“To the south, Ka-Igi’s third eldest son, Ka-Ra, traveled and met with the men of the Nile. He taught them the mysteries of the triangle and masonry so they could erect the Pyramids, shadow images of the great and mighty buildings of Shinar.
“To the far East, Ka-Igi sent his youngest son, Ka-Wu. Though the smallest and weakest, Ka-Wu traveled the farthest. He walked through what we now know of as Arabia and India and China. He met with many wandering Babblers and taught them the value of chemistry, so that they could glean spices from the plants and salts from the Earth.
“For himself, Ka-Igi kept the most important tablets. On them were written the laws of man, the rules that separate humankind from animal kind. With these laws he brought order to his people, and to the Babbling tribes nearby. With rules and order he built the great city-state Larsa, which later became Babylon, the Babbler’s kingdom. Ka-Igi thrived and prospered, but his sons never returned to him, and the kingdom of the world was never reunited. Each of his sons became a king in his own right, and once in power man never bows to a greater authority. Ka-Igi’s tablets were passed on to his daughters, who married and prospered and aided in the rule of their land.
“It was the sixth grandson of Ka-Igi’s sixth granddaughter, a young king named Hammurabi, who gave the laws to his people, and had them copied and recorded, so that all may know and all may prosper. It’s these rules that make man great, that allowed man to master the earth and the animals and hold themselves strongest of the world.
“Maybe your engineer was telling us he’d found a wonder, something to match the Shinar’s. Something to draw the attention of God himself.”
“That’s some story, Irishman.”
“I know. I’m a story teller by trade, though I can’t take credit for the details. All I’ve told you I was told by friends at Oxford.”
Oxford. Of course. Stoker winked at me and took a long drink of his cooling tea. I played along.
“Good friends?”
“Good enough. They want to know if you’re still a bishop?”
“I’m not sure. The game has changed. Tell Darwin that Barnes has hostages.”
Stoker set his cup down and jutted a finger at me.
“First, you’ll do well not to mention either of those names in public! Second, the game hasn’t changed, you’re just not used to playing it. My benefactor and yours, our friend in Oxford, has an incredibly high regard for life. As we speak he is concocting a plan to save your prostitute and friends. You’re not part of that plan.”
“Then what’s my part?”
“You have two goals, call them a loyalty test, though it goes further than that. Goal number one, you are to return to your former employer tomorrow night at seven o’clock. You are to inform him that Mr. Nouveau is being held at this location.”
Stoker produced a folded piece of paper and laid it on the table.
“You are to give him no information other than what is on that paper. If you do, we will find out and your deal with us is no longer valid.”
“Where is Nouveau?”
“You don’t need to know that. Assume what the paper says is true.”
“The second condition?”
“As we speak two men are delivering a new bed to your flat. When you arrive you will find a pair of boots under the bed that are identical to ones you are wearing right now. The right heel of your new boots has a false bottom. Inside the false bottom, you’ll find a coin. Retrieve it and drop it into the third floor fountain on your way out of the Bow Street Firm. Do not touch or handle the coin prior to dropping it in the fountain. Are we clear?”
“You guarantee the safety of my friends?”
Stoker stood up and straightened his suit.
“Ours is a world without certainty, a world victimized by chaos. Believe me when I say my benefactor is working to right that chaos and usher us into a new age of enlightenment. The tasks he accomplishes today will be talked about, even worshipped, a thousand years from now. Try to see the bigger picture, mate?”
This was not the last time I’d meet with Abraham Stoker, though I wish it had been.
Nine
Jolly Fellows and the Case of the Missing Porter
I’ll admit a bit of confusion at this point. I’d sworn loyalty and service to both warring armies, to Darwin and Barnes, though my loyalty for each was conscripted. I was under orders from both and sincerely wanted neither to succeed in his endeavor. Jacob Fellows is no man’s stringed puppet. But time was ticking clear and ready. As much faith as Darwin had in me completing his task, I was just as certain that Lord Barnes would catch me in the ruse, either giving false information or spiking his fountain with Lord knows what. We’re talking about a bloke who told me how much cash I had to my name within ten pound. But if I didn’t finish Darwin’s task, I risked stoking the ire of a man who either knew me well enough to predict I would show up at the Hellfax or send someone deft enough to follow me and blend without my trained eye picking him up. It was bollocks either way. I remember dad, the minutiae, the small details.
If Darwin hadn’t rattled me with the strange Irishman, if the Hellfax had turned a dud, the next logical step in the investigation would be to move toward Nouveau. Darwin had claimed the man was in hiding, as was his family and close contacts. Smart move that; people are terrible at hiding and always reach out to family, even weird silky Frenchmen. The odd detail was the porter. A last minute kidnap for the poor brothel servant I’d sent at all those days prior. The minutiae, the detail, the porter.
I returned to the Piece Work, back to the fancy rental women with their dyed hair and dyed feathers and lipstick colored and smeared like old blood.
The desk clerk recognized me immediately. I must have made an impression on my last visit. His hands vanished under the counter and tripped what I assume was a hidden buzzer because the lobby was suddenly occupied by two thuggish gentlemen. They were decked out in matching black trousers and white collared shirts. The collars were purely decorative seeing that neither man had a neck.
