“I take it my messenger met you at your usual station?” Mr. Kilmarten changed the subject.
I was confused, “The man disguised as an automaton?”
Mr. Kilmarten guffawed, “Quite the clever chap, always with get-ups.”
The carriage rocked side to side as it careened through traffic avoiding collisions with other steamdrivers. I remember having to keep adjusting my hat as we bounced along at such a rate of speed. Finally I just had to sit there with my hand on top of my head to keep it from bouncing right off.
“Time is of the utmost importance, dear doctor,” Mr. Kilmarten settled into his seat. “My employer,” he paused in thought while his portly body swayed from side to side, “this certain gentleman, would like to ask of your assistance. He does understand you are retiring to lecture, but would like you to consider this venture. He needs your help.”
“What does GhostWurks want with your employer?” This was all too much for a simple job, I thought. I also considered how bizarre a job proposal this was.
“GhostWurks does like to interfere with my employer’s work. This certain gentleman is an antique and art collector. Rare finds. Sometimes controversial pieces. Unfortunately, there are members of the Clockwork Foundation that would like nothing more than for history to lie beneath dust for eternity. Often relics, works of art, and books that they do not agree with or would rather not acknowledge the existence of.”
“I am aware of the darkening movement within The Clockwork Foundation, as unfortunate as it is.” There was a wave of protest and censorship against works that were just fine with everyone until someone complained. They moved to edit historical texts, ban complete works, and burn paintings to ash after slashing them to ribbons. These were the same monsters who wanted to undo important scientifical work and banish progress. They were twits.
“This certain gentleman needs to protect his collection from such narrow-minded slobs, you do understand.”
“Certainly.”
Our steamdriver took a rather nasty bump from behind and Mr. Kilmarten was nearly thrown from his seat. He barked at the pilot, “Oy, what am I paying you for? To get caught or to get away?” His demeanor changed just slightly. I could tell Mr. Kilmarten was from a rough background, his accent changed ever-so slightly as he barked with such an unrefined gruffness.
With that, the steam engine at the front of the carriage picked up repetitious exuberance and the ride became all the more drastic. I believe Scheckendale’s steamdriver could be, without debate, able to outrun some of the higher-end nimbulators from SteamWorks. Mind you, only some; that is, very few.
Our carriage felt like it was going to fall apart as it picked up speed and weaved in between other steamdrivers and up onto the curb. Again I looked through the back window in time to see one of the GhostWurks’ steamdrivers crash into a PostWorks box. Upon crashing, two agents jumped from the vehicle. It looked as if one agent had triggered the explosion that ensued. It was terrible and violent. The black smoke that followed was an awful blight. There seemed to be very little left of the vehicle.
The other black steamdriver trailed not far behind and made feeble attempts at ramming The Black Iron Death.
“I am really sorry about the way we had to meet. I had to lead you into the open. I knew you were being followed, but I didn’t know to what extent.” Mr. Kilmarten allowed himself a drink from a flask which he retrieved from his briefcase, “I do hope you can understand the situation at hand.”
I gave him a long, hard look, “If I am harmed in any way, I will assist GhostWurks in any and every way possible to track you down.” I adjusted my monocle, “I do hope you can understand my situation at hand.”
Mr. Kilmarten smiled and took another sip of his whiskey as he rocked from side to side. From the odor wafting my way I could tell Kilmarten could afford the good stuff and was swimming in it. Not very professional, though, I thought. Perhaps having to deal with GhostWurks drove him to it. Perhaps he was just infested with bad habit.
“Fair enough, Monocle.” Mr. Kilmarten took another quick sip, “Fair enough. In fact, if you’re retired and want none of this, say the word and your word will be good. I’ll have you taken directly where you please. Otherwise, what I can offer you is-” The carriage jolted violently as it ran down a line of automatons assembling to be serviced. As we steadied, Mr. Kilmarten finished, “-is an experience.”
“What is the job offer? Let’s be done with the mystery.” I was growing tired of the smell saturating the inside of the carriage. It was foul. I enjoyed a sip of the spirits myself, but sometimes an odor could just hit one the wrong way.
