Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper (8 page)

Maria smiled. “As we have already established, Doctor Augustus, I do not feel the cold as much as you do.”

The R-202-class ’stat was a personnel carrier that the Fleet Air Arm considered somewhat zippy in the air, but to Maria it felt sluggish and hellishly ground-hugging as it conveyed her and Doctor Augustus to London. Apep was kept under wraps at Bodmin Moor, shortly to be moved to a secret, secure facility somewhere else. When they had returned from America in September she had felt stricken at being parted from the brass dragon, as though she were leaving a part of herself behind. But today the wrench was less pronounced, a symptom of the subtle changes she had felt continually working within her ever since the crash in the Texas desert.

As she stared out the porthole at the gray skies, the thrum of the gear-driven engines propelling them eastward, she put herself back in the cockpit of Apep, rapidly losing awareness as she spiraled toward the ground, Louis Cockayne yelling in surprise behind her. When she had awakened she had put it down to exhaustion, having flown straight across the Atlantic after being hijacked by Cockayne, but later reflection had convinced her that something had occurred, something had changed.

Her control over Apep had strengthened, become more instinctive after the crash. She no longer required the brass pipe plugging directly into the aperture at the small of her back to connect to the dragon; she seemed to do it naturally, with the power of her mind. She had no name for the sensation she had experienced just before the crash. The nearest comparison she had was when the haphazard electrical wiring in Professor Einstein’s crooked house had occasionally buzzed angrily, causing the lightbulbs to flare brightly then explode in a shower of tinkling glass. Whatever had given Maria more mastery over Apep, it had also enabled her to operate without the constant winding of the key in the small of her back. She had been granted independence of movement, more control over her own body.

It was almost as if, by degrees, she was becoming more
alive
.

When she had awoken from the crash it had been thanks to the kiss of Gideon Smith, in that torchlit cavern where the Yaqui had taken her prisoner. She had not told anyone that, not even the engineers or doctors at Rough Tor. They were men of science and mathematics, and such
fairy tales
of princesses awoken by their true love’s kiss … well.

But the fact remained that something had shifted and altered within her at Gideon’s kiss, something had come together, like the pieces of a puzzle. Before coming awake she had felt as though she were a fish, down in the black depths of a pond, and that out there in the impossible distance a fisherman of sorts was casting around for her. The kiss from her own fisherman, lovely, handsome, brave Gideon Smith, had been the hook that connected lost Maria to whatever it was that looked for her.

She shook her head. It was all nonsense, all a jumble of things that she had no names for. All she knew for sure was that above the snow-heavy clouds that hung oppressively over the countryside was the bright blue sky, and beyond the sky was an infinity that seemed to reach out to her.

Her heart ached, and she did not know whether it was for Gideon Smith or for the exhilarating rush of freedom she had experienced as she had pushed Apep on and on and on through the thinning air toward the mysteries of the beyond.

*   *   *

Gideon was picking over some cold meat in the kitchen while Mrs. Cadwallader poked with a knife at a chicken she had roasting in the oven when Bent announced his presence with a cough. Gideon looked up to see the journalist holding a bunch of flowers wrapped in newspaper.

“Ah, these are for you, Sally. Mrs. Cadwallader.”

There was a silence in the kitchen as the housekeeper stared at the loosely wrapped bouquet then exchanged a puzzled glance with Gideon.

“For me? Why?”

Bent shrugged. “I just thought … well. You know. I probably don’t appreciate you enough.”

Mrs. Cadwallader wiped her hands on her apron but didn’t move from the oven. “I get my wages, Mr. Bent. That is my appreciation.”

“Still…” He flapped the flowers at her. “Do you want ’em, or not?”

Mrs. Cadwallader sighed and walked across the kitchen to take them from him. “Camellia, honeysuckle, hellebore … well, I’m not sure what to say, Mr. Bent. They are beautiful.”

“No more so than you, Mrs. Cadwallader,” Bent mumbled.

Gideon almost choked on his mouthful of food. Mrs. Cadwallader raised an eyebrow and laid the flowers on the worktop. “Well. I’ll go and find a vase for these. There’s one in the study, I think.”

When she’d gone Gideon asked, “Are you feeling all right, Aloysius?”

“Effing hell, can’t a man buy his housekeeper some flowers? Anyway, what happened with the Elmwoods? Did you tell them we don’t do missing persons and they should call the police?”

