Fiendish Schemes

by K. W. Jeter

  “That’s fine. Thank you very much.” The lever, unleashing such hidden but undeniable forces, had reached its lower stop. Captain Crowcroft managed to peel my white-knuckled grip from it. “I’ll take over from here.”

  I stood back, my thoughts now more topsy-turvied than any amount of wine could have made them, and watched as the lighthouse’s commander set to work. The position of smaller controls he set precisely, as a violinist might trim his instrument’s tuning pegs by hair-thin degrees. Other levers appeared to be for the purpose of signaling both the engine room below and various other compartments of the lighthouse’s operations; Crowcroft rapidly pulled those back and forth to the toll of clanging bells, evoking further alterations in the mechanical noises emanating beneath the feet of the guests. His labours were assisted by a pair of subordinates clad in the redtrimmed livery of Phototrope Limited’s working legions. They set about monitoring the navigational apparatus’ well-being with ears laid to various sections of its brass-clad anatomy, then making subtle adjustments with the handspanners they wielded. The eldest of the bridge crew crouched near his commander, finessing care to a brace of reciprocating rods with a microscopic screwdriver and the spout of an oil-pump flexed between his thumb and forefinger.

  “We’re off!” Lord Fusible barked his cry across the heads of the crowd.

  “Not quite yet,” noted Crowcroft mildly. “First we need to deploy our basal extremities.” He turned back and set to work on another section of levers and gauges.

  “This is a sight worth seeing! Come along!” Laying hold of my arm, Fusible dragged me over to the bridge’s windows, pushing aside those who had already positioned themselves at the most advantageous spots. “Have yourself a gander at that.”

  As my host directed, I laid my forehead against the wind-chilled glass, the better to gaze down the length of the light house tower. Around its base thronged an even larger congregation of merrymakers, comprising the residents of the local fishing villages, as well as a motlier assortment of layabouts and their disorderly wives and children, carted out at Phototrope Limited’s expense from the nearest towns. Plied with as much free beer as they could consume, down to the infants swaddled in their careless mothers’ arms, they had devolved into an army of riot, intent on flailing fisticuffs and as much public debauchery as the British in their cups could enact before falling headfirst in their own spew. The beflagged pavilion from which drink had been dispensed was already demolished, with various comatose or perhaps even deceased figures sprawled amongst the stoved-in hogsheads.

  “Will those people be gone when it’s time for us to leave?” The thought of stepping from the light house’s relative security into the midst of such a mob filled me with terror.

  “What?” The scarcely more sober Fusible glared at me. “For God’s sake, man, concentrate! There—look there!”

  Even as he spoke, Captain Crowcroft pulled a tapered wooden knob dangling from an arm of the machinery his men serviced. Gouts of steam burst from the pipe organ–like whistles that studded the lighthouse’s flanks. The discordant screeches were loud enough to draw the attention of even the most marginally conscious of the revelers on the ground. A squadron of police, too few to tamp down the rolling mayhem, set about with their truncheons, endeavouring to drive the crush away from the base of the tower.

  “Well enough,” judged Fusible after a moment. “That lot can watch out for themselves.”

  Our captain had made the same assessment. I could discern Crowcroft and his bridge crew, reflected in the window glass before me, throw a further set of levers. One such was so stiff and unwieldy that it required the efforts of two men, one pulling and the other ramming his shoulder against its length, to bring it to the desired position. The resulting increase in the transmitted vibration was enough to elicit quick screams from the female guests, as well as some of the more delicate men.

  I might have been amongst the latter, had my breath not already been taken away by the sight below, of great iron appendages unfolding from beneath the base of the lighthouse. Details of such a walking lighthouse’s perambulatory operations had been explicated to me previously, and I had even perused a set of copper engravings arrayed along the tower’s central spiraling staircase that depicted such, but nothing had yet prepared me for the actuality of the event. The reader of these lines will, I hope, pardon my ignorance about such things that have become everyday occurrences for so many. During my self-imposed exile from the bustling modern world, my tranquility had been obtained at the price of becoming a relic from a previous age, where such marvels had not yet bestridden the captivated world.

