The Martian Ambassador (11 page)

‘A very slight case of motion sickness. I get it sometimes on trains and walking machines. Please do not be concerned; it will pass.’

Blackwood decided to try to take his mind away from what was being prepared in the kitchen. ‘Tell me, Sophia: how did you become involved with the Society for Psychical Research?’

‘I joined the Society five years ago, at the invitation of the President, Sir William Crookes, who is a great friend to the Harrington family.’

‘I know Sir William; he is a fine man and a brilliant scientist.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And so, in five years, you have risen to become the Society’s Secretary. A most impressive achievement. I was under the impression, however, that Dr Henry Armistead was Secretary...’

‘Dr Armistead left a few months ago to pursue a lecturing opportunity at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Sir William did me the honour of offering the vacant position to me.’

‘I see,’ Blackwood replied, regarding her carefully.

Sophia returned his gaze, and again offered that small, cryptic smile. ‘Let me guess: you are finding it difficult to believe that a woman of my tender years should rise so quickly through the ranks of such an august institution as the SPR, even under the patronage of its President.’

Blackwood gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have put it in so many words, myself...’

‘It is a reasonable question,’ Sophia replied levelly, ‘and since we are to be working together, I believe it deserves a reasonable and truthful response, and so I shall tell you a little of my history. How much do you know of the Harrington family?’

‘I was aware of the name, of course, but beyond that, I’m afraid I must admit to almost total ignorance – although I naturally read of the mysterious disappearance of Lord Percival Harrington some ten years ago.’

Sophia nodded. ‘He was my father. A natural explorer and hunter, his fascination with the world and curiosity as to its remotest locations consumed him, and it directed the course of his entire life. I inherited that love of strange and distant places, and by the time I was eighteen, I had accompanied him on numerous safaris in Africa and India and had become passably acquainted with the singular lands of the Far East.’

‘Did your mother accompany you on these excursions?’ asked Blackwood.

Sophia took a sip of her water. ‘Although my parents were devoted to each other, my mother never shared this wanderlust, and so she remained on the estate while my father and I were off on our various travels.’ She smiled. ‘Never once did Mama begrudge us our interests, and when we returned, she would always ply us for stories of our experiences in far regions.

‘However, as time passed, I began to grow weary of oppressive heat, of sand and dust and tropical forests. I have always loved the snows of winter in England, its deep frosts, the immaculate stillness of its coldest mornings when the very world seems carved in alabaster, and I suggested to my father that I should like to explore the pristine lands of the Arctic north. He readily agreed and straight away began to make arrangements for a hunting trip to the Canadian wilderness, which he himself had not visited for many years.

‘We set sail on my eighteenth birthday. I still recall the excitement I felt at the thought of pitting myself against the implacable, frozen world that awaited us.’ Sophia hesitated as the memories returned, and Blackwood was struck by the expression of profound sadness that had crept upon her features. ‘Little did I know how implacable that strange world would turn out to be.’ She stopped again and took another sip of water, and Blackwood had the impression that she would much rather be drinking something a little stronger at that moment.

The waiter arrived with the wine, and Blackwood thanked him and waved him away before he could pour it. He filled their wine glasses himself as he said to her, ‘That was when your father disappeared.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sophia, I promise you I will understand if you do not wish to speak of this further. I hadn’t intended for you to revisit the pain of earlier years...’

She took a long sip of wine before replying, ‘It’s quite all right, Thomas. I have gone over the horrors of that journey so many times in my mind since then... to describe them to you will place little further strain upon me. And somehow...’ She gave him a strange look. ‘Somehow it feels appropriate that I should tell you.’

Blackwood inclined his head slightly. ‘In that case, please do go on, my dear.’

‘We had been in the depths of the forest for three days, along with our two guides – men of rough manners but good character, who had been recommended to my father for their knowledge of woodcraft and bush-lore. One of them was a Canuck, a native of the Province of Quebec, who possessed a profoundly superstitious frame of mind. In spite of the season, the hunting was not good, and try as we might, we could not come upon a single moose trail. Our Canuck guide claimed to know the reason, and it was only with the greatest insistence that my father was able to drag an explanation from him, although the explanation, when it came, was more problematical than the scarcity of moose which had inspired it.

‘The Canuck claimed that the animals had been driven away by the presence in the forest of something abnormal and unholy, something incomprehensible to human thought, which had ventured forth from its own mysterious and horrible realm to trouble this frozen world. He added that, had it not been for the handsome remuneration my father had offered, which would see him and his poor family in good order for many months to come, he would not have ventured into the wilderness on this occasion – for he had begun to suspect the presence of this monstrous thing as soon as the forest closed about us on the first day.

