Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  Jago would have smirked if he could.

  "At first I had planned to send you back to them with that message, but I decided a simple letter would suffice. No, I kept you alive because I am a small man. In some ways a petty man. But a vengeful man."

  He tapped on Jago's cage. "I have taken your technology, and much of your remaining flesh. What I have left you with is, my technicians assure me, enough to keep you alive indefinitely. They assure me that the opiates they have given you are enough to make sure you can understand my words, so before they run out and return your world of pain, I wanted you to know that as long as I draw breath, so shall you. I'm an old man, Sarsosa, but I've got perhaps a decade left before I leave this world."

  He turned to go. "I hope you enjoy our remaining time together as much as I will."

  As the drugs faded and the pain returned, Jago very much wanted to scream.

  ***

  DREAMS OF THE DAMNED

  Arthur Paddock's hand hovered briefly over the brandy, before continuing on past it to the bottle of Gilbey's hidden in the back of his liquor cabinet. He did not often make a habit of drinking gin, preferring the brandies and sparkling wines typical to a gentleman of his station. On nights like tonight, however, he felt the need for something coarser, a little more base, to steady his nerves, and the mantle's fire did little to make the night cosier.

  Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the lawn visible beyond his office's picture windows, followed by a distant thunder. It was not the weather that had drawn a knife's edge along his nerves. His thoughts flickered briefly to one of his patients, a timid brontophobe. The poor man would start and fly into a panic at so much as the sound of an airship's engine backfiring in the sky above; heavy storms like this required his sedation lest he injure himself or others in his terror.

  Paddock poured himself a small glass of gin and returned to his desk, reaching out to touch his brass Director's nameplate. Funny, that. He, a man who had always hated confrontation, hated conflict. Hated the way it made him felt inside, like his core was filled with molten sick. Here, in this position. One that essentially guaranteed he'd end up confronting others, the patients, the doctors, the orderlies.

  Sometimes he wished he'd never gone into administration. He loved the rest of the parts of his job. Loved it a great deal, loved helping people, but most especially loved building devices of brass cogs and wire to help them help themselves. He had made a great use out of his Royal Academy of Artificers and Engineers education, a damn sight better than most of his former academic peers had. His best days were those when his services as director went unneeded, and he could just focus on the arts of mental healing and tinkering on his Great Work.

  A knock on the door, a small polite rapping, broke his reverie.

  He downed the rest of the drink and hid the glass in his top desk drawer. Pushing back his chair with a sigh, he rose and approached the door. He was not looking forward to this.

  He never even saw the knife.

  20 September, 2011 - 7:45 am

  The pounding of my rubber-glove-clad fist set loose a splatter of caustic chemicals, but the damage done to Bartleby's bedroom door's teak finish was not my concern. The rapping was as rapid as my quickening heartbeat, its volume rising with my growing anxiety, its force intensifying with the headache that had been growing since my routine had been interrupted. Each blow reverberated through the upper floor of the finely appointed London townhouse that my partner and I shared.

  It took him several moments to open the door, clad in crimson and gold flannel oriental-style pyjamas, a carefully disinterested expression upon his face. He stood to block my view of the room. "Unless London's afire, James..."

  "There are men, Bartleby." I was so upset that coherent speech was proving difficult. "Strange men. In my workshop."

  William, the houseboy, ducked past us on the way to the second floor washroom, his arms laden with clean towels.

  "Your predilections are none of my concern," Bartleby said, starting to close the door. "And, frankly, I expect more from you than such braggadocio."

  I gripped its edge with one hand, stopping it. "I have no patience for your cheek, Bartleby. Men have invaded my workshop. Workmen. Carrying... things."

  "Those 'things' are mine and Aldora's wedding presents. We discussed this."

  "I don't recall discussing anything of the sort."

  "Oh, but you must!" Bartleby pulled at the door with both hands, but my grip was steadfast. "I remember it quite clearly. Two nights ago, the dinner party at Aldora's."

  "I attended no such party."

  "No? How very strange. I distinctly recall inviting you."