  Picture, then, if you have the patience, my wide-eyed apprehension of six bolted and hinged crescents of iron, widest where joined directly beneath the tower’s base, tapering to pointed claws yet bigger than a draughthorse where dug into the soil and rock. Other historians of this our mechanical age, blessed with more descriptive fluency than myself, have compared the construction to those crabs seen scuttling through shallow tidal pools, housing their tender parts inside the abandoned shells of other aquatic creatures, the spiraling points of such assumed habiliments wobbling above them like the awninged howdahs strapped to the backs of Indian elephants. If the spidered legs below had been fronted by a pair of eyes waggling on bristly stalks, the resemblance to such crustaceans would have been complete.

  The bridge chamber tilted for a moment as the massive claws found purchase, digging a yard or more into the ground as they straightened and reared the tower’s weight from where it had rested. A few of the unsteadier guests were knocked sprawling into each other by the sudden motion, before Crowcroft and his men made the necessary adjustments to bring the lighthouse perfectly vertical again.

  “Marvelous!” Lord Fusible enthused beside me, as though he himself had lifted the tower into air. “Bloody marvelous!”

  Below, roiling vaporous clouds pushed the hysterical roisterers farther back, as though they were in danger of being scalded by the exhaust from the lighthouse’s engines. The pistons and gimbaled rods—thicker about than century oaks—that formed the legs’ motive anatomy, glistened in the sunlight. One by one, each claw lifted in precise order and fell again, thunderously penetrating the earth a little farther on. Thus did the device, with myself bracing to keep balance far above, begin its ponderous trek to the sea’s edge.

  Of course, Phototrope Limited could have stationed their latest venture at its destination to begin with, rather than a quarter mile inland. But by doing so, the corporation’s officers would have deprived themselves of the lusty cheers of the groundling onlookers, the crowd now completely enthralled by this armless giant lumbering onward in their midst. I knew how little ever happened in such remote parishes. A break in the soul-numbing monotony such as this would no doubt be sung and storied for generations to come, if for no other reason than the epic quantity of free beer that had accompanied it.

  With the more incapacitated straggling behind, the lighthouse led the shouting parade toward a typically craggy Cornish promontory. As Captain Crowcroft steered his landbound vessel past a bend in its path, I was able to lay the corner of my brow against the window glass and peer back whence the lighthouse had progressed. In the middle of the holes gouged by the iron claws, a segmented pipe— greater in diameter than a man’s height—trailed behind, steam hissing from its joints. Such was another of the day’s sights, common enough to those who had stayed au courant with innovation and discovery, but not seen before by me.

  “I hope you have found this excursion to be of interest.”

  Turning from the window, I saw that the lighthouse’s commander had left his station and joined us.

  “Exceedingly,” I replied. “I had no idea.”

  Crowcroft laughed, finding my simple words to be praise greater than a thousand orators might have summoned. “Take a degree of credit for yourself,” he said, “or at least your lineage. I have skill enough to steer this craft to its port, but its workings are far beyond m
y comprehension. Not the least of which is that devised by your father, hidden away though it might be.”

  I nodded, having heard similar before, though never to my comfort.

  “If you’ll excuse me—” Crowcroft reached past me to a latched compartment mounted beneath the window. “This is a tricky bit.”

  He opened the compartment and I perceived a set of levers inside, similar in arrangement to those manned behind us, though lesser in scale. With an eye on the rugged seascape ahead, Crowcroft began a series of delicate adjustments.

  The fury of the waves dashing against the rocks kept the straggling crowd at a respectful distance, watching as the lighthouse picked its way over the seaweed-festooned boulders. What had been felt as tolerable rocking and swaying amongst those of us on the bridge, while the lighthouse had crept over level ground, now transmuted to a harsher jostling. That, combined with the sight of the watery horizon, turned green some of our party’s faces, as though their bearers were trapped aboard an actual ship heaving from crest to trough.