‘Both my father and the other guide laughed at this and dismissed it as no more than quaint legend. This angered the Canuck, and he declared that the wilderness was no place for a woman, and that my father would be well-advised to take me back to the comforts of our grand house in England, where I belonged.’

Although he refrained from saying as much, Blackwood found himself in agreement with this sentiment and wondered to himself what could have possessed Lord Percival to place his daughter in the path of such peril, supernatural or otherwise.

Sophia herself answered the question for him. ‘My father declared indignantly that I was fully the equal in courage and ability of any boy my age. “My daughter,” he said, “has looked into the eyes of charging tigers and brought them down with a single shot. She will meet any challenge this forest of yours can present to her, and she will prevail!”’

‘He was clearly very proud of you,’ said Blackwood.

Sophia was about to reply, but she fell silent as the waiter approached with their lunch. He placed their plates before them, gave a slight bow and withdrew.

Blackwood’s lemon sole smelled delicious, but his attention was exercised far more by Sophia’s Indian Omelette. It mattered little to him that most other people might have looked favourably at the tomatoes, chopped green chillis and coriander which made up the main flavors of the dish; however, the fluffy yellow mass of beaten eggs made Blackwood’s flesh crawl and his breath catch in his throat, and he would have fled from the restaurant and the first class cabin and hidden amongst the luggage on D Deck if he could have done so without arousing the alarm of the haunted young woman sitting opposite him.

Sophia breathed in the aroma and smiled, clearly grateful for this momentary respite from the terrible memories she had been revisiting. ‘I developed a taste for this while on safari in India,’ she said. ‘It’s a most interesting and unusual variation on the traditional recipe. Would you care to try some, Thomas?’

‘Thank you, no,’ he replied between two large gulps of wine, trying to banish his own hideous memories.
Calm yourself!
he thought.
It’s in the past. The Cosmic Spheres are gone – never to return, if there be any mercy in the universe!

Sophia ate in silence, while Blackwood half-heartedly prodded at his fish, taking the occasional small bite. His appetite had completely deserted him, and he found his attention seeking escape towards the promenade windows and the seating aft of the restaurant. Thankfully, Sophia didn’t notice, or if she did, she chose not to comment.

Presently, she laid down her knife and fork. ‘That was rather good – although not quite enough chilli. But then, I suppose care must be taken with the parochial English palate.’

‘Indeed. Would you care for dessert?’

‘No, thank you. Coffee will suffice, I think.’

Blackwood ordered coffee for them, and breathed a sigh of relief when the waiter took their plates.

‘Yes, my father was very proud of me,’ Sophia continued, as if no interruption had occurred. ‘And my heart swelled at the thought of it, and I resolved to be worthy of his praise. I resolved to be the first to bag a moose.’ She gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘Had I but known that we were not the hunters in that God-forsaken forest, but the hunted!’

‘Hunted?’ said Blackwood. ‘By what, or by whom?’

‘By the thing of which the Canuck spoke... for he was right: the forest
did
contain something ungodly and awful...’

‘Forgive me, Sophia,’ said Blackwood, leaning forward. ‘But it sounds to me like you are speaking of the Wendigo.’

Sophia visibly shuddered at the word, and Blackwood reached out and took her trembling hands in his. ‘You’ve heard of it?’ she whispered.

‘Cogitators may not be my speciality... but I
do
know something of the abnormal and supernatural. My line of work, you understand.’

‘Then you know what it is... the thing that rides the night wind in far, cold hinterlands. You know that the American Indian tribes of the north know it and fear it, that it is an evil, cannibalistic spirit, a skeletal apparition whose desiccated skin is like cracked parchment, and that the smell of death and decay hangs upon it like a cloak of corruption. You know these things,’ Sophia said, fixing Blackwood with her agonised gaze, ‘and I know them too: for the Wendigo came for us while we were in that forest. It dragged my father, kicking and screaming, out of our tent one night, and I heard his anguished cries fading into the night sky above our camp. I never saw him again.’

‘Good God,’ whispered Blackwood. ‘How did you escape?’

‘Our two guides took me and dragged me bodily from the camp, even as I screamed my father’s name again and again into the night. We fled back along the trail we had followed, for two days and two nights, the Canuck leading us. And through each of those two nights, my protectors watched over me, shunning sleep, ever alert for the approach of the monster. I owe them my life, for their roughness of demeanour could not hide their decency and stoutness of heart. On the third day, we reached civilisation and raised the alarm. A search party of volunteers was assembled in short order and headed off into the forest to look for my father... but no trace of him was ever found.’