“My employer will only be making offers to interested parties.” Mr. Kilmarten hacked and coughed a bit as he tried to suppress the urge to do so. “Interested?”
“I’m not sure. What are my alternatives? You leave me to GhostWurks?” I asked flatly.
The carriage jolted again as it took to the sidewalk for a jaunt.
Mr. Kilmarten smiled and shook his head, “No, no. Certainly not. I’m not a savage, dear sir.” He took another sip, a long sip, from his flask. “You like art, doctor?”
“Art? Why yes, yes I do. My wife, in fact, she did maintain a gallery,” I said as I thought how silly a time this was to talk about art as we tore the metro to shreds being caught in pursuit by ghosts.
“My client, he loves art. Loves it.” Mr. Kilmarten put the flask into his pocket and removed his hat. He set the hat in the seat beside him. His hair was oily and slicked to the side of his balding head. “There’s truth in art, you know, Monocle? I don’t quite get it myself, but whatever, not for me. Other hobbies and ways to dwindle time interest me. Brawlers. Horses. Coin. Women. You do understand. Though, there are finer things in life. I do understand the need for art preservation, much like you understand the importance of preserving history. Art preservation is cultural preservation and equally important.”
“I would have to agree wholeheartedly,” I was afraid he was going to start rambling like a drunkard, meandering through thoughts half-concocted. Although, I think his tendency for drink was to steady his hand and loosen his thought.
We shook inside the carriage as the steamdriver jumped from the sidewalk back to the street and then nearly teetering on two wheels as we rounded a corner. At this point I was becoming accustomed to the discomfort.
“Well, simply, would you be interested in retrieving a piece of artwork, then?” He abruptly asked. “My client already has the location plotted and a crew hired and in waiting, he just needs someone to lead the troop forth. Pay is seven-thousand, but I do believe my client would be willing to negotiate to a higher price. So, shall I take you to your home? The University? Or would you like to meet my employer? Your choice, Monocle. No hard feelings.”
The realm of possibilities that lie in wait was tantalizing and, even though stewed, Mr. Kilmarten was a credentialed and accredited TrustWorks attorney who knew how to pique my interest just so, “I do suppose my schedule is clear for the day.” (Truth was, I could leave the metro to get away from that maniac who took a shot at me if he was still after me, as well as avoid Dorothy Shelton if, in fact, she was wanting me dead, too.)
Mr. Kilmarten smiled and tapped the butt of his cane against the divider that separated us from Jefferson. Somehow the steamdriver picked up even more speed. I looked through the back window to see the GhostWurks steamdriver get caught within traffic and slow to a halt before becoming lost in the distance.
We continued to race through the metro as if being pursued. This kept up for some time until we were far, far away from our last sighting. Our paced slowed to a reasonable rate as we were certain GhostWurks wasn’t following us. We chatted up small talk over the long trek from the metro into the countryside. We discussed the methodology of his messenger who turned out to be his legal clerk, Ronald, the chap disguised as a janitorial automaton. Ronald had been following me since he delivered the letter to my desk the day prior. He stood by, looking out for su
spicious activity that could be related to GhostWurks.
“He did a fine job of letting me board a train with a GhostWurks agent,” I quipped.
“He claimed he lost you,” Mr. Kilmarten offered, “the lift to the platform wouldn’t come down to the ground level and there was a man in the stairwell preventing him from using the stairs. It was some debacle.”
“GhostWurks?”
“He didn’t think so. Lanky, ol’ limey fellow, he said. Big chimney stack kind of top hat. Smelled of onion milk.” Mr. Kilmarten coughed and hacked. “When I read The Gazette this morning, I thought you might have gotten your lights put out in the wreck, so I sent him out to check on you, try to get you in before someone else got to you first.”
The lanky fellow with the big top hat sounded like he could possibly be the one who took a shot at me back when this all started becoming bothersome. I was certain he wasn’t GhostWurks. Perhaps he was with Ms. Dorothy Shelton, the thought flashed through my mind. That seemed to add up if he was indeed the one keeping Ronald from using the stairs at the train station. That would put them both in the same place as me on two occasions.
