Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (22 page)

Sickert laughed. “Highborn?” he said. “Dear Maria, Annie Crook was nothing but a lowly shopgirl, with a dash of common prostitute.”

Outside the
Argus
offices, Bent ran into one of the urchins from the Fleet Street Irregulars and gave him a full description of Maria. “You’ll not miss her,” he told the snot-faced boy. “Right pretty little baggage. And, apparently, an automaton.”

“Like the dancing puppets in Regent’s Park?” asked the boy, wide-eyed.

“Aye,” said Bent, and gave him Trigger’s address. “Just like that. You’ll put the word out, yes?”

“Mr. Bent,” said Bingley, leaning back on his chair as Bent stumbled into the office. “How nice to have you with us today.”

Bent went straight to his desk and opened his drawer to retrieve his Jack the Ripper files. He stuffed them into a manila envelope and walked over to the news desk.

“On a big story, Bingley,” he said, eyeing up a half-eaten pastry on the City Editor’s desk.

Bingley looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t trust you, Bent, that’s the top and bottom of it. Now you sit down and tell me all about this big story of yours, or you make yourself available for whatever tasks I see fit. I have a paper to fill, you know.”

“Can’t do it, Bingley old chap,” said Bent. “Utterly top secret right at the moment. But it’s going to be the biggest story ever to grace the front page of this rag, I can tell you. Now, toodle-pip. I’ll be in touch.”

Bingley looked at him, aghast. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Mayfair,” said Bent. “Then Egypt, perhaps.”

“
Egypt
?”

“Big place in North Africa, full of sand.”

“I know where Egypt is, Mr. Bent, and I can most assuredly say that you are not going there. Now sit down.”

Bent held up his hands. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I’m back.”

“Bent!” roared Bingley, standing up. The journalist was already walking down the newsroom. “Bent! You get back here or you might not have a job to come back to when you return!”

But Bent had already gone.

Gideon paced the study at Grosvenor Square, ignoring the tea Mrs. Cadwallader was trying to press upon him. “We should be out looking for Maria, not sitting here eating fancies,” he said.

“London is a big place, with more than six million souls residing here,” said Trigger gently. “This is the only place she knows; she will return here.”

“If she’s able,” said Gideon. “She might be in trouble.” He should have spoken to her at least, told her he would still help her to find Einstein. She must be feeling he’d abandoned her. She’d not be far wrong. He’d been so wrapped up in the thought of the trip to Egypt, so consumed by adventure . . .

Bent was sitting at the table, flicking through the journals and notes Trigger had piled high the previous night. Bent’s investigations in the newspaper archive had turned up a little on Rhodopis, but nothing very useful. He said, “Who’s W? His name crops up a lot.”

“John’s contact in the Government,” said Trigger. “A shadowy figure; I don’t even know his real name.”

Gideon paused. W? That sounded somewhat familiar. Bent said, “You met him?”

Trigger shrugged. “Tall. Thin. Always well turned out. Mustache. Rather hawkish nose. Piercing eyes.”

Bent slapped his hand on the table. “That’s the effer who had me taken off the Jack the Ripper story.”

“How curious,” said Trigger as Bent began to leaf through the journals again. Gideon snapped his fingers and went to find his bag. Maria had taken her key but left behind the book he had taken from Einstein’s laboratory.

When Gideon had finished reading Einstein’s book, Bent shook his head. “This just gets more and more effing grotesque. Clockwork innards? But a human brain?” He coughed and murmured, “And she showed you her bubbies?”

Gideon ignored him. “The man who brought the Atlantic Artifact to Einstein is referred to merely as “W.” Surely the same person? But what does it mean, if anything?”

Trigger took one of the journals from Bent and flicked through it. “Look here. These are John’s notes on a mission he undertook with a Royal Navy submersible.”

“I read that,” said Bent. “W. took that . . . that brain-thing from him.”

“. . . and gave it to Einstein,” said Gideon. “W. then provided him with a real brain—”

“Oh. My. Effing. God,” breathed Bent. “I’ve just read this here about Lord Somerset.”

Trigger frowned. “Mr. Bent, please limit yourself to the relevant entries. John’s journals are not fuel for your salacious yellow journalism.”

Bent shook his head violently. “No, no. Look. The Duke of Clarence was knobbing some shopgirl. W. had her seen to.” He looked up, the ruddiness draining from his flabby cheeks. “W. provides Einstein with a brain at about the same time. That’s when Annie Crook turned up dead by the banks of the Thames. With the top of her head sliced off, very definitely sans effing brain.”

They considered this in silence for a moment. Trigger said, “I fear I am with Mr. Smith, Mr. Bent. You seem to be a little ahead of us. . . .”

“It could not be a stronger connection if it were pinned to the front of a steam omnibus crashing through your bay windows, Trigger. The artifact in Maria’s head is Egyptian; she also has Annie Crook’s brain. John Reed has gone off to Egypt. Could the artifact be from the Rhodopis Pyramid, like everything else seems to be?” He threw his hands into the air. “I’m going round in effing circles. I can’t think straight. The mysterious Mr. W. seems to be casting a very long shadow over a lot of seemingly unconnected events.”

Trigger steepled his long fingers beneath his chin. “Perhaps it would help if you could share with us your information on this Annie Crook, Mr. Bent.”

Mrs. Cadwallader knocked and bustled inside, glaring at the journalist. “Captain Trigger, there’s a half- starved waif on the doorstep, asking for him.”

“Ah, the Fleet Street Irregulars,” said Bent. He followed the housekeeper to the front door and returned in a moment, smiling. “The little buggers have done it. There’s a sighting of a party matching Maria’s description near Victoria Embankment.”