  Captain Crowcroft at last brought the lighthouse to its appointed berth, a great angled outcropping the width of the tower’s base. The iron legs, having transported their burden this far, now grappled the stone, splitting apart its brine-soaked crevices until the claws were so embedded that no storm tide could have swept us from this perch.

  “That should do.” Crowcroft signaled to his men, who began returning the various levers and controls to their starting positions. The last, the one that my own hands had been set upon, was brought upright again, the lighthouse shuddering with the expulsion of pressure from its boilers. As one who tires from strenuous exertions, the tower settled into its resting place. The sheer tonnage of its construction deflected the rocky promontory by a few degrees, the bridge’s floor once comfortably leveled as Captain Crowcroft tapped the controls with a gentle fingertip.

  The clouds of steam were vast enough to momentarily occlude the bridge’s windows. All was at peace once more. Wind dissipated the white mist, the long roll of the breakers the only sound that came to our ears. As the ocean lapped at the tower’s base, I brought my face close to the windows again, looked up, and saw the sentinel gulls wheeling in the purpling sky, heralds to this prodigy that Man’s craft and cleverness had erected amongst them.

  “WOULD it be inopportune of me—I realize, of course, that you have weightier matters to attend—but might I enquire as to whether you’ve had a moment to consider the subject of our previous conversation?”

  Lord Fusible peered at me, as those do whose memories as well as vision are befogged with intemperance. But desperation had prompted me to put my question to him. As one such as I had but rare occasion to enter his lordship’s concentric circles of power and influence, I had no idea as to when a similar opportunity for supplication might arise.

  “Arrhghmm.” With a deep phlegmy rattle, Fusible cleared his throat. “Much to consider. Much to consider, my dear chap.” He nodded, sinking his chin into the wattle of fat protruding above his collar. “But you can be assured—with every confidence—that those matters of which we spoke . . .” He swayed a bit, as though bringing forth words from his sotted brain were an effort epic in scope. “Soon as I get back to London—the absolute soonest I arrive, I promise you—all of that will receive my undivided attention. Have no fear.”

  Naturally, every fear rushed upon me, at least in regard to receiving any assistance from Lord Fusible and his Phototrope Limited partners. I could see that Fusible now had not the faintest idea who I was, and even when eventually sober, would have no greater idea then. Having been paraded before his guests at the lighthouse’s launch party, I had concluded my usefulness to him. This was not the first time I had opportunity for the morose reflection that wealth so elevates men, that the rest of their species appears to them but as ants scuttling about on the ground. Indeed, Lord Fusible could have had no more withering and dismissive a regard for me if he were still ensconced in the bridge of the lighthouse, now looming above us.

  Those for whom he did have a use were his personal attendants, now draping a fur-collared cloak about his shoulders. The Atlantic wind, that had so picturesquely lofted spray above the rocks, bitterly sliced through my own unseasonal coat. A thread of scarlet at the horizon marked the sun’s last diminishment and the advent of night. I would have a bone-chilling trek back to the seaside inn that was my temporary abode, without even the spark of hope to warm me.

  Only a few carriages were left on the narrow dirt road, a few yards from the coastal rocks. As the lighthouse’s beam swept across the ocean, I could hear Fusible’s wife snoring inside the gilt-and-lacquered brougham that had carried them hence and would return them to the urbane comforts that constituted that life to which their bank accounts had accustomed them. Their other guests had already departed, their transports ferrying them past the prostrate figures of villagers sleeping off the effects of their merriment. I had dallied to the last, specifically for the purpose of these few and useless words. Now, as Lord Fusible was assisted in clambering into his conveyance, I brought my gaze up to the lighthouse tower’s topmost point.

  Above its bridge, other crew concerned themselves with the operation of the light-casting apparatus. They appeared to me as moths, shortly to be consumed by the dazzling glare of the flames magnified by the curved reflector mirror behind and focused by the immense Fresnel lens before them.