Mr. Kilmarten eventually slipped into sleep (more likely, he passed out) and I sat gazing from the carriage door slit. We were outside of the metro walls now, the road had become less smooth and GhostWurks was far out of reach. The countryside rolled with hills into the horizon and the steamdriver finally plunged into the deep woods. The afternoon sun became lost above the thick growth that densely accumulated to create a ceiling of green kept aloft by their gnarled, old branches. Few rays of light shown through the branches; it was that of a dark and shadowy world in which we entered. The dim, ambient glow of sun creeping through the forest cover provided a pleasant level of brightness for the eyes and gave the aether a coolness which soothed the skin so on such a summer’s day. On the downside, it was creepy as all bloody nevermore.
These woods were coveted by hunters for being well stocked with game of all sorts and sizes. Maldeviantized, wild animals were popular among the braggarts. Though, these same woods were teeming with creatures and beasts ready to hunt the hunters.
We turned up a property drive to a grand, modern house with a full turret adorned atop with a prominent spire. The trees were cleared in a fair radius around the home. While similar in style to that of a modern house one would find in an sub-urban area, this had a more rugged and worn feel to it. This house was aged by the elements of nature, not metro pollution. The steps that curved up to the front door were of a good width, cement, and built to the foundation. The large front doors were hand-carved and beautifully ornate. The dark green paint allowed the house to blend into its natural surroundings while the dark mustardy yellows of the trim accentuated the hand-craftsmanship.
Gardenmatons swarmed the property. A group of gardenmatons worked in front of the house with a wood-chopping machine. Another group tended to the flowers and decorative trees and shrubbery. One automaton was evenly trimming the top of a hedge, kept tall by clockwork-gear appendage-extensioners. They were slow and clunky, but orderly and efficient.
The wood-cutting device, a machine as tall as it was wide, forced a large axe head by power of steam down upon a chopping block. It could split logs as easily as paper tore. With a cranking and tightening of the loader, to a blowing whistle and a whooshing release, and then the crackling snap punctuated by a muffled thud, the machine turned timber into kindling.
The real damage it could do was exhibited mere moments upon our arrival as one automaton mistakenly knocked another into the device. The large axe, like an executioner’s tool of the trade, came down with such force that it split the automaton in two. The top half droned a tone of maximal malfunction, while the legs stood up and ran about in a frenzy.
“Damn things,” Mr. Kilmarten grumbled and remarked, “always on the fritz.”
Even shadowed beneath the trees, I could tell evening would be upon us soon enough. Within the trees, darkness set in easily. The carriage ride there was a long one. A houseman opened the front door of the home to greet us.
The doors themselves must have weighed a fantastic amount as they were solid slabs of carved wood and thick. They opened to reveal Mr. Rendleshine, the butler. He was a large man, tall. Gray sprouts of hair sprouted from the sides of his head above his scarred, crumpled ears. A large, flat nose sat in the center of his wrinkled face like a large, deformed pepper hanging from the vine. He looked like an old bruiser. Perhaps he was a brawler in his day, my first thought upon seeing the man.
"Good afternoon, sir," the old git grumbled in a deep monotone. Mr. Rendleshine stood attentively at the entrance welcoming us in.
"Good day, Rendleshine, my fine fellow," Mr. Kilmarten sloshed, "I ... Egads, man, have you grown?" Mr. Kilmarten looked up at him sourly.
"No, sir," Mr. Rendleshine replied dryly and humorlessly. Mr. Rendleshine had a brow thick and bristly like a brush. He had a grumble like the wrenching of pipes.
"No, you say," Mr. Kilmarten sized him up and moved on abruptly, "take care of Mr. Monocle, here, he's quite the important fellow," Mr. Kilmarten pulled a coin from his pocket and inserted it into Mr. Rendleshine's breast pocket.
"Indeed, sir." The large man seemed unfazed.
Mr. Kilmarten made his way up the grand, curving staircase. I hated being called, Mr. Monocle, I remember thinking as my lips soured.