  "Then I'm sure I was busy." Bartleby was frequently inviting me out -- to shows, to galas, to dinner parties and social events. I seldom accepted.

  "Well, that would explain why you raised no objection when the question of storing the gifts in your workspace was raised." Bartleby picked up a silver-handled walking stick from beside his door and began prodding me with the capped end.

  "I agreed to no such thing!"

  Bartleby twirled the stick. "There's the rub, James. My wife had the good grace to invite you, social hermit that you are, to an important dinner with her family and our friends. The empty chair sat loud in our midst."

  "My work is of the utmost importance!"

  Bartleby spun the stick again, this time using its head to leverage my fingers from the door. "What's important, James, is understanding that you are not beyond basic social obligations. If you choose to and alienate the people in your life in favour of obsessive worksmanship, you forfeit the right to complain when decisions are made for you in absentia."

  As soon as he had pried my fingers free he pulled the door shut, leaving me alone in the hall.

  Dark thoughts bubbled to the surface of my mind like carbonated fury as I returned to the ground floor. Bartleby knew how I felt about the sanctity of my laboratory. When he'd first offered to finance my engineering, and later when he'd offered me the partnership in this detective consultancy of ours, I had had but one request: that I be left alone to labour in my basement workshop. Bartleby hadn't always abided by this request, but it was, after all, his money that had paid for the equipment and his townhouse that housed it.

  I could handle that. Bartleby was familiar enough that his presence did not disrupt my scientific process, and his short attention span seldom resulted in a prolonged visit.

  But these workmen, these crass and clumsy louts, having them blunder about my sanctum was like giving them free reign within my very soul. I roughly shouldered past a pair, almost knocking them asunder, on my way back to the kitchen. I felt violated, watching as the brutes tromped about the place.

  "Would ya care for a spot of luncheon, Mr. Wainwright?" Mrs. Hoddie, the cook, asked.

  "How can you stand it?" I asked, gesturing towards the workmen. They were invading her kitchen on their way down to my workshop.

  "Is wot it is, I suppose." The cook shrugged her angular shoulders. "Ya get used ter it, workin' 'ere. 'Ad ter accept ya takin' 'alf me larder for your workshop, didn't I?"

  It was something that Bartleby could never understand. The cook and I, we were working class. Life was labour – engineering for me, cookery for her. I'd been working, tinkering to support my family as soon as I could hold a spanner without dropping it.

  Bartleby, though... he was a born gentleman. Man of leisure. For him to work was as outlandish a concept as it would be for me to remain idle.

  "Daan't worry, sir," one of the men gave me a grin as sloppy as the grip he had on the dressmaker's doll he carried. "Ya can Jack and Jill any damages ter Missus Fiske..."

  Mrs. Fiske. I felt my lip curl. Mrs. Aldora Fiske. Newlywed wife of Mr. Alton Bartleby. She'd elected to retain her own surname, something the lower-classes never would have considered, but which was considered acceptable within the upper echelons of London society. Apparently, despite Bartleby's Baronet title and the Fiske's lack thereo
f, the latter name carried more weight.

  Tradition was not a thing I particularly cared for – science was about the new, not the old – but it served as an example of the selfishness that typified the woman's behaviour. I cannot rightly claim to have disliked her from the start. Indeed, until the wedding, I considered her of scant importance.

  One of the workmen slapped me on the shoulder with a filthy hand as he passed. "Aw done. She's aw yours, mate."

  I hurriedly descended into my workspace to survey the damage.

  What greeted me was a scene ripped from darkest nightmare.

  Ribbon festooned pastel packages had been stacked precariously on every available surface. As I stepped from the stairs I pulled large bolts of cloth, heavy weight damask and black silk taffeta, from where they'd been left draped across a vital cooling radiator grating, likely saving the entire household from a violent and gruesome death.