  Shielding my eyes with an uplifted hand, I caught a glimpse of the lighthouse’s commander. The cheering party having gone, Captain Crowcroft set his profile and narrowed his vision, looking out from the bridge to the world’s farthest reaches, as might one who had planted the flag of Empire amongst savages and deserts of barren stone.

  Behind me, I heard the snap of the carriage driver’s whip, bringing about the matched pair of horses and setting them toward the Fusibles’ destination. But there had been two carriages, I knew, and the second had not stirred.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Sufficient moonlight slid from behind the night clouds that I could recognize Lord Fusible’s daughter, Evangeline, a knotted shawl wrapped about her shoulders, leaning forward from where she sat. She also gazed up toward the height of the tower, her gaze fervent upon the distant visage of her fiancé.

  No surprise, that she should display such tender concern for the man to whom she had given her heart—

  What struck me with dismaying force, though, was the expression she displayed to me, when she saw that I still remained, only partially obscured by the roadside shadows.

  Rarely have I been the recipient of admiring glances from young women, especially the beautiful amongst them, but not before this had such an eye-slitted mask of pure loathing been tossed my way. The girl Evangeline’s features tightened as she gazed upon me with murderous contempt. Indeed, if the force of such hatred-fueled regard had been transmuted into an actual weapon, I would have been struck down, a dagger through my heart.

  I could not breathe, until she gave a quiet command to her driver. My heart still pounding from this unexpected event, I watched as the carriage vanished down the road.

  Of the cause of such disdain, I had no idea. I had scarce exchanged more than half a dozen words with the young lady, upon being introduced to her at the commencement of the launch party. My life might have been such that many have wished me ill, but never upon such short acquaintance as this.

  Perhaps it was an omen, and no more than the world’s general assessment of my worth. I turned away from the lighthouse and began making my way along the path upon which I had come that morning. Seeking some advantage from Lord Fusible and his friends had always been but an alternate plan, a wistful and idle hope. Once I had returned to the inn at which I was staying, I could set about with an unencumbered conscience on the course which I had already determined. To wit, that of killing myself with a merciful bullet to the head.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Mr. Dower Examines

  a Lethal Device

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nbsp; AS with so many endeavours in my life, the intent was more easily formed than the deed accomplished.

  Footsore, dispirited, and damp—during one of the Cornish coast’s inevitable rain squalls, I had lost the narrow footpath and had nearly toppled from a cliff’s edge in the resultant dark—I returned to the inn where I had taken lodging for the sole purpose of attending the lighthouse launch party. It would have been difficult to devise any other reason for doing so: travelers more impecunious than myself might well have balked at its mean and shabby aspect. Ill-favoured with a roof so sway-backed that the floor and ceiling of its verminous attic met in the middle, in silhouette the establishment resembled nothing so much as a loaf of bread fallen from a provisioner’s cart and run over in the mud by one of its wheels. Its proximity to the sea—lying in my equally concave bed upstairs, I could hear the waves crashing against the shore with their dullish, unending drumbeat—allowed the full wrack of the saline winds to have warped every timber embedded in the wattle-and-daub structure. One might as comfortably have dined in the horseyard outside, so large and numerous were the gaps in the walls.

  The landlord appeared similarly to have suffered from the harsh locale. Invariably clad in vest and apron so spotted with ancient, unattended stains that he might have been mistaken for one of the encrusted rocks at the sea’s edge, the man was suited to his position in the like degree of his decay. As the inn grew more roundshouldered and slovenly, without ever completely collapsing upon itself—though the rooms above the stable were now but naked beams, scrabbled by owl and rat—so had its keeper, as though the constant damp had mildewed his bones as well. However dismal it might have been to contemplate the extent to which the inn would devolve into the mouldy earth through the coming years, it was even less cheering to imagine into what state its proprietor would be transformed.