“You’re not welcome here, Mr. Jarse,” the clerk said.
Ha ha. Hugh Jarse.
The thugs stepped closer. I cleared my Colt Army from its holster. I didn’t wave it or point it or make a scene, I let the pistol rest against my leg real casual like. The shiny nickel plating spoke more words than I had. It was a real show stopper. The thugs stopped walking, the whores stopped talking. The lobby became frozen in time, still, a room without air. I broke the silence.
“Everyone keep your feet glued to their respective location, and I’ll make this brief. I’ve been tasked with finding your missing porter. I need to speak with his family and friends.”
The clerk’s hands were still invisible under the counter, but his arms moved slightly and the end of my little speech was punctuated with a click. I’m no expert, but I imagined that sound was the closing of a scattergun breach, maybe a Stevens Tip-Up, maybe a D & J Fraser. Like I said, I’m no expert, and I couldn’t be sure. I levered the Colt and gave the busy clerk my toothiest smile.
“Your Cherokee name must be Fool Busy-Hands. I’m sympathetic to your plight, Fool, but if you draw on me there’ll be three dead bodies to contend with.”
“Three?”
“You, me, and the unfortunate soul you catch with the second barrel of that shotgun while you convulse and choke on your own blood.”
Busy-Hands turned white. Up went one hand, then a thump of dropped weight, then the other hand.
“There, now you’re smart and handsome. What’s your missing porter’s name?”
“Willie.”
I rolled the tip of my gun in the universal sign of “give me more, jackass.”
“Willie Forsmit. He’s my cousin,” one of the thugs offered in a thick gutter accent.
“Would you be so kind as to escort me to Mr. Forsmit’s residence?”
“He lives with his mum.”
“Step lively, big man. You’re my escort.”
No-neck
number one and I left the Piece Work. I imagine I’m permanently banned from that establishment, though I’ve yet to test this hypothesis.
“Willie is not missing,” No-neck said.
I holstered my gun for our street walk. No need for nastiness.
“What do you mean? Is he home?”
“His mum got a letter yesterday. Says he’s been drafted for special government work.”
No-neck said this in an honest and straightforward manner. Like it was no big deal that the government was conscripting midnight whorehouse porters.
“Right, let me confirm the letter and I’ll be on my way.”
“Okay. Real quick, you wave that shooter at Willie’s mum and I’ll break your neck.”
“Fair enough.”
We walked from the Piece Work into a neighborhood of filthy tenement buildings, starving animals and urchin beggars. Then we turned a corner into a neighborhood that was like the first neighborhood’s poorer desperate brother. Everything was covered in soot and ash: walls, windows, the faces of children. A group of men huddled around a fire. All hands reached for ember warmth. Hovering above the fire was the thin and spitted carcass of a dog.
“This way.” No-neck grinned. He was missing a good eight or nine teeth, which I imagine still put him ahead of the norm for this neighborhood. The building we stopped at was slanted at a sixty degree angle.
“Remember what I said about your shooter.”
“I’m not looking for trouble, mate. I just need to verify the letter for my employers.”
No-neck knocked on a door. It was promptly answered by what appeared to be a large bundle of rags.
“Woo, Jeffery!” The rags cooed. I could see no part of the woman, just brown bits of cloth puffed out like a dirty cloud.
“This man needs to see Willie’s letter.”
The rag pile turned to me. Near the top center of the pile a face revealed itself. The woman was a hundred if a day. Dust darkened the lines of her eyes, her mouth, her forehead. Her toothless smile was radiant, free of all malice and cynicism. It was like looking into the face of an angel. A muddy, filthy angel.
“Are you from the government?” Willie’s mum asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I just need to verify his communications.”
“He’s not in trouble is he?” Her smile told me that this was not a possibility, that all was right in the world. She made my heart ache for my own mother.
“No, ma’am. Quite the contrary. Your Willie is doing special work for us and receiving top accommodations for it. In fact, I’ve been authorized by the Queen herself to give you a portion of his bonus.”
I pulled a ten pound note from my pocket and handed it to the old mum. She gave a little animal hoot and the currency vanished into some part of her rag outfit.
“The letter please.” I smiled and held out my hand.
Mum ran back into her room and shuffled through bits of garbage and debris. She returned with a poshy cream-colored envelope.
“May I keep this, mum?”
“Sure, mister. Can I invite you in for tea?”
I looked inside her single room home. It didn’t look like there would be enough room for me to sit, stand, or turn around. I politely declined and was on my way.
I couldn’t get out of the neighborhood fast enough. Even armed as I was, this felt like a place where I’d likely get a knife in the back as I would a “good day.” No-neck followed.
“That was a good bit,” No neck said.
“What was?”
“Giving my aunty that money.”
We turned one corner, then another. The surroundings started to freshen a bit, and desperation lifted from the air.
“Got any more?” he asked.
Fucking hell! I reached into my dwindling supply and produced a pound note for No-neck. More than he deserved but I had no smaller currency to give.
