by Kage Baker
“Yes, I thought so. Either they have solved the problem of submarine venting,” said Lady Beatrice, “or that is a cannon.”
The print was passed round with the magnifying glass, and the consensus was that it was, indeed, venting steam rather than the smoke of a spent charge. In verification, the next two prints in the series showed no impact in the water, which was as smooth ahead of the wake as behind it.
But Mrs. Otley, who had been perusing the print of the hawk proffered for her amusement by Herbertina, had spied something else in the background. On the cliffs beyond the cottages, below the imposing pile of Mr. Pickett’s present domicile, was a figure. It was also watching the sea, and under examination by the magnifying glass appeared to be employing a telescope for the purpose. When Mrs. Corvey’s lenses were brought to bear on the image, it was unmistakeably Mr. Pickett himself, watching the sea caves below the cottages and Herbertina’s redoubt.
“I don’t know what’s being done, nor how he’s doing it,” said Mrs. Corvey in grim triumph, “but he’s the bugger who’s doing whatever it is! All right, the Gentlemen have put this off too long. I’m done with sending coy little love notes, it’s time to break out the Aetheric Transmitter. I want to talk to someone about this, and I want to do it tonight!”
Dora and Maude trotted off at once to bring out Mrs. Corvey’s sewing basket, and to reassemble its components into a compact Aetheric Transmitter; Miss Rendlesham obligingly ran the fine wire antenna out the window by which she had been sitting. Lady Beatrice meanwhile fetched out Mrs. Corvey’s instruction manual and code books, and set about tuning the device to the frequency required by the date and hour for successful transmission. So accustomed were the Ladies to this exercise (by dint of regular drills with the equipment) that within a quarter hour Mrs. Corvey was determinedly demanding parlay with the Officer of the Day below Redking’s Club in London, nearly 200 miles away.
Upon establishing bona fides to the disembodied male voice’s satisfaction (“Who else does he think is calling out of the aether, I’d like to know?” muttered Mrs. Corvey sotto voce to the ladies seated expectantly round the table) it was at last determined that there was, essentially, no one of rank available for a serious consultation with field agents—let alone the holidaying Ladies of Nell Gwynne’s.
“Then fetch Mr. Felmouth, young man,” snapped Mrs. Corvey.
“Mr. Felmouth is the Head of Fabrication, ma’am,” said the voice. It sounded somewhat scandalized.
“I know that, boy! You’ll find him in the Artificer’s Hall, I shouldn’t wonder. The man’s there all hours of the night and day.” Mrs. Corvey pointed a finger at the Aetheric Transmitter, as if the man at the other end of the circuit were not as blind—or blinder—than she herself. “Something mighty odd is swanning round the coast off Torbay, and if all the Gentleman are off to Bath for the waters or whatever, then I’ll have the Chief Fabricator to account. Put down that bun and go fetch him, now.”
There was a most speaking silence, before the voice—now sounding positively unnerved—muttered “Yes’m,” and the carrier wave was left to hum by itself.
“How did you guess he was eating a bun ?” asked Maude, grinning.
“It’s tea time,” said Mrs. Corvey shortly.
“And if all the chiefs are off and out,” commented Herbertina, “that boy was bound to have a cup or a pint or a bun to hand. Probably all three. Well done, Mrs. C.”
Guilt or panic must have lent wings to the young operator’s heels, because it was only a few minutes before Mr. Felmouth’s familiar tones replaced the soft noise of the somnolent Transmitter.
“Felmouth here. How are you, Mrs. Corvey?” came his amused voice. “Young Harvey here is convinced your new lenses can now see along the beam of the Aetheric Transmitter. It’s almost a pity to have to tell him I didn’t make them that well. Though perhaps I’ll let him think we are watching him, and so prevent crumbs from dropping into the Transmitter.”
“Boys’ll be boys. No matter how big they are,” said Mrs. Corvey. “And most of the Gentlemen have taken French Leave, it seems. But we have something far too large and odd going on here for my girls to handle—especially on holiday!—and I need advice and decisions. Pardon my bluntness, Mr. Felmouth, but have you made a submarine boat for the Gentlemen?”
“What a…novel inquiry, Mrs. Corvey. Hmmm, hmmm. Ah, let me say: not yet,” came his cautious reply.
