by Kage Baker
“Are all of the customers men of rank?” Lady Beatrice inquired, raising her voice slightly to be heard over a baritone bawling Yes, yes, I did steal the pies!
“Yes, as a rule; though now and again we treat members of the Society. The fellows whose business it is to go out and manage the Society’s affairs, mostly; the rank and file, if you like. They want their pleasures as much as the next man, and most of them have to work a good deal harder to earn them, so we oblige. That is rather a different matter, however, from servicing statesmen and the like.
“In fact, there’s rather a charming custom—at least I find it so—of treating the new fellows, before they’re first sent on the Society’s business. Give them a bit of joy before they go out traveling, poor things, because now and again they do fall in the line of duty. So sad.”
“Is it dangerous work?”
“It can be.” Mrs. Corvey gave a vague wave of her hand.
They entered the private chamber that served as Mrs. Corvey’s office, stepping through the sliding panel and closing it just as Violet, the maid-of-allwork, entered from the reception area beyond.
“If you please, Mrs. Corvey, Mr. Felmouth’s just stepped out of the Ascending Room this minute to pay a call. He’s got his case with him.”
“He’ll want his tea, then. How nice! I was hoping we’d be allotted a few new toys.” Mrs. Corvey lifted a device from her desk, a sort of speaking-tube of brass and black wax, and after a moment spoke into it: “Tea, please, with a tray of savories. The reception room. Thank you.”
She set the device down. Lady Beatrice regarded it with quiet wonder. “And that would be another invention from the Society?”
“Only made by them; it was one of our own ladies invented it. Miss Gleason. Since retired to a nice little cottage in Scotland on the bonus, I am pleased to say. Sends us a dozen grouse every Christmas. Now, come with me, dear, and I’ll introduce you to Mr. Felmouth. Such an obliging man!”
FIVE:
In which Ingenious Devices are introduced
THE RECEPTION ROOM was rather larger than a private parlor, with fine old dark paneling on the walls and a thick carpet. It was lit by more de la Rue’s lamps, glowing steadily behind tinted shades of glass. A middle-aged gentleman had already removed his coat and hat and hung them up, and rolled up his shirtsleeves; he was perched on the edge of a divan, leaning down to rummage in an open valise, but he jumped to his feet as they entered.
“Mr. Felmouth,” said Mrs. Corvey, extending her hand.
“Mrs. Corvey!” Mr. Felmouth bowed and, taking her hand, kissed it.
“And may I introduce our latest sister? Lady Beatrice. Lady Beatrice, Mr. Felmouth, from the Society. Mr. Felmouth is one of the Society’s artificers.”
“How do you do, sir?”
“Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Ma’am,” Mr. Felmouth said, stammering rather. He coughed, blushed, and tugged self-consciously at his rolled-up sleeves. “I do hope you’ll excuse the liberty, my dear—one gets so caught up in one’s work.”
“Pray, be seated,” said Mrs. Corvey, gliding to her own chair. At that moment a chime rang and a hitherto concealed door in the paneling opened. A pair of respectably clad parlormaids bore in the tea things and arranged them on a table by Mrs. Corvey’s chair before exiting again through the same door. Tea was served, accompanied by polite conversation on trivial matters, though the whole time Mr. Felmouth’s glance kept wandering from Lady Beatrice to the floor, and hence to his open valise, and then on to Mrs. Corvey.
At last he set his cup and saucer to one side. “Delightful refreshment. My compliments to your staff, Ma’am. Now, I must inquire—how are the present optics suiting you, my dear?”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Corvey. “I particularly enjoy the telescoping feature. It’s quite useful at the seaside, though of course one must take care not to be noticed.”
“Of course. And the implant continues comfortable? No irritation?”
“None nowadays, Mr. Felmouth.”
“Very good. Happy to hear it.” Mr. Felmouth rubbed his hands together. “However, I have been experimenting with an improvement or two…may I demonstrate?”
“By all means, Mr. Felmouth.”
At once he delved into his valise and brought up a leather-bound box about the size of a spectacle case. He opened it with a flourish. Lady Beatrice saw a set of optics very similar to those revealed when Mrs. Corvey had removed her goggles, as she did now. Lady Beatrice involuntarily looked away, then looked back as Mr. Felmouth presented the case to Mrs. Corvey.
