The Infernal Aether

by Oxley, Peter

  Maxwell grunted. “A fair point, but I believe that he acts in good faith with us.” He held up a hand to pre-empt my interjection. “I know that he could be making me believe that. But he clearly is a powerful person. If he wished to do us harm, he could have done so already.”

  I raised my eyebrows, unconvinced, and we made our way back to N’yotsu and Kate. I needed to find some way of being sure that we were acting under our own volition, rather than as his puppets. Until I came up with a plan, I resolved to keep an extra eye on him for any unusual activity. Or, rather, anything even more unusual than that which I had already witnessed.

  N’yotsu looked up as we approached. “I appreciate that you may have concerns about me manipulating you in the same way that I seem to have done with these other people. I promise you that I shall never do so. I swear on my honour.”

  I frowned. Had he been able to hear what we had been saying? Given everything else we had thus far witnessed, I would not have put it past him to also have bat-like hearing. N’yotsu’s words seemed to satisfy Maxwell, although I remained to be convinced.

  “On to happier matters,” said N’yotsu. “Kate and I have been talking. She is now in need of employment and I was wondering if maybe we could find some way to assisting her, given that we are responsible for her situation.”

  “Assisting her?” I asked. “In what capacity exactly?”

  “Maxwell is in need of some staff to help look after his house,” said N’yotsu.

  “And you would be happy to enter domestic service?” asked Maxwell.

  “Roof over my head, three meals a day, not having sex with people I can’t stand...” said Kate. “Yeah, I think I could do a bit of cleaning work for that.”

  I laughed at the look of panic which flashed across Maxwell’s face. “I am in the middle of some very important experiments,” he said. “I have a very particular ordering system. I do not need someone messing up—”

  “I can cook,” said Kate. “N’yotsu here’s been telling me how you don’t eat that great in your house. Give me a chance and I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Maxwell sighed. “I hope you are not manipulating me,” he said to N’yotsu, who shook his head with a smile. “Very well,” said Maxwell. “I shall offer you employment as my maidservant on a one month trial basis.” He held out his hand.

  Kate eyed the hand suspiciously. “What’s the pay?” she asked.

  Maxwell blinked. “I believe three shillings per week is the going rate. Including board and lodgings.”

  “Ten shillings,” said Kate.

  “Four,” said Maxwell.

  Kate laughed.

  I helped N’yotsu to his feet and we walked, or more accurately hobbled, away while Maxwell and Kate continued to haggle.

  “I need to understand,” I said to N’yotsu. “How did you do all of that?”

  “What?”

  “Compelling those people to act the way they did. And doing…whatever it was that you did to that demon.”

  He frowned at me and again I had the impression that he was genuinely confused as to the basis for my question; as though I had asked about something elementary like how he walked or spoke. Then he shrugged. “I have travelled widely and picked up many tricks. As I have said, the transmutation of stone to a liquid state and then back again is a method which certain African tribesmen use to great effect. As for the persuasion of those rather weak-willed people, that is a simple Indian trick, the efficacy of which is improved the more weak-willed the subjects. And they were rather weak-willed. I can show you how to do it, if you would like.”

  “I would,” I said.

  “But not now,” he grunted. “The exertions of this day have been rather overwhelming.”

  I decided to change the subject. “That was a nice thing to do,” I said.

  “Was it?” said N’yotsu. “What was, exactly?”

  “Finding employment for the girl, Kate.” I nodded to where my brother was still engaged in heated deliberation with her, although it was apparent even from a distance that Kate was winning their battle of wills with ease.

  “Oh yes. Well, she seems like she could be useful.”

  There was something in the way he said this which gave me pause. “In a domestic manner of speaking, I presume,” I said.

  “What? Yes. Yes, of course.”

  PART THREE - GHOSTS IN THE MACHINE

  CHAPTER 11

  Bang! Bang!

  I groaned as the noise continued with no regard for the effect that it was having on my already tender head. I buried myself under the pillows in the hope that everything would go away and leave me alone.

  Bang! Bang!

  Why didn’t my manservant answer the damned door? What did I pay the man for?

  Bang! Bang!

  A memory elbowed its way into my head: a letter of resignation from my manservant. Something about not being paid, which at the time I had considered to be a damned cheek.

  Bang bang bang!

  I flung myself out of bed and stormed down the stairs, leaving a trail of swear words in my wake. Wrenching the door open, I glared out into the sunshine. “What?” I growled.

  The man standing outside the door took a step back and I had a sudden insight into what I looked like: a pale, dishevelled man wearing little more than a scruffy nightgown. I rallied with the thought that if this indecent appearance served to get me the privacy I needed then it was a price worth paying.

  He recovered himself enough to address me in a shaky voice. “Forgive me for disturbing you, sir, but are you Augustus Potts? The brother of Maxwell Potts?”

  “Who wants to know?” I asked. Then, registering the second question: “Max? What has he done now?”

  “That is what I wished to discuss with you. May I come in?”

  “That depends,” I said, “on who you are and what it is you wish to discuss.”