Blackwood gazed at her in silence. He could think of nothing useful to say.

‘Upon my return to England, I fell into such a state of despair that our friends and relatives feared for my sanity. It was my mother who saved me – ironically, you might think – for so utterly heartbroken was she by the loss of her beloved husband that she underwent a sudden and terrible decline in health, and I realised that it was up to me to pull both of us through that awful period.’

‘Which you did,’ said Blackwood.

‘Yes. Gradually, my mother and I recovered, with the help and support of our family, and friends such as Sir William Crookes. He was the only one with whom I felt able to discuss what had really happened to my father, and it was he who supported me in my resultant desire to study the supernatural.’

Blackwood was shocked by this. ‘One would have thought that after such a tragic and ghastly experience, you would never again want to
hear
the word “supernatural”, much less study it.’

‘Oh, but I did! I wanted to know its ways and the means by which it interacts with our world. I wanted to seek out the darkness, to do battle with it and defeat it, and I wanted also to seek out the light, to learn from it and gain strength from it – for as I’m sure you know, the realms of the supernatural contain much that is good, as well as much that is wicked and destructive.’

‘True enough,’ Blackwood nodded.

‘And so this is what brought me to the Society for Psychical Research, the institution which is allowing me to fulfil my vocation. With my permission, Sir William shared my experience with certain other key members, and they had no objections to my becoming Secretary.’

‘And well they might not!’ declared Blackwood. ‘For I have no doubt that you are a great asset to the organisation. You have already proved your qualities to me, for otherwise I would have been carted off to the madhouse by now!’

Sophia lowered her eyes. ‘You are kind to say so, Thomas.’

Kindness has nothing to do with it
, thought Blackwood.
With a woman like this by my side, and the little chap from Faerie helping out as well... why, we’ll get to the bottom of this caper in no time!

The omnibus arrived at Taunton a little after half past two. With a hiss of hydraulics and a bell-like clang of moving metal, its great piston-driven legs folded up, and the hull settled toward the station’s platform. Blackwood and Sophia were already at the main hatch on E Deck, and they waited patiently as the gangway was wheeled into position by a trio of station porters.

As she stepped lightly onto the platform, Sophia breathed in deeply. ‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Smell the air, Thomas! It’s so lovely to get out of London for an afternoon.’

Blackwood agreed: the air was cool and clear, with none of the taint that constantly afflicted the atmosphere in the capital.

‘How far is it to Fyne Court?’

‘The Crosse estate is a little over four miles north of here, near the village of Broomfield. I’m sure we shall be able to secure some transportation, if we ask in the right place.’

‘And where would that be?’ asked Sophia as they left the station and emerged onto North Street, the main thoroughfare through Taunton.

Blackwood pointed directly ahead, at a tavern whose sign proclaimed it to be the Waggoner’s Arms. They crossed the street and entered the low-ceilinged saloon, in which a few locals were taking some early afternoon refreshment. Everyone turned in their direction, as local people are wont to do when newcomers arrive, and the scattered conversations died down to an occasional murmur of curiosity.

They approached the bar, behind which the rotund, florid-faced barkeep gave a slight bow and said, ‘Arternoon, sir, madam. What’ll it be?’

Blackwood withdrew his wallet and placed a guinea on the counter. ‘Your help would be much appreciated, my good man. My companion and I would like to procure transportation to Broomfield. Do you know of anyone who might take us there without delay?’

The guinea vanished into the barkeep’s pocket with almost supernatural speed, and he nodded in the direction of a far corner of the room. ‘Old Davey’s headin’ up that way, ain’t you, Davey?’

‘That oi be,’ came the reply from the corner, in which sat a wiry old man with a thin, straggly beard and bright, humorous eyes. ‘If the gentleman’ll toss one o’ them guineas my way, oi’ll be ’appy to take him and the lady... if they don’t moind spendin’ ’alf an hour in an ’ay cart, that is.’

‘Splendid,’ said Blackwood. ‘A guinea it is, then.’

Old Davey drained the last of the ale from his tankard and stood up, a trifle unsteadily, Sophia thought with a suppressed smile. ‘Cart’s ’round the back,’ he said as he tottered through the front door.

‘Good day to you all,’ said Blackwood to the other patrons as he and Sophia followed their new driver out into the street. Davey led them around the corner of the building and into a small yard at the rear, where his horse and cart were waiting.

Blackwood helped Sophia up onto the bench, and then climbed up as Davey took the reins and said, ‘Come on, boy!’ to the horse. With a clap-clapping of hooves, they left the Waggoner’s Arms behind and, a few minutes later, were heading north out of Taunton through the rolling Quantock Hills.