“You will observe, Ma’am, that these are a good deal lighter. Mr. Stubblefield in Fabrication discovered a new alloy,” said Mr. Felmouth, unrolling a case of small tools. Mrs. Corvey’s optics extended outward with a whirr as she examined the new apparatus.
“Yes indeed, Mr. Felmouth, they are lighter. And seem more complicated.”
“Ah! That is because…if I may…” Mr. Felmouth leaned forward and applied a tiny screwdriver to Mrs. Corvey’s present set of optics, losing his train of thought for a moment as he worked carefully. Lady Beatrice found herself unable to watch as the optics were removed. “Because they are greatly improved, or at least that is my hope. Now then…my apologies, Ma’am, the blindness is entirely temporary… I will just fasten in the new set, and I think you will be pleased with the result.”
Lady Beatrice made herself look up, and saw Mrs. Corvey patiently enduring having a new set of optics installed in her living face.
“There,” said Mrs. Corvey, “I can see again.”
“Splendid,” said Mr. Felmouth, tightening the last screw. He sat back. “I trust you find them comfortable?”
“Quite,” said Mrs. Corvey, turning her face from side to side. “Oh!” Her optics telescoped outward, a full two inches farther than the range of the previous set, and the whirring sound they produced was much quieter. “Oh, yes, greatly improved!”
“It was my thought that if you held your hands up to obscure them at full extension, you could give anyone observing you the impression that you are looking through a pair of opera glasses,” said Mr. Felmouth. “However, permit me to demonstrate the real improvement.”
He rose to his feet and, going to the nearest lamp, extinguished it by turning a key at its base. He did this with each of the lamps in turn. When he had extinguished the last lamp the room was plunged into Stygian blackness. His voice came out of the darkness:
“Now, Ma’am, if you will give the left-hand lens casing a three-quarter-turn…”
Lady Beatrice heard a faint click, and then a cry of delight from Mrs. Corvey.
“Why, the room is quite light! Though everything appears green. Ought it?”
“That is the effect of the filter,” said Mr. Felmouth in satisfaction, as he switched on the lamp again. “But it was, I think, bright enough to read by? Yes, that was what I’d hoped for. We will improve it, of course, but from this moment I may confidently assert that you need never endure another moment of darkness, if you are not so inclined.”
“How very useful this should prove,” said Mrs. Corvey, in satisfaction. “My compliments, Mr. Felmouth! And please extend my thanks to the other kind gentlemen in Fabrication.”
“Of course. As it happens, I do have one or two other small items,” said Mr. Felmouth, as he went from one lamp to another, switching them back on. He sat down once more and, reaching into his bag, drew out what appeared to be a locket. “Here we are!”
He held it up for their inspection. “Now, ladies, wouldn’t you say that was a perfectly ordinary ornament?” Lady Beatrice leaned close to see it; Mrs. Corvey merely extended her optics.
“I should have said so, yes,” said Lady Beatrice. Mr. Felmouth raised his index finger, revealing the small hole in the locket’s side, with a smaller protrusion a half-inch below.
“No indeed, ladies. This is, rather, positively the last word in miniaturization. Behold.” He opened it to reveal a tiny portrait. “And—” M
r. Felmouth thumbed a catch and the portrait swung up, to display a compartment beyond, in which were a minute steel barrel and spring mechanism. “A pistol! The trigger is this knob just below the muzzle. Hold it so—aim and fire. Though for best results I recommend firing point-blank, if at all possible.”
“Ingenious, I must say,” said Mrs. Corvey. To Lady Beatrice she added, a little apologetically, “We do find ourselves in need of self-defense, now and then, you see.”
“But surely the bullet must be too small to do much harm,” said Lady Beatrice.
“You might think so,” said Mr. Felmouth. He brought up an ammunition case, no bigger than a pillbox, and opened it to reveal a dozen tiny pin cartridges ranged in a rack, with a pair of tweezers for loading. “No bigger than flies, are they? However—one point three seconds after lodging in the target, they explode. Not with a quarter of the force of a Guy Fawkes squib, but should the bullet happened to be lodged in the brain or heart at the time, that would be quite enough to drop an assailant in his tracks.”