The decor struck me as quite elegant for a country home, rather, country estate. Often these woods were only sparsely populated with hunting cabins and sometimes adjoining stable pits or barns. Somewhere beyond these woods was Bridgeport, perhaps by only a few hours if Jefferson was piloting.
"May I be of service to you, sir?" Mr. Rendleshine grumbled, as if I were a burden.
"No, thank you," I replied in a jovial manner.
"If that will be all, sir," Mr. Rendleshine's attention was elsewhere, "I have gardenmatons to tend to."
And with that, Mr. Rendleshine advanced from the doors to the garden where he commenced beating, hammering, and kicking at the malfunctioning automatons. His all-out assault on the mechanical marvels seemed to do the trick, though. He boxed them like a professional. He had a stance like a hardened brawler. Fists the size of bricks and just as solid. He could lift one of the heavy contraptional devices with ease.
I began to peruse. The interior of the house was immaculate. Very little furniture, while the decor was quite heavy. “Quite the collection,” I muttered to no one in particular as I gazed upon a series of paintings, three distinct metroscape skylines: Bridgeport, Haverton Metro Proper, and The People’s Metro of Northward Red Empire. All very industrious metros of modern design.
Mr. Kilmarten reappreared atop the staircase, “He’s ready to see you, Mr. Monocle.”
Up the stairs and from there we walked down a vast hallway decorated with fine pieces of art, one after the other. At the other end of the hallway, double doors opened wide. There he appeared, middle to late forties, slender. He dressed simply: pants and a dress shirt. He was also rather plain and dull looking. Nothing particular stood out about him.
The room behind him seemed to be his study, he stood in the doorway, “Dr. Monocle! So very glad you could make it!”
And this was my introduction to That Certain Gentleman.
14
A gentleman cares not to draw unwanted attention to his premature exit. I find that so many are so caught up in their own heads that another person at their side, an acquaintance, perhaps a stranger in company, was mere reason to flap lips and slap gums and unabashedly carry on about whatever utter nonsense came to thought. I do suppose, in other words, I usually care not for the small talk.
I found explosions often created wonderful diversions for slipping away unnoticed. Though, it was so very extremely rare that explosions occurred, especially just at the right time during those awkward moments when escape was necessary. Although I have had the rare occurrence in randomosity where it happened twice that an explosion saved me from a
tedious social interaction. Unfortunately, if the explosion involves people, one is somewhat obligated to assist or find help, and slipping away without notice is indeed a much harder task to accomplish. I believe there is a term for someone who would do such a thing and I believe that term is to be a scumdrudgerybagguns. And to be likened to a sack which contains the scum collected from that of a menial laborer, perhaps that of a rubbish collector and bin washer, is no way to be perceived.
If the situation presents itself, I find that during a burst of laughter emitted from a mingling group I can make an easy getaway. Give a good laugh and a nod, a turn, and swiftly move away as any witnesses are too busy being consumed and intoxicated by jovial pleasantries.
At times I could pull off the gentlemanly, “Please do excuse me for but a moment,” and then be gone for good.
Getting caught up within the verbalage of another’s personal hell and tedious drudgery can be quite taxing. Suffering the company of a fool can be a tragic loss of time, as well. Slipping away quietly, swiftly, without notice, and to be gone without as much as leaving a quick breeze in one’s wake is truly a talent and a skill. It is one based in politeness, but predicated on the assumption that my time is better well spent elsewhere and doing other things. Though, it must not be an act of pure rudeness, nor should one interpret it as such. I’ve had people walk away from me in the middle of what I was saying to no offense taken on my being. For I was spared the wasting of my breath.
An unpleasant social situation turned into a feat of escape, or like that of a game with an unwitting and unknowing opponent. All in good fun.
I once told a man that I could not speak for I had lost my voice.
It was rare to find good conversation. So many had so little to say, but always seemed to be talking. I liked Mr. Kilmarten’s method of such a smashing entrance followed by enthralling talk filled with intrigue and excitement. It was even better that when he had nothing left to say he just passed out. I hoped his employer was as magnetic in personality.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 14