“Someone has beat you to it, then. We have eye-witnesses—including my eyes, Mr. Felmouth, and you know what they can do, none better. My girls have seen the thing, and even on holiday they see what’s there,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Now, listen: we have a dozen or so Talbotype prints, too, and they show that it’s underwater, under power—probably steam—and possibly armed with a cannon. And if it’s not the Gentlemen, then we have the culprit as well, and he’s not a lad what I would trust with a borrowed dinghy, let alone a submarine boat! He’s an American named Pickett, half-cocked at the best of times, and he’s stock-piling munitions and has hired a foundryman and taken a house commanding the cliffs. Now I want someone to do something about this!”
“Good heavens,” said Mr. Felmouth. “Surely you’ve reported this—this developing situation?”
“Repeatedly. And I’ve been told to watch and report, what I have done, and you can find the reports on file somewhere under Harvey’s tea mug, I’ve no doubt. What I need now is someone to come take over before Mr. Pickett declares war on France. The man is mad to defend the Queen, and he’ll invent an enemy if he has to.” Mrs. Corvey gave a sharp nod at the Transmitter, then said in closing, “Can you be of assistance, Mr. Felmouth?”
“I hardly know. The Field branch is—well, they are all in the field, you see, and I know it’s quite a scramble over there at the moment, which is probably why they did not act with alacrity on a, a domestic situation…” Mr. Felmouth’s distracted voice trailed off a moment, then resumed with new firmness. “But I certainly know upon whom to call, and how to hurry this through channels, Mrs. Corvey, and please rest assured I will! Can you leave the Transmitter up, with someone monitoring it for my reply? I shall have an answer for you this evening.”
Miss Rendlesham, still in the window seat reading her novel, raised a hand to volunteer. Mrs. Corvey and Mr. Felmouth closed with mutual courtesies and some haste, and Lady Beatrice set the Transmitter to its holding setting.
“And now,” announced Dora brightly, “it’s time for our tea! Imagining that poor boy clutching his bun all alone, so far away…”
“Oh, don’t,” said Maude. “I don’t want to think of poor boys clutching anything! We’re on holiday.”
“Such as it is,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Well, girls, two or three of you go down and fetch us up with a good solid tea. We’ll eat en suite while we wait to find out what else we have to do. I fancy something toasted today, I think.”
Sardines on toast went far to restore Mrs. Corvey to her usual calm; her lenses stopped their nervous whirring in and out, which was always a sure sign she was in a temper. A plate of local mushrooms and cheese thrilled Mrs. Otley, and the others were happily confronted with an array of muffins, cold meats and warm breads. Three kinds of tea and copious cream reduced Dora, Jane and Maude to a cat-like somnolence, and even the other Ladies to a quiet content.
But Miss Rendlesham, now reclining at her ease on the chaise beside the end table that housed the Transmitter, was immediately ready when it chimed three times to announce an incoming message. Teacup neatly held in thumb and forefinger, she hit the Receive button with her ring finger while pushing up the volume lever with the edge of the novel in her other hand. She was sitting up and announcing, “Mrs. Corvey is to hand and ready for transmission,” as soon as Mr. Felmouth’s voice gave tentative greeting.
Mrs. Corvey was just finishing a pot of Earl Grey tea (she had been pleased to find the exotic blend, widely available only for the last ten years or so, on their boarding house’s menu) and thus inquired quite amiably afte
r Mr. Felmouth’s news. He, however, sounded less than equable in his address.
“To tell you the honest truth, Mrs. Corvey,” he said across the miles, “we simply have no qualified men to send out there at this time. There is no one left in Field save for a few trainees.”
“Where on earth are they, Mr. Felmouth?” said Mrs. Corvey.
“Well, they are—they are all out, ah—managing revolutions. As it were. So to speak.” Mr. Felmouth was obviously both taken aback at the admission, and chastened to report his failure. “It appears that not only is the recent French trouble still fermenting, but several other European powers, both major and minor, are building up to similar explosions, and our best operatives are all abroad making sure it all ends—ah, ends well.”
“Are the Gentlemen for or against this tide of revolution?” inquired Mrs. Corvey with marked restraint. “Oh, never mind—hardly matters to us here, does it?
“Well, have you any advice at all for what we shall do here in the civilized backwaters with our mad American submariner?”