No-neck pocketed his tip and was on his way. The sun had gone past the horizon and I found myself in yet another public house for yet another meal and pint. One of these days, you mark my words, I will settle down and find the family life promised to me by my father and school and all the authorities who explain life to children. I’ll find the regular existence that has eluded me these past thirty years.
After a meal of spiced potatoes and roast beef, I laid out my paper work before me. The first item was the note Stoker gave me. It was a map of a circus camp outside of Stoke Poges. The notations were in what appeared to be my handwriting. How the bloody hell did Darwin copy my script?
I unfolded Willie the Porter’s letter. His hand was blocky and childish. Given his home, I’m lucky the man knew any script at all. It read as follows:
Dear Mom,
I will not be home for several days.
Men from the government have asked me
to help them with a special job. I am an acting
messenger for a science research camp. Do not
worry.
They say I will be home in a week or two.
Your boy,
Willie
Not much in the script. The use of the word camp hinted that the whole event was a tent and out-doors affair. If anything, this helped the theory from the first note that Nouveau and company were cloistered in the woods somewhere, working from tents and enjoying the rustic life. This made sense, or at least it would to a lesser man, a man not used to the intricacies of investigative work.
I emptied my pint glass and wiped away the froth with my dinner napkin. The thick bottom was my magnifying glass and with it I gave the porter’s letter a good once over. The paper itself was rich with clues. First, there were no misspellings, which told me that Willie wrote under the guidance of someone. Second, the paper was a thick high quality stock, not the type to be found in country stores. Also, the paper was beige instead of white which was more expensive. Impressive card stock, the kind used by people and institutions who were well funded, who could push the extravagance of expensive paper, even for the trivial letters of hangers-on. And finally, in the reflected view of my pint glass, there was a thin watermark down the center. The water mark was more revealing than anything else. It was a mark given to paper to prove authenticity, to show that this paper had come from a single, specific location. Without any other clue I could tell you that this piece of paper came from the inner catacombs of Central Bureaucracy. Central B did not sell its paper stock, nor give it away. It was a trade mark, a thing exclusive to the organization. Willie the porter could not purchase nor receive it except by someone connected with the organization.
Was this another false lead? It seemed like a misstep on Darwin’s part. Would he allow something like this to escape his far reaching clutches, and for what reason? If he was selling the idea of a research camp, why use this nonconforming paper stock?
A new idea formed in my mind. This was a mistake. Darwin’s people delegated the task of sending a letter to the family of the poor missing porter, so as to not rouse authorities and investigating Metros; a necessary job, but not important enough to assign to someone of strong abilities. The figuring out of universal secrets, the dissecting and recreating of living automatons had to be a big job with all the smartest and quickest of men snapping to. What if minding the porter was given to a fool, a lesser? What if this lesser screwed up? Mistakes are built for exploitation and in my mind, this was it. This was a piece of the puzzle given to my hands though not by anyone’s intent.
The porter was housed in Central Bureaucracy, which meant Nouveau’s family was housed in Central Bureaucracy, which meant Nouveau and the Swan Princess were housed in Central Bureaucracy.
Darwin could not have picked a better location. London Central Bureaucracy was a monstrous building, a concrete pyramid erected to house the information agents and filings of the entire British Empire. Corporate contracts, trade agreements, personnel files on government employees, foreign intelligence reports, and the largest, greatest, most powerful Difference Engine known to man. The building occupied tw
o city blocks and was twelve stories high with a rumored twelve stories below. In short, it was an impenetrable fortress set to repel foreign invasion, let alone simple burglary.
I folded the porter’s letter. Once, twice, three times, four. I made it into a little square and shoved it into my boot, next to Saucy Jack’s knife.
The edges of a plan took hold in my mind. I finished supper and returned to my busted flat.
Ten
Jolly executes a plan all his own
The door to my flat stood open. I would have been alarmed had I not remembered that Mr. Safari had kicked the latch off. Everything was still a mess, still a pile of sticks. In my bedroom, some nice gentlemen had carted off my destroyed bed and replaced it with a nicely adorned four-post sleeper. In the frame they’d laid a goose feathered mattress and covered it with silk sheets. It was ill-suited for myself and my flat, with its carved oaken posts and streamers of red velvet. It looked more like a honey trap than a bed, but free is free and who would I complain to anyway?
I sat and removed my boots. Next to the bed, as promised, lay a pair identical to my own. Not just identical in size and make, Darwin had matched the wear and scuffs as well. I took up the right boot and ran my thumb along the sole. Under foot was a small latch. I undid the latch and swung open the heel. Inside a secret compartment lay a dull metal circle. He’d mentioned a coin, but this looked more like a metal slug. There was no print or face or symbol on it, just a disk.
I remembered Stoker’s warning about touching the coin. That seemed strange, but why give the warning if it did not pose some unforeseeable danger, unless there was something about the coin they did not want me to know? I took one of Doyle’s syringes and gave the disc a gentle poke. The surface dimpled under pressure. I prodded the coin again. It seemed insubstantial, near liquid in form. The metal itself was as malleable as mercury, and a layer of gelatin gave it its shape and kept the metal from spilling out.
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