  The man looked around before replying. “My name is Wilson. Alexander Wilson. I write for The Times and I wish to talk about your brother’s latest invention: the Aetheric Sound Conduit.”

  “I am afraid you have wasted a journey, Mr. Wilson. I have neither knowledge nor interest in my brother’s inventions. I suggest that you speak with him instead.”

  “You see, that is the problem,” said Wilson quickly as I moved to shut the door. “He will not speak with me.”

  “Then he has more sense than I credit him with.”

  “He has a maidservant who won’t even pass on a message,” said Wilson.

  I chuckled. Kate was clearly finding her feet as Maxwell’s new servant. She had seemed somewhat strong-willed when she joined us in our pursuit of the demon just a few weeks before, and I had my doubts as to how well she would cope with domestic service. However, handling unwanted visitors such as this man was enough to earn her my brother’s undying gratitude. If only I had access to such a service, I thought as I noticed the looks I was getting from passers-by.

  “I am not sure there is much I can do to help you, Mr. Wilson,” I said. “If you will excuse me...”

  Wilson put his foot in the door to stop it from closing. “People are dying, Mr. Potts!”

  “People die every day, Mr. Wilson,” I replied. However, his words were enough to give me pause and I let the door swing open again.

  Taking his cue, the man spoke rapidly. “There have been a number of suicides over the past week or so, all of them respectable people who have never before displayed any undue melancholia. The one connection between these deaths was that the victims all had a Sound Conduit device. Every one of their bodies was found near one of the devices.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “If this were but one or two incidents, I might agree. But there was a death last night which brought the total to five.”

  “My brother may be many things, Mr. Wilson, but I assure you that he is not a murderer, if that is what you are suggesting.”

  “No, no. Of course not. But I do think there is something strange abo
ut the whole affair, and I was hoping to speak to your brother to get his perspective on this. I understand that you are a writer also; perhaps we could collaborate on this?”

  For a second the idea was appealing, if only as a means of earning some cash. But then: “I may be many things, Mr. Wilson, but I am not the sort of person who writes exposés on family members. Frankly, I have better things to do with my time.”

  He looked at me in my state of undress. “Clearly,” he said drily. Then he tried a different tack. “I shall be writing an article about this, and it will involve your brother and his inventions. I may be persuaded to strike a more charitable tone if I have some assistance...”

  I cursed. “Wait here. I shall be five minutes.” I took some small pleasure from finally closing the door in his face.

  *

  Mr. Wilson took me to a grand looking house in Jermyn Street, which was home to one of the earlier victims. The door was opened by an attractive maidservant dressed in black, who carefully inspected my companion’s credentials before admitting us.

  As we sat in the elegantly gloomy sitting room opposite the lady of the house, I was only too aware of the private grief into which we were intruding. I felt uncomfortable, my words of condolence to this complete stranger feeling insincere and transparent.

  “Please talk us through what happened,” said Wilson in a soft voice.

  The young lady seated before us, who had introduced herself as Miss Turner, spoke in a soft, low voice. “My father was a member of the Royal Society, a wise and kind man. He arrived home from a meeting just over a week ago, so excited. He had with him a device which had been brought in for testing, and he spoke of the thing in sensational terms. Indeed, he believed it had the potential to change the world as radically as the spinning jenny or the steam engine.”

  “The Sound Conduit,” said Wilson.

  “That is what he called it,” said Miss Turner. “I believe it came from some unknown inventor who had harnessed some obscure new science…”

  “What sort of science?”

  “I do not know. Such matters have never really interested me, so I did not seek to find out. I just assumed that this was another one of the many things he brought back which ultimately came to nothing.”

  “Did it work?” I asked. If what Maxwell had been working on was indeed perceived by the Royal Society in such terms, then it was a significant leap beyond his usual esoteric devices. Such a thing could have substantial implications. Indeed, it could make our family very, very rich.

  She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Unfortunately, yes. Or at least it did something; whether it did what the inventor had intended, or what my father had expected, is another question. It was on the evening of the day he had brought the machine home. We were sitting to dinner, talking and eating as usual, when there commenced a ringing noise from the Sound Conduit device, which father had placed in his study.

  “He ran from the room excitedly. I was curious and followed him. The device has... it has a strange construction, comprising a box with a pair of tubes protruding from it. The tubes widened like funnels, and were labelled with plates reading ‘Ear’ and ‘Mouth’. It was a grotesque contraption, quite repellent to my eye.”

  I nodded; it certainly sounded like something Maxwell would invent.

  She continued. “He put one of the tubes to his ear and listened for a few minutes. I confess to being distracted, but when I looked back I observed that he was weeping. I had never seen my father weep before. Then, he ran from the room.” She paused, clearly fighting to control her emotions. “I was curious, and went over to the device, picking up the tube he had been listening to.”

  “What did you hear?” prompted Wilson.

  “Laughter,” she said, as though she could still not bring herself to believe it. “Hideous, childish laughter.” She paused again, staring into space.

  I did not want to further upset her, but there was something in what she had just said which had given me pause. “You said, ‘childish laughter’?” I said as gently as I could muster. “In what way?”

