jointed grips ending in a rusting spike. To spear and hold slippery internal organs that needed to be removed. A wooden-handled corkscrew ending in a sharp-edged tube, for swiftly slicing a circle of flesh, fat, and muscle to allow access to the abdomen. And so on, each one more cruel and exciting than the last.

  Instruments with which to create a symphony of pain.

  Not enough, had said the ghost, which he now recognized as his own black soul, not the departed spirit of a murdered girl at all.

  It wanted more. It wanted sweeter blood. He would provide.

  He picked up the newspaper. He was so very far from home, from the heat where his black soul was birthed. London shivered beneath snow, and he found it hateful and frozen, a sluggish dead thing, almost. It was fear that iced London’s heart as well, fear of Jack the Ripper. The lurid description of the latest killing elbowed out all other news, as though there were only London and its dead in the entire world.

  And what a world. He turned the page, and his attention was snared by a report on Freedom, the fledgling township rising from the blood and dust of the savage lands controlled by the slaver-warlords in Texas. An escapade involving the Crown’s hero, Gideon Smith, had resulted in San Antonio, popularly known as Steamtown, being blown to smithereens. A brass dragon was mentioned—whether it was the same as that which had attacked London that summer, or of a similar design, the newspaper could not hazard a guess. But there was some connection, the editors were sure, and if Mr. Gideon Smith was on the case, then there was surely little to fear. This town called Freedom, though … the newspaper writer confessed to some misgivings about this evidently burgeoning settlement somewhere in the wilds of Texas and not far from the border with New Spain. Was there room for yet another faction in much-fractured America? Where would their loyalties lie? With England’s interests on the East Coast? New Spain to the south? The Californian Meiji? Or would they be conquered by one of the Texan warlords eager to take the now-destroyed Steamtown’s slice of the pie?

  He laid the newspaper down. He was thinking of Spain, of a family holiday to Madrid when he was a very small boy. His mother had insisted they all go to watch a play, an earnest, boring affair that lasted all day and into the night. He had lost track of the dull story almost immediately, and would have fallen asleep but for the intermedio, a series of brash and energetic short musical productions that filled the gaps between the acts of the main play. They were designed to allow the theater-goers to stretch their legs, visit the bathrooms, or buy food; he had been rapt with delight, coming alive for those brief intervals, rousing from his torpor at the loud music and hilarity.

  He picked up the saw again. Intermedio. He studied its cruel teeth. Life was like the play, long and boring and interminable.

  But there were flashes of clarity, shrieking music, splashes of red.

  He smiled. It was time for another intermedio.…

  5

  THE GRAVITY OF THE SITUATION

  Apep burst through the layer of low, gray cloud that hung over Bodmin Moor into a spotless blue sky flooded with brilliant sunshine. Maria heard noisy, messy vomiting behind her and allowed herself the smallest of self-satisfied smiles, before pulling the brass dragon into an even steeper ascent. Above her she could see the ghostly imprint of the moon. It was said that Queen Victoria wanted to put an Englishman on the moon and claim the satellite for the British Empire. Others said it was impossible, it was too far, man could not fly so high. And beyond the moon … why, beyond was the black emptiness of the universe. She felt something inside her subtly shift, like tiny cogs fitting together, bearings settling snugly, rods and pistons smoothly aligning. But she knew, distantly, that it was something more than that. Those were the only reference points she had, the mechanical marvels that Professor Einstein had used to assemble her body, greater than the sum of her parts. The shift was in that part of her shrouded in mystery, that which she doubted she would ever fully understand. Her human brain.

  “Maria.”

  Moisture formed and then rolled off the glass windows in front of her—the circular “eyes” of the crocodilian brass dragon—as she pushed Apep on, and up. White trails whistled from the batlike wings and on the long snout in front of the windows, and beautiful, treelike ice formations began to crawl along the brass nose. She studied them as they advanced. Dendritic, that was the word.

  “M-Maria! In the name of God, you’re going to kill us!”

  Ah. Yes. The formation of ice on the nose of the brass dragon meant that the temperature was falling. She hadn’t felt it, but it was good that Doctor Augustus had managed to stop vomiting long enough to point it out to her. The brain inside her head had put up with a lot—she had been dragged across half the world underwater, and lived, as much as the word “lived” could be applied to one like her—but she had not yet subjected herself to extremes of temperature that would kill a normal human being. She brought Apep to an abrupt halt, waiting as Doctor Augustus first thumped against the ceiling of the cramped cockpit then flopped to the floor, groaning to indicate he was still conscious.

  “Down, down,” he begged. “S-so cold … how high are we
?”

  Maria cocked her head to one side and considered. “36,798 feet. And a few inches.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Doctor Augustus, a ruddy-faced man with a bulbous nose and a shock of white hair that protruded from beneath the leather flying helmet he was wearing. Over his white laboratory coat he had zipped up a leather and shearling jacket. She always found him a somewhat comical figure, but now she paused. Were his eyes bulging more than usual?

  “Thirty-thir-thir…,” he said. Maria tittered slightly. “Imposs-imp-imp…”

  Suddenly, Doctor Augustus keeled over, his hands scrabbling at his throat. Oh, dear. Perhaps there was such a thing as too high, after all. She turned Apep in the bright blue sky, enjoying the way the unfettered sunlight glinted off its wings and snaking, jointed brass tail, then began to descend in a tight spiral toward the carpet of cloud far below.

  * * *

  Bodmin Moor had been subtly cordoned off for an area of around sixty square miles centered on a cluster of temporary huts and tents at the foot of Rough Tor. Soldiers, police officers, and agents of the Crown had quietly been keeping anyone from entering the area for the past week. Maria had been given quarters in a small building made of curved metal, with the most basic of comforts; whether this was because they considered her not quite human, or because luxurious living was not high on their agendas, she wasn’t sure. It was in her quarters—windowless, and lit by oil lamps—that Doctor Augustus found her, sitting on her bed and placing the last of her personal effects into her valise.

  “You are packed already,” he said, his white hair standing upright now that it was freed from the confines of the flying helmet. He had kept the jacket on, though. It was terribly cold on the moor.

  “It is Saturday,” said Maria. “My time here is thankfully at an end. And you, Doctor, seem much recovered.”

  “A spot of … well, I suppose we should call it altitude sickness. At least we know man’s limits now, Maria.” He chuckled. “Always nice to make a fresh scientific discovery.”