Gideon nodded, retrieving a buff envelope from beneath his plate. “I did. They haven’t had much luck with the police.”

Bent pulled up a stool and took a piece of ham from Gideon’s plate, sniffing it suspiciously before cramming it into his mouth. “Not really our thing, though, is it?”

“I didn’t think so, but for two reasons. One, Markus Mesmer is involved.”

Bent shook his head and said through his half-chewed food, “No, no, we don’t get involved with Markus Mesmer.”

“I know Lucian and John had run-ins with him, but that doesn’t mean—”

Bent held up a hand to cut him off. “Not because of that. Well, sort of. Mesmer’s a canny old soul; Trigger and Reed did indeed cross his path a number of times, but he keeps his nose clean. After the last adventure Trigger wrote up, Mesmer’s lawyers called at
World Marvels & Wonders
and demanded to see some hard evidence of the villainy they’d accused him of. Of course, there was none, not that’d stand up in court. If he’d sued for defamation he could have closed the paper down. As it was, they settled out of court, for a sizeable amount, so’s I understand. But since then Mesmer’s been off-limits.”

“But he’s obviously a crook,” protested Gideon.

“That’s as may be,” said Bent, selecting another cold cut from the plate. “But unless he’s a
provable
crook, we steer clear.” He paused and chewed reflectively. “You said two reasons?”

Gideon slid the picture from the envelope and handed it to Bent, who glanced at it and said, “Nice portrait of Maria. When did she have this done? And what does it have to do with anything?”

“It isn’t Maria. It’s Charlotte Elmwood. The missing girl.”

Bent took a longer look. “Effing hell. It’s the spitting image of her.” He handed the picture back. “You going to tell Maria about this when she gets back?”

“I thought not, for now,” said Gideon. “According to the newspaper, Mesmer has a show tonight, at a theater in Hoxton. I thought I might go along, just to watch his act.”

Bent raised an eyebrow. “On the night Maria comes home?”

“I’ll only be gone two hours, three at most. But you have to agree there’s a mystery here, Aloysius.”

They contemplated in silence for a moment, then Bent said quietly, “There’s something I was going to mention, Gideon. We’ve been back from America … what, three months? And I notice Maria still has her own room.”

“What of it?”

“Well, I thought … look, you two are hardly the most orthodox couple in Mayfair. I just can’t see why you aren’t … you know. Sharing a room.”

Gideon looked down at the photograph and Bent asked softly, “Have you … you know?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business, Aloysius!”

Bent shrugged. “Thought you might like a bit of advice, you know.”

Gideon laughed. “From you?”

Bent thumbed his nose at Gideon. “Don’t get like that. I wasn’t always the sack of horseshit you see in front of you. I was quite a catch when I was a younger man. Just let myself go a bit, that’s all.” He paused and said more gently, “Look, Gideon, I know it must be hard for you, losing your old man like you did. I just want you to know that if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Gideon felt oddly touched. Then Bent said, “You do know how to do it, don’t you? Get the barge into the dock, and all that? Make the beast with two backs? Rumpy-pumpy? Give the dog a bone?”

The doorbell sounded, and Mrs. Cadwallader called, “I’ll get it—I’m in the hall.”

Bent stood up. “Think on it, anyway. It’s time you two stopped being so coy, if you’re going to make a go of it. I think I’ll go and draw a bath.”

Gideon stared at him. “A bath? You, Aloysius?”

He winked. “It is nearly Christmas, after all.”

“Mr. Bent!” roared Mrs. Cadwallader.

Bent and Gideon exchanged glances. “Uh oh.”

“Mr. Newby of the Grosvenor Square Residents’ Committee is at the door, inquiring if we know anything about the theft of flowers from the communal gardens…”

“I need the outhouse,” said Bent. “Toss him a couple of coins for the flowers, eh, Gideon?”

Gideon laughed and nodded as Bent stole out of the kitchen as silently and swiftly as he could. He watched the journalist go. Perhaps he was right. Gideon had thought of little else since Maria moved into Grosvenor Square, and he had spent tortured nights lying in his bed, knowing she was just down the hall. He would ask her tonight, he decided. He would say that he wished for them to share a room. To be together, properly together. Gideon glanced at the clock. He couldn’t wait for Maria to come home.