“You can tell us of Annie Crook on the way,” said Trigger. “Mrs. Cadwallader! Please organize us some transport, posthaste!”

Maria had prevailed upon Sickert to wind her, and although he had complied she feared the act had shattered what was left of his fragile mind. He sat in his chair, rocking and mumbling to himself, as she buttoned herself up and took her leave of his studio.

So. Her humiliation was complete. She was not only a clockwork toy, she was one with stolen memories, lifted from the mind of a common whore. Was it any wonder Gideon Smith had shunned her so? She must wear her degradation like a perfume. Now she knew why she so readily—and, yes, expertly—carried out Crowe’s debased demands. Like a dog to its vomit, she had returned to her wicked ways, even after death.

Maria walked again. There was no one in London she could count on. Who would want to see her, now that she knew she was an evil, unholy thing that had snatched rudely at a life she had no right to? Even though she now saw flashes of her former life, like half-recalled dreams, she could not remember anyone whom she might have called friend, then or now. She was truly alone.

Her steps took her to the river, and she stood on the Victoria Embankment, watching the sluggish flow of the Thames as the electrified lights strung along its length fizzed into pale life. A fog was rolling off the river, thick and sinewy around her ankles, and rising. Two sweethearts walked by, arm in arm, and what ever contraption Maria had for a heart ached.

Perhaps she should throw herself into the Thames. She didn’t even know if that would do the job. But maybe, as she sunk to the bottom like a stone, dragged by her brass and iron workings, she would achieve some kind of peace.

There was a distant clamor of howling dogs, and beneath the caterwauling Maria heard another, closer sound. More passers-by. She would wait until they had disappeared, to save any chance of anyone trying to save her. She turned to see who it was, then gasped. Out of the yellow fog shambled a shape, thin and elongated, buoyed along on the rhythmic scraping of its feet on the cobbles and a hissing exhalation of tomb-dry breath. As it emerged from the wreaths of mist Maria made out the glint of something sharp and cruel at the end of its clawlike hands. Was this the Jack the Ripper Gideon had spoken of, who murdered London’s fallen women? A fitting end to her miserable existence. But as the figure stepped into the corona of light from the lamps she let loose a terrified scream that the smog all around her seemed to absorb into a leaden nothingness, of no interest to anyone.

15
Vampires of Shoreditch

The dirigible touched down at the Highgate Aerodrome, the tug-blimp guiding the vast leviathan of the sky into a berth where muscular stevedores grappled the trailing cables on to the huge iron rings set into the stone apron.

Bathory and Stoker disembarked and were directed to a waiting rank of steam-cabs, rickshaws, and horse-drawn carriages. They arranged for the box of earth and the countess’s other baggage to be kept in storage at Highgate, then Stoker murmured, “Where should we begin?”

Bathory looked into the middle distance, her eyes narrowing. “They are here, in London. I can almost smell their briny stench.”

As they settled into a steam-cab Stoker said, “Can you perhaps fix their location?”

Bathory concentrated, then shook her head. “South of here, is the best I can suggest. The closer we get, the more brightly they will shine.”

“A tour of London, please,” said Stoker to the cabbie. “Head south, perhaps cross the river at Waterloo Bridge. I would show my companion the sights.”

As the steam-cab trundled off, Stoker said quietly, “I took the liberty of drawing some more blood in the bathroom of the dirigible.”

She nodded gratefully and took the glass bottle he surreptitiously passed over to her. “I cannot thank you enough for this, Bram,” she said. “But it must be weakening you.”

“Nonsense.” He smiled. “I am a strong Irishman with blood to spare.”

As Bathory sipped at the bottle, Stoker reflected he did, in fact, feel a little lightheaded, but as he looked at the back of their driver’s head, his neck exposed, he wondered how many lives he had thus far saved, even if they may have been, in Elizabeth’s opinion, not worth saving.

Bathory finished her meal, dabbed the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief, and looked out the window as they trundled into London.

“You have been here before?” Stoker asked.

She nodded. “On occasion.”

He thrilled at the thought of Bathory and Dracula wandering among mortal folk, preying on them when their bloodlust overwhelmed them. “Are there many like you? Vampires?”

She looked at him. “Many,” she said. “Especially on the Continent. England has, traditionally, not been a welcoming place for our kind. But we thrive in the mountains and forests of Europe. Germany, especially, has many resident vampires, as does Italy.” She smiled at some memory of long ago. “Some Carnivale nights in Venice, there are more vampires than humans on the streets.”

“And, wherever you go, do you . . . hunt?”

She nodded. “And we are hunted. Man and vampire find it difficult to live in harmony.”

“Hardly surprising,” sniffed Stoker, “when you steal our blood.”

Bathory shrugged. “It is the way of things, the natural order. Just as man eats the animals on the farm, so we must feed on mortals.”

Stoker looked at her for a long time. “Is that how you see me, Elizabeth? A . . . a sheep, or a cow, perhaps, to be milked for your sustenance?”

She laid a hand on his thigh and he closed his eyes, overcome. She whispered, “The blood pact was your idea, remember, Bram. And I am no more an animal than you. When you are hungry, do you tear apart a sheep in a field?”

“Of course not!”

“No. You control your appetites. You wait until an appropriate moment, and for appropriate food. So it is with me. I choose carefully.” She smiled, showing her canines. “And I enjoy my food.”

The steam-cab continued in silence for a while, then Stoker said, “I hope you do not mind me asking, Elizabeth, but the Children of Heqet have proved too strong for you and in overwhelming numbers twice before. How do you intend to fight them this time?”