  “It was cruel and humourless,” she said, her voice trembling. “It put me in mind of playground taunts from evil bullies when I was a child.”

  I took a deep breath. This was strikingly similar to what we had heard in the Pattersons’ house just some weeks earlier.

  She continued before I could probe further. “I put the device down and ran after my father. I found him in the kitchen. He had taken a knife to his throat. He was dead by the time I got there.” She sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I am sorry,” she said. “The memories are still painful to recount.”

  “It is we who should apologise,” said Wilson. “I am sorry to ask you to go through this again, but I hope we can help ensure that no one else suffers as you have. If I may, I should like to ask a few more questions?” She nodded and he continued. “You are quite certain that he killed himself? He wasn’t attacked?”

  “I am sure of it. The cook witnessed the whole thing. And before you ask, the cook did not do it. We have established that beyond any doubt.”

  “Very well,” said Wilson. “Was your father disposed to any form of melancholy prior to this episode?”

  “No,” she said. “He was the happiest, kindest man. What happened was completely out of character.”

  “My final question,” said Wilson. “Do you still have the device?”

  “I do,” she said. “The police did not seem to know what to do with it. I have locked it away in the cellar.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It has rung a few times since, but I have resisted the urge to approach it.”

  “Would you mind if I borrowed it?” asked Wilson.

  “Of course not. To be honest, I would be relieved to be rid of it. Though I would ask that you go down and fetch it yourselves; I do not think I could bring myself to...”

  “But of course,” said Wilson.

  Wilson and I were led to the cellar. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I whispered to him.

  He shrugged. “I should like to know more about this thing, and it is prudent to conduct an examination. If it turns out to be empty boxes and the imaginings of grieving relatives, I should like to know before I publish or spend too much time on this.”

  Miss Turner waited at the top of the stairs while one of her servants led us down the cold stone stairs to the cellar. The man lit our way with a candlestick which cast flickering shadows on the walls, heightening my anxiety. I was not sure whether I believed this tale of murderous gadgetry, but all the same the seriousness of the others, combined with my own hangover, served to make me even more apprehensive than usual.

  The cellar was typical for the type of house: whitewashed walls with the hint of past floodings staining the stones and leaving a damp tang in the air. The candlelight did not stretch as far as the room’s extremities and my imagination quickly conjured up all manner of demons which could lurk in the shadows around us. There was a simple wooden sidetable in the centre of the room upon which the Sound Conduit had been placed, a prominent positioning which served to create an air of import and mystery around the device. I was slightly disappointed to note how ordinary the thing looked: a simple box with two tubes protruding from opposite faces. Nonetheless, we approached it with trepidation, fearing that it might suddenly burst into life. The servant hung back, clearly infected by his mistress’s fears.

  “Doesn’t look like much, does it?” said Wilson. I suspected he spoke more to alleviate his mood than to make conversation.

  I grunted in agreement. “It certainly looks like one of Maxwell’s,” I said. “Ugly but functional.”

  “It has a certain... basic charm,” remarked Wilson.

  “I am sure that is exactly the look he was going for,” I said sardonically, and then looked around. “If you’re going to take the thing, then could you please do so? I would like to leave this ghastly place as soon as possible.”

  *

>   Although I remained deeply sceptical that Maxwell would be involved knowingly in anything quite so monstrous, I also had to admit that he was capable of unwittingly triggering such events. It was with this in mind, coupled with the convincing nature of the young lady’s testimony, that I agreed to meet with Wilson the next morning. I was to accompany him to Maxwell’s house so that we might both speak to him about the strange devices. Assuming, of course, that Kate would admit us.

  At the agreed hour I made my way to his house, surprising and slightly disappointing myself with my own punctuality. I announced myself with a brisk knock on the door; I was keen to get this affair over with as soon as possible.

  There was no answer to that or my subsequent knocks. Grumbling about time-wasting journalists, I put my ear to the door. There was no sound from within. Could he have gone without me? Or perhaps I had mistaken the time we had settled on? As a last resort, I leant across to look in through the ground floor window.

  Wilson was lying on a dark rug in the middle of the floor, the Sound Conduit from Miss Turner’s house at his side. His head was turned toward the window and I started to wave before my brain had interpreted what I was seeing.

  Wilson’s eyes were blank and lifeless, the hand which reached toward the Sound Conduit, rigid. It was not a rug he was lying on but a pool of blood—his own blood. A knife lay on the floor beside him.

  CHAPTER 12

  I arrived at Maxwell’s front door still haunted by Mr. Wilson’s death. A few hours had passed since I had discovered the body, hours spent in the company of the police with their incessant questioning. Whilst they had treated the death with the seriousness it required, they could not see beyond the apparent fact of suicide. Indeed, the evidence was overwhelming; Wilson lived on his own and all doors and windows were locked from the inside. The blade was in his hand and the wound was entirely consistent with a self-inflicted act. The Sound Conduit device had attracted some attention from the police, but the inspector who questioned me seemed deeply sceptical as to the likelihood of any connection between the device and the death. Regardless, they took it with them, although I suspected this was more due to form and procedure than any intention to investigate it.