*   *   *

After escorting Maria to a steam-cab and paying her fare to Grosvenor Square, Doctor Clement Augustus hailed one himself and told the driver to take him to Whitehall, where after passing through the interminable gatekeepers he finally found himself in the office of Mr. Walsingham just as darkness fell over snow-bound London.

“Thank you for coming, Doctor,” said Walsingham as Augustus sloughed off his overcoat and shook the snow from its shoulders. “Did you have a fruitful week?”

Augustus laid several thick binders on the desk between them. “Here are the reports by myself and the staff at Rough Tor,” he said. “They should make for interesting reading.”

Walsingham sat back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “A précis, if you please.”

Augustus ran a hand through his shock of white hair and sighed. “We have run Maria and Apep through a battery of tests. In summary, together they have reached speeds in excess of one hundred miles an hour. I suspect Maria could probably push the dragon faster, but we would need a more remote location with a wider test area to find out.”

“And the fireballs?”

Augustus shook his head. “The dragon can seemingly fire an infinite amount of them. We have no idea how the energy is generated. The fireballs seem to have a consistent adiabatic temperature—that is, they don’t lose their heat until they hit a target and explode—of 1,949 degrees Celsius, roughly equivalent to that of burning methane. As for altitude … just this morning I almost died, Walsingham, accompanying Maria to a height in excess of thirty-six thousand feet. That’s higher than any man has flown before. And the terrifying thing? She could have gone farther.”

Walsingham smiled. “Excellent. That is rather the point, Doctor. And your experiments with duplicating the Apep mechanisms?”

“Useless. Without Maria it is simply a very ornate pile of brass. When she joins with Apep, by means that thus far elude explanation, they become something wondrous. Something…” He hesitated, and Walsingham bade him go on with an inclination of his head. He murmured, “Something magical.”

Walsingham said, “Magic is just science we cannot yet explain, Doctor Augustus. So it is not the dragon that flies, it is Maria. Specifically, it is the Atlantic Artifact within her head.”

Augustus nodded. “We need Hermann Einstein if we are to fully understand it, Walsingham. I’ve read the notes you obtained from his house, of course, but his methodology … it was so haphazard, as was his notation. However he created Maria and what he learned from doing so, he’s kept it up here.” Augustus tapped his forehead with a thick forefinger.

Walsingham mused for a moment, then said, “Then we must redouble our efforts to find Hermann Einstein. And failing that, if we cannot get into the good professor’s head, then I fear we must seriously consider getting into Maria’s.”

Augustus frowned. “You mean…?”

“Yes. What Einstein did must be able to be replicated. He is an asset of the British Crown, and if it turns out he is lost for good, then I will reclaim another British asset, the Atlantic Artifact.”

“That would kill her, you know that.”

Walsingham chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, you are so sentimental for a man of science, Doctor Augustus. Kill her? She isn’t even
alive
.”

*   *   *

The steam-cab let Maria out on to the crisp snow blanketing the sidewalks in Grosvenor Square. She stood for a moment in the pool of light cast by the gas lamp outside number twenty-three, feeling the soft kisses of the snowflakes on her face.

Yes, feeling. She marveled at how her pale leather skin could detect the soft moisture as it alit and melted into nothingness on her. She’d had no use for feelings in the House of Einstein, especially not after the man she considered her father had left, and she had been at the mercy of his debased housekeeper, Crowe. But since Gideon had rescued her a heightened sensitivity had come, and she delighted in brushing leaves with her fingertips and experiencing the thick pile of carpet beneath her bare feet; she longed for the gentle caress of Gideon on her skin.

Inside her, something welled up, something she could not rightly explain as being the proper, normal function of the pipes, pistons, rods, and gears that powered her. Gideon. Her mechanical heart beat fit to burst.

She was home. She looked up to where the clouds had thinned and slightly parted, to allow a glimpse of black sky and twinkling stars.

Home.

6

T
HE
V
ISITATION

It had taken Rowena Fanshawe the best part of four months to find the place, and she wasn’t much impressed by what she saw. Compared to Healwood, the new hospital—M
IDGRAVE
P
RIVATE
S
ANATORIUM
, said the peeling paint of the weathered sign, somewhat ominously—looked cramped and dark, the soot-blackened walls that reached up to gothic spires at each corner of the squat building seeming particularly foreboding. The grounds were much smaller than Healwood, too, overgrown and unkempt. She could just pick out paths snaking between the lawns, but snow covered all. No footprints. No exercise for the patients, not today at any rate.