“I am instructed to advise you that, regretfully, the matter must be placed fully in your hands for the next few days,” said Mr. Felmouth. “You are to watch this Pickett fellow closely, gathering such proof of his activities as may be managed, and stand ready to stop him if the need arises suddenly. There should be operatives free to take over from you by the end of next week, if the matter has not come to a head before then.”
“And presumably to keep my girl out of gaol, when she’s had to stab the bugger to keep him from playing Drake with the French shipping?” asked Mrs. Corvey. She raised an admonitory hand as Mrs. Otley gave a little cry. “Did you read my reports? We didn’t pack for field duty ourselves, you know. Beatrice will probably have to dispatch Mr. Pickett with a knitting needle, if it comes to it.”
“Oh…oh, surely not,” said Mr. Felmouth faintly. “Surely it is not so serious as that? Your reports were alarming, true, but surely it will not come to violence?”
Lady Beatrice leaned toward the Transmitter, asking Mrs. Corvey’s permission with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Felmouth, Lady Beatrice here. I have had a more intimate view of Pickett’s ambitions, and he really is quite out of control. He dreams of imperial favor and a hero’s career. He seems to have built a vessel that will travel underwater, and he is certainly manufacturing munitions. He has employed a foundry. In fact, it appears he has constructed a submarine gun platform. I am not, of course, au courant with our government policies regarding the French, but I should think that opening fire on their ships will have an adverse effect on our relations with their new Republic? There were riots and massacres in Paris only last month.”
The Transmitter hummed. A warble in the carrier wave grew into a low moaning sound, which was evidently originating with Mr. Felmouth.
“Mr. Felmouth. Do pay attention, Mr. Felmouth,” said Mrs. Corvey sternly. “Pickett’s got no grasp of real politics, and he’s got nothing to stop him out here but an infatuation with our Beatrice. He’s a romantic fool, but he’s dangerous. We shall do the best we can to slow him, and stop him if we must—but you get us some help out here at once, you understand? Send us some of your new toys, maybe, until the Gentlemen can settle their revolutions and get here to tend to home business.”
Mr. Felmouth’s vocal distress cleared to a rush of apologies and promises of immediate help, “—of the best I can ready, Mrs. Corvey, at once and by special courier. I’ll send out whatever I can without delay. And I’ll see what I can do to get some of the Field lads back from Hungary, and Czechoslovakia, and the Piedmont: so many of them are in the Piedmont, you see, and then the Slavs are revolting—”
Jane and Dora stifled giggles in the sofa cushions.
“—but I’m sure the Austrian group can be pulled out, and of course they won’t be needed in Rome until November…”
Mrs. Corvey interrupted gently: “Mr. Felmouth, I rather think we’ve heard quite enough. Just send us what you can, and we’ll do our best with Mr. Pickett.”
With garbled assurances and apologies, and a complete disregard of the usual protocols, Mr. Felmouth finally signed off; or, as it sounded, was forcibly signed off by Harvey. Jane and Dora finally burst out laughing over the revolting Slavs, and Mrs. Corvey leaned back in her chair, massaging her temples round the brass rims of her ocular implants.
“Yes, yes, get your jollies now, my girls. God only knows what we’ll find ourselves doing before this all ends,” she said.
“I wonder what he’s sending?” mused Herbertina.
“Well, at least we’re still on holiday, until Mr. Felmouth’s toys arrive or Mr. Pickett goes a-pirating across the Channel,” said Miss Rendlesham practically. “And the evening is still young. Who’d like a few hands of whist?”
The mysteries and mischief of Treadway Pickett did not manage to rule their holiday time. There were the long, casual days to enjoy, the warm nights, and hours untrammeled by any vestige of professional duties. There was shopping, there were books, there were long walks—while Mrs. Otley had vigorous physical hobbies that took her outdoors, all the Ladies enjoyed the opportunity to simply go strolling in the sunlight. Herbertina and the Deveres were on the beach every day, so enthused with sea-bathing that Mrs. Corvey was obliged to warn them about spoiling their complexions.
On 14 July, a freight dray came laboring up the street to the boarding house where the Ladies of Nell Gwynne’s were staying. Wagons full of cargo and luggage were not an unfamiliar sight in the streets of Torbay, of course; but they rarely had respectable ladies perched on the driver’s seat. This one did, although she did not handle the reins herself, but sedately directed the driver (who resembled a tidily-dressed satyr) with her furled parasol. When they reached the boarding house, she dismounted and sent the dray on into the paved inner courtyard. She herself entered the building and sent the parlor maid to announce that Mrs. Sarah Goodman had arrived to meet with Master Herbert Corvey.