*

‘This is such a delightful part of the country,’ said Sophia as they made their way along a narrow lane with lush green hills rising towards a cloud-feathered sky. ‘Have you lived here all your life, Davey?’ she asked the old man.

‘Aye, that oi ’ave, ma’am,’ he replied.

‘In that case,’ said Blackwood, ‘you will know something of Mr Andrew Crosse.’

Sophia, who was sitting between Davey and Blackwood, felt the old man tense, as if he had received a shock.

When he made no reply, Blackwood glanced across at him. ‘Davey?’

‘All the folks ’ereabouts knows about Mr Crosse, sir,’ he said in a low grumble. ‘We calls him the Wizard of the Quantocks.’

‘A most peculiar nickname,’ observed Sophia. ‘Why do you call him that?’

‘Because that’s what he is, ma’am. Keepin’ himself locked away on that ramshackle estate o’ his, in that
workshop
o’ his, doin’ all them things that man weren’t meant to do! Aye, he be a wizard all right, and folks ’round here’d be right glad if he’d take himself off and never come back!’

Sophia and Blackwood glanced at each other. ‘What
kind
of things?’ asked Blackwood.

‘He calls up ghosts and devils, he does! The people o’ Broomfield know all about it, and they take care to steer clear o’ Fyne Court after dark. You can see the lights at night: queer, blue dancin’ lights upon the hills around the estate, an’ a terrible sparking sound, like nearby thunder. Some people calls ’im the thunder an’ lightnin’ man, as well, and there’s some as believe he uses black magic to call the thunder down out o’ the sky – and other things, besides!’

Blackwood stole a quick look at Sophia, wishing that the old man hadn’t spoken in such terms, but she seemed unperturbed, and was regarding their confidante with an expression of intense concentration.

Old Davey continued in a low voice, speaking more to himself than to his passengers. ‘Aye, whatever he’s doin’ up there, it ain’t natural... it be against God is what it be!’ As he said this, something seemed to occur to him, and he turned suddenly suspicious eyes on Blackwood. ‘By the by, sir – who be you and the young lady goin’ to see up in Broomfield, if it ain’t out o’ turn to ask?’

Blackwood smiled at him, and replied, ‘Why, we’re going to see the very gentleman of whom you speak.’

Sophia gave a little gasp and looked at him as Davey brought the cart to a sudden halt.

Blackwood took out his wallet, flipped it open and showed his identification to Davey. ‘We are agents of the Crown, and are conducting an investigation into Mr Crosse’s activities, of which, I might add, Her Majesty takes a very dim view. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if, one day quite soon, you and the other good people of Broomfield are free of him forever.’

Davey peered at the contents of the wallet and scratched his beard. ‘Agents of the Crown, you say?’

‘Indeed. And you, sir, have already been of great service to us, which I assure you we will not forget. Now... may we continue on our way?’

Davey hesitated for a moment and then nodded and flicked the reins.

Half an hour later, they reached the edge of Broomfield. Davey brought the cart to a halt and pointed towards a narrow path between two fields of rich, dark soil. ‘Fyne Court be that way,’ he said. ‘I’ll be sure to say a prayer for you both.’

‘Much obliged,’ Blackwood replied, as he helped Sophia down. ‘I’d also be obliged enough to give you five guineas if you’re here in two hours’ time. We’ll be needing a ride back to Taunton when we have completed our business.’

‘Five guineas?’ Davey marvelled. ‘Oi’ll be ’ere, sir!’ And with that, the cart clattered off into the village.

As they began to walk in the direction Davey had indicated, Sophia said, ‘I must admit, Thomas, that I was most surprised when you told him where we’re going.’

‘I had no choice: we know no one in Broomfield, and I’ll wager Old Davey knows everyone. He would have seen through a lie immediately. This way, at least he is assured that we are on the side of good, and that we shall take action against “the Wizard of the Quantocks” if necessary.’

As their course took them up the shallow rise of a low, rounded hill, Sophia seized Blackwood’s arm and pointed into the field to their left. ‘What is that?’

‘I see it,’ he said, and without further ado, he jumped across the ditch and turned, with his arms spread to catch Sophia. She had already jumped across, however, and now stood beside him once more, a delightful smirk on her face. ‘Capital,’ chuckled Blackwood as they entered the field and walked toward the line of strange objects that marched off into the distance.

As they drew near, they saw that the objects were wooden posts, each about five feet tall, which had been sunk into the soil, and between which a number of strands of copper wire had been strung. The whole arrangement comprised a sort of incomplete fence, which extended beyond their field of view around the shoulder of the hill.