  And the hatboxes. So many hatboxes. What does one person need with so many hats? My bowler has serviced my skull adequately for years, and, barring an inopportune blow to the head, it would continue to serve faithfully for years to come. Bartleby, on the other hand, seemed to have a different hat for every day of the year, and now his wedding guests had given him dozens more. I suppose that it was the least salacious gift anyone could think of to give a man of such legendary ribaldry.

  I felt a dim burn in the core of my chest at the thought of my most sacred space being treated like a common storage room. Trying to ignore it, forcing myself to refrain from tearing the gifts asunder, from smashing them into bits with my bear hands, I set myself about the task of reclaiming my world from its frilly lace invaders.

  ***

  "James!"

  Hours had passed, and I had just about gotten my workshop sorted.

  "James!" Bartleby called my name a second time.

  I'd learnt to ignore the first of his summons. It must have been important; normally when performing his due diligence to include me he doesn't bother trying more than once.

  I ascended to the kitchen and found both Bartleby and his wife waiting, dressed to go out. She was wearing a matching tailored light grey skirt and jacket under a broad shouldered kimono-shaped coat. He had a dark morning coat, a matching top hat sitting idly in his hands.

  Bartleby was smiling broadly. "The metropolitan police have once more issued a formal request for our assistance."

  "I hate working with Scotland Yard," I said. "As do you, if I recall."

  "Too true." Bartleby slipped the hat onto his head. "But not as much as they hate asking for our help. William?"

  The houseboy stood nearby, my own dusky jacket and bowler in his hands.

  "Thank you, William." I turned to my partner. "Off to the yard, then?"

  "We will be meeting them at Bedford Mental Hospital," Aldora said. "Mind that you bring an umbrella. It's raining something fierce."

  "Oh, you'll be accompanying us, then?" I asked.

  "I asked her along," Bartleby said. "She's expressed an interest in seeing the nature of our work. I don't see the harm in it."

  "Bartleby, she's a--"

  "A woman?" Aldora asked, eyebrow raising.

  "--an amateur. I don't mean to offend, Mrs. Fiske, but I fear you'll be out of your element." And, I had the restraint not to add, in the way.

  Bartleby waved my concern off. "She'll be safe with Scotland Yard's cordon, having tea with the inspectors."

  "I will, will I?" Aldora's response seemed to bring a chill to the room.

  "Cordon?" I asked. "What's on at Bedford?"

  "Something dreadful, no doubt," Bartleby said. "Details provided upon arrival."

  "I suppose that your wife's expertise will prove valuable."

  She cocked her head at me, pale glossy lips parting slightly. "My expertise?"

  "You've intimate experience in such facilities, yes?"

  The cook dropped a platter, drawing my attention briefly.

  "James!" Bartleby said.

  "What?"

  Aldora stood with some abruptness, her face having gone very still. "Let's be off, then."

  It occurred to me that I might have upset the woman, though just how I was unsure. Many of my male colleagues are quick to write off their female companions as given to fits of pique, but on the balance I found that touchiness was not a trait to be applied along gender lines. And Aldora? For all her faults, I had to admit that Aldora was not a person given to such.

  Her response probably indicated that I'd said something inappropriate.

  It happened. I tried not to let it bother me, but quite often the subtle subtexts of the social games people played slipped completely past me. What was clear, however, was that Aldora had insinuated herself into mine and Bartleby's investigation out of a lack of confidence in our ability. In my ability.

  Alton was, like the woman herself, a social savant. Many said that the couple had ended up together because no one else could keep up. They shared a mutual respect. Like most Londoners, however, Aldora did not understand engineering. She did not understand the contributions my expertise brought to our endeavours, or what use forensic technology could be.

  I would have to show her. To teach her.

  Maybe then, she'd show me the respect I deserved.

  Maybe then, she'd understand.

  20 September, 1911 - 10:15 am

  I watched through rain-soaked windows as Aldora's private carriage neared our destination. The contrast between the delicate nouveau-baroque filigree of the window's framing and the almost monolithic concrete watchtowers was striking, to say the least. My eyes flicked from the broad obstruction-free lawn to the squat Egyptian-Revival structure of the main compound. I couldn't help but note the wrought iron fence surrounding the lot.