The maid found Master Herbert alone on the third-story smoking porch, cigar in hand, peering over the railing to where the drayman was unloading a coffin sized (and shaped) crate.
“What d’you suppose that is, Jenny?” Herbertina inquired casually as the maid curtsied.
“Don’t know, sir, but the lady who came on the drayer’s cart is in the front hall asking to see you. A Mrs. Sarah Goodman,” replied Jenny a little stiffly.
She thought young Master Herbert very handsome, with a sweet mouth and lovely bronze curls; it was such a shame, about the cigars and hair pomade—and now older ladies come a-calling! She sniffed disapprovingly but waited for Master Herbert’s response.
Herbertina had no idea who Mrs. Sarah Goodman was. However, behind Jenny Mrs. Corvey had appeared in their sitting room: her eyebrows arched in surprise above her smoked glasses, but she smiled and nodded at the name, signaling that it was well. She promptly vanished back into the rooms, but Herbertina was accustomed to improvising relationships on the fly.
“Ah, dear Aunt Goodman! Arrived on the luggage cart, did she?” Herbertina extinguished her cigar in the brass sand urn on the rail. “She’s an original, is Auntie. Thank you, Jenny.”
She pressed a farthing into Jenny’s hand, then turned and strode down the stairs to the front parlor.
Mrs. Goodman was seated in the front parlor, just tucking her gloves into her bonnet. Herbertina hurried up and reached for her hands, exclaiming “Aunt Goodman! I say, what a surprise to see you here. Mamma said nothing of your visiting.”
Mrs. Goodman smiled, a small cat-like smile. Indeed, her entire face—though round and rather plain at first glance—was enlivened with an air of felinity: a smiling triangular mouth, pointed little nose, and a general air of knowing amusement. Her eyes were a bright pale blue; her curly hair an unremarkable brown that showed hints (to Herbertina’s professional eyes) of having being hennaed in the not-too-distant past. Her clothes were very good and very respectable, but did not altogether hide the fact that her form, to
o, had the easy voluptuousness of a relaxed tabby.
She let her hand lie properly unresisting in Herbertina’s own for a moment before drawing it back. Patting Herbertina’s smooth cheek, Mrs. Goodman motioned for her to join her on the couch.
“I was passing through on an errand for a Gentleman of our acquaintance,” said Mrs. Goodman, with a sidelong look and slight emphasis, “and I thought how nice it would be to see dear Elizabeth. And since she had told me how you were suddenly shooting up into a proper young man, I thought I would deliver a little gift you might find amusing. I understand you are quite athletic?”
“I take a bit of sport, of course,” agreed Herbert cautiously. Mrs. Goodman’s general air of a cat at a mousehole made her uncertain as to which of her professions was being referenced.
“Yes, I thought so,” said Mrs. Goodman. “Now, come into the yard with me, dear boy, and see what I have brought for you.
The drayman had levered the lid off the mysterious box when Mrs. Goodman and Herbertina came into the courtyard. Packing straw was scattered on the cobblestones. He saluted with a wave of pry bar to forelock, and gestured down into the box.
“Have it out in just a moment, mum. Sorry for the delay—it took a bit to get it free, it’s that awkward.”
With that, he dropped the pry and reached into the box with both arms. With obvious effort, he lifted out a vaguely pony-shaped thing, hauling it out with about the ease a man would exhibit trying to decant a real pony from a wooden box. He set it on the ground, leaning it against the box, where it stood stiffly tilted.
“There you are,” said Mrs. Goodman. She beamed as if she had just presented Herbertina with her heart’s desire. Herbertina stared.
The thing had two wheels—not sensibly side by side, as in a cart, but one in front of the other. They were wooden and spoked, with iron tires. The rear wheel was twice the size of the front one, and connected to it by a jointed linkage armature framing the front wheel. The front also bore two treadles on long rods, by which the armature was apparently moved. Between the two wheels was a long, curving body bearing a small saddle with a high back; at the front, overhanging the wheel, it was carved into the semblance of a spirited horse’s head. A crescent-shaped tiller handle framed the horse’s neck, attached to the front wheel and clearly meant to be accessible to whomsoever was seated on the saddle. The entire contrivance gleamed in the sun, being made of polished oak and brass.