‘What on earth is it?’ wondered Sophia.

‘My bet would be that it is the origin of the ghostly blue lights Old Davey was telling us about – not to mention the strange sparking sounds which he likened to thunder.’

‘An experiment in electricity?’

‘So I should judge. Come, let’s continue on our way. I’m anxious to make the acquaintance of the “thunder and lightning man”!’

*

The path led over the brow of the hill and down to a wide lawn, at the centre of which stood Fyne Court. Blackwood estimated the main part of the house to date from the early eighteenth century, although the two-storey structure had been added to much more recently, with a single-storey annex running across the gravel courtyard to a smaller outbuilding. The whole complex was constructed of light tan stone which reflected the intermittent sunlight quite fetchingly.

‘What a charming place!’ declared Sophia. ‘It’s difficult to imagine that this could be the origin of so much fear and dark rumours.’

Blackwood took his revolver from the pocket of his Ulster and checked that all five chambers were full. ‘Fear and darkness can be found in the unlikeliest of places, as we both well know,’ he replied as he strode across the courtyard to the front door of the main house. He rapped loudly upon the peeling paint with his cane, and they waited patiently for a response.

When none came, Blackwood nodded, as if he had been expecting this.

‘Perhaps he is in his laboratory,’ suggested Sophia.

‘A fair assumption.’

They turned away from the door and walked back along the wall of the annex, looking in through the windows as they went. Presently, they came to the door of the outbuilding, upon which Blackwood rapped.

‘Who’s there?’ came a voice from within.

‘My name is Thomas Blackwood, Special Investigator for Her Majesty. I am here on Crown business. Open the door, sir!’

‘I don’t care who you are!’ cried the voice. ‘Go away! I don’t wish to be disturbed.’

‘Oh, you don’t, do you?’ Blackwood muttered. He called out, ‘Your wishes are irrelevant, Mr Crosse. Open this door at once, or I will not hesitate to knock it down and arrest you for obstruction of a Crown Investigator! You have ten seconds.’

There were sounds of movement from within, as of someone shuffling back and forth. Sophia imagined the man pacing rapidly, wondering whether the interloper were bluffing or would make good on his threat.

‘Five seconds!’ shouted Blackwood.

‘All right, all right!’ came the voice, its tone suggesting a curious mixture of panic and resignation.

There was a click as the latch was lifted, and the door swung aside to reveal Andrew Crosse. Sophia was struck by his fine-featured handsomeness; for some reason, she had been expecting some grizzled ogre, an expectation which had not been countered by the obvious youthfulness of his voice. But here, clearly, was a man of refinement and good breeding, with pale skin and a neatly-trimmed moustache, carefully-combed hair and bright, clear eyes in which she detected warmth and decency.

Blackwood stepped forward. ‘Mr Crosse. Thomas Blackwood...’

‘So you said.’

‘This is my colleague, Lady Sophia Harrington.’

In spite of his obvious agitation, Crosse did not neglect his manners and gave a slight bow to Sophia. ‘What do you wish to see me about, Mr Blackwood?’

‘A matter pertaining to the security of the Empire,’ Blackwood replied, stepping across the threshold with such authority that Crosse was forced to retreat a few steps. ‘And perhaps to the security of the entire world. Do you still wish to send us on our way?’ he added in a dark and threatening tone.

Crosse’s shoulders sagged, and his face wore a defeated expression as he replied, ‘No... no, of course not.’ He turned and walked away from them, motioning them inside with a listless wave of his hand.

Sophia followed Blackwood into the room and closed the door behind her. She looked around, and was astonished at the profusion of arcane equipment and curious devices which lined the walls and occupied the long workbench which dominated the centre of the laboratory. Strange lumps of machinery, festooned with pipes and wires and gauges, occupied every available horizontal surface. Some were connected to each other with strands of copper wire, similar to that which they had seen out in the nearby field. The air in the room was warm – due, Sophia surmised, to the running of the electrical apparatuses – and was suffused with a low hum, which disturbed and unsettled her in a way that she could not quite define.

Crosse turned and faced his visitors. ‘Well, Mr Blackwood, what is this matter which concerns the security of the world?’

‘I take it you are aware that Ambassador Lunan R’ondd of Mars died three days ago.’

‘I do read the papers.’

‘Then you will also be aware that there has been speculation regarding the nature of his death – that he was the victim of an assassin.’

Crosse swallowed but said nothing.

‘That speculation, sir, is well-founded, for Ambassador R’ondd
was
murdered.’

Crosse regarded Blackwood with wide, unblinking eyes. ‘How?’ he whispered.