“I would fire into my assailant’s ear,” said Lady Beatrice thoughtfully. “The entrance wound would be undetectable, and anyone looking at him would suppose the man had died of a stroke.”
Mrs. Corvey and Mr. Felmouth stared at her. “I see you are not disposed to be squeamish, dear,” said Mrs. Corvey at last. “You’ll do very well.”
The Misses Devere came wandering sadly into the reception area, dressed in costumes representing a doll, Puss in Boots and a harlequin respectively. “Our four o’clock gentleman sent word to say he is unavoidably detained and can’t come until tomorrow,” said Jane, “and we can’t get the catch on the back of Dora’s costume unfastened. Lady Beatrice, will you see what you can do? Oh! Hello, Mr. Felmouth!” Jane skipped across the room and sat on his knee. “Have you brought us any toys, Father Christmas?”
Mr. Felmouth, who had gone quite scarlet, sputtered a moment before managing to say “Er—yes, as it happens, I do have one or two more items. H’em! If you’ll permit me…” He pulled the bag up on his other knee and took out a couple of the pasteboard cards of buttons generally to be found at notions shops. There were approximately a dozen buttons on each card. One set resembled oystershell pearl buttons; the others appeared to be amber glass.
“The very thing for unruly customers,” Mr. Felmouth said, waving the pearl buttons. “Sew them onto a garment, and they appear indistinguishable from ordinary buttons. They are, however, a profoundly strong sedative in a hard sugar shell. You have only to drop one of these in a glass of port wine, or indeed any beverage, and within seconds the button will dissolve. Any gentleman imbibing a wineglassful will fall into a profound sleep within minutes.”
“And the amber buttons?” inquired Lady Beatrice, who had risen and was unworking the catch on the back of the Puss in Boots costume.
“Ah! These are really useful. One button, dissolved in a man’s drink, will induce a state of talkative idiocy. Gently questioned, he will tell you anything, everything. Not all of it will be truthful, I suspect, but I am confident in your powers of discernment. When the drug wears off he will have absolutely no memory of the episode.” Mr. Felmouth presented the cards to Mrs. Corvey.
“Splendid,” said Mrs. Corvey.
“Oh, won’t the amber ones look lovely on my yellow satin?” cried Dora, popping out of the top of her costume as Lady Beatrice freed her hair from the catch. Mr. Felmouth coughed and averted his eyes.
“They would, dear, but they really ought to go to Miss Rendlesham. She would make the best use of them, after all,” said Mrs. Corvey. Dora pouted.
“Dear Mr. Felmouth, can’t you make up some more in different colors? Miss Rendlesham never wears yellow.” Dora leaned close and tickled Mr. Felmouth under his chin with her paw-gloved hand. “Please, Mr. Felmouth? Pussy will catch you a nice fish.”
“It, er, ought to be quite easy,” said Mr. Felmouth, breathing a little heavily. “Yes, I’m sure I should find nothing easier. Rely on me, ladies.”
“As ever, Mr. Felmouth,” said Mrs. Corvey.
SIX:
In which Disquieting Intelligence is conveyed
SIR RICHARD H. was of advanced years, quite stout, and so he preferred to lie on his back and engage the angels of bliss, as he called them, astraddle. He lay now groaning with happiness as Lady Beatrice rode away, her gray gaze fixed on the brass rail of the bed, her red mouth curved in a professional smile in which there was something faintly mocking. Her mind was some distance off, wondering how The Luck of Barry Lyndon was going to turn out, for she had not yet seen a copy of the latest Fraser’s Magazine.
At some point her musings were interrupted by the realization that Sir Richard had stopped moving. Lady Beatrice’s mind consented to return to the vicinity of her flesh long enough to determine that Sir Richard was, in fact, still alive, if drenched with sweat and puffing like a railway engine. “Are you quite all right, my dear?” she inquired. Sir Richard nodded feebly. She swung herself off him and down, lithe as though he were a particularly well-upholstered vaulting horse, and checked his pulse nevertheless. Having determined that he was unlikely to expire in the immediate future, Lady Beatrice gave him a brief, brisk sponging off with eau de cologne. He was snoring by the time she drew the blanket up over him and went off to bathe in the adjacent chamber.
Lady Beatrice tended her own body with the same businesslike impartiality. During her bout with Sir Richard, her nether regions might have been made of cotton batting like a doll’s, for all the sensation she had derived from the act. Even now there was only a minor soreness from chafing. Applying lotion, she marveled once again at the absurd fuss everyone made, swooning over flesh, fearing it, dreading it, lusting after it, when none of it really mattered at all…
She knew there had been a time when the sight of Sir Richard’s naked body with its purple tool would have caused her to scream in maidenly dismay; now the poor old thing seemed no more lewd or horrid than a broken-down cart horse. And what had her handsome suitors been but so many splendid racing animals, until they lay blue and stiff in a mountain gorge, when they were even less? They might have had shining souls that ascended to Heaven; it was certainly comforting to imagine so. Bodies in general, however, being so impermanent, were scarcely worth distressing oneself.
Lady Beatrice got dressed and returned to the boudoir, where she settled into an armchair and retrieved a copy of Oliver Twist from its depths. She read quietly until Sir Richard woke with a start, in the midst of a snore. Sitting up, he asked foggily where his trousers were. Lady Beatrice set her book aside and helped him dress himself, after which she took his arm and escorted him out to the reception area, where he toddled off into the ascending room without so much as a backward glance at her.
“He might have said ‘thank you’,” observed Mrs. Corvey, from her chair by the tea-table.
“A little befuddled this evening, I think,” said Lady Beatrice, leaning down to adjust her stocking. “Have I anyone else scheduled tonight?”
“No, dear. Mrs. Otley is entertaining his lordship until midnight; then we may all go home to our beds.”
“Oh, good. May I ask a favor? Will you remind me to look for the latest number of Fraser’s tomorrow? The last installment—” Lady Beatrice broke off, and Mrs. Corvey turned her head, for both had heard the distinct chime that indicated the ascending room was coming back down with a passenger.
“How curious,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Generally the dining area closes at ten o’clock.”
“I’ll take him,” said Lady Beatrice, assuming her professional smile and seating herself on the divan.
“Would you, dear? Miss Rendlesham had such a lot of cleaning up to do, after the duke left, that I gave her the rest of the evening off. You’re very kind.”
“It is no trouble,” Lady Beatrice assured her. The panel slid open and a gentleman emerged. He was bespectacled and balding, with the look of a senior bank clerk, and in fact carried a file case under his arm. He swe
pt his gaze past Lady Beatrice, with no more than a perfunctory nod, focusing his attention on Mrs. Corvey.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“Mr. Greene?” Mrs. Corvey rose to her feet. “What an unexpected pleasure, sir. And what, may one ask, is your pleasure?”
“Not here on my own account,” said Mr. Greene, going a little red. “Though, er, of course I should like to have the leisure to visit soon. Informally. You know. Hem. In any case, Ma’am, may we withdraw to your office? There is a matter I wish to discuss.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Corvey.
“I don’t mind sitting up. Shall I watch for any late guests?” Lady Beatrice inquired of Mrs. Corvey. Mr. Greene turned and looked at her again, more closely now.
“Ah. The new member. I knew your father, my dear. Please, join us. I think perhaps you ought to hear what I have to say as well.”
MR. GREEN, HAVING accepted a cup of cocoa in the inner office, drank, set it aside and cleared his throat.
“I don’t suppose either of you has ever met Lord Basmond?”
“No indeed,” said Mrs. Corvey.
“Nor have I,” said Lady Beatrice.
“Quite an old family. Estate in Hertfordshire. Present Lord, Arthur Rawdon, is twenty-six. Last of the line. Unmarried, did nothing much at Cambridge, lived in town until two years ago, when he returned to the family home and proceeded to borrow immense sums of money. Hasn’t gambled; hasn’t been spending it on a mistress; hasn’t invested it. Has given out that he’s making improvements on Basmond Hall, though why such inordinate amounts of rare earths should be required in home repair, to say nothing of such bulk quantities of some rather peculiar chemicals, is a mystery.