  "This is a hospital?" I asked. "It looks like a prison. Or a tomb."

  Bartleby swept back the brocade curtains on his side of the carriage. "I've been told that the interior has been heavily renovated."

  "Sanitariums are places of healing," his wife said from between the two of us. "Of recovery. Of medicine and rest."

  "Look," I said, "about what I said before--"

  Aldora's eyes shifted towards me. "Nothing needs be said. You are who you are."

  Bartleby placed a hand upon hers.

  She gazed steadily past me through the window, and spoke in a small voice. "It does look a far cry from Willoughsby."

  Her husband returned his attention towards the window beside him. "With the police and their wagons cordoned around the gate it's looking more the besieged fortress than a hospital."

  "I have little doubt that those trapped within feel the same way," Aldora said.

  We drew to a stop behind a line of metropolitan police constables. I climbed out first, fat oily raindrops, yellow with the London fog, splattering against my broad shoulders and the brim of my bowler. I held the door open, and Aldora's parasol emerged next, followed by the woman herself, heeled boots splashing on the wet cobblestones. Bartleby brought up the rear, closing the carriage door behind him.

  One of the officers broke rank and made rapid to join us, his blue Metropolitan Police uniform soaked through. I recognised the man as one Inspector Abel, a lout and a bully who'd always resented it when the Yard had to come crawling to us for assistance. He nodded stiffly towards Bartleby and myself, bowing a bit more deeply to Aldora. Bartleby smiled mockingly through the rain and touched the brim of his hat with a slight gesture.

  The officer motioned that we should follow, leading the way towards the compound's gates. We walked alongside the line of constables gazing towards the asylum, wary, I assumed, for any such lunatic that might choose to burst from its doors, run across the long front lawn, and hurl themselves bodily towards their clubs.

  We followed him into a pavilion tent at the end of the line, Aldora dry under her umbrella, Bartleby huddled with his collar upturned. I kept my back stiff, face slack, letting Aldora see that the rain didn't bother me.

  The interior w
as dark, save for a lantern in the back. In its light a well-appointed gentleman was sitting at a camp table, going over some papers. I took him to be a banker.

  "Mr. Johnson?" Inspector Abel said. "Misters Bartleby and Wainwright, as requested, along with Mrs. Fiske."

  It was surprising to hear not a speck of the traditional disdain with which the police typically invoked our introduction. We have had an antagonistic relationship with the Met at the best of times. Oft was it that the police needed our assistance; seldom was it that they were grateful for it. The dutiful respect in the inspector's voice told me both that this Johnson was a person of no small import, and that the situation was more dire than any petty rivalry we might have.

  "Ephram Johnson." He extended his hand. Bartleby shook it. I did not. "Undersecretary with the Home Office. Your prompt attendance is appreciated, and I do apologise for the abruptness of the summons."

  "Think nothing of it," Bartleby ran his hand through his rain-slicked hair, darkened by dampness from its straw blond to an almost-brown. Since entering the tent he had at some point, I noted, taken the time to see to the curl of his moustache. "There's no bother in service to crown and country."

  A broad grin spread across the undersecretary's face. His sort always did devour blind patriotism without bothering to check for lumps of sarcasm. "And you, Mrs. Fiske – a Lady's presence is always a blessing, but there was no need for you to expose yourself to such unpleasantness."

  She took his extended hand briefly in her own, closing her parasol and offering a properly sincere smile. "Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Johnson, but if I don't keep my husband out of trouble, who will take up the burden for me?"

  Her eyes flickered towards me for the barest of instants, and my frown deepened, her meaning not lost. Mrs. Fiske did not approve of my association with her husband; rather, she did not approve of me. I was too working-class for her rarefied sensibilities, my low breeding putting me beneath her notice, my disdain for the manners of the genteel putting me beyond her comprehension. To be perfectly fair I have no more respect for her class and her peers, finding them largely worthless and ill-educated in the ways of engineering and physics, their schooling focused almost entirely on languages that were dead before their